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branches ::: adore

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object:adore
word class:verb

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now begins generated list of local instances, definitions, quotes, instances in chapters, wordnet info if available and instances among weblinks


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

TOPICS
SEE ALSO


AUTH

BOOKS
Collected_Fictions
My_Burning_Heart
Savitri
The_Divine_Milieu
The_Essential_Songs_of_Milarepa
The_Imitation_of_Christ
The_Use_and_Abuse_of_History

IN CHAPTERS TITLE
1.poe_-_To_Isadore

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
0_0.01_-_Introduction
0.00_-_The_Book_of_Lies_Text
0.03_-_The_Threefold_Life
0.06_-_Letters_to_a_Young_Sadhak
0.07_-_Letters_to_a_Sadhak
0.09_-_Letters_to_a_Young_Teacher
01.04_-_Motives_for_Seeking_the_Divine
01.04_-_The_Secret_Knowledge
0.10_-_Letters_to_a_Young_Captain
0_1961-12-23
0_1962-02-06
0_1963-02-15
0_1964-03-28
0_1966-06-25
02.03_-_The_Glory_and_the_Fall_of_Life
02.04_-_The_Kingdoms_of_the_Little_Life
02.06_-_The_Kingdoms_and_Godheads_of_the_Greater_Life
02.08_-_The_World_of_Falsehood,_the_Mother_of_Evil_and_the_Sons_of_Darkness
02.11_-_Hymn_to_Darkness
02.11_-_The_Kingdoms_and_Godheads_of_the_Greater_Mind
02.12_-_Mysticism_in_Bengali_Poetry
03.04_-_The_Other_Aspect_of_European_Culture
03.10_-_The_Mission_of_Buddhism
04.01_-_The_Birth_and_Childhood_of_the_Flame
04.02_-_The_Growth_of_the_Flame
04.43_-_To_the_Heights-XLIII
05.02_-_Satyavan
05.03_-_Satyavan_and_Savitri
05.09_-_Varieties_of_Religious_Experience
05.12_-_The_Revealer_and_the_Revelation
07.05_-_The_Finding_of_the_Soul
08.27_-_Value_of_Religious_Exercises
10.02_-_Beyond_Vedanta
10.03_-_The_Debate_of_Love_and_Death
10.04_-_Transfiguration
1.01_-_A_NOTE_ON_PROGRESS
1.01_-_Archetypes_of_the_Collective_Unconscious
1.01_-_BOOK_THE_FIRST
1.01_-_Maitreya_inquires_of_his_teacher_(Parashara)
1.01_-_The_Rape_of_the_Lock
1.01_-_Two_Powers_Alone
10.23_-_Prayers_and_Meditations_of_the_Mother
1.02_-_In_the_Beginning
1.02_-_Pranayama,_Mantrayoga
1.02_-_Self-Consecration
1.02_-_The_Divine_Teacher
1.02_-_THE_NATURE_OF_THE_GROUND
1.032_-_Our_Concept_of_God
1.03_-_BOOK_THE_THIRD
1.03_-_Hymns_of_Gritsamada
1.03_-_.REASON._IN_PHILOSOPHY
1.04_-_ADVICE_TO_HOUSEHOLDERS
1.04_-_BOOK_THE_FOURTH
1.04_-_Homage_to_the_Twenty-one_Taras
1.04_-_Narayana_appearance,_in_the_beginning_of_the_Kalpa,_as_the_Varaha_(boar)
1.04_-_The_First_Circle,_Limbo__Virtuous_Pagans_and_the_Unbaptized._The_Four_Poets,_Homer,_Horace,_Ovid,_and_Lucan._The_Noble_Castle_of_Philosophy.
1.04_-_The_Self
1.04_-_What_Arjuna_Saw_-_the_Dark_Side_of_the_Force
1.05_-_BOOK_THE_FIFTH
1.05_-_Hymns_of_Bharadwaja
1.05_-_Problems_of_Modern_Psycho_therapy
1.05_-_The_Ascent_of_the_Sacrifice_-_The_Psychic_Being
1.05_-_THE_HOSTILE_BROTHERS_-_ARCHETYPES_OF_RESPONSE_TO_THE_UNKNOWN
1.06_-_BOOK_THE_SIXTH
1.06_-_Confutation_Of_Other_Philosophers
1.06_-_Hymns_of_Parashara
1.06_-_Magicians_as_Kings
1.06_-_The_Ascent_of_the_Sacrifice_2_The_Works_of_Love_-_The_Works_of_Life
1.06_-_The_Four_Powers_of_the_Mother
1.07_-_A_Song_of_Longing_for_Tara,_the_Infallible
1.07_-_Incarnate_Human_Gods
1.07_-_The_Fire_of_the_New_World
1.07_-_THE_MASTER_AND_VIJAY_GOSWAMI
1.08_-_BOOK_THE_EIGHTH
1.08_-_Civilisation_and_Barbarism
1.08_-_RELIGION_AND_TEMPERAMENT
1.08_-_THE_MASTERS_BIRTHDAY_CELEBRATION_AT_DAKSHINESWAR
1.09_-_BOOK_THE_NINTH
1.09_-_SKIRMISHES_IN_A_WAY_WITH_THE_AGE
1.09_-_The_Worship_of_Trees
1.1.01_-_Seeking_the_Divine
11.06_-_The_Mounting_Fire
1.10_-_BOOK_THE_TENTH
1.10_-_GRACE_AND_FREE_WILL
1.10_-_THE_MASTER_WITH_THE_BRAHMO_DEVOTEES_(II)
1.10_-_The_Three_Modes_of_Nature
1.11_-_BOOK_THE_ELEVENTH
1.11_-_Legend_of_Dhruva,_the_son_of_Uttanapada
1.11_-_ON_THE_NEW_IDOL
1.11_-_WITH_THE_DEVOTEES_AT_DAKSHINEWAR
1.12_-_BOOK_THE_TWELFTH
1.1.2_-_Commentary
1.12_-_Love_The_Creator
1.13_-_BOOK_THE_THIRTEENTH
1.13_-_Gnostic_Symbols_of_the_Self
1.13_-_Posterity_of_Dhruva
1.14_-_Descendants_of_Prithu
1.1.5_-_Thought_and_Knowledge
1.16_-_PRAYER
1.16_-_WITH_THE_DEVOTEES_AT_DAKSHINESWAR
1.17_-_Legend_of_Prahlada
1.17_-_M._AT_DAKSHINEWAR
1.18_-_M._AT_DAKSHINESWAR
1.19_-_Dialogue_between_Prahlada_and_his_father
12.01_-_The_Return_to_Earth
1.22_-_ADVICE_TO_AN_ACTOR
1.23_-_Our_Debt_to_the_Savage
1.25_-_ADVICE_TO_PUNDIT_SHASHADHAR
1.25_-_SPIRITUAL_EXERCISES
13.05_-_A_Dream_Of_Surreal_Science
1.39_-_Prophecy
1.40_-_The_Nature_of_Osiris
1.41_-_Isis
1.47_-_Lityerses
1.52_-_Killing_the_Divine_Animal
1.53_-_The_Propitation_of_Wild_Animals_By_Hunters
1.56_-_The_Public_Expulsion_of_Evils
16.02_-_Mater_Dolorosa
16.03_-_Mater_Gloriosa
17.01_-_Hymn_to_Dawn
17.02_-_Hymn_to_the_Sun
17.05_-_Hymn_to_Hiranyagarbha
17.06_-_Hymn_of_the_Supreme_Goddess
17.11_-_A_Prayer
1.75_-_The_AA_and_the_Planet
1913_08_16p
1913_12_16p
1914_02_01p
1914_02_09p
1914_03_04p
1914_05_29p
1914_07_08p
1914_08_02p
1914_09_30p
19.14_-_The_Awakened
1915_11_07p
1953-10-28
1955-10-12_-_The_problem_of_transformation_-_Evolution,_man_and_superman_-_Awakening_need_of_a_higher_good_-_Sri_Aurobindo_and_earths_history_-_Setting_foot_on_the_new_path_-_The_true_reality_of_the_universe_-_the_new_race_-_...
1956-08-01_-_Value_of_worship_-_Spiritual_realisation_and_the_integral_yoga_-_Symbols,_translation_of_experience_into_form_-_Sincerity,_fundamental_virtue_-_Intensity_of_aspiration,_with_anguish_or_joy_-_The_divine_Grace
1969_08_14
1.ami_-_To_the_Saqi_(from_Baal-i-Jibreel)
1.ap_-_The_Universal_Prayer
1f.lovecraft_-_Poetry_and_the_Gods
1f.lovecraft_-_Sweet_Ermengarde
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Festival
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Last_Test
1.fs_-_Ode_To_Joy_-_With_Translation
1.fs_-_The_Count_Of_Hapsburg
1.fs_-_The_Gods_Of_Greece
1.fs_-_The_Words_Of_Error
1.fs_-_To_Minna
1.jda_-_Raga_Gujri
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_III
1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_IV
1.jk_-_Lamia._Part_I
1.jk_-_The_Cap_And_Bells;_Or,_The_Jealousies_-_A_Faery_Tale_.._Unfinished
1.jk_-_Woman!_When_I_Behold_Thee_Flippant,_Vain
1.jlb_-_Daybreak
1.jwvg_-_My_Goddess
1.lb_-_Song_Of_The_Jade_Cup
1.lovecraft_-_An_Epistle_To_Rheinhart_Kleiner,_Esq.,_Poet-Laureate,_And_Author_Of_Another_Endless_Day
1.lovecraft_-_Psychopompos-_A_Tale_in_Rhyme
1.lovecraft_-_The_Poe-ets_Nightmare
1.lovecraft_-_To_Edward_John_Moreton_Drax_Plunkelt,
1.mb_-_The_Heat_of_Midnight_Tears
1.pbs_-_Epipsychidion
1.pbs_-_Fragment_-_To_The_Moon
1.pbs_-_Hellas_-_A_Lyrical_Drama
1.pbs_-_Lines_Written_Among_The_Euganean_Hills
1.pbs_-_Prometheus_Unbound
1.pbs_-_The_Revolt_Of_Islam_-_Canto_I-XII
1.pbs_-_The_Witch_Of_Atlas
1.pbs_-_The_Zucca
1.poe_-_Al_Aaraaf-_Part_1
1.poe_-_The_Conversation_Of_Eiros_And_Charmion
1.poe_-_The_Raven
1.poe_-_To_Isadore
1.rb_-_Paracelsus_-_Part_III_-_Paracelsus
1.rb_-_Pauline,_A_Fragment_of_a_Question
1.rb_-_Pippa_Passes_-_Part_III_-_Evening
1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_First
1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_Second
1.rb_-_The_Flight_Of_The_Duchess
1.rb_-_The_Glove
1.rmpsd_-_Kulakundalini,_Goddess_Full_of_Brahman,_Tara
1.rvd_-_You_are_me,_and_I_am_You
1.sfa_-_Let_us_desire_nothing_else
1.wby_-_A_Drunken_Mans_Praise_Of_Sobriety
1.wby_-_Meditations_In_Time_Of_Civil_War
1.wby_-_The_Death_of_Cuchulain
1.wby_-_The_Ladys_First_Song
1.wby_-_Three_Marching_Songs
1.wby_-_Three_Songs_To_The_Same_Tune
1.whitman_-_Salut_Au_Monde
1.whitman_-_Starting_From_Paumanok
1.ww_-_A_Whirl-Blast_From_Behind_The_Hill
1.ww_-_Book_Eighth-_Retrospect--Love_Of_Nature_Leading_To_Love_Of_Man
1.ww_-_Book_Fourteenth_[conclusion]
1.ww_-_For_The_Spot_Where_The_Hermitage_Stood_On_St._Herbert's_Island,_Derwentwater.
1.ww_-_Lines_Written_As_A_School_Exercise_At_Hawkshead,_Anno_Aetatis_14
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_IV-_Book_Third-_Despondency
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_V-_Book_Fouth-_Despondency_Corrected
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_X-_Book_Ninth-_Discourse_of_the_Wanderer,_and_an_Evening_Visit_to_the_Lake
1.ww_-_The_Morning_Of_The_Day_Appointed_For_A_General_Thanksgiving._January_18,_1816
1.ww_-_Vaudracour_And_Julia
1.ww_-_Written_in_London._September,_1802
20.05_-_Act_III:_The_Return
2.01_-_AT_THE_STAR_THEATRE
2.01_-_Mandala_One
2.02_-_Indra,_Giver_of_Light
2.02_-_The_Synthesis_of_Devotion_and_Knowledge
2.03_-_Karmayogin__A_Commentary_on_the_Isha_Upanishad
2.05_-_ON_THE_VIRTUOUS
2.05_-_The_Divine_Truth_and_Way
2.06_-_Works_Devotion_and_Knowledge
2.07_-_The_Supreme_Word_of_the_Gita
2.08_-_AT_THE_STAR_THEATRE_(II)
2.08_-_God_in_Power_of_Becoming
2.08_-_ON_THE_FAMOUS_WISE_MEN
2.10_-_THE_MASTER_AND_NARENDRA
2.10_-_The_Vision_of_the_World-Spirit_-_Time_the_Destroyer
2.11_-_The_Modes_of_the_Self
2.11_-_The_Vision_of_the_World-Spirit_-_The_Double_Aspect
2.12_-_The_Way_and_the_Bhakta
2.13_-_The_Difficulties_of_the_Mental_Being
2.13_-_THE_MASTER_AT_THE_HOUSES_OF_BALARM_AND_GIRISH
2.1.7.08_-_Comments_on_Specific_Lines_and_Passages_of_the_Poem
2.17_-_The_Progress_to_Knowledge_-_God,_Man_and_Nature
2.20_-_Nov-Dec_1939
2.2.1.01_-_The_World's_Greatest_Poets
2.2.1_-_The_Prusna_Upanishads
2.21_-_Towards_the_Supreme_Secret
2.22_-_The_Supreme_Secret
2.2.3_-_The_Aitereya_Upanishad
2.2.4_-_Taittiriya_Upanishad
2.24_-_The_Message_of_the_Gita
2.25_-_AFTER_THE_PASSING_AWAY
2.3.1_-_Svetasvatara_Upanishad
26.09_-_Le_Periple_d_Or_(Pome_dans_par_Yvonne_Artaud)
29.07_-_A_Small_Talk
2_-_Other_Hymns_to_Agni
30.01_-_World-Literature
30.14_-_Rabindranath_and_Modernism
30.15_-_The_Language_of_Rabindranath
30.17_-_Rabindranath,_Traveller_of_the_Infinite
3.04_-_The_Way_of_Devotion
3.05_-_The_Divine_Personality
3.05_-_The_Formula_of_I.A.O.
3.06_-_The_Delight_of_the_Divine
3.07_-_The_Ananda_Brahman
3.08_-_The_Mystery_of_Love
31.04_-_Sri_Ramakrishna
3.1.24_-_In_the_Moonlight
3.16.2_-_Of_the_Charge_of_the_Spirit
3.18_-_Of_Clairvoyance_and_the_Body_of_Light
3.2.08_-_Bhakti_Yoga_and_Vaishnavism
3.3.01_-_The_Superman
3.3.02_-_All-Will_and_Free-Will
33.08_-_I_Tried_Sannyas
3.4.03_-_Materialism
34.11_-_Hymn_to_Peace_and_Power
35.05_-_Hymn_To_Saraswati
38.06_-_Ravana_Vanquished
3_-_Commentaries_and_Annotated_Translations
4.01_-_Prayers_and_Meditations
4.01_-_The_Presence_of_God_in_the_World
4.02_-_Autobiographical_Evidence
4.04_-_In_the_Total_Christ
4.17_-_THE_AWAKENING
4.18_-_THE_ASS_FESTIVAL
4.1_-_Jnana
4.24_-_The_supramental_Sense
4.41_-_Chapter_One
4.43_-_Chapter_Three
5.1.01.1_-_The_Book_of_the_Herald
5.1.01.2_-_The_Book_of_the_Statesman
5.1.01.4_-_The_Book_of_Partings
5.1.01.6_-_The_Book_of_the_Chieftains
5.1.01.8_-_The_Book_of_the_Gods
5.2.02_-_The_Meditations_of_Mandavya
5.4.01_-_Notes_on_Root-Sounds
6.0_-_Conscious,_Unconscious,_and_Individuation
Aeneid
BOOK_II._-_A_review_of_the_calamities_suffered_by_the_Romans_before_the_time_of_Christ,_showing_that_their_gods_had_plunged_them_into_corruption_and_vice
BOOK_III._-_The_external_calamities_of_Rome
BOOK_II._--_PART_I._ANTHROPOGENESIS.
BOOK_II._--_PART_II._THE_ARCHAIC_SYMBOLISM_OF_THE_WORLD-RELIGIONS
BOOK_I._--_PART_I._COSMIC_EVOLUTION
BOOK_I._--_PART_II._THE_EVOLUTION_OF_SYMBOLISM_IN_ITS_APPROXIMATE_ORDER
Book_of_Imaginary_Beings_(text)
BOOK_VII._-_Of_the_select_gods_of_the_civil_theology,_and_that_eternal_life_is_not_obtained_by_worshipping_them
BOOK_VI._-_Of_Varros_threefold_division_of_theology,_and_of_the_inability_of_the_gods_to_contri_bute_anything_to_the_happiness_of_the_future_life
BOOK_XIX._-_A_review_of_the_philosophical_opinions_regarding_the_Supreme_Good,_and_a_comparison_of_these_opinions_with_the_Christian_belief_regarding_happiness
BOOK_X._-_Porphyrys_doctrine_of_redemption
BOOK_XVI._-_The_history_of_the_city_of_God_from_Noah_to_the_time_of_the_kings_of_Israel
COSA_-_BOOK_VIII
Guru_Granth_Sahib_first_part
Liber_46_-_The_Key_of_the_Mysteries
Prayers_and_Meditations_by_Baha_u_llah_text
Sayings_of_Sri_Ramakrishna_(text)
Tablets_of_Baha_u_llah_text
Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_1
The_Act_of_Creation_text
The_Book_of_Certitude_-_P1
The_Book_of_Certitude_-_P2
The_Dream_of_a_Ridiculous_Man
The_Dwellings_of_the_Philosophers
the_Eternal_Wisdom
The_Fearful_Sphere_of_Pascal
The_Hidden_Words_text
The_Letter_to_the_Hebrews
The_Lottery_in_Babylon
The_Pilgrims_Progress
Verses_of_Vemana

PRIMARY CLASS

SIMILAR TITLES
adore

DEFINITIONS


TERMS STARTING WITH

adore ::: 1. To worship as a deity, to pay divine honours to. 2. To reverence or honour very highly; to regard with the utmost respect and affection. adores, adored, adoring, adorer, adorer"s.

adored; the deity. From the Arabic root '-b-d meaning to serve, worship, adore, venerate, idolize, deify. (see also mahbub)

adored ::: the One who is worshipped, (referring here to Krishna).

adorement ::: n. --> The act of adoring; adoration.

adorer ::: n. --> One who adores; a worshiper; one who admires or loves greatly; an ardent admirer.

adorer ::: the One who worships, (referring here to Radha).

adore the sun instead of Allah.

adore ::: v. t. --> To worship with profound reverence; to pay divine honors to; to honor as deity or as divine.
To love in the highest degree; to regard with the utmost esteem and affection; to idolize.
To adorn.



TERMS ANYWHERE

adorable ::: a. --> Deserving to be adored; worthy of divine honors.
Worthy of the utmost love or respect.


adoration ::: 1. The act of paying honour, as to a divine being; worship. 2. Reverent homage. 3. Fervent and devoted love. **adoration"s.*Sri Aurobindo: "Especially in love for the Divine or for one whom one feels to be divine, the Bhakta feels an intense reverence for the Loved, a sense of something of immense greatness, beauty or value and for himself a strong impression of his own comparative unworthiness and a passionate desire to grow into likeness with that which one adores.” Letters on Yoga*

ADORATION. ::: In Love for the Divine or for one whom one feels to be divine, the Bhakta feels an intense reverence for the Lord, a sense of something of immense greatness, beauty or value and for himself a strong impression of his own comparative unworthiness and a passionate desire to grow into likeness with that which one adores.

adoring ::: imp. & p. p. Adored --> /); p. pr. & vb. n.) of Adore

allāh ::: 'ishq = unconditional love; ma'būd = beloved, worshiped, adored. Literally, Allāh is Love, Allāh is Beloved.

And find her in the idols they adore;

adore ::: 1. To worship as a deity, to pay divine honours to. 2. To reverence or honour very highly; to regard with the utmost respect and affection. adores, adored, adoring, adorer, adorer"s.

adored; the deity. From the Arabic root '-b-d meaning to serve, worship, adore, venerate, idolize, deify. (see also mahbub)

adored ::: the One who is worshipped, (referring here to Krishna).

adorement ::: n. --> The act of adoring; adoration.

adorer ::: n. --> One who adores; a worshiper; one who admires or loves greatly; an ardent admirer.

adorer ::: the One who worships, (referring here to Radha).

adore the sun instead of Allah.

adore ::: v. t. --> To worship with profound reverence; to pay divine honors to; to honor as deity or as divine.
To love in the highest degree; to regard with the utmost esteem and affection; to idolize.
To adorn.


Bhagavata: An adorer of Bhagavan or Vishnu as God. The Bhagavatam is the name of a Purana, regarded by th Vaishnavas as their scripture.

bhajanti pritipurvakam ::: they adore Me with an intense delight of love. [cf. Gita 10.10]

bhajati ::: adores (Me), has bhakti (for Me). [Gita 15.19]

deified ::: 1. Made a god of; exalted to the rank of a deity. 2. Regarded or adored as a deity.

divine Mother ::: Sri Aurobindo: "The One whom we adore as the Mother is the divine Conscious Force that dominates all existence, one and yet so many-sided that to follow her movement is impossible even for the quickest mind and for the freest and most vast intelligence. The Mother is the consciousness and force of the Supreme and far above all she creates.” *The Mother

glorify ::: v. t. --> To make glorious by bestowing glory upon; to confer honor and distinction upon; to elevate to power or happiness, or to celestial glory.
To make glorious in thought or with the heart, by ascribing glory to; to asknowledge the excellence of; to render homage to; to magnify in worship; to adore.


hJOTHER. ::: The One whom we adore as the Mother is the

idolater ::: n. --> A worshiper of idols; one who pays divine honors to images, statues, or representations of anything made by hands; one who worships as a deity that which is not God; a pagan.
An adorer; a great admirer.


idol ::: n. --> An image or representation of anything.
An image of a divinity; a representation or symbol of a deity or any other being or thing, made or used as an object of worship; a similitude of a false god.
That on which the affections are strongly (often excessively) set; an object of passionate devotion; a person or thing greatly loved or adored.
A false notion or conception; a fallacy.


ilāha ill allāh have the following meanings: lā = no, not, none, neither; ilāha = a god, deity, object of worship; illā = but, except; allāh = Allāh. Typical translations include: There is no god but Allāh; There is nothing to worship or adore except Allāh. This phrase is often called tahlīl (acclaim, cry out with with joy), and is used in the Qur'an in sūrah Muhammad (47:19).

isis ::: n. --> The principal goddess worshiped by the Egyptians. She was regarded as the mother of Horus, and the sister and wife of Osiris. The Egyptians adored her as the goddess of fecundity, and as the great benefactress of their country, who instructed their ancestors in the art of agriculture.
Any coral of the genus Isis, or family Isidae, composed of joints of white, stony coral, alternating with flexible, horny joints. See Gorgoniacea.


Janardana (Sanskrit) Janārdana [from the verbal root jan to be born, come forth + the verbal root ard to move, agitate] The adored of mankind, exciting or agitating men, besought by mortals; in the Puranas, the one cosmic intelligent life, manifesting in the threefold aspect of fashioner, preserver, and regenerator (Brahma, Vishnu, Siva). Also applied to Krishna in his avataric manifestation of Vishnu.

Job (Hebrew) ’Iyyōb Persecuted, tried; one of the books in the Bible, depicting the story of Job, regarded by Blavatsky as far older than the Pentateuch. She points out that there is no reference to any of the Hebrew patriarchs, that Jehovah is not mentioned in the poem itself, that there is no mention of the Sabbatical institution, and that there is a direct discussion on the worship of the heavenly bodies (prevailing in those days in Arabia). “The Book of Job is a complete representation of ancient initiation and the trials which generally precede this grandest of all ceremonies. The neophyte perceives himself deprived of everything he valued, and afflicted with foul disease. His wife appeals to him to adore God and die; there was no more hope for him” (IU 2:494-5). Elihu the hierophant teaches Job, now ready to learn the meaning of his experience, and Job is able to contact his own higher self or inner god.

Lnow'ledce, His love and delight In the end all our thoughts, feelings, impulses, actions will begm to proceed from Him and chance info some divine seed and form of themselves , in our whole mner Iivinc we shall have grown consaous of ourselves as a part of His being till between the existence of the Divine whom we adore and our own hves there is no longer anj divi- sion

matadore ::: n. --> Alt. of Matador

mother ::: Sri Aurobindo: "The One whom we adore as the Mother is the divine Conscious Force that dominates all existence, one and yet so many-sided that to follow her movement is impossible even for the quickest mind and for the freest and most vast intelligence. The Mother is the consciousness and force of the Supreme and far above all she creates.” The Mother ::: "The one original transcendent Shakti, the Mother stands above all the worlds and bears in her eternal consciousness the Supreme Divine.

"That which we call Nature or Prakriti is only her [the Mother"s] most outward executive aspect; she marshals and arranges the harmony of her forces and processes, impels the operations of Nature and moves among them secret or manifest in all that can be seen or experienced or put into motion of life.” *The Mother

:   "The Mother comes in order to bring down the Supramental and it is the descent which makes her full manifestation here possible.” *Letters on the Mother

  "When one does sadhana, the inner consciousness begins to open and one is able to go inside and have all kinds of experiences there. As the sadhana progresses, one begins to live more and more in this inner being and the outer becomes more and more superficial. At first the inner consciousness seems to be the dream and the outer the waking reality. Afterwards the inner consciousness becomes the reality and the outer is felt by many as a dream or delusion, or else as something superficial and external. The inner consciousness begins to be a place of deep peace, light, happiness, love, closeness to the Divine or the presence of the Divine, the Mother.” Letters on Yoga :::   **mighty Mother, World-Mother, World-Mother"s.**


Mother ::: “The One whom we adore as the Mother is the divine Conscious Force that dominates all existence, one and yet so many-sided that to follow her movement is impossible even for the quickest mind and for the freest and most vast intelligence. The Mother is the consciousness and force of the Supreme and far above all she creates.” The Mother

Mother, The ::: ...the Mother is One but she comes before us with differing aspects, many are her powers and personalities, many her emanations and Vibhutis that do her work in the universe. The whom who we adore as the Mother is the Divine Consciousness Force that dominates all existence, one and yet so many sided that to follow her movement is impossible even for the quickest mind and for the freeest and most vast intelligence. The Mother is the Conciousness and Force of the Supreme and far above all she creates. But something of her ways can be seen and felt through her embodiments and the more seizable because more defined and limited temperament and action of the godess forms in who she consents to be manifest to her creatures. ::: There are three ways of being of which you can become aware when you enter into touch of Oneness with the Consciousness Force that upholds us and the universe. Transcendent, the original Supreme shakti, she stands above the worlds and links the creation to the ever unmanifest mystery of the Supreme. Universal the cosmic Mahashakti, she creates all these beings and contains and enters, supports and conducts all these million processes and forces. Individual she embodies the power of these two vaster ways of her existence, makes them living and near to us and mediates between the human personality and the Divine Nature....
   Ref: CWSA Vol. 35, Page: 111


Namas (Sanskrit) Namas [from nam to bow, make reverence; cf Pali namo] A reverence, consisting of an inclination of the body; both in act and in writing a reverential salutation. “The first word of a daily invocation among Buddhists, meaning ‘I humbly trust, or adore, or acknowledge’ the Lord, as: ‘Namo tasso Bhagavato Arahato’ etc., addressed to Lord Buddha. The priests are called ‘Masters of Namah’ [Namas] — both Buddhist and Taoist, because this word is used in liturgy and prayers, in the invocation of the Triratna, and with a slight change in the occult incantations to the Bodhisattvas and Nirmanakayas” (TG 224).

Nastika (Sanskrit) Nāstika [from na not + āstika one who believes in the existence of the orthodox exoteric divinity and divinities] One who rejects the orthodox and exoteric religious teachings concerning the divinities, and who in consequence is apt to be called an atheist by orthodox exotericists. As all such orthodox exotericism really consists, at least in very large measure, in looking upon the divinities in the universe as objects of adoration, much after the manner in which the populace worships idols, hence nastika can likewise be considered to mean one who rejects idols, including every anthropomorphic god. In this sense every genuine occultist is a nastika, although every occultist will affirm the existence of divinities, gods, spiritual beings, or dhyani-chohans — call them by what name is preferred — in the universe, stating indeed that the universe is filled full with divinities or essentially spiritual beings in the myriad stages of evolutionary development. But the occultist, while revering the more grandly spiritual hierarchies of these divinities, worships or adores none of them, reserving his unspeakably deep reverence for that nameless ineffable mystery which is beyond, above, and within the boundless All, and therefore is not only unspeakable but unthinkable.

not worshipped or adored; not held in reverence or esteem.

Ordinarily, man is limited in all the parts of his being and he can grasp at first only so much of the divine truth as has some large correspondence to his own nature and its past deve- lopment and associations. Therefore God meets us first in diffe- rent limited affirmations of his divine qualities and nature ; he presents himself to the seeker as an absolute o! the things he can understand and to which his will and heart can respond ; he discloses some name and aspect of his Godhead. This is what is called in Yoga the iffa^devaid, the name and form elected by our nature for its worship. In order that the human being may embrace this Godhead with every part of himself, it is represented with a form that answers to its aspects and qualities and which becomes the living body of God to the adorer. These are those forms of Vishnu, Shiva, Krishna, Kali, Durga, Christ,

“The One whom we adore as the Mother is the divine Conscious Force that dominates all existence, one and yet so many-sided that to follow her movement is impossible even for the quickest mind and for the freest and most vast intelligence. The Mother is the consciousness and force of the Supreme and far above all she creates.” The Mother

"This Godhead is one in all things that are, the self who lives in all and the self in whom all live and move; therefore man has to discover his spiritual unity with all creatures, to see all in the self and the self in all beings, even to see all things and creatures as himself, âtmaupamyena sarvatra, and accordingly think, feel and act in all his mind, will and living. This Godhead is the origin of all that is here or elsewhere and by his Nature he has become all these innumerable existences, abhût sarvâni bhûtâni; therefore man has to see and adore the One in all things animate and inanimate, to worship the manifestation in sun and star and flower, in man and every living creature, in the forms and forces, qualities and powers of Nature, vâsudevah sarvam iti.” Essays on the Gita ::: *godhead, godheads, godhead"s.

“This Godhead is one in all things that are, the self who lives in all and the self in whom all live and move; therefore man has to discover his spiritual unity with all creatures, to see all in the self and the self in all beings, even to see all things and creatures as himself, âtmaupamyena sarvatra, and accordingly think, feel and act in all his mind, will and living. This Godhead is the origin of all that is here or elsewhere and by his Nature he has become all these innumerable existences, abhût sarvâni bhûtâni; therefore man has to see and adore the One in all things animate and inanimate, to worship the manifestation in sun and star and flower, in man and every living creature, in the forms and forces, qualities and powers of Nature, vâsudevah sarvam iti.” Essays on the Gita

To fill with beauty his adorer’s hours,

worshiper ::: n. --> One who worships; one who pays divine honors to any being or thing; one who adores.

yaj ::: to worship, adore, honor; to consecrate, hallow; to offer, bestow; to sacrifice.



QUOTES [27 / 27 - 1178 / 1178]


KEYS (10k)

   11 Sri Aurobindo
   2 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   2 Sri Ramakrishna
   1 Swami Vivekananda?
   1 Saint Elizabeth of the Trinity
   1 Ramakrishna
   1 Quodvultdeus
   1 Pope Leo the Great
   1 Our Lady of La Salette
   1 Hazrat Inayat Khan
   1 Brihadaranyaka Upanishad
   1 Athanasius
   1 The Mother
   1 Swami Vivekananda
   1 Saint Thomas Aquinas

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   40 Anonymous
   16 Andr s Oppenheimer
   13 Peter Thiel
   11 Sri Aurobindo
   10 Kurt Vonnegut
   9 William Shakespeare
   9 Oscar Wilde
   8 Pepper Winters
   7 Isadore Sharp
   7 Isabel Allende
   7 Carlos Ruiz Zaf n
   6 Vladimir Nabokov
   6 Victor Hugo
   6 Timothy Ferriss
   6 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   5 Tillie Cole
   5 Lisa Kleypas
   5 Liane Moriarty
   5 Kresley Cole
   5 J K Rowling

1:Our duty is to fall down and adore where others only bow. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
2:If the stars should appear but one night every thousand years how man would marvel and adore.
   ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
3:Adore and what you adore attempt to be. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Plays and Stories, Act V,
4:We cannot get strength unless we adore the Mother of strength. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Bande Mataram - I, Bhawani Mandir,
5:That is the divine Brahman and not this which men here adore.
   ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, [T0],
6:What is the Divine?

The Divine is what you adore in Sri Aurobindo.
   ~ The Mother, Words Of The Mother I, [T2],
7:A tiny child is born, who is a great king. Wise men are led to him from afar. They come to adore one who lies in a manger and yet reigns in heaven and on earth. ~ Quodvultdeus,
8:Keep only my soul to adore eternally
And meet Thee in each form and soul of Thee. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Surrender,
9:The cross to me is certain salvation. The cross is that which I ever adore. The cross of the Lord is with me. The cross is my refuge. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,
10:Action Human and Divine
Keep only my soul to adore eternally
And meet Thee in each form and soul of Thee. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Surrender,
11:Bow down and adore where others bend the knee; for where so great a number of men pay the tribute of their adoration, the Impersonal must needs manifest Himself, for He is all compassion. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
12:Tremble, earth, and you who proclaim yourselves as serving Jesus Christ and who, on the inside, only adore yourselves, tremble, for God will hand you over to His enemy, because the holy places are in a state of corruption." ~ Our Lady of La Salette ,
13:O my God, Trinity whom I adore, help me forget myself entirely so to establish myself in you, unmovable and peaceful as if my soul were already in eternity. May nothing be able to trouble my peace or make me leave you. ~ Saint Elizabeth of the Trinity,
14:Now, Macarius, true lover of Christ, we must take a step further in the faith of our holy religion, and consider the Word's becoming Man and His divine Appearing in our midst. That mystery the Jews traduce, the Greeks deride, but we adore. ~ Athanasius,
15:Bow down and adore where others bend the knee; for where so great a number of men pay the tri bute of their adoration, the Impersonal must needs manifest Himself, for He is all compassion. ~ Ramakrishna, the Eternal Wisdom
16:A greater Personality sometimes
Possesses us which yet we know is ours:
Or we adore the Master of our souls.
Then the small bodily ego thins and falls; ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Secret Knowledge,
17:The Wise men fulfil their desire, and come to the child, the Lord Jesus Christ, the same star going before them. They adore the Word in flesh, the Wisdom in infancy, the Power in weakness, the Lord of majesty in the reality of man. ~ Pope Leo the Great, Sermon 31,
18:Truth is wider, greater than her forms.
A thousand icons they have made of her
And find her in the idols they adore;
But she remains herself and infinite. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Letters on Poetry and Art, Comments on Specific Lines and Passages of the Poem,
19:He is only our Beloved, and we should adore Him devoid all thoughts of fear. A man loves God only when he has no other desire, when he thinks of nothing else and when he is mad after Him. That love which a man has for his beloved can illustrate the love we ought to have for God. ~ Swami Vivekananda?
20:He is only our Beloved, and we should adore Him devoid all thoughts of fear. A man loves God only when he has no other desire, when he thinks of nothing else and when he is mad after Him. That love which a man has for his beloved can illustrate the love we ought to have for God ~ Swami Vivekananda,
21:O Lord, my sweet Master, Thou whom I adore in silence and to whom I have entirely consecrated myself, Thou who governest my life, kindle in my heart the flame of Thy pure love that it may burn like a glowing brazier, consuming all imperfections and transforming into a comforting warmth and radiating light the dead wood of egoism and the black coals of ignorance.
   ~ The Mother, Prayers And Meditations, 55,
22:And Thou, O Lord, who art all this made one and much more, O sovereign Master, extreme limit of our thought, who standest for us at the threshold of the Unknown, make rise from that Unthinkable some new splendour, some possibility of a loftier and more integral realisation, that Thy work may be accomplished and the universe take one step farther towards the sublime Identity, the supreme Manifestation.
   And now my pen falls mute and I adore Thee in silence.*
   ~ The Mother, Prayers And Meditations, 270,
23:The One whom we adore as the Mother is the divine Conscious Force that dominates all existence, one and yet so many-sided that to follow her movement is impossible even for the quickest mind and for the freest and most vast intelligence. The Mother is the consciousness and force of the Supreme and far above all she creates. But something of her ways can be seen and felt through her embodiments and the more seizable because more defined and limited temperament and action of the goddess forms in whom she consents to be manifest to her creatures. ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Mother With Letters On The Mother, [T4],
24:The other day I told you the meaning of bhakti. It is to adore God with body, mind, and words. 'With body' means to serve and worship God with one's hands, go to holy places with one's feet, hear the chanting of the name and glories of God with one's ears, and behold the divine image with one's eyes. 'With mind' means to contemplate and meditate on God constantly and to remember and think of His lila. 'With words' means to sing hymns to Him and chant His name and glories.
Devotion as described by Narada is suited to the Kaliyuga. It means to chant constantly the name and glories of God. Let those who have no leisure worship God at least morning and evening by whole-heartedly chanting His name and clapping their hands. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
25:O DIVINE Force, supreme Illuminator, hearken to our prayer, move not away from us, do not withdraw, help us to fight the good fight, make firm our strength for the struggle, give us the force to conquer!
   O my sweet Master, Thou whom I adore without being able to know Thee, Thou who I am without being able to realise Thee, my entire conscious individuality prostrates itself before Thee and implores, in the name of the workers in their struggle, and of the earth in her agony, in the name of suffering humanity and of striving Nature;
   O my sweet Master, O marvellous Unknowable, O Dispenser of all boons, Thou who makest light spring forth in the darkness and strength to arise out of weakness, support our effort, guide our steps, lead us to victory.
   ~ The Mother, Prayers And Meditations, 211,
26:Turn your thoughts now, and lift up your thoughts to a devout and joyous contemplation on sage Vyasa and Vasishtha, on Narda and Valmiki. Contemplate on the glorious Lord Buddha, Jesus the Christ, prophet Mohammed, the noble Zoroaster (Zarathushtra), Lord Mahavira, the holy Guru Nanak. Think of the great saints and sages of all ages, like Yajnavalkya, Dattatreya, Sulabha and Gargi, Anasooya and Sabari, Lord Gauranga, Mirabai, Saint Theresa and Francis of Assisi. Remember St. Augustine, Jallaludin Rumi, Kabir, Tukaram, Ramdas, Ramakrishna Paramhamsa, Vivekananda and Rama Tirtha. Adore in thy heart the sacred memory of Mahatma Gandhi, sage Ramana Maharishi, Aurobindo Ghosh, Gurudev Sivananda and Swami Ramdas. They verily are the inspirers of humanity towards a life of purity, goodness and godliness. Their lives, their lofty examples, their great teachings constitute the real wealth and greatest treasure of mankind today.
   ~ Sri Chidananda, Advices On Spiritual Living,
27:the first necessity; :::
   The first necessity is to dissolve that central faith and vision in the mind which concentrate it on its development and satisfaction and interests in the old externalised order of things. It is imperative to exchange this surface orientation for the deeper faith and vision which see only the Divine and seek only after the Divine. The next need is to compel all our lower being to pay homage to this new faith and greater vision. All our nature must make an integral surrender; it must offer itself in every part and every movement to that which seems to the unregenerated sensemind so much less real than the material world and its objects. Our whole being - soul, mind, sense, heart, will, life, body - must consecrate all its energies so entirely and in such a way that it shall become a fit vehicle for the Divine. This is no easy task; for everything in the world follows the fixed habit which is to it a law and resists a radical change. And no change can be more radical than the revolution attempted in the integral Yoga. Everything in us has constantly to be called back to the central faith and will and vision. Every thought and impulse has to be reminded in the language of the Upanishad that That is the divine Brahman and not this which men here adore. Every vital fibre has to be persuaded to accept an entire renunciation of all that hitherto represented to it its own existence.
   ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, Self-Consecration, 72,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:I was not born to be free - I was born to adore and obey. ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove
2:My aim each day is to adore God more than anything else. ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove
3:Thou art a man God is no more Thy own humanity Learn to adore ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove
4:You are much closer than you think to creating a life you adore. ~ robin-sharma, @wisdomtrove
5:I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex. ~ oscar-wilde, @wisdomtrove
6:The great thing, and the only thing, is to adore and praise GOD. ~ thomas-merton, @wisdomtrove
7:... for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
8:Ordinary people love entertainment. Extraordinary people adore education. ~ robin-sharma, @wisdomtrove
9:There comes a moment in every person's life when they realise they adore me. ~ salvador-dali, @wisdomtrove
10:[Latin] allows you to adore words, take them apart and find out where they came from. ~ dr-seuss, @wisdomtrove
11:my mind,Make your speech egoless.Then everyoneWill appreciate, admire and adore you. ~ sri-chinmoy, @wisdomtrove
12:She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore. ~ john-keats, @wisdomtrove
13:Americans adore me and will go on adoring me until I say something nice about them. ~ george-bernard-shaw, @wisdomtrove
14:All right-minded people adore it; and anyone who is able to live without it is unworthy to draw breathe ~ moliere, @wisdomtrove
15:I adore shooting photographs. It's like being a hunter. But some hunters are vegetarians. ~ henri-cartier-bresson, @wisdomtrove
16:There are fathers who do not love their children; there is no grandfather who does not adore his grandson. ~ victor-hugo, @wisdomtrove
17:We do not sin when we adore Christ in the Eucharist; we do sin when we do not adore Christ in the Eucharist. ~ saint-augustine, @wisdomtrove
18:My life is a divine tautology. I am the adoration of God, by the grace of God. Apart from adoration I have no existence. I adore Thee. ~ barry-long, @wisdomtrove
19:The Cross to me is certain salvation. The Cross is that which I ever adore. The Cross of the Lord is with me. The Cross is my refuge. ~ denis-diderot, @wisdomtrove
20:The Cross to me is certain salvation. The Cross is that which I ever adore. The Cross of the Lord is with me. The Cross is my refuge. ~ thomas-aquinas, @wisdomtrove
21:I think you’re beautiful, the only beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I love your voice and everything to do with you, down to your clothes or the room you are sitting in. I adore you. ~ e-m-forster, @wisdomtrove
22:Godhead here in hiding, whom I adore Masked by these bare shadows, shape and nothing more, See, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart Lost, all lost in wonder at the God thou art ~ denis-diderot, @wisdomtrove
23:Godhead here in hiding, whom I adore Masked by these bare shadows, shape and nothing more, See, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart Lost, all lost in wonder at the God thou art ~ thomas-aquinas, @wisdomtrove
24:Man is made to adore and to obey: but if you will not command him, if you give him nothing to worship, he will fashion his own divinities, and find a chieftain in his own passions. ~ benjamin-disraeli, @wisdomtrove
25:I want you to adore the Universe, to be easily delighted, but to be prompt as well with impatience with those artists who offend your own deep notions of what the Universe is or should be. ‘This above all ... ’ ~ kurt-vonnegut, @wisdomtrove
26:You are liquid love in physical bodies, wanting, more than life itself, because it is life itself, to adore the vessel that’s you through which this Source Energy flows. You are God. You are Source. You are creator. ~ esther-hicks, @wisdomtrove
27:Mans nature indicates that he was created for three things: To think, to worship and to work. But thinking is not enough. Men are made to worship also, to bow down and adore in the presence of the Mystery inexpressible. ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove
28:I love you more than my own skin and even though you don’t love me the same way, you love me anyways, don’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll always have the hope that you do, and i’m satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you. ~ frida-kahlo, @wisdomtrove
29:If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.   ~ ralph-waldo-emerson, @wisdomtrove
30:If you're not feeling good and you want to change the way you feel, or if you want to lift good feelings higher, then take a minute or two and god through a mental list of everything you love and adore. You can do it while getting dressed in the morning, walking, driving or traveling anywhere. ~ rhonda-byrne, @wisdomtrove
31:Traveling is the great true love of my life... I am loyal and constant in my love of travel. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn baby - I just don't care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it's mine. Because it looks exactly like me. ~ elizabeth-gilbert, @wisdomtrove
32:It is certain that those who have the living faith in their hearts see at once that all existence is none other than the work of the God whom they adore. But for those in whom this light is extinguished, [if we were to show them our proofs of the existence of God] nothing is more calculated to arouse their contempt. . . . ~ blaise-pascal, @wisdomtrove
33:I am far more of a loner than people would imagine. But I am the most gregarious and socially interactive loner you ever met. The thing is, I am fascinated by people's stories and I'm very talkative and can't ever say no to anything or anyone, so I tend to over-socialize, to give away too much of my time to the many people I adore. ~ elizabeth-gilbert, @wisdomtrove
34:So how do you fall in love with life? The same way you fall in love with another person - you adore everything about them! You fall in love with another person by seeing only love, hearing only love, speaking only love, and by feeling love with all your heart! And that is exactly how you use the ultimate power of love in love with life. ~ rhonda-byrne, @wisdomtrove
35:Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove
36:Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever? ~ mary-oliver, @wisdomtrove
37:They hate kings, they hate priests, they hate soldiers, they hate sailors. They distrust men of science, they denounce the middle classes, they despair of working men, but they adore humanity. Only they always speak of humanity as if it were a curious foreign nation. They are dividing themselves more and more from men to exalt the strange race of mankind. They are ceasing to be human in the effort to be humane. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove
38:Risk is more than is required. Learn more than is normal. Be strong. Show courage. Breathe. Excel. Love. Lead. Speak your truth. Live your values. Laugh. Cry. Innovate. Simplify. Adore mastery. Release mediocrity. Aim for genius. Stay humble. Be kinder than expected. Deliver more than is needed. Exude passion. Shatter your limits. Transcend your fears. Inspire others by your bigness. Dream big but start small. Act now. Don't stop. Change the world. ~ robin-sharma, @wisdomtrove
39:who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? The words compelle intrare, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of the Divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of man, and His compulsion is our liberation. ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove
40:My mother has made choices in her life, as we all must, and she is at peace with them. I can see her peace. She did not cop out on herself. The benefits of her choices are massive-a long, stable marriage to a man she still calls her best friend; a family that has extended now into grandchildren who adore her; a certainty in her own strength. Maybe some things were sacrificed, and my dad made his sacrifices, too-but who amongst us lives without sacrifice? ~ elizabeth-gilbert, @wisdomtrove
41:Before examining this more carefully and investigating its consequences, I want to dwell for a moment in the contemplation of God, to ponder His attributes in me, to see, admire, and adore the beauty of His boundless light, insofar as my clouded insight allows. Believing that the supreme happiness of the other life consists wholly of the contemplation of divine greatness, I now find that through less perfect contemplation of the same sort I can gain the greatest joy available in this life. ~ rene-descartes, @wisdomtrove
42:You make me tremendously happy to hold me undivided - to let me be the artist, as it were, and yet not forgo the man, the animal, the hungry, insatiable lover. No woman has ever granted me all the privileges I need - and you, why you sing out so blithely, so boldly, with a laugh even - yes, you invite me to go ahead, be myself, benture anything. I adore you for that. That is where you are truly regal, a woman extraordinary. What a woman you are! I laugh to myself now when I think of you. I have no fear of your femaleness. ~ henry-miller, @wisdomtrove
43:To crush out fanaticism and revere the infinite, such is the law. Let us not confine ourselves to falling prostrate beneath the tree of creation and contemplating its vast ramifications full of stars. We have a duty to perform, to cultivate the human soul, to defend mystery against miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and to reject the absurd; to admit nothing that is inexplicable excepting what is necessary, to purify faith and obliterate superstition from the face of religion, to remove the vermin from the garden of God. ~ victor-hugo, @wisdomtrove
44:Tom Dancer’s gift of a whitebark pine cone You never know What opportunity Is going to travel to you, Or through you. Once a friend gave me A small pine cone- One of a few He found in the scat Of a grizzly In Utah maybe, Or Wyoming. I took it home And did what I supposed He was sure I would do- I ate it, Thinking How it had traveled Through that rough And holy body. It was crisp and sweet. It was almost a prayer Without words. My gratitude, Tom Dancer, For this gift of the world I adore so much And want to belong to. And thank you too, great bear ~ mary-oliver, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Adore God, abhor sin. ~ Sathya Sai Baba,
2:I’ai adore chaque minute. ~ Erin Nicholas,
3:I adore food and always have. ~ Jane Asher,
4:Miss stone, I adore you. ~ Judith McNaught,
5:I adore italics, don't you? ~ Ronald Firbank,
6:I adore dark chocolate. ~ Diane von Furstenberg,
7:The People adore authority. ~ Charles Baudelaire,
8:I adore artifice. I always have. ~ Diana Vreeland,
9:I adore pretty things & witty words. ~ Kate Spade,
10:The wind is blowing. Adore the wind. ~ Pythagoras,
11:I may command where I adore. ~ William Shakespeare,
12:PHAEDRE: You're in pain. I adore you. ~ Sarah Kane,
13:We all romanticize the people we adore. ~ John Green,
14:adore, v.t. To venerate expectantly. ~ Ambrose Bierce,
15:I adore a moat,’ said Isabel. ‘Good-bye. ~ Henry James,
16:I adore extravagance but I abhor waste. ~ Aaron Copland,
17:We women adore failures. They lean on us. ~ Oscar Wilde,
18:Yes, I adore the fact that girls like me. ~ Shayne Ward,
19:I analyzed you, though you did not adore me. ~ Oscar Wilde,
20:The Divine is what you adore in Sri Aurobindo. ~ The Mother,
21:I adore my two older sisters, Erika and Betsy. ~ Joan Smalls,
22:Please, God, send me something to adore. ~ Michael Cunningham,
23:Sleep. We can adore one another in the morning ~ Kim Fielding,
24:We adore chaos because we love to produce order. ~ M C Escher,
25:What my head cannot comprehend my heart can adore. ~ A W Tozer,
26:I’ll adore you, as a drowned person does the sea. ~ Ren e Vivien,
27:You’re…you’re BJ. And I adore everything about you. ~ Linda Kage,
28:CHAPTER VI—A CHAPTER IN WHICH THEY ADORE EACH OTHER ~ Victor Hugo,
29:I adore you because you made me a whore. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,
30:I absolutely adore the alchemy of a bit of an idea. ~ Glen Hansard,
31:Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee. ~ William Shakespeare,
32:I adore Janis Joplin, who sixties herself to death. ~ Caitlin Moran,
33:I would make a poor vegetarian because I adore meat. ~ Britt Ekland,
34:I was not born to be free---I was born to adore and obey. ~ C S Lewis,
35:How exciting. I adore impertinent questions. Ask away! ~ Gail Carriger,
36:I absolutely adore working in the realms of fantasy. ~ Richard O Brien,
37:I adore the sight of an overworked young man's body! ~ Michael Atamanov,
38:With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ~ James Joyce,
39:I adore imaginary monsters, but I am terrified of real ones. ~ Teju Cole,
40:If you wear things you adore, you just look better. ~ Margherita Missoni,
41:Know first who you are and then adore yourself accordingly. ~ Jojo Moyes,
42:Most writers adore their editors, and I'm no exception. ~ Linda Sue Park,
43:I adore cock and champagne together. My favourite food group. ~ D J Manly,
44:When I was little, I used to adore gold. It was something special. ~ Mr T,
45:you’re delicious and the right man will adore every curve. ~ Eloisa James,
46:cleverness that the French adore and always mistake for wisdom. ~ A A Gill,
47:Telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies. ~ Pietro Aretino,
48:I adore him I have never been so happy. I have real love. ~ Princess Diana,
49:I simply adore the exhaustion that comes with training hard. ~ Deena Kastor,
50:Mother tells me,
They tease you
because they adore you. ~ Thanhha Lai,
51:I adore Madonna. She reinvents herself like no one else. ~ Jonathan Dimbleby,
52:Like most celebrities, of course, I adore all the Mario games. ~ Josie Maran,
53:There is no treatment for adore, but to love far more. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
54:We adore, we invoke, we seek to appease, only that which we fear. ~ Voltaire,
55:What people should understand is that I adore the Labour party. ~ Tony Blair,
56:Thou art a man God is no more Thy own humanity Learn to adore ~ William Blake,
57:Honest men love women; those who deceive them adore them. ~ Pierre Beaumarchais,
58:I love and adore all of my family, except when I'm with them. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
59:You are much closer than you think to creating a life you adore. ~ Robin Sharma,
60:I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex. ~ Oscar Wilde,
61:The great thing, and the only thing, is to adore and praise GOD. ~ Thomas Merton,
62:And, by the way, I adore you.... in frightening, dangerous ways. ~ Stephenie Meyer,
63:I let go of all I no longer love, need, or use. I adore space. ~ Cheryl Richardson,
64:I'm a real animal lover. I adore animals of all shapes and sizes. ~ Tamsin Egerton,
65:...little children adore me - I'm a Troll Tamer and they know it!... ~ John Geddes,
66:I adore America. It's an extraordinary country. A new country. ~ Yves Saint Laurent,
67:I adore Quentin Tarantino. The Kill Bill series is my favorite. ~ Madison Davenport,
68:It's always a good day when I get to work with Jim Belushi, who I adore. ~ Rob Lowe,
69:There's no job that's more rewarding than being with kids. I adore it. ~ Jenna Bush,
70:What the mind cannot accept, the heart can finally never adore. ~ John Shelby Spong,
71:You're still the one that I adore. Aint much out there to have feelings for. ~ Drake,
72:Es bonito que alguien te adore. Aunque en ocasiones es incómodo. ~ Katherine Paterson,
73:God and the doctor we like adore,
But only when in danger, not before. ~ John Owen,
74:...for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
75:I adore adverbs; they are the only qualifications I really much respect. ~ Henry James,
76:I'd love to do a cop film in America. That's a genre I absolutely adore. ~ Danny Boyle,
77:I simply adore 'The Simpsons.' I go to bed in a 'Simpsons' T-shirt. ~ Steven Spielberg,
78:Oh, I adore to cook. It makes me feel so mindless in a worthwhile way. ~ Truman Capote,
79:Thou art a man
God is no more
Thy own humanity
Learn to adore ~ William Blake,
80:Come on sweetheart let's adore one another before there is no more of you and me ~ Rumi,
81:I have a very solo career. I only write with people that I really adore. ~ Jenny Eclair,
82:It is Shail that I adore. I want all of Shail, not pieces of someone else. ~ Ruby Dixon,
83:The Beatles gave me everything. Especially Paul McCartney. I adore him. ~ Ozzy Osbourne,
84:At the point when affection is not frenzy, it is not adore. ~ Pedro Calderon de la Barca,
85:Ordinary people love entertainment. Extraordinary people adore education. ~ Robin Sharma,
86:There is a war that makes us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves. ~ Arundhati Roy,
87:I have great respect for Craig Lucas. I absolutely adore his sensibility. ~ Julie Halston,
88:For the supporters of the Dark Romance Revolution. I adore your black hearts ~ Tillie Cole,
89:I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity. ~ Anais Nin,
90:I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity. ~ Ana s Nin,
91:There is no better sound than whom you adore when they are sleepy and pleased ~ Leif Enger,
92:I love and adore being a mother. It's the greatest gift I've ever been given. ~ Uma Thurman,
93:She saw no harm in letting a handsome, powerful man adore her for a while. ~ Alethea Kontis,
94:Adore and what you adore attempt to be. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Plays and Stories, Act V,
95:There comes a moment in every person's life when they realise they adore me. ~ Salvador Dali,
96:Legalism lacks the supreme sense of worship. It obeys but it does not adore. ~ Geerhardus Vos,
97:People will come to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think ~ Neil Postman,
98:To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood. ~ John Milton,
99:When we see Jesus as he is, we must turn away or else shamelessly adore him. ~ Dallas Willard,
100:God and the Doctor we alike adore But only when in danger, not before" John Owen ~ Hugh Laurie,
101:I absolutely adore Thanksgiving. It's the only holiday I insist on making myself. ~ Ina Garten,
102:I adore life but I dont fear death. I just prefer to die as late as possible. ~ Georges Simenon,
103:Tell people you're a Canadian or a Kiwi when you travel and they'll adore you. ~ Daniel Gillies,
104:Though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group theyre rather stupid. ~ Glynis Johns,
105:What I adore is mixing the unexpected, things you don't imagine should go together ~ Paul Smith,
106:come on sweetheart
let's adore one another
before there is no more
of you and me ~ Rumi,
107:At first I did adore a twinkling star
But now I worship a celestial sun ~ William Shakespeare,
108:I am addicted to 'Vogue' magazines, be they French, British - I adore, adore, adore. ~ Cat Deeley,
109:I love singing, and I came to absolutely adore it in the later part of my career. ~ Julie Andrews,
110:In sex the male adores the female. In love the man and woman together adore God. ~ Fulton J Sheen,
111:At first I did adore a twinkling star,
But now I worship a celestial sun. ~ William Shakespeare,
112:come on, sweetheart
let's adore one another
before there is no more
of you and me. ~ Rumi,
113:Little boys love machines; girls adore horses; grown-up men and women like to walk. ~ Edward Abbey,
114:Trust your husband, adore your husband, and get as much as you can in your own name. ~ Joan Rivers,
115:When we see Jesus as he is, we must turn away or else shamelessly adore him. That ~ Dallas Willard,
116:The Divine is what you adore in Sri Aurobindo.
   ~ The Mother, Words Of The Mother I, [T2], #index,
117:The things she thinks are her flaws are the very aspects of her that I adore most. ~ Laurelin Paige,
118:I'm not a fashionista - I adore creative and original people with their own style. ~ Gabriella Wilde,
119:I used to loathe ambivalence; now I adore it. Ambivalence is my new best friend. ~ Suzanne Finnamore,
120:Long before I had the chance to adore all of you, I adored the bits of you I could see. ~ Sarah Kane,
121:O my mind,Make your speech egoless.Then everyoneWill appreciate, admire and adore you. ~ Sri Chinmoy,
122:You could at least complain,” I say. “I adore complaining. It calms the nerves. ~ Franny Billingsley,
123:I adore him," she said. "I feel compassion for him because he's totally fucked up. ~ Candace Bushnell,
124:I adore John Mayer. I don't see how anything that surrounds John could be negative. ~ Jessica Simpson,
125:I adore your anger and resentments; with such beauty,everything you do looks awesome. ~ M F Moonzajer,
126:I don’t want to help, I want to hinder. I adore your hair, I like to see it loose. ~ Philippa Gregory,
127:Kids. You gotta love them. I adore children. A little salt, a squeeze of lemon—perfect. ~ Jim Butcher,
128:I adore not being me. I'm not very good at being me. That's why I adore acting so much. ~ Deborah Kerr,
129:I've worked with Neil Jordan, who I really adore. We did The Brave One [2007] together. ~ Jodie Foster,
130:Kids. You gotta love them. I adore children. A little salt, a squeeze of lemon--perfect. ~ Jim Butcher,
131:But come what may, I do adore thee so That danger shall seem sport, and I will go! ~ William Shakespeare,
132:I don't work in movies and TV because I adore acting, it's because I adore movies and TV. ~ Jay Baruchel,
133:Americans adore me and will go on adoring me until I say something nice about them. ~ George Bernard Shaw,
134:I have been doing voice work my entire life, and I adore it. It is really rewarding stuff. ~ Robby Benson,
135:Life just is for me, and I don’t understand what I’m saying. And so I adore it. —————— ~ Clarice Lispector,
136:On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore. ~ Alexander Pope,
137:That which you tend, you come to adore with the kind of love that bypasses sense and reason. ~ Julie Berry,
138:People who adore the noises of action can die of boredom with the silence of inaction! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,
139:I adore all Agatha Christie's books and turn to them whenever I'm ill or need cheering up. ~ Sophie Kinsella,
140:I adore doing classic adaptations, but I also feel their frustrations and their limitations. ~ Andrew Davies,
141:I adore pigs, and I love eating them and cooking them, and I love using the whole animal. ~ April Bloomfield,
142:Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely he mutely craved to adore. ~ James Joyce,
143:You could have arrived atop a wildcat and no one would have said a word. They will adore you. ~ Deeanne Gist,
144:and you come away with a great little story of a mess of a dreamer with the nerve to adore you ~ Taylor Swift,
145:I adore political parties. They are the only place left to us where people don't talk politics. ~ Oscar Wilde,
146:My children are most important to me. I'm a mother and I adore my children. I live for them. ~ Camille Grammer,
147:that even the most casual of compliments can be given that extra little touch that women adore. ~ Isaac Asimov,
148:I'm glad you like adverbs — I adore them; they are the only qualifications I really much respect. ~ Henry James,
149:I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
150:Men imitate the gods whom they adore, and to such miserable beings their crimes become their religion. ~ Cyprian,
151:perfume of embraces all him assailed
with hungered flesh obscurely
he mutely craved to adore ~ James Joyce,
152:She didn’t care if other children grew up to the Wiggles or Dan Zanes. Hers would adore Sondheim. ~ Maria Semple,
153:All right-minded people adore it; and anyone who is able to live without it is unworthy to draw breathe ~ Moliere,
154:Friends, do not be afraid of silence or stillness. Listen to God. Adore Him in the Eucharist. ~ Pope Benedict XVI,
155:want to worship you in my own way. I want to adore you by touching you, kissing you, biting you. ~ Pepper Winters,
156:What I adore is supreme professionalism. I’m bored by writers who can write only when it’s raining. ~ Noel Coward,
157:What I adore is supreme professionalism. I’m bored by writers who can write only when it’s raining. ~ No l Coward,
158:God's Word calls His people to adore Him exclusively and completely and to love people as themselves. ~ Max Anders,
159:I adore correspondence. When a letter arrives from a friend it is like getting a small present. ~ Jacqueline Navin,
160:I adore the past. So much more restful than the present. So much more dependable than the future. ~ Anton Walbrook,
161:I love music, singing, and playing piano (though I'm not very good). And I adore musical theater. ~ Aprilynne Pike,
162:My dears, as long as a man is a minister, adore him; when he falls, help drag him in the gutter. ~ Honor de Balzac,
163:We cannot get strength unless we adore the Mother of strength. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Bande Mataram - I, Bhawani Mandir,
164:If the stars should appear but one night every thousand years how man would marvel and adore. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
165:I have other tastes besides comedy. I love comedy. I adore it, but I love dramatic movies just as much. ~ Jonah Hill,
166:It is strange, is it not, how a person can adore one's soul so much that they adore one's body also? ~ Peter Ackroyd,
167:I love street, adore street. Life is about mixing things and to be divine in the streets. Voila! ~ Polly Allen Mellen,
168:That is the divine Brahman and not this which men here adore.
   ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, [T0], #index,
169:Those who worship and adore the Lord through the Guru's Word forget all their pain and suffering. ~ Guru Gobind Singh,
170:If the stars should appear but one night every thousand years how man would marvel and adore.
   ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
171:I adore physical miniatures and try to use them as much as I can and have a bit of a fetish about that. ~ Peter Jackson,
172:I adore water, so it would be a real adventure to visit the Amazon before they chop down all the trees. ~ Michelle Ryan,
173:I see a pair of shoes I adore, and it doesn't matter if they have them in my size. I buy them anyway. ~ Keira Knightley,
174:We adore each other, and yet are afraid to love; we are consumed with a passion which we both condemn. Zadig ~ Voltaire,
175:I adore your jealousy, especially when it's so misplaced. I expect Shakespeare wrote a sonnet about that. ~ Iris Murdoch,
176:There are fathers who do not love their children; there is no grandfather who does not adore his grandson. ~ Victor Hugo,
177:Who needs the fairy tale when crazy, messy, sexy reality with the woman I adore is a million times better? ~ Kate Meader,
178:Dear Edward and Jacob, I adore you both, but I'm spending the weekend with Jace. Sorry! Love, Stephenie ~ Stephenie Meyer,
179:People will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think. ~ Aldous Huxley,
180:I do not sing nor play, but I adore music, particularly Chopin. I like him because I cannot understand him. ~ Mary MacLane,
181:I had been reading a fabulous book [The Man Verdi, by Frank Walker] about [Giuseppe] Verdi, whom I adore. ~ Maurice Sendak,
182:Analog, electronic, whatever it happens to be, I simply love and adore literally every aspect of making music. ~ John Lydon,
183:I adore wearing gems, but not because they are mine. You can't possess radiance, you can only admire it. ~ Elizabeth Taylor,
184:I adore [photography's] uneasy mix of fact and fiction - its dubious claim to truth - its status as history. ~ Eleanor Antin,
185:I very much adore people who are outcasts, and I've always loved to be around interesting, circus-type people. ~ Karen Elson,
186:I adore clothes - they're my weakest link! My mother was the same, and she taught me always to look polished. ~ Anne Robinson,
187:My mother loved Gene Wilder when I was growing up, so I used to watch all his movies with her. I just adore him. ~ Lucy Punch,
188:To love purely is to consent to distance, it is to adore the distance between ourselves and that which we love. ~ Simone Weil,
189:I adore shooting photographs. It's like being a hunter. But some hunters are vegetarians - which is my ~ Henri Cartier Bresson,
190:I adore Smashbox lip stains. I carry a natural color for daytime and a berry shade for going out at night. ~ Jennifer Morrison,
191:I adore the work of Stephen Sondheim. I like musicales in general. They make surprisingly great running tapes. ~ Laura Lippman,
192:I do real paintings, you know. I'm a little messy in the studio, so I'm a bit of a danger. But I just adore it. ~ Jaron Lanier,
193:I liked baseball and sports and Garbage Pail Kids and comic books. I know what its like to really adore something. ~ Todd Lowe,
194:We adore titles and heredities in our hearts and ridicule them with our mouths. This is our democratic privilege. ~ Mark Twain,
195:We do not sin when we adore Christ in the Eucharist; we do sin when we do not adore Christ in the Eucharist. ~ Saint Augustine,
196:I adore clothes, I adore drinking. I just don't have the time or the inclination to totally indulge in it. ~ Christine Baranski,
197:I am a child compared to you, because when the womb in you speaks it enfolds everything—it is the darkness I adore. ~ Ana s Nin,
198:One who comes to the Court must come to adore, not to protest. That's the new gloss on the First Amendment. ~ William O Douglas,
199:There are fathers who do not love their children; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his grandson. At ~ Victor Hugo,
200:Being raised on Luna seems to really mess people up. She wouldn't be the lovable cyborg we've all come to adore. ~ Marissa Meyer,
201:In every person of whatever station look not for things to criticize, but for something you adore in your Creator. ~ Edgar Cayce,
202:Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more. ~ William Wordsworth,
203:Being converted to Jesus is learning to so adore God that we would gladly renounce everything we have to follow Him. ~ J D Greear,
204:Keep only my soul to adore eternally
And meet Thee in each form and soul of Thee. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Surrender,
205:A healthy mind always likes to adore others, elevate them. An unhealthy mind likes to pull everything down. ~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar,
206:Don’t ever promise to adore me forever. Let’s keep the feeling that this love of ours is a love without tomorow. ~ Jean Luc Godard,
207:You know how I love talking about books. And you know how I adore receiving compliments...I should be thrilled. ~ Mary Ann Shaffer,
208:Our thought habits are those of the scientist, not those of the worshipper. We are more likely to explain than to adore. ~ A W Tozer,
209:When we do not adore God, we adore something else. Money and power are false idols which often take the place of God. ~ Pope Francis,
210:I adore my apartment in New York. It was a ballroom that I remade, so it's like a loft but done by Louis the Fifteenth. ~ Joan Rivers,
211:I love English girls! I adore all their different accents. Who knows, I could find a British girlfriend on my travels! ~ Austin Butler,
212:I'm not much of a family man. I'm just not that into it. I love kids, I adore them, but I don't want to live my life for them. ~ Sting,
213:I'm not your enemy, baby," I whispered, kissing at the edge of her mouth. "I protect you. Adore you. I fucking love you. ~ Lucian Bane,
214:The days have never been when thou couldst love me—but her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
215:Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? ~ Mary Oliver,
216:child of God, known by name and whose very hairs are numbered. Praise and adore God and thank him for ever and ever. Amen. ~ Desmond Tutu,
217:How lawyers make work for one another! You're all priests, worshipping the same god. No wonder you adore one another. ~ Joyce Carol Oates,
218:I adore Rule. I think it’s genetically impossible not to be kind of in love with him when you come equipped with a vagina. ~ Jay Crownover,
219:Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more! ~ William Cowper,
220:Worship is basically adoration, and we adore only what delights us. There is no such thing as sad adoration or unhappy praise. ~ John Piper,
221:It's delicious to have people adore you, but it's exhausting, too. Particularly when your own feelings don't match theirs. ~ Tasha Alexander,
222:Work such as you will not have to have the money. Adore like you've got by no means been damage. Dance like nobody's seeing. ~ Satchel Paige,
223:He'd said all the words I'd ever hoped to hear: queen, wife, adore. The dreams I'd stored in my heart were actually comint true. ~ Kiera Cass,
224:I adore Susan Sarandon, she's just so cool, and brilliant, and beautiful. I just like her whole vibe - off- and on-screen. ~ Evan Rachel Wood,
225:When going to the temple to adore Divinity neither say nor do any thing in the interim pertaining to the common affairs of life. ~ Pythagoras,
226:Worship is basically adoration, and we adore only what delights us. There is no such thing as sad adoration or unhappy praise. ~ John Crowder,
227:adore having you. It’s only Ian; he was saying tonight he wondered if you wouldn’t feel more comfortable if you paid something… ~ Evelyn Waugh,
228:beauty is nothing but the start of terror we can hardly bear, and we adore it because of the serene scorn it could kill us with ~ Amitav Ghosh,
229:Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? ~ Mary Oliver,
230:Along with people willing to disappoint you for being beyond ordinary, there also are many individuals who adore you immensely. ~ Sahara Sanders,
231:I adore war. It is like a big picnic but without the objectivelessness of a picnic. I have never been more well or more happy. ~ Julian Grenfell,
232:Give me the grace to be impatient for the time when I shall see You face to face and need no stimulus than that to adore You. ~ Flannery O Connor,
233:There is no more proper response to really seeing God as he is—transcendent beyond all imagination—than to be still and adore. ~ Timothy J Keller,
234:...Why did just my eyes adore you - Have you ever wondered that? well, as Hegel said, “Too fair to worship, too divine to love.”... ~ John Geddes,
235:I have friends who adore high heels, but I can't see the point. I figure if high heels were so wonderful, men would be wearing them. ~ Sue Grafton,
236:I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies. ~ Pietro Aretino,
237:I adore having people over to my home. My number one reason I love that is because I love to see people at ease with each other. ~ Evangeline Lilly,
238:I adore this adventure, I adore working with youth. For me it's a daily challenge, working to help these youths realize their dreams. ~ Patrick Roy,
239:I love all my characters. I love their weaknesses and flaws. I feel like they're all my best friends and I adore being with them. ~ Sophie Kinsella,
240:I obviously read and adore traditional fiction. I teach traditional fiction; I also teach all kinds of not-so-traditional fiction. ~ Heidi Julavits,
241:The thing I adore about acting is that it's not me: you get to experience all these emotions, but essentially it's not you. ~ Jessica Brown Findlay,
242:beauty is nothing but the start of terror we can hardly bear, and we adore it because of the serene scorn it could kill us with . . . ~ Amitav Ghosh,
243:Art and psychoanalysis give shape and meaning to life and that is why we adore them, but life as it is lived has no shape and meaning. ~ Iris Murdoch,
244:Cult of Musk. Employees fear Musk. They adore Musk. They give up their lives for Musk, and they usually do all of this simultaneously. ~ Ashlee Vance,
245:I adore a little summer shower, said I, with a deep, appreciative intake of the damp, salty air. It makes the world smell fresh and new. ~ Syrie James,
246:I adore the way he looks at me sometimes, as if love is a quantity he cannot measure scientifically, because it multiplies too quickly. ~ Jodi Picoult,
247:I hope you have lost your good looks, for while they last any fool can adore you, and the adoration of fools is bad for the soul. ~ George Bernard Shaw,
248:Lust, anger, vanity and covetousness are all paths leading to hell. Abjuring, all these adore the Hero of Raghu’s line, whom saints worship. ~ Tulsidas,
249:I adore the theater and I am a painter. I think the two are made for a marriage of love. I will give all my soul to prove this once more. ~ Marc Chagall,
250:I just adore being on set. I adore storytelling. I can be on a set 70 hours a week and on those weekends, I'll still want to watch movies. ~ Jay Baruchel,
251:Listen to me. I admire you. Adore you. Hell, I’ve spent four years constructing some twisted, blasphemous religion around you."

-Luke ~ Tessa Dare,
252:I adore acting; it's in my blood - quite literally - but I can honestly say the most creative thing in the world for me is being a mother. ~ Samantha Bond,
253:All my closest friends are the ones I made while in college or who knew me growing up. They keep me grounded, and I adore that about them. ~ Alexander Wang,
254:How I adore you, Marya. How well I chose. Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. ~ Catherynne M Valente,
255:Please,” David said, “we’re British—we adore animals. It’s children we can’t stand. That’s why we invented boarding schools. More tea? ~ Susan Elia MacNeal,
256:Action Human and Divine
Keep only my soul to adore eternally
And meet Thee in each form and soul of Thee. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Surrender,
257:The Cross to me is certain salvation. The Cross is that which I ever adore. The Cross of the Lord is with me. The Cross is my refuge. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,
258:Lover of love. I adore love letters, and professions of love, and true, heartfelt moments when two people know they’re meant for each other. ~ Lauren Blakely,
259:The key, then, to loving God is to see Jesus, to hold him before the mind with as much fullness and clarity as possible. It is to adore him. ~ Dallas Willard,
260:When the Mass is being celebrated, the sanctuary is filled with countless angels, who adore the Divine Victim immolated on the altar. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,
261:People have so great a need to reverence, to worship, to adore; it is a psychological necessity of human nature that must be taken into account. ~ Dorothy Day,
262:Be aware of me always, adore me, make every act an offering to me, and you shall come to me; this I promise; for you are dear to me. ~ Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa,
263:I adore storms. I love the raw power of the spectacle: Hydraulics! Voltage! Percussion! Mother Nature has dominion and everyone awaits her whim. ~ Kathy Reichs,
264:In all the events of life, you must recognize the Divine will. Adore and bless it, especially in the things which are the hardest for you. ~ Pio of Pietrelcina,
265:love all the seasons: the warm and cold, the good and bad. They’re all important. Ones we enjoy less make us appreciate the ones we adore more. ~ Aleatha Romig,
266:On Christmas day you can't get sore, your fellow man you must adore. There's time to cheat him all the more the other three hundred and sixty-four ~ Tom Lehrer,
267:She appeared to adore Thomas's repugnance to her and to draw it out of him every chance she got as if it added delectably to her martyrdom. ~ Flannery O Connor,
268:I love it when a man cooks; it's one of those points that makes me adore a guy. I think it's so romantic and I feel cared for when a man cooks. ~ Olga Kurylenko,
269:Gabe,” he said sleepily, “I adore your cock, but I’m too tired to ride your joystick.” He never lost his snark, not even in his sleep. “Oh, ~ Aimee Nicole Walker,
270:I adore art...when I am alone with my notes, my heart pounds and the tears stream from my eyes, and my emotion and my joys are too much to bear. ~ Giuseppe Verdi,
271:I will never not want you, understand? I love you. I adore you. I admire you. I desire you. You are my heart. My blood, my bones. My everything. ~ Sarah Mayberry,
272:My grandfather will adore you."
"Because...?"
"You're not normal."
"I see we're back to trading insults."
"I meant that as a compliment. ~ Jen Turano,
273:Not that I have any interest in saying goodbye to Rocky. I absolutely adore being involved and a part of something that is really a phenomenon. ~ Richard O Brien,
274:The key, then, to loving God is to see Jesus, to hold him before the mind with as much fullness and clarity as possible. It is to adore him. For ~ Dallas Willard,
275:At home, I have a wife, fortunately, and my children are all grown, and I have many grandchildren. I spend weekends with my grandchildren; I adore them. ~ I M Pei,
276:I now think, Love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind. ~ Ben Jonson,
277:My boy! It's really true, you really love hashed brown potatoes? You make me so happy. JACK [without conviction]: Yes, I like them, I adore them! ~ Eug ne Ionesco,
278:When I had my Comedy Central roast, David [Spade] was my first choice to be roastmaster, because I adore him. He's funny as hell, and nobody is meaner. ~ Rob Lowe,
279:he held it one of the prettiest attitudes of the feminine mind to adore a man’s pre-eminence without too precise a knowledge of what it consisted in. ~ George Eliot,
280:I need nothing in this world in order to be happy. I only need to see Jesus in heaven, Whom I now see and adore on the altar with the eyes of faith. ~ Dominic Savio,
281:Daytime soap operas, which I used to adore, have been declining in quality and importance for over a decade, and I gradually stopped monitoring them. ~ Camille Paglia,
282:I am an American. I adore Britain and have a strong English half, but my roots are here in the U.S. - it is not a matter of choice; it is simply fact. ~ Jennifer Ehle,
283:I love to work with Julia [Holter] because our voices have a similar timbre, and she's very unique. She finds very avant-garde harmonies that I adore. ~ Linda Perhacs,
284:Embrace your weirdness. Some will adore you. Others won't. But who cares? Worry about loving yourself, not loving the idea of other people loving you. ~ Karen Salmansohn,
285:God and the Doctor we alike adore But only when in danger, not before; The danger o'er, both are alike requited, God is forgotten, and the Doctor slighted. ~ Robert Owen,
286:Just on the brink of danger, not before, God and the Doctor we alike adore; The danger passed, both are alike requited; God forgot and the Doctor slighted. ~ Noah Gordon,
287:What’s your favourite position?”
“I usually play winger.”
“Zach, I adore you, but you can’t make soccer jokes during phone sex. It just isn’t done. ~ Tiffany Reisz,
288:I feel very lucky. I have a husband and baby that I adore. I have a career I really love. When I sit back and reflect, it's, like, wow! I am very grateful. ~ Katie Holmes,
289:If I don't have a script I adore, I do one I like. If I don't have one I like, I do one that has an actor I like or that presents some technical challenge. ~ Sidney Lumet,
290:I'm a human just like any of the people that you adore, whether they're in TV shows or movies or they're writers or YouTubers. Their lives are not perfect. ~ Tyler Oakley,
291:I might be in the basement. I'll go upstairs and check. We adore chaos because we love to produce order. I don't use drugs; my dreams are frightening enough. ~ M C Escher,
292:Things have to hit for the moment. That's one of the reasons I'm into video; the image has to hit immediately. I adore video and the whole cutting up of it. ~ David Bowie,
293:God and the Soldier all men adore, In time of trouble and no more, For when war is over And all thing righted, God is neglected, And the Old Soldier slighted. ~ Jan Morris,
294:I love movies. I adore movies. I grew up on Steve McQueen and Clint Eastwood and Warren Beatty. The list goes on. Spencer Tracy. I wanted to be in movies. ~ Pierce Brosnan,
295:I’m the idiot box. I’m the TV. I’m the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I’m the boob tube. I’m the little shrine the family gathers to adore. ~ Neil Gaiman,
296:I adore Eddie Kaye Thomas and Jason Biggs. Eddie was the only one who called me when they were doing 'American Reunion' and told me, 'You need to do this.' ~ Natasha Lyonne,
297:I need you to know that I adore you. I worship you. I don’t just love you, Nila Weaver. I treasure you. I’ve never had anything so goddamn precious as you. ~ Pepper Winters,
298:I welcome the light just as much as I welcome the body I used to hate, because not only does the man I love adore every inch, but through his eyes, I do too. ~ Harper Sloan,
299:No one else, however much you love and adore the person, sees the true significance of your private epiphanies. The secret belongs to you, with you, in you. ~ Deepak Chopra,
300:As created beings, angels are not to be worshipped, glorified, or adored in and of themselves. The angels were created to worship, glorify, adore, and obey God. ~ Tony Evans,
301:Henry is a beautiful player and has got complete technique, I adore watching him. I respect him very much as a man and as a footballer. He reminds me of myself. ~ Ronaldinho,
302:I do adore food. If I have any vice it's eating. If I was told I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, I could put up with sausage and mash forever. ~ Colin Baker,
303:Antichrist Superstar is also about me wanting to grow up and be something that people would adore...instead I grew up and became something that people hated. ~ Marilyn Manson,
304:His power to adore is responsible for all his crimes: a man who loves a god unduly forces other men to love his god, eager to exterminate them if they refuse. ~ Emil M Cioran,
305:I love rhythmic dancing - I'm not derogating it at all. It's just that sometimes you want to whisper, "I adore you." And for that you need strings and woodwinds. ~ Gene Kelly,
306:Don’t you realize how I adore you? … But I couldn’t steal the life of a girl when I wanted a woman’s love. I wanted you to have a choice, not an infatuation. ~ Elizabeth Hunter,
307:I cupped her cheeks with both hands. “I adore you, Sofia Claremont.” I placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, breathing out when her arms snaked around my waist. ~ Bella Forrest,
308:I adore the incredibly tight clothing! My own wardobe's changed - I've streamlined a little bit and definitely learnt from Joan's sleekiness and tailoring. ~ Christina Hendricks,
309:Soupçonner qu'un rival est aimé est déjà bien cruel, mais se voir avouer en détail l'amour qu'il inspire à la femme qu'on adore est sans doute le comble des douleurs. ~ Stendhal,
310:What I adore is the juxtaposition of high tech and low tech. It's sort of like I love the sacred and the profane. I love to put these extremes in the same hopper. ~ Julie Taymor,
311:A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ~ James Joyce,
312:I adore fairy stories. And I still have the wistful spirit of a child that listens wide-eyed to the marvellous tales told over and over during long winter evenings. ~ Ren e Vivien,
313:Tout ce qu'on adore est cadavre, sauf Dieu [...]. C'est pourquoi je dis: mon corps est mort, ma voix est morte; toute science est cadavre, toute oeuvre est un cadavre ~ Ren Daumal,
314:To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread? ~ Arthur Rimbaud,
315:In time, however, I came to understand that one can adore and desire that which is forever beyond reach. This might, in fact, be the hardest truth of human existence. ~ Dean Koontz,
316:Of the many qualities I adore about Melissa McCarthy as a comedian and as a dramatic actor, the best is how fully she gives herself to every character she plays. ~ Lisa Schwarzbaum,
317:The sexiest man alive, and there he stood, ready to adore me. “I think I’m falling for you.”
“Good thing, baby, because I’m already right there ready to catch you. ~ A L Jackson,
318:We adore Thee most holy Lord Jesus Christ, here in all Thy Churches, which are in the whole world, because by Thy holy cross, Thou hast redeemed the world ~ Saint Francis of Assisi,
319:Admire and adore the Author of the telescopic universe, love and esteem the work, do all in your power to lessen ill, and increase good, but never assume to comprehend. ~ John Adams,
320:I am becoming increasingly difficult to please as a reader, but I adore being surprised by a really wonderful book, written by someone I've never heard of before. ~ Alexandra Fuller,
321:Don't you know that you're blowing my mind? What you do to me I can't describe. Baby, I can't hold back anymore. I just can't conceal it. You're the one I really adore. ~ Mariah Carey,
322:Have I mentioned to you, Peabody, that one of the reasons I adore you is that you are more inclined to beat people with your umbrella than fall weeping on your bed? ~ Elizabeth Peters,
323:I know the greatness of Jehovah; I acknowledge the perfection of His word; I adore the purity of the Christian faith; my theory is right, my practice horribly wrong. ~ Charlotte Bront,
324:I long to touch your blushing cheek, to whisper in your ear how I adore you, how I have lost my heart to you, how I cannot bear the thought of living without you. ~ Julianne Donaldson,
325:I understand from those who adore him, he [Julian Assange] has a great sense of humor which rarely gets an airing because he's dealing with such serious issues. ~ Benedict Cumberbatch,
326:Stupid people adore certainty. That’s the danger in being more intelligent and patient. People who allow nuance lose debates. Smart people lose wars all the time. ~ Robert Chazz Chute,
327:A husband and wife who are in the habit of occupying separate rooms are either beings apart, or they have found happiness. Either they hate or they adore each other. ~ Honore de Balzac,
328:I think when you really adore something and you've grown up with it you almost don't want to be part of it. I want to enjoy it as a fan and don't want to ruin the magic. ~ Jane Goldman,
329:We need to give some time to the arts of cherishing the things we adore, before they simply vanish. Maybe it will be like learning a skill: how to live in paradise. ~ William Kittredge,
330:I have a Pinterest, and if you look there you'll see the things I really like and adore, have crushes on, and there's a lot of stuff from Riccardo's [Tisci] line on there. ~ Erykah Badu,
331:Nurse Angela, with her love of cats and orphans, once remarked of Homer Wells that the boy must adore the name she gave him because he fought so hard not to lose it. ~ John Irving,
332:Very few of us are capable of being Free Thinkers, needing neither to adore nor to insult God, the insult often being an act of faith more profound than adoration. ~ Alexandra David Neel,
333:Cait, I adore you,” he whispered against her mouth, his kisses gentling with a tender passion that twisted her heart. “Don’t do this to me, please—don’t push me away.” Her ~ Julie Lessman,
334:I adore watching movies; movie marathons are my favorite pastime. I can watch up to five movies back to back. I also love music and like reading whenever I get the time. ~ Priyanka Chopra,
335:I don’t care what you think, but I want normal people to like me.” “You’re chronically addicted to making people adore you.” The way he says it makes me feel a little sick. ~ Sally Thorne,
336:Dancing was a big part of my life, but I would never consider myself a dancer. I adore singing, and music has always been a huge part of my life, but I also enjoy acting. ~ Vanessa Hudgens,
337:It is possible to adore those newly come into your world, to envision, no matter how late in the day, a happily entwined future with those who have not been part of your past. ~ Mohsin Hamid,
338:My Mum taught me great manners. And she always told me that you can be or do whatever in life, as long as you don't hurt anyone and you're happy. My Mum's great; I adore her. ~ Colin Farrell,
339:If you are ever attacked in the street do not shout 'help!', shout 'Fire!'. People adore fires and always come rushing. Nobody will come if you shout 'help. ~ Jean Barker Baroness Trumpington,
340:My criterion for accepting a role isn't based on what I would like to do. I try to consider what the audience would like to see me do and I thought kids would adore Star Wars. ~ Peter Cushing,
341:Savage and furious nations, perpetually at war, adore, under diverse names, some God, conformable to their ideas, that is to say, cruel, carnivorous, selfish, blood-thirsty. ~ Baron d Holbach,
342:All poets adore explosions, thunderstorms, tornadoes, conflagrations, ruins, scenes of spectacular carnage. The poetic imagination is not at all a desirable quality in a statesman. ~ W H Auden,
343:As a successful romantic novelist - one of my publishers is Mills & Boon - I create the sort of male heroes that no woman could fail to adore and few real men could hope to emulate. ~ P C Cast,
344:I’d do anything for you.” And she knew he meant it. “Even before you healed me, you gave my life back, a reason for living. I adore you, I worship you. I love you beyond all reason. ~ Ava Gray,
345:Two goddesses now must Cyprus adore; The Muses are ten, and the Graces are four; Stella's wit is so charming, so sweet her fair face, She shines a new Venus, a Muse, and a Grace. ~ Callimachus,
346:Yeah, but she would have been raised on Luna. And from what I can tell, being raised on Luna really messes people up. She wouldn’t be the cuddly cyborg we’ve all come to adore. ~ Marissa Meyer,
347:of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
348:Rejoice, the Lord is King! Your Lord and King adore; Mortals, give thanks and sing, And triumph evermore: Lift up your heart, lift up your voice; Rejoice, again, I say rejoice. ~ Charles Wesley,
349:There’s a monument due me by rank already
I’d blow the damn thing up with dynamite
So strongly I hate every kind of dead thing
So much I adore every kind of life! ~ Vladimir Mayakovsky,
350:Art and psychoanalysis give shape and meaning to life and that is why we adore them, but life as it is lived has no shape and meaning, and that is what I am experiencing just now. ~ Iris Murdoch,
351:There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. ~ William Goldman,
352:With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears; The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years. ~ Alexander Pope,
353:Forcing people into a situation where they're supposed to adore each other is probably bad. But letting people get on and off the 6 train without stabbing each other, that's good. ~ Fran Lebowitz,
354:The secret is to become someone else, something else. All sex grows dull. You renew it by reinventing yourself, and as a new character, you have new urges. I adore being a rabbit. ~ Chloe Thurlow,
355:I think you’re beautiful, the only beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I love your voice and everything to do with you, down to your clothes or the room you are sitting in. I adore you. ~ E M Forster,
356:The music is sensuous and whispers sex before the singer delivers the first lyric. “Prince?” I ask, surprised. I recognize the iconic voice, but not the song. “What is this?” “Adore. ~ Kennedy Ryan,
357:Art and psychoanalisis give shape and meaning to life and that's why we adore them. However, life as it is lived has no shape nor meaning, and that's what I am experiencing right now. ~ Iris Murdoch,
358:Dès ce moment, le doux espoir a remplacé la cruelle inquiétude. J'aurai cette femme, je l'enlèverai au mari qui la profane, j'oserai la ravir au Dieu même qu'elle adore. ~ Pierre Choderlos de Laclos,
359:It is not the Woman’s beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm; It is the Painter’s skill that I admire, it is the Divinity that I adore! Are not the passions dead in my bosom? Have ~ Matthew Lewis,
360:Even the few whom we genuinely adore we have to belittle secretly now and then, as Toby and I had to belittle James, just to feed the healthy appetite of our wondrously necessary egos. ~ Iris Murdoch,
361:They exchanged a brief grin and Westcliff left the room. “Arrogant, high-handed creature,” Lillian remarked, her smile lingering as she watched the earl’s departure. “God, I adore him. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
362:Come on,” she said. “We’ll get Colm to order us something decadent.” “That’s your answer for everything.” “You’re complaining?” Inej asked. “I’m stating one of the reasons I adore you. ~ Leigh Bardugo,
363:Man is made to adore and to obey: but if you will not command him, if you give him nothing to worship, he will fashion his own divinities, and find a chieftain in his own passions. ~ Benjamin Disraeli,
364:So soon? But I sup pose that is only to be expected. Lord Ramsay will want to see his estate."
"Yes, Mrs. Hunt." Leo said. "I adore bucolic settings. One can never view too many sheep. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
365:wanted librarians to simply adore the act of reading for its own sake, and perhaps, as a collateral benefit, they could inspire their patrons to read with a similarly insatiable appetite. ~ Susan Orlean,
366:And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
367:Richard Baxter: Ye saints, who toil below, Adore your heavenly King, And onward as ye go Some joyful anthem sing. Take what He gives, And praise Him still Through good and ill Who ever lives. ~ J I Packer,
368:A Time For Prayer "In times of war and not before, God and the soldier we adore. But in times of peace and all things righted, God is forgotten and the soldier slighted." -Rudyard Kipling ~ Rudyard Kipling,
369:Bow down and adore where others bend the knee; for where so great a number of men pay the tribute of their adoration, the Impersonal must needs manifest Himself, for He is all compassion. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
370:Dangerous girl, seductive as the weather!
Shall I adore your snows and frosts together?
In your relentless winter shall I feel
A kiss more sharp than that of ice and steel? ~ Charles Baudelaire,
371:Bow down and adore where others bend the knee; for where so great a number of men pay the tribute of their adoration, the Impersonal must needs manifest Himself, for He is all compassion. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
372:Cheese. Cheeeeeese. What a thin, flat, nasal-sounding word for such a luscious, rich, gorgeous thing. Hard. Soft. Ripe. Grainy. Creamy. Often stinky. I’d yet to find a cheese I didn’t adore. ~ Alice Clayton,
373:Godhead here in hiding, whom I adore Masked by these bare shadows, shape and nothing more, See, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart Lost, all lost in wonder at the God thou art ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,
374:Be what it may, I will always esteem and adore the divine genius of this Gentleman, taking from him what I understand with humility and admiring with veneration what I am unable to understand. ~ Lope de Vega,
375:It's seldom that you get to work with one director more than once. I've worked with Clint Eastwood three times, but that's the only one that's happened with, simply because I adore his work. ~ Morgan Freeman,
376:Let every knee bend before Thee, O greatness of my God, so supremely humbled in the Sacred Host. May every heart love Thee, every spirit adore Thee and every will be subject to Thee! ~ Margaret Mary Alacoque,
377:Our century is probably more religious than any other. How could it fail to be, with such problems to be solved? The only trouble is that it has not yet found a God it can adore. ~ Pierre Teilhard de Chardin,
378:Whatever obscurities may involve religious tenets, humility and love constitute the essence of true religion; the humble is formed to adore, the loving to associate with eternal love. ~ Johann Kaspar Lavater,
379:A greater Personality sometimes
Possesses us which yet we know is ours:
Or we adore the Master of our souls.
Then the small bodily ego thins and falls; ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Secret Knowledge,
380:Be a religion to each other. Each man has his own fashion of adoring God. Saperlotte! the best way to adore God is to love one's wife. I love thee! that's my catechism. He who loves is orthodox. ~ Victor Hugo,
381:I know if I had the chance of going aboard the Titanic in those days, I would have gone - I know I would have. I adore going on the Queen Mary - I think it's the only way to travel from New York. ~ Celia Imrie,
382:Democracy
Let slaves and subjects with unvaried psalms
Before their sovereign execute salaams;
The freeman scorns one idol to adore
Tom, Dick and Harry and himself are four.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
383:I have an incredible team of collaborators that work with me on all my films. I adore them and respect them tremendously. I can't wait to begin production on my next film so we can be reunited. ~ Dori Berinstein,
384:She will fight for light, and he for dark,
Battling through the ages for loves sweet spark.
Wherever two souls adore truly, you will find them, lo,
The brave Juliet and the wicked Romeo. ~ Stacey Jay,
385:LADY STUTFIELD I adore silent men. MRS ALLONBY Oh, Ernest isn't silent. He talks the whole time. But he has got no conversation. What he talks about I don't know. I haven't listened to him for years. ~ Oscar Wilde,
386:The beauty of life are women, no one loves them as much as me. I adore them all, the ugly, the beautiful, the cold, the sexy and especially those that are from cinema material, shadow and light. ~ Federico Fellini,
387:Abandon pride, which is the same as Tamas-guna (darkness), rooted as it is in ignorance and is a source of considerable pain; and adore Lord Shri Rama, the Chief of the Raghus and an ocean of compassion. ~ Tulsidas,
388:I am happier when I love than when I am loved. I adore my husband, my son, my grandchildren, my mother, my dog, and frankly, I don't know if they even like me. But who cares? Loving them is my joy. ~ Isabel Allende,
389:I think Northern California is the most beautiful place on earth. And I adore New Orleans, but there's something about the air in SF, for instance. It changes from moment to moment, like one's thoughts. ~ Hilton Als,
390:Ah baby, you know I do what I want.” Rubbing his chin on her hair, he squeezed her hip. “Man and wolf, we both adore you. No way am I letting you go after the hell you’ve put me through over the years. ~ Nalini Singh,
391:As women, we all have certain weaknesses. I know one who can't resist pretty shoes but has nothing suitable to wear with them. Others adore frilly lingerie but never have any money to buy outer clothing. ~ Edith Head,
392:Come in the evening, or coming in the morning/Come when you're looked for, or come without warning/Kisses and welcomes you'll find here before you/And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. ~ Thomas Davis,
393:Everything that makes you you is what I adore, and without us being who we are, we may not have found each other. So if we die tomorrow, or the next day, it will be worth it. Because I got to love you. ~ Trisha Leigh,
394:I only travel to good material, a good director and a good company. I won't work in another country for a year any longer, because I have a lovely wife and I adore her and I can't bear to be away from her. ~ Jim Dale,
395:Personally, I believe Sophia was delighted over the whole affair, which just goes to prove that children adore me.” “Because they see you as one of their peers,” Mrs. Wilson said with a roll of her eyes. ~ Jen Turano,
396:Andy Hertzfeld, an original member of the Apple team and now an engineer at Google, once said that what Jobs taught him was to “follow your heart” and only great work comes out of doing what you adore. ~ Carmine Gallo,
397:His expression turns tender. “I fucking adore you.” God, my heart. I can’t take it. I trace the curve of his eyebrow. “You’ve grown on me too, Mannus.” “I’m like fungus that way,” he agrees happily. ~ Kristen Callihan,
398:Of course what he most intensely dreams of is being taken out on walks, and the more you are able to indulge him the more will he adore you and the more all the latent beauty of his nature will come out. ~ Henry James,
399:God And The Soldier
God and the soldier
All men adore
In time of trouble,
And no more;
For when war is over
And all things righted,
God is neglected The old soldier slighted.
~ Anonymous,
400:I hate you," Haley mumbled, storming past him to grab a carriage.
"You love and adore me," Jason informed her as he deftly snagged her carriage away from her and headed towards the men's department. ~ R L Mathewson,
401:It's such a beautiful question, Luce. I adore you for asking it, and I wish I could explain it better. All I can tell you is this: The only way to survive eternity is to be able to appreciate each moment. ~ Lauren Kate,
402:Most men I know adore women, and I am including gay men. I think studies on jury selection show that the biggest critics of women - people less likely to trust their character or judgment - are women. ~ Gene Weingarten,
403:I am happier when I love than when I am loved. I adore my husband, my son, and my grandchildren, my mother, my dog, and, frankly, I don't know if they even like me. But who cares? Loving them is my joy. ~ Isabel Allende,
404:Then to submit, boasting I could subdue Th’ Omnipotent. Ay me, they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vaine, Under what torments inwardly I groane; While they adore me on the Throne of Hell, With ~ John Milton,
405:Her younger sister was at ease with men in a way that Poppy could never manage. They seemed to adore Beatrix because she treated them as she did her wild creatures, gently humoring, showing patient interest ~ Lisa Kleypas,
406:She’s whacked with happy, which kind of infects anyone within a ten-foot radius.” She stuffed salad in her mouth to get it over with. “Like an airborne virus.”
“God, you romantic fool. No wonder I adore you. ~ J D Robb,
407:They are as they are because they live in the light, the gunslinger thought suddenly. That light of civilization you were taught to adore above all other things. They live in a world which has not moved on. ~ Stephen King,
408:Her younger sister was at ease with men in a way that Poppy could never manage. They seemed to adore Beatrix because she treated them as she did her wild creatures, gently humoring, showing patient interest. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
409:After thee accumulation of too much history we have lost our innocence, we cannot easily believe in any explanations. We describe rather than feel, we touch rather than explore, we lust rather than adore. ~ Genesis P Orridge,
410:I can't even listen to Swans anymore. It doesn't do it for me at all, but I absolutely adore the early records and, on that same token, I wouldn't in any way wish for them to come back and repeat themselves. ~ Justin Broadrick,
411:God And The Soldier
God and the soldier
All men adore
In time of trouble,
And no more;
For when war is over
And all things righted,
God is neglected The old soldier slighted.
~ Anonymous Americas,
412:I am a Frenchman. Need I say, messieurs, that I admire beauty? Nay, I adore the fair. Messieurs, we admire all the roses in a garden, but we pluck one. I plucked one, and alas, messieurs, it pricked my finger. ~ H Rider Haggard,
413:Once, when our paths crossed, he told me that the kindest thing I’d ever done was to not marry him. Perhaps because he was passionately in love with a woman who possessed the wisdom to adore him as he deserved. ~ Lorraine Heath,
414:A Time For Prayer

"In times of war and not before,
God and the soldier we adore.
But in times of peace and all things righted,
God is forgotten and the soldier slighted."

-Rudyard Kipling ~ Rudyard Kipling,
415:They adore you beacause they think you offer up your friendship and ask for nothing in return. But that's not true-' He took a deep breath. 'You do ask for something. You ask that we never expect you to need us. ~ Kamila Shamsie,
416:He was comparing you to the butterflies that you both adore and cherish, and he said you were special for the same reasons: you were rare, exotic and entirely you. He said you're beautiful exactly the way are now. ~ Cecelia Ahern,
417:If God is Mother, then we need only gather together with people and adore her through rituals intended to satisfy the female soul, ritual involving dance, fire, water, air, earth, songs, music, flowers, and beauty. ~ Paulo Coelho,
418:It is our duty and delight to adore our great God, but he is not honored by ignorant adoration, for that can only be a charade. Adoration must be based on some knowledge, otherwise it is not God himself whom we adore. ~ John Piper,
419:What does the poor man do at the rich man's door, the sick man in the presence of his physician, the thirsty man at a limpid stream? What they do, I do before the Eucharistic God. I pray. I adore. I love. ~ Saint Francis of Assisi,
420:I absolutely adore Alessandra Rich, I think her dresses are stunning and she really knows how to cut and dress the female shape. Her stuff is really beautiful, stylish and a little bit quirky. I love it all! ~ Jessica Brown Findlay,
421:People don't appreciate music any more. They don't adore it. They don't buy vinyl and just love it. They love their laptops like their best friend, but they don't love a record for its sound quality and its artwork. ~ Laura Marling,
422:THUMB,

I HOPE I WILL NOT BORE YOU WITH HOW TOTALLY, TOTALLY I ADORE YOU. THE FUNNY WAY YOU HAVE OF TALKING, THE CUTE WAY YOU HAVE OF WALKING. PLEASE DO NOT FEEL THAT I AM STALKING YOU.

LOVE, HENDERSON ~ Phoebe Stone,
423:Every now and then you run across radiantly attractive people and you're delighted to find they adore you, till you realize that they adore just about everybody - and that's what's made them radiantly attractive. ~ Mignon McLaughlin,
424:Those who set up a fictitious worship, merely worship and adore their own delirious fancies; indeed, they would never dare so to trifle with God, had they not previously fashioned him after their own childish conceits. ~ John Calvin,
425:To be human and to be adult means constantly to be in the grip of opposing emotions, to have daily to reconcile apparently conflicting tensions. I want this, but need that. I cherish this, but I adore its opposite too. ~ Stephen Fry,
426:Abandon pride, which is the same as Tamas-guna (darkness), rooted as it is in ignorance and is a source of considerable pain; and adore Lord Shri Rama, the Chief of the Raghus and an ocean of compassion.

(Page 787). ~ Tulsidas,
427:Fashion isn't interesting when it comes from an uninspired place. It's like voodoo; we don't want things that are soaked in blood, sweat, and tears. I adore life, and I'm very easygoing - and it shows in my work. ~ Christian Louboutin,
428:Just now we happen to be living in a secular age. Our thought habits are those of the scientist, not those of the worshipper. We are more likely to explain than to adore. “It thundered,” we exclaim, and go our earthly way. ~ A W Tozer,
429:What is there about you to adore? Who in this world do you care about, besides yourself? You're a pretty face, but you're empty inside. You don't even know what you want. You're just waiting for someone to give it to you. ~ Sarah Cross,
430:Words created the future, exacerbated problems, raised barriers between them. But in the silence of Ford's sleep, Ford could love Dan easily; in the stillness of Ford's rest, Dan could adore him without question or fear. ~ Jim Grimsley,
431:When we delight in something, we declare our delight. When we adore someone, we announce our adoration. Isn’t this, then, the essence of worship—lifting up with our lips and our lives the one we love above everything else? ~ David Platt,
432:Why would men want to do without women? We adore women.”
“Because they serve you,” she grumbled.
“No.Because they complement us. And I mean complement with an e,not an i. Women are our other halves. Men need women. ~ Susan Mallery,
433:At my age the only problem is with remembering names. When I call everyone darling, it has damn all to do with passionately adoring them, but I know I'm safe calling them that. Although, of course, I adore them too. ~ Richard Attenborough,
434:I had always dared to dream large, but even this black kid~ez_rsquo~s imagination could not have come close to inventing the storybook success that I have enjoyed in the nearly thirty years I`ve worked in this medium I adore. ~ Kevin Clash,
435:The first act of man, filled and carried away with enthusiasm (of the divine breath), is to adore the invisible Providence on which he feels that he depends, and which he calls GOD. ~ Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, The Philosophy of Misery. § 1.1,
436:It never ceases to surprise me, the people I get to work with. I'm in a French film with Sandrine Bonnaire? I adore Sandrine Bonnaire. I'm doing a picture for Robert Redford? The Sundance Kid? I have to pinch myself sometimes. ~ Kevin Kline,
437:This is the person you will adore forever.
This is the person designed, crafted, and perfected for you.
But you can’t touch them.
Not yet. Not for decades.
Not until you’re worthy of the gift I’ve given you. ~ Pepper Winters,
438:When I look at you, when you touch me, when I see your face...when we kiss, my heart plays a song. It sings that it needs you like I need air. It sings to me that I adore you. It sings that I've found its perfect missing part. ~ Tillie Cole,
439:I bring homemade cakes to my meetings with the division heads and they all adore me. I’m described as “worth my weight in gold.” Joshua brings bad news to his divisional meetings and his weight is measured in other substances. ~ Sally Thorne,
440:My luck has always been how I've had a family of women around me, and I have women who are very close to me - for example, Mariacarla Boscono, Carine Roitfeld, Marina Abramovic. I have different women whom I adore and value. ~ Riccardo Tisci,
441:I myself have been particularly careful never to say a civil word to the United States. I have scoffed at their inhabitants as a nation of villagers. I have defined the 100 % American as 99 % an idiot. And they adore me. ~ George Bernard Shaw,
442:adore
à genoux quand on n'a pas pu l'enterrer sous la boue. La
corruption est en force, le talent est rare. Ainsi, la corrup-
tion est l'arme de la médiocrité qui abonde, et vous en
sentirez partout la pointe. ~ Honor de Balzac,
443:I love you more than my own skin and even though you don’t love me the same way, you love me anyways, don’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll always have the hope that you do, and i’m satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you. ~ Frida Kahlo,
444:Eucharistic adoration is the greatest of actions. To adore is to share the life of Mary on earth when she adored the Word Incarnate in her virginal womb, when she adored Him in the Crib, on Calvary, in the divine Eucharist ~ Peter Julian Eymard,
445:That's it. Be yourself. Be Isolde Brannick, and they will have no choice but to adore you," He reached out and took my hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. I was too stunned to do anything but sit there, my hand limp in his. ~ Rachel Hawkins,
446:The thing we adore about these dog-whistle kerfuffles is that the people who react to the whistle always assume it's intended for somebody else. The whole point of the metaphor is that if you can hear the whistle, you're the dog. ~ James Taranto,
447:United with the angels and saints of the heavenly Church, let us adore the most Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist. Prostrate, we adore this great mystery that contains God's new and definitive covenant with humankind in Christ. ~ Pope John Paul II,
448:all those who go around draped with a false sanctimoniousness do it by the devil’s prodding; because no one can worship God rightly with outward ceremonies, for true worshipers adore him in spirit and in truth (John 4:24). Secondly, ~ John Calvin,
449:Courtship is romantic. Marriage ... is an act of will," said Pippa, taking a sip of water. "I mean, I adore Herb. But the marriage functions because we will it to. If you leave love to hold everything together, you can forget it. ~ Rebecca Miller,
450:Leslie, it doesn’t matter how other people feel about your spouse! Don’t you see? You chose him, you had to live with him, he was your package to adore or be fed up with! Once you made your choice, I didn’t have a right to an opinion. ~ Robyn Carr,
451:I love life and I love that about people... I adore the human experience, I really adore the ... I love the contradictions of people... I don't mind being sexy and girlish and womanly, and all those things at the same time... smart and very ~ Jewel,
452:I adore you. I want to spend every minute with you. I want to spend my future with you. But I’m a man of a past I have yet to shake, even though I’m working on it. You’re bringing me out of the past and into the future, where I belong. ~ Karina Halle,
453:Woman! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought:
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee. ~ Lord Byron,
454:In a one-woman show, there must be compelling material that you adore. In both of these there are conversations with you and another character. My Second City (improvisation) background comes in very handy for accent and body posture. ~ Valerie Harper,
455:Loved people love people. Forgiven people forgive people. Adored people adore people. Freed people free people. But when we are still locked in our own prisons, it is impossible to crave the liberation of others. Misery prefers company. ~ Jen Hatmaker,
456:I adore book-to-film adaptations when they're done well, and I'm more lenient than many readers when it comes to what counts as 'done well.' For me, the most important thing is that the film maintains the spirit of the original book. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
457:I want to pull Finny out of my mind like a splinter so that I can adore Jamie the way he deserves to be adored. And even more than that, because I am a selfish, bad creature, I want to feel that adoration. I want to be free of this guilt. ~ Laura Nowlin,
458:Life. This morning the sun made me adore it. It had, behind the dripping pine trees, the oriental brightness, orange and crimson, of a living being, a rose and an apple, in the physical and ideal fusion of a true and daily paradise. ~ Juan Ram n Jim nez,
459:His gaze grew wistful, and he looked so young. 'I don't want to put things off, even though we haven't been together a really long time. I don't want to wait--you never know what can...Look. I adore you, and I want a home. Again. With you. ~ Alice Clayton,
460:Liberty is the natural condition of the people. Servitude, however, is fostered when people are raised in subjection. People are trained to adore rulers. While freedom is forgotten by many there are always some who will never submit. ~ Etienne de La Boetie,
461:Weirdness is why we adore our friends. . . . Weirdness is what bonds us to our colleagues. Weirdness is what sets us apart, gets us hired. Be your unapologetically weird self. In fact, being weird may even find you the ultimate happiness. ~ Timothy Ferriss,
462:Frankly, I adore your catchy slogan, "Adoption, not Abortion," although no one has been able to figure out, even with expert counseling, how to use adoption as a method of birth control, or at what time of the month it is most effective. ~ Barbara Ehrenreich,
463:I adore her in every possible way. Have you ever looked upon someone and felt a spark within your core? She makes me want to accomplish grand things. That's the beauty of love, though, isn't it? It brings out the very best within yourself. ~ Kerri Maniscalco,
464:Adore man, the adoration reaches Me. Neglect man; you neglect Me. Of what avail is it to worship the Lord and to suppress man, His counterpart on earth? Love for God must be manifested as Love for man, and Love must express itself as service. ~ Sathya Sai Baba,
465:Truth is wider, greater than her forms.
A thousand icons they have made of her
And find her in the idols they adore;
But she remains herself and infinite. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Letters on Poetry and Art, Comments on Specific Lines and Passages of the Poem,
466:Just remember this, for what it’s worth. I adore you. Absolutely, completely, with everything I have. I will give you everything, all my heart, all my love, anything you want. You mean more to me than I ever imagined. Being without you is hell. ~ Lauren Blakely,
467:Was this narrow enclosure with the sky for a background not space enough for him to adore God in his most beautiful, most sublime works? Indeed, is that not everything? What more do you need? A little garden to walk in, and immensity to reflect on. ~ Victor Hugo,
468:I love books. I adore everything about them. I love the feel of the pages on my fingertips. They are light enough to carry, yet so heavy with worlds and ideas. I love the sound of the pages flicking against my fingers. Print against fingerprints. ~ Nnedi Okorafor,
469:I work a lot with men, and I work with wonderful men that I absolutely adore, but it's something that I'm now paying attention to - to seek out and make room for the talented women in all the technical fields and creative fields across the board. ~ Sara Bareilles,
470:Purple,
Wonder, majesty, and enchantment doesn't
even begin to cover the feelings that I had the first time that I met you that only grew. The feeling was nameless, but as time went on it developed a name. Eponine, I adore
you… ~Riley ~ Ottilie Weber,
471:Be authentic. Don't try to be someone you aren't. You'll hate yourself for it & the effort to maintain the facade will exhaust you. BE REAL! Many won't like the real you but that's better than having people adore the person that isn't you at all ~ Larry Winget,
472:...your God is a trinity. There are three necessary prayers and they have three words each. They are these, 'Lord, have mercy. Thee I adore. Into Thy hands.' Not difficult to remember. If in times of distress you hold to these, you will do well. ~ Elizabeth Goudge,
473:[Bong Joon-ho'] is quite different but technically, he is as clever as [Alfred] Hitchcock. That's saying something. In humanitarian terms, I think he is much cleverer. He is one of the best directors I've worked with. I absolutely adore working with him. ~ John Hurt,
474:He was my husband, my apartment mate, my soul mate, the father of the little plant in my confused soil, the lover who had made me adore his body without inhibition after my years of relative solitude, the person for whom I'd given up my old self. ~ Elizabeth Kostova,
475:If I am in fashion, it is really due to very few designers that I admire - not because I don't like the rest, or that the rest are not beautiful, but because I am very selective. I adore Versace. I adore Helmut Lang, despite the fact that it's over. ~ Riccardo Tisci,
476:Never again shall I understand anything I say. Since how could I speak without the word lying for me? How could I speak except timidly like this: life just is for me. Life just is for me, and I don't understand what I'm saying. And so I adore it. ~ Clarice Lispector,
477:On to some juicy French philosophical sex-killing murder-suicide cannibal thing. You?”
“Still the controversial Hungarian breast-cancer radioactive seed implant treatment thing. I adore you.”
Je t’adore aussi. Call me. Bye.”
“Bye. ~ David Cronenberg,
478:Commit harmless mistakes that will not hurt you in the long run but will give you the chance to ask for his help. Masters adore such requests. A master who cannot bestow on you the gifts of his experience may direct rancor and ill will at you instead. ~ Robert Greene,
479:I love cities that are on the water. I love the water element, specifically the sea. I grew up on the sea and I grew up sailing - I love sailing - and the presence of the sea gives the air and the light a very special quality that I absolutely adore. ~ Connie Nielsen,
480:-¿Te parece correcto? Dios apuesta con Satanás, castiga al pobre hombre sin piedad y además pretende que lo adore. Es un dios cruel, injusto y frívolo. Un patrón que se comporta así con sus siervos no merece lealtad ni respeto, mucho menos adoración. ~ Isabel Allende,
481:I love working with Erica [Durance]. She's so much fun. And I love how flippant, comfortable, and casual the relationship is. There is so much humor there, and they make each other laugh. It is obvious how much they adore each other. I really like that. ~ Allison Mack,
482:Tell all the fans that I completely adore them, and tell them I say, 'Thank you so much', for their love and support; and that I miss them terribly, and hopefully I get to see them or they get to see me up on the screen soon. And send my love, definitely. ~ Thuy Trang,
483:For me, the highlight was meeting all the Motown acts, as I adore black soul music. I met Stevie Wonder who I love, and Diana Ross And The Supremes. I also met The Carpenters. I was actually there in the studio when they recorded We've Only Just Begun. ~ Tony Blackburn,
484:I just did adore Daniel - Daniel Radcliffe, who I had worked with before "Harry Potter" and spent a long time telling all the producers they had to see him because I thought he was so terrific. And it's been sad thinking about it because of Alan Rickman. ~ Maggie Smith,
485:I certainly do not adore the writer's discipline. I have lost lovers, endangered friendships, and blundered into eccentricity, impelled by a concentration which usually is to be found only in the minds of people about to be executed in the next half hour. ~ Maya Angelou,
486:I rather adore that about you.

Her heart gave a bittersweet twinge.

Don't be greedy, she told herself. With a bit of strategic memory, the redaction of a word or two, she could remember that as I adore you - or close enough to it. ~ Tessa Dare,
487:I love what I do and I adore this whole world. I'm able to meet fantastic people. I meet fantastic writers, I meet architects, I meet incredible talent. Fashion is really a world, besides the creation, that I think is super interesting, super inspiring. ~ Nicolas Ghesquiere,
488:It’s like music,” she explained. “When I look at you, when you touch me, when I see your face … when we kiss, my heart plays a song. It sings that it needs you like I need air. It sings to me that I adore you. It sings that I’ve found its perfect missing part. ~ Tillie Cole,
489:I adore you. I shall never love any-
body in my life as I adore you, never and nowhere, neither in
eternity, nor in terrenity, neither in Ladore, nor on Terra, where they say our souls go. But! But, my love, my Van, I'm
physical, horribly physical ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
490:I dont have children, but I have 17 nieces and nephews, and they more than make up for anything that I can do. I have a stepdaughter, and I adore her to pieces, and I think about adoption. There are so many kids at different ages and stages that need families. ~ Lauren Velez,
491:No woman has ever granted me all the privileges I need—and you, why you sing out so blithely, so boldly, with a laugh even—yes, you invite me to go ahead, be myself, venture anything. I adore you for that. That is where you are truly regal, a woman extraordinary. ~ Ana s Nin,
492:And even though I adore the fact that Francesca has Ben's eyes, I also see now that her biological connection to us is irrelevant. She is her own little person. She is Francesca. If we weren't her "natural" parents, we would still have loved her just as much. ~ Liane Moriarty,
493:As much as I adore Agatha Christie - and I think people make this claim about murder mysteries in general - it's often a very conservative mode of storytelling. Usually it's the greedy, climbing, new-money slimeball who wants to take from the aristocracy. ~ Christopher Bollen,
494:I love it when Tabby laughs out of control-she puts her hands up as if to say I surrender and these big tears go rolling down her cheeks. I love it, that's all, fucking adore it, and when I get hold of something with that potential, I twist it as hard as I can. ~ Stephen King,
495:It is impossible to be happy, while always trembling. Ye devout! you adore a terrible God! But you hate him; you would be glad, if he did not exist. Can we refrain from desiring the absence or destruction of a master, the idea of whom destroys our happiness? ~ Paul Henri Thiry,
496:Print will never die. There's no substitute for the feel of an actual book. I adore physically turning pages, and being able to underline passages and not worrying about dropping them in the bath or running out of power. I also find print books objects of beauty. ~ J K Rowling,
497:Purple,
Wonder, majesty, and enchantment doesn't
even begin to cover the feelings that I had the first time that I met you that only grew. The feeling was nameless, but as time went on it developed a name. Eponine, I adore
you… ~ Ottilie WeberRiley ~ Ottilie Weber,
498:Dear Valentine,’ said the young man, ‘you are too far above my love for me to dare speak of it to you, yet every time that I see you I need to tell you that I adore you, so that the echo of my own words will gently caress my heart when I am no longer with you. ~ Alexandre Dumas,
499:I do not now begin, - I still adore Her whom I early cherish'd in my breast; Then once again with prudence dispossess'd, And to whose heart I'm driven back once more. The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love, Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
500:In yonder nether world where shall I seek
His bright appearances or footstep trace?
For though I fled him angry, yet recalled
To life prolonged and promised race I now
Gladly behold though but His utmost skirts
Of glory, and far off His steps adore. ~ John Milton,
501:You don't often get what you ask for, and I got exactly that. I got a show that was on cable, that I could shoot five months a year and go be mommy the rest of the time, and be with a cast and crew that I really, really love, adore and respect. I got all of that. ~ Angie Harmon,
502:Marry me and make an honest man of me in my butler’s
eyes.” He kissed her. “Marry me and save me from having to chase loose women for the rest of my life.”
He kissed her again. “Marry me, darling,” he said once more against her lips. “Because I adore you. ~ Laura Lee Guhrke,
503:I love when it's me you look at with that laughter in your eyes. It's reassuring, as if in letting me know my heart also had colors that you enjoy seeing. It makes me sparkle inside; I adore the times we sparkle together...to me nothing is better than those. ~ Stefanie Schneider,
504:Print will never die. There's no substitute for the feel of an actual book. I adore physically turning the pages, and being able to underline passages and not worrying about dropping them in the bath or running out of power. I also find print books objects of beauty. ~ J K Rowling,
505:As a society, we rightly adore our great musicians and novelists, yet we seldom hear any mention of the humble mathematician. It is clear that mathematics is not considered part of our culture. Instead, mathematics is generally feared and mathematicians are often mocked. ~ Simon Singh,
506:Hmm?” he asked.

She exhaled slowly through her nose. “Just thinking.”

“About how much you adore me?”

“About how skinny you are,” she teased. “I leave for three weeks and you can’t even feed yourself properly.”

“I’ll amend it soon enough. ~ Charlie N Holmberg,
507:Is it a particularly British trait to so utterly adore truly appalling men, from Tony Hancock through to Steptoe and Alf Garnett, Captain Mainwaring, Rigsby, Del Boy, Victor Meldrew and on to David Brent from The Office. The most deeply adored characters are all simply vile. ~ A A Gill,
508:find an experience fully God-centred, asking of God no gift more urgently than His presence, the gift of Himself, joyous to the highest degree, and unmistakably real. What I see (so to speak) in the faces of these old poets tells me more about the God whom they and we adore. ~ C S Lewis,
509:How are you getting along with Lavinia?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “I’m so happy she and her mother have come to pay us a visit. I do believe she’s one of the most direct people I’ve ever met. She says exactly what’s she’s thinking, but with utmost tact. I adore her. ~ Eloisa James,
510:Girls fantasize about being tied up and bent over a broad pair of knees. Girls dream of being dominated and worshipped. Girls adore dressing up, role play, changing roles. Yes, that's right, perfidious submissives are itchy to switch to the Domme and grab the whip handle. ~ Chloe Thurlow,
511:Adore God. Reverence and cherish your parents. Love your neighbor as yourself, and your country more than yourself. Be just. Be true. Murmur not at the ways of Providence. So shall the life into which you have entered be the portal to one of eternal and ineffable bliss. ~ Thomas Jefferson,
512:If I were to taste your mouth now, I couldn't answer for the consequences. So I can only adore this beautiful neck. I know that in a few seconds I will have to pull away, before the temptation becomes too much. It's too much already. You have no idea how much I want you. ~ Sylvain Reynard,
513:I would love to find Arabella alive. I would love to be able to see her beautiful face again and tell her how much I adore her, how much I love her. I dream about her every time I close my eyes, but then reality returns the moment I awake, and I know it’s my fault she’s gone. ~ Jen Turano,
514:Dagmar tried to stand, and Gwenvael caught her hand, pulling her back down. "You can't leave me. I'm tortured and brooding. You need to show me how much you adore me so I can learn to love myself again."

"You've never stopped loving yourself."

"Because I'm amazing. ~ G A Aiken,
515:I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn baby—I just don’t care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it’s mine. Because it looks exactly like me. It can barf all over me if it wants to—I just don’t care. ~ Anonymous,
516:Sit". I gesture to the chairs.
"I need to tell you something".
"You adore me and are having trouble keeping your hands to yourself?" he suggests.
"No". But my seriousness is lost on him.
He sits and pulls me close. "I'm having trouble keeping my hands to myself ~ Bethany Griffin,
517:Being a lover of books has its perks. There’s always a story waiting to be read. A hero to fall in love with. A heroine to adore. Sometimes I think I should change genres and actually give the potential men in my life a chance. My expectations of love are dangerously unrealistic. ~ J Daniels,
518:I feel an enormous responsibility to bridge the gap between England and America, and be a sort of very quiet ambassador for my country to try to sort of do a "hands across the water" thing where they understand England and English people understand Americans. I adore America. ~ Julie Andrews,
519:This Sacrament really contains You, O my God, You whom the Angels adore, in whose presence the Spirits and mighty Powers tremble. Oh! if we could only see You clearly as they do, with what reverence would we approach this Sacrament, with what humility would we receive You. ~ Angela of Foligno,
520:You have to learn to look at someone you truly adore through eyes that really aren´t your own. It´s as if a person has to become another person altogether to be able to take a hard look. Good people protect people they love, even if that means pretending that everything is okay. ~ Ron McLarty,
521:De algún modo, convertí mi dolor en una especie de dios. Adore a ese dios con todo mí ser. Sin embargo, inexplicablemente, y esta es la parte que de verdad es inexplicable, de algún modo evadí el verdadero dolor, el que me estaba matando. Ese dolor lo evadí por completo. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz,
522:Never would I take what I’d been given for granted. I’d never look at her through indifferent eyes, listen to her fears and worries with distant ears, or touch her with impassive hands. Elizabeth was a gift and Lizzie was my treasure. I would adore my family until the day I died. ~ A L Jackson,
523: “I believe I’ll keep that one to myself, luv. If I told you all my secrets, there would be no more mystery in our relationship.”
“I’m not a big fan of mysteries.”

That roguish smile I once hated curls his lips and curls my insides. “Rubbish. You adore them.” ~ A G Howard,
524:It stands to reason that we love chocolate cake because it is sweet. Guys go for girls like this because they are sexy. We adore babies because they're so cute. And, of course, we are amused by jokes because they are funny. This is all backwards. It is. And Darwin shows us why. ~ Daniel Dennett,
525:Her phone lay on the table, so I picked it up, turned on the camera, made a stupid face, and snapped a picture. “What the hell are you doing?” Abby said with a giggle.
I searched for my name, and then attached the picture. “So you’ll remember how much you adore me when I call. ~ Jamie McGuire,
526:There are so many of us now that we threaten to devour the world with our touching, starting with the things we adore most. At the same time, we obviously yearn for contact, and I fear what would happen if we were cut off from a distinctive, on-the-ground relationship with the past. ~ Craig Childs,
527:The writer I adore is Ivy Compton-Burnett.I couldn't get more than a few pages in when I first read her. In many ways, she is very clumsy and her plots are rubbish. But we don't read her for that. There are pages and pages of dialogue. What it requires is real effort and attention. ~ Hilary Mantel,
528:Freaks was a thing I photographed a lot. It was one of the first things I photographed and it had a terrific kind of excitement for me. I just used to adore them. I still do adore some of them. I don't quite mean they're my best friends but they made me feel a mixture of shame and awe. ~ Diane Arbus,
529:Maybe one day you’ll come to love me as much as I do you.” She frowned and pushed up on his shoulders so they were facing each other. “I happen to adore you, vampire.” Her hands laced around his neck, and she twined her fingers in his hair. “No, I’m absolutely certain I love you more. ~ Kresley Cole,
530:When Kyr decided to use me as Maris’s scapegoat, he forgot two things. One, we are Phrixian. You have a problem with someone, you fight it out. You don’t tie them up and torture them. Two… I’m the baby. The rest of the family might hate Mari, but they adore me. I’m the favoured son. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
531:And your mother…” I said. He smiled suddenly, and I had to blink a few times to ground myself. “Still alive. Ordering me around. She’s the real ruler of the bears, I just give the final order. They all adore her.” He loved his mother too. Of course he did. Was there anything wrong with him? ~ Jaymin Eve,
532:Do you know why I adore roses?" Shahrzad untied the knot of his tikka sash with deliberate slowness. "I've always loved them for their beauty and their scent, but--"
"It's because of their thorns." His muscles tensed at her touch. "Because there's more to them than first meets the eye. ~ Ren e Ahdieh,
533:That's one of the many things about having the bookstore that I adore. I can walk into the store and say to somebody, "I'm glad you're reading this book" or "I'm glad you're getting this book" or "Don't get that book. I read that book and hated that book. Let's get you this book instead." ~ Ann Patchett,
534:Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more. ~ John Donne,
535:If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
536:I really stepped outside of my comfort zone to write Daisy and Kas’s book, and I’m beyond glad I did. Kas is literally the most complex character I have ever written. He broke me and then put me back together with his inner beauty. I adore every complex part of him. I hope you do, too. As ~ Samantha Towle,
537:It's a wonderful thing working with young actors. I know a lot of people don't like working with children. I actually adore it, because you watch their imagination open up and you watch them start to learn this job that I've been doing for so long. They come with such a lack of cynicism. ~ Michelle Forbes,
538:there is no such thing as chance. All is either a trial, or a punishment, or a reward, or a foresight. Remember the fisherman, who thought himself the most wretched of mankind. Oromazes sent thee to change his fate. Cease then, frail mortal, to dispute against what thou oughtest to adore." "But, ~ Voltaire,
539:But no one wants that anymore. People want a choice." Maxon shook his head. "You're terrifying to him, but he can't expel you. They adore you, America.

I swallowed. "Adore?"

He nodded. "And... I feel similarly. So, no matter what he says or does, don't lose faith, this isn't over. ~ Kiera Cass,
540:If you're not feeling good and you want to change the way you feel, or if you want to lift good feelings higher, then take a minute or two and god through a mental list of everything you love and adore. You can do it while getting dressed in the morning, walking, driving or traveling anywhere. ~ Rhonda Byrne,
541:I hope you have lost your good looks, for while they last any fool can adore you, and the adoration of fools is bad for the soul. No, give me a ruined complexion and a lost figure and sixteen chins on a farmyard of Crow's feet and an obvious wig. Then you shall see me coming out strong. ~ George Bernard Shaw,
542:I love both of you exactly the way you are. I love that you have no filter, and I adore that Gavin can make grown men cry. There is not one thing I would change about either of you, and if anyone doesn’t like it, they can kiss my ass. You guys are my life and my family now. Nothing else matters. ~ Tara Sivec,
543:Asshole," Ephraim muttered as he turned back around.
Chris chuckeled. "Is that really any way to talk to your favorite child?"
"You're not my favorite," Ephraim argued, but they both knew that was bullshit. "I don't have any favorites."
"Puhlease," Chris said. "You fucking adore me... ~ R L Mathewson,
544:I'd love to be an artist that's multifaceted. At the moment, I am not. But wouldn't that be cool if I was like, 'Yeah, let me pull out my guitar and play you a song.' I would adore that. I am so far not gifted in that way. But I am a very hard worker and a very determined person, so who knows? ~ Anne Hathaway,
545:I love being in the studio and singing on stage and performing. It's so much fun. I love every second of it - and I love the way you get to show who you are. I love the way fans are really passionate around the world, so I adore performing and hearing people sing along in different countries. ~ Vanessa Hudgens,
546:I love books . I adore everything about them. I love the feel of the pages on my fingertips. They are light enough to carry, yet so heavy with worlds and ideas . I love the sound of the pages flicking against my fingers. Print against fingerprints. Books make people quiet, yet they are so loud ~ Nnedi Okorafor,
547:As the genuine religious impulse becomes dominant, adoration more and more takes charge. 'I come to seek God because I need Him', may be an adequate formula for prayer. 'I come to adore His splendour, and fling myself and all that I have at His feet', is the only possible formula for worship. ~ Evelyn Underhill,
548:I got the O.B.E because I represent England outside of England more...but thinking of me as an actor, I haven't done all the classical theatre, all the great roles. Think of Helen Mirren and me. Helen, who I adore, is a friend - should be Dame. I am the rebel, the revolutionary on the side. ~ Charlotte Rampling,
549:I sincerely wish you may find it convenient to come here. the pleasure of the trip will be less than you expect, but the utility greater. it will make you adore your own country, it's soil, it's climate, it's equality, liberty, laws, people & manners. my god! how little do my countrymen know. ~ Thomas Jefferson,
550:One of the reasons I decided to enter this profession," one of the Riot Librarrrians wrote, "was because I'm in love with information, and the library remains one of the few spaces in our lives where information is not a commodity.... There's a subversive element to librarianship that I adore. ~ Marilyn Johnson,
551:The priest is immense because he makes others believe in a heap of weird things. The Church wanting to do everything and be everything: it is a law of human spirit. Peoples adore authority. Priests are the servants and followers of imagination. The throne and the altar: revolutionary maxim. ~ Charles Baudelaire,
552:This, this is the God we adore, Our faithful, unchangeable Friend, Whose love is as great as His power, And neither knows measure nor end. ‘Tis Jesus, the first and the last, Whose Spirit shall guide us safe home; We’ praise Him for all that is past, And trust Him for all that’s to come. Joseph Hart ~ A W Tozer,
553:Ash.” Margaret knew her voice was trembling. “Why are you doing this?” “Because I adore you. Because you looked so stricken when I saw you and I couldn’t bear not to comfort you.” His voice was warm breath against her skin. “Did you know, when you left that room, you took all the light with you? ~ Courtney Milan,
554:Believer, come near the cross this morning, and humbly adore the King of glory as having once been brought far lower, in mental distress and inward anguish, than anyone among us; and mark his fitness to become a faithful High Priest, who can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
555:I adore Life. What do all the fools matter and all the stupidity. They do matter but somehow for me they cannot touch the body of Life. Life is marvellous. I want to be deeply rooted in it - to live - to expand - to breathe in it - to rejoice - to share it. To give and to be asked for Love. ~ Katherine Mansfield,
556:Through it all, despite it all, Eddie privately adored his old man, because sons will adore their fathers through even the worst behavior. It is how they learn devotion. Before he can devote himself to God or a woman, a boy will devote himself to his father, even foolishly, even beyond explanation. ~ Mitch Albom,
557:O my brother Futurists ! All of you, look at yourselves! In the name of that Human Pride we so adore, I proclaim that the hour is nigh when men with broad temples and steel chins will give birth magnificently, with a single trust of their bulging will, to giants with flawless gestures. ~ Filippo Tommaso Marinetti,
558:Ruth believes that boys are not found around stables because what they like is taking things apart and putting them together again, and for this purpose horses are not so satisfactory as cars, motorcycles, and even bicycles, while girls adore horses because they are biological and have functions. ~ Wallace Stegner,
559:I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life. ~ Pablo Neruda,
560:There are times when just waking up can feel like the hardest thing anyone could ever ask you to do. The first morning after your child has died, perhaps. Or after the man you adore has walked out. You would give anything, certainly the rest of your life, to stay down in the darkness of not knowing. ~ Sharon J Bolton,
561:I don't like to think of myself as an insincere person but if I say I love you and I don't mean it then what else am I? Will I cherish you, adore you, make way for you, make myself better for you, look at you and always see you, tell you the truth? And if love is not those things then what things? ~ Jeanette Winterson,
562:I found that the best way to go about [ Black men ] is to produce better men. And I think if we get them at a younger age, and start teaching these young brothers the principles of manhood: That real men go to work everyday; Real men honor God; Real men respect and adore women - that's what real men do. ~ Steve Harvey,
563:I hate the idea of natural. For example, I prefer gardens to wild nature. I like to see the human touch. High heels are a complete invention - an extravagance. They're far from natural, but it's the impracticality that I adore. I prefer the useless to the useful, the sophisticated to the natural. ~ Christian Louboutin,
564:I obviously read and adore traditional fiction. I teach traditional fiction, I also teach all kind of not-so-traditional fiction. And since I'm such a plot buff, and I'm really such a narrative buff, I can't seem to relinquish my - not just reliance - but excitement about those traditional techniques. ~ Heidi Julavits,
565:The Second Epigram
On BILLINDA.
Wanton Bellinda loudly does complain,
I've chang'd my Love of late into disdain:
Calls me unconstant, cause I now adore
The chast Marcella, that lov'd her before.
Sin or Dishonour, me as well may blame,
That I repent, or do avoid a shame.
~ Anne Killigrew,
566:Ash.” Margaret knew her voice was trembling. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I adore you. Because you looked so stricken when I saw you and I couldn’t bear not to comfort you.” His voice was warm breath against her skin. “Did you know, when you left that room, you took all the light with you? ~ Courtney Milan,
567:If one would praise the Almighty, one must then revel in His works, and take them whole, adore their very grossness, savor the oozing quiddity of that slime of which He seems to be inordinately fond. Love is not nice. God's love assuredly is not; and human love, its copy, must not presume to be so. ~ Eric Frank Russell,
568:If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature (1836),
569:We praise Him, we bless Him, we adore Him, we glorify Him, and we wonder who is that baritone across the aisle and that pretty woman on our right who smells of apple blossoms. Our bowels stir and our cod itches and we amend our prayers for the spiritual life with the hope that it will not be too spiritual. ~ John Cheever,
570:I know you know the tale of Baby June
You know the way she could deliver a tune
She was a killer in a petticoat
A little bit of everyone you adore...
And if your baby let you down at night,
Well Baby June would make it up alright
And I was never happier
Than in the arms and charms of her ~ Terry Moore,
571:You sang the seas calm, and you drove the Dalriada to war, whatever it took. They know that. That's why they adore you. But everyone needs to laugh in the face of death. They're following an anguissette into battle. Give them credit for seeing the absurdity of it. You've been dwelling on it long enough. ~ Jacqueline Carey,
572:Adoration is not some fervent spiritual or poetic exercise reserved for a chosen few. I believe the human race will die out and destroy nature if it does not learn again how to adore God, the God in all of us, God shining and living in nature, and learn again how to act from and in that spirit of adoration. ~ Andrew Harvey,
573:  And ye that live and move, fair Creatures, tell,   Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here?   Not of my self; by some great Maker then,   In goodness and in power praeeminent;   Tell me, how may I know him, how adore,   From whom I have that thus I move and live,   And feel that I am happier then I know. ~ John Milton,
574:The Lady Feeds Her Little Bird
941
The Lady feeds Her little Bird
At rarer intervals—
The little Bird would not dissent
But meekly recognize
The Gulf between the Hand and Her
And crumbless and afar
And fainting, on Her yellow Knee
Fall softly, and adore
~ Emily Dickinson,
575:Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite;
Therefore I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, though they be not unite;
And now, as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more. ~ John Donne,
576:You talk of my strength? You are the strongest person I’ve ever known. You are a survivor. Every day you fight for a better life. I am in awe of you. I adore you. I have since the beginning. Fear isn’t an easy thing to shake. But for you? I will be right there fighting by your side and never regret a day. ~ Kristen Callihan,
577:These women who love and adore the men in their lives and recognise the potential for goodness that exists in all men might still feel like crying sometimes, because for all the love they offer the world’s men, the hate those men are capable of offering back can be heartbreaking and soul-destroying. Instead ~ Clementine Ford,
578:Princess Diana holds in the threshold for a second longer, checks over her shoulder that her Prince is out of earshot and whispers softly in my ear, ‘Sorry to leave early, though secretly I’m quite glad. It’s Spitting Image tonight, and I want to watch it in my room. They hate it of course. I absolutely adore it. ~ Stephen Fry,
579:We have no heart at seventeen. We think we do; we think we have been cursed with a holy, bloated thing that twitches at the name we adore, but it is not a heart because though it will forfeit anything in the world-the mind, the body, the future, even the last lonely hour it has-it will not sacrifice itself. ~ Andrew Sean Greer,
580:The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore,
Are what ten thousand envy and adore:
All, all look up, with reverential Awe,
At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the Law:
While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry-`
'Nothing is sacred now but Villainy'

- Epilogue to the Satires, Dialogue I ~ Alexander Pope,
581:Anything that provokes a visceral or spiritual response and ignites my senses. Whether it's listening to the ocean, dancing to a song I adore, feeling the wind across my face, sampling a fantastic new dish, or witnessing a phenomenal show, if I experience it before I can even think about it, it makes me come alive. ~ Grace Gealey,
582:I adore my Queen and I am here with you. I love you both. I yield to that entirely as well as everything else and even the knowledge I may be punished. And when I am punished, I shall dread it, and suffer it and understand it and accept it. when you accept you will flower in the pain, you will flower in your suffering ~ Anne Rice,
583:I adore my black skin and my kinky hair. The Negro hair is more educated than the white man's hair. Because with Negro hair, where you put it, it stays. It's obedient. The hair of the white, just give one quick movement, and it's out of place. It won't obey. If reincarnation exists I want to come back black. ~ Carolina Maria de Jesus,
584:I’m elated. I guess it’s better late than never. Welcome to the 21st century. It’s fantastic. I love Dior, and Rihanna is very much one of my style icons. I’m happy they got there in the end. I adore her style. She loves fashion, she’s unafraid. She uses her imagination, which is something we should all strive to do. ~ Beverly Johnson,
585:Some people around me said "Get a tux and live this and enjoy this" and that's what I did. It was a fun experience. On the red carpet, I was just behind Rooney Mara who I adore, and I had to not act too conspicuously because my girlfriend was there. Behind me, there was Glenn Close. So, it was kind of interesting. ~ Philippe Falardeau,
586:Traveling is the great true love of my life... I am loyal and constant in my love of travel. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn baby - I just don't care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it's mine. Because it looks exactly like me. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
587:Natasha was gay because she had been sad too long and now nothing reminded her of the cause of her sadness, and because she was feeling well. She was also happy because she had someone to adore her: the adoration of others was a lubricant the wheels of her machine needed to make them run freely—and Petya adored her. Above ~ Leo Tolstoy,
588:There’s something primal, something instinctive, about being with a man like him. Like he could catch a fish if I were hungry or fix my car if I were stranded. I’m no damsel in distress, my father ensured I’d always have the tools to take care of myself, but I can’t deny how much I adore the feeling of being . . . safe. ~ Adriana Locke,
589:I once won a second prize in a history concert. My parents came to the ceremony. Somebody else had won the prize for best all-around student. Afterwards my father said to me, 'Never, ever disgrace me like that again.' When I tell my Western friends, they are aghast. But I adore my father. It didn't knock my self-esteem at all. ~ Amy Chua,
590:It is certain that those who have the living faith in their hearts see at once that all existence is none other than the work of the God whom they adore. But for those in whom this light is extinguished, [if we were to show them our proofs of the existence of God] nothing is more calculated to arouse their contempt. . . . ~ Blaise Pascal,
591:I don't like words coming out of a character's mouth that I adore because not only is he a little bit duplicitous but he's kind of practical in the way he thinks, and he thinks in terms of everyone's humanity and how quickly we can go against what we think we meant when we said it or what we believe or blah, blah, blah. ~ Robert Downey Jr,
592:I have been taken by Satan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he said he to me, ‘Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?’ I replied, ‘Listen, I wish to be Providence myself, for I feel that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is to recompense and punish. ~ Alexandre Dumas,
593:Do you care for any contemporary authors?” Matthew inquired. “I adore Jane Austen.” Matthew nodded. “I find her portrait of British society so accurate and yet so dreadful.” “I agree. It must be awful to be so bound by what society expects,” Lisbeth answered. “I am so glad to have been born in America, where one has freedom. ~ Laila Ibrahim,
594:I adore you, Frannie. You know that. I always have."
She gave him the smile that had always warmed him, but it was not that threatened to bring him to his knees. He would kill to keep that smile on her face. But to keep Catherine smiling, he would willingly die.
"But you love Catherine," Frannie said quietly. ~ Lorraine Heath,
595:Adoration will heal our Church and thus our nation and thus our world... Adoration touches everyone and everything... [because it touches the Creator, Who touches everything and everyone]... When we adore, we plug into infinite dynamism and power. Adoration is more powerful for construction than nuclear bombs are for destruction ~ Peter Kreeft,
596:adore you blindly. and a big sister who feels guilty for being human over you. and a little gravelly-voiced kid whose friends have left him over you. and even a pink-haired girl who carries your picture in her wallet. maybe it is a lottery, but the universe makes it all even out in the end. the universe takes care of all its birds. ~ R J Palacio,
597:I love her, Lizzie. I adore her, and there is nothing about her that is baggage. Emma is a luxury. I’ll take care of her for the rest of my life because it would be an honor. Because I love you. I love your heart, I love your soul, I love you, Elizabeth, and I’m never going to stop loving you or that beautiful girl of yours. ~ Brittainy C Cherry,
598:I’ll go talk to them,” Annwyl said. But she cracked her knuckles. “Right now.”
Izzy cut in front of Annwyl, forced a smile. “Why don’t I talk to them? Daddy listens to me.”
“You want my sword?”
Izzy blinked. Hard. “No. I don’t think that’s necessary. To talk to my father and uncles that I adore.”
“You want me warhammer then? ~ G A Aiken,
599:By the way, I adore my bedroom, but do you think I could have the curtains washed? I believe they are red; and I should so like to make sure.'
Judith had sunk into a reverie.
'Curtains?' she asked, vacantly, lifting her magnificent head. 'Child, child, it is many years since such trifles broke across the web of my solitude'. ~ Stella Gibbons,
600:WILLMORE: Nay, if we part so, let me die like a Bird upon a Bough, at the Sheriff's Charge. By Heaven, both the Indies shall not buy thee from me. I adore thy Humour and will marry thee, and we are so of one Humour, it must be a Bargain - give me thy Hand - [Kisses her hand.] And now let the blind ones (Love and Fortune) do their worst. ~ Aphra Behn,
601:My dowry is thirty-five. A year.”
His brows climbed. “You’re joking.”
“I would never joke about money with a notorious thief. Just imagine, in a mere two years you’re at a profit.”
“How I adore a woman who does mathematics in her head.”
“I can forge signatures as well.”
“Splendid. Exactly the bride I’ve been hoping for. ~ Shana Abe,
602:I am far more of a loner than people would imagine. But I am the most gregarious and socially interactive loner you ever met. The thing is, I am fascinated by people's stories and I'm very talkative and can't ever say no to anything or anyone, so I tend to over-socialize, to give away too much of my time to the many people I adore. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
603:not always been loyal and constant in my other loves. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn baby—I just don’t care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it’s mine. Because it looks exactly like me. It can barf all over me if it wants to—I just don’t care. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
604:He's the best of us. The best of our best, the best that each of us will ever build or ever love. So pray for this Guardian of our growth and choose him well, for if he be not truly blest, then our designs are surely frivolous and our future but a tragic waste of hope. Bless our best and adore for he doth bear our measure to the Cosmos. ~ John Steakley,
605:So how do you fall in love with life? The same way you fall in love with another person -- you adore everything about them! You fall in love with another person by seeing only love, hearing only love, speaking only love, and by feeling love with all your heart! And that is exactly how you use the ultimate power of love in love with life. ~ Rhonda Byrne,
606:Understand, daughter, that the only reason for your existing was as a tribute to your uncle-father. You were meant to love him. I planned to teach you how to serve him and adore him. You would be his monument and his fortress against mortality.

Forgive me. As soon as you arrived I realized that you were worth far more than that. ~ Katherine Dunn,
607:~We were on a family trip to Death Valley, and there were moments when my husband and I wanted to just leave the kids there - all the whining! You think that no other kid can do it as much as yours. When they're with friends, they're great; when they're in the car with just the family, it's maddening at times. But you adore them anyway.~ ~ Kelli Williams,
608:One who desires to seek My Eucharist Face, one who desires to draw near to My open Heart, is never far from the tabernacle. I transport his spirit there where I am. I welcome his desire to abide in My presence. I give him the grace of My presence in the most secret part of his soul. There he will find Me, and there he will be able to adore Me. ~ Anonymous,
609:No one else, however much you love and adore the person, sees the true significance of your private epiphanies. The secret belongs to you, with you, in you. In the title Shiva Sutra, the word Shiva means “God” and the word Sutra means “thread,” so quite deliberately the reader is being shown tiny threads that lead back to the eternal source. ~ Deepak Chopra,
610:Once I was free in the shackles of sin:
Free to be tempted, just bound to give in;
Free to be captive to any desire;
Free to eternally burn in hell’s fire.
‘Til Someone bought me and called me His slave:
Bound by commands I am free to obey;
Captive by beauty I’m free to adore--
Sentenced to sit at His feet evermore. ~ John F MacArthur Jr,
611:All virtue that is saving, or distinguishing of true Christians, is summed up in Christian love. It is love that disposes us to honor God as God, to adore and worship Him. Love recognizes God's right to govern us and His worthiness to be the object of our obedience. At the same time, love disposes us to treat our neighbors with honor and respect. ~ R C Sproul,
612:I do not want you to think I am not happy or that I do not love you. Because I do, more than I can explain. Psalms are poems; you are mine. You are the embodiment of every divine word that could slip from my lips. I adore you, Ky. I can no longer imagine my life without you in it. You are my white dove. You fill me with peace, love, and devotion. ~ Tillie Cole,
613:Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!— prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us— by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
614:You may not believe it,but there are many who wish to wield the power that I wield.Who...adore me."
"You're right.I don't believe you."
"You just don't know enough.About anything. I've taken you on a tour of your past-shown you the futility of this existence,hoping to awaken you to the truth,and all I get from you is 'Daniel! I want Daniel! ~ Lauren Kate,
615:What you call love does not sound very beautiful. Think of the way we adore the Throne. That adoration makes us the best version of ourselves. We feel encouraged to go further with or instincts, not to change ourselves for love. If I were yours and you were mine, I would want you to be exactly as you are. I would never eclipse you with my desires. ~ Lauren Kate,
616:God’s anger is that of a father who is unconditionally committed to his children but because of that is furious at their sin. There is nothing that affects us like the displeasure of one we love and adore. This fatherly anger, full of unfailing love, when understood, is a transforming motivation that makes us willing and able to change. Prayer: ~ Timothy J Keller,
617:Lo! in the orient when the gracious light   Lifts up his burning head, each under eye   Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,   Serving with looks his sacred majesty;   And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,   Resembling strong youth in his middle age,   Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,   Attending on his golden pilgrimage: ~ William Shakespeare,
618:Nothing draws us closer to one another than the degree to which we face our deepest shame openly in one another’s company. Coleridge and Wordsworth dreaded such self-exposure; we adore it. What we want is to feel known, warts and all—the more warts, the better. It is the great illusion of our culture that what we confess to is who we are. ~ John Jeremiah Sullivan,
619:Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
620:Working with people you adore and love. There's just a sense, all the way through all of the movies [Planet of Apes], that you're very rarely in a position where you have great material that you're passionate about and a big audience who love it, and the detail and nuance, and the exquisiteness of the fantastic actors and director with great writing. ~ Andy Serkis,
621:I adore simple pleasures, they are the last refuge of the complex."
- A Woman of No Importance

45. Detachment is the prerogative of an elite; and as the dandy is the 19th century's surrogate for the aristocrat in matters of culture, so Camp is the modern dandyism. Camp is the answer to the problem: how to be a dandy in the age of mass culture. ~ Susan Sontag,
622:If you are in the garden, I will dress myself in leaves. If you are in the sea I will slide into that smooth blue nest, I will talk fish, I will adore salt. But if you are sad, I will not dress myself in desolation. I will present myself with all the laughters I can muster. And if you are angry I will come, calm and steady, with some small and easy story. ~ Mary Oliver,
623:Last night I spent in her arms - and tonight I hate her - which being interpreted, means that I adore her; that I cannot lie in my bed and not feel the magic of her body. I feel more powerfully all those so-termed sexual impulses with her than I have with any man. She enthrals, enslaves me - and her personal self - her body absolute - is my worship. ~ Katherine Mansfield,
624:Every service is a structure of acts and words through which we rceive a sacrament, or repent, or supplicate, or adore. And it enables us to do these things best--if you like, it 'works' best--when, through long familiarity, we don't have to think about it. As long as you notice, and have to count, the steps, you are not yet dancing but only learning to dance. ~ C S Lewis,
625:On the first day of his holiday Laurence Manders woke to hear his grandmother’s voice below.
‘I’ll have a large wholemeal. I’ve got my grandson stopping for a week, who’s on the BBC. That’s my daughter’s boy, Lady Manders. He won’t eat white bread, one of his fads.’
Laurence shouted from the window, ‘Grandmother, I adore white bread and I have no fads. ~ Muriel Spark,
626:So Bill thought she was being whiny. She couldn't help it.She was inches away from a breakdown.
"I hate this job.I hate this place. I hate this stupid solstice party and this stupid pheasant souffle-"
"Lucinda will be at the party tonight," Bill said suddenly. His voice was infuriatingly calm. "She happens to adore the Constances' pheasant souffle. ~ Lauren Kate,
627:I adore her so horribly. No: ‘horribly’ is the wrong word. The elation with which the vision of new delights filled me was not horrible but pathetic. I qualify it as pathetic. Pathetic – because despite the insatiable fire of my venereal appetite, I intended, with the most fervent force and foresight, to protect the purity of that twelve-year-old child. And ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
628:My life has had meaning, with the friendships full and valuable and essential to me. My children, Steve, Leslie, and Sam, are all different-all first-rate human beings with high standards-whom I completely and unequivocally adore-don't always agree with-but always admire and respect. They all have wit and a sense of humor and, thank God, I have hung on to mine. ~ Lauren Bacall,
629:He's the best of us," said Felix, reciting. "The best of our best, the best that each of us will ever build or ever love. So pray for this Guardian of our growth and choose him well, for if he be not truly blessed, then our designs are surely frivolous and our future but a tragic waste of hope. Bless our best and adore for he doth bear our measure to the Cosmos. ~ John Steakley,
630:Instead of taking the 'I'm cool, I hope you adore me' path (with my music), I chose the path of how to connect. I think that's the reason a lot of people feel a deeper connection with our band than other bands, and I also feel that's why people polarize on us. If you don't get it, it seems preposterous; if you do get it, it's really heavy - it has a weight to it. ~ Billy Corgan,
631:What more ghastly image can be called up than that of a man betrayed by his body who, simply because he did not die in time, lives out the comedy while awaiting the end, face to face with that God he does not adore, serving him as he served life, kneeling before a void and arms outstretched toward a heaven without eloquence that he knows to be also without depth? ~ Albert Camus,
632:I choose to love you in silence, for in silence I find no rejection.
I choose to love you in loneliness, for in loneliness no one owns you but me.
I choose to adore you from a distance, for distance will shield me from pain.
I chose to kiss you in the wind, for the wind is gentler than my lips.
I choose to hold you in my dreams, for in my dreams you have no end. ~ Rumi,
633:Oh no."
Percy looks sideways at me. "Oh no what?"
I swallow. "I'd first like it to be noted that I am most certainly not a smuggler."
"Monty..." he says, my name sopping with dread.
"And," I continue overtop him, "I'd like you to both remember just how much you adore me and how dull and gloomy your lives would be without me in them."
"What did you do? ~ Mackenzi Lee,
634:I just wanted to show you that every moment has mattered. That every tiny second has changed me. You have changed me, Maggie. You’ve given me something I had never dared to dream for myself. A future. Hope. Love. I can’t even begin to put into words what your gifts have done for me. All I can do is cherish and adore you every day for the rest of my life. ~ A Meredith Walters,
635:I can't get over that at this age I don't feel this age. I'm not trying to be any younger. I'm not lying about my age. If I were lying about my age, I would say I was 89. I'm just at one of those good times in one's life. I'm at one of the high spots. I'm healthy enough to enjoy it. I'm surrounded by friends I adore. Isn't that kind of the best way to sign off? ~ Betty White,
636:Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
637:Who shall say that those poor peasants were not acting in the spirit we most venerate, most adore; that theirs was not the true heart language which we cannot choose but love? And what has been their reward? They have sent down their name to be the by-word of all after ages; the worst reproach of the worst men a name convertible with atheism and devil-worship. ~ James Anthony Froude,
638:Chloe-lass:
If I'm not here with you now, I'm beyond this life, for 'tis the only way I'll ever let you go.
...
I hoped I loved you well, sweet, for I know even now that you are my brightest shining star. I knew it the moment I saw you. Ah, lass, you so adore your artifacts. This thief covets but one priceless treasure: You.
Dageus

-In a letter ~ Karen Marie Moning,
639:Do you not know the cause and reason of their coming?” They did not, the people replied. “They adore a certain Covetous Deity,” Hatuey explained, “whose cravings are not to be satisfied by a few moderate offerings, but they may answer his Adoration and Worship, demand many unreasonable things of us, and use their utmost endeavors to subjugate and afterwards murder us. ~ Peter Manseau,
640:I adore going to movie sets and being part of a team trying to create something. And yet, I hate to miss even one bedtime with my girls. . . My sisters both are working mothers. I understand that my being an actress as well as being at home isn't some heroic thing. That doesn't mean it isn't confusing or difficult--especially that question of how you find a balance. ~ Jennifer Garner,
641:Well, I’ve got three things working against me before I even
walk into the room:

1. I’m the last speaker of the day. The fans are tired and a little
burned out.

2. I’m following Michael Dorn and Marina Sirtis. They do conventions
together all the time, have a set routine that never
fails, and the fans adore them.

3. I was Wesley Crusher. ~ Wil Wheaton,
642:Anxiety suits the status quo very well. Anxious people make good consumers and good workers. Governments and big business, therefore, love terrorism – they adore it, it’s good for business. Anxiety will drive us back into our comfort blankets of credit-card shopping and bad food, so the system deliberately produces anxiety while simultaneously promising to take it away. ~ Tom Hodgkinson,
643:People who do not love themselves can adore others, because adoration is making someone else big and ourselves small. They can desire others, because desire comes out of sense of inner incompleteness, which demands to be filled. But they can not love others, because love is an affirmation of the living growing being in all of us. If you don’t have it, you cant give it. ~ Andrew Matthews,
644:Now shalt thou adore me who am the Eye and the Tooth, the Goat of the Spirit, the Lord of Creation. I am the Eye in the Triangle, the Silver Star that ye adore. I am Baphomet, that is the Eightfold Word that shall be equilibrated with the Three. There is no act or passion that shall not be an hymn in mine honour. All holy things and all symbolic things shall be my sacraments. ~ Anonymous,
645:Happiness

Happiness is my high.
Happiness feels great inside.
Happiness is quite rare.
Happiness is barely there.
Happiness comes when I am around friends.
Happiness always ends.
Happiness I want more.
Happiness I adore.
Happiness is when my mom calls.
Happiness is when watching waterfalls.
Happiness is my high.
Happiness feels good inside ~ Various,
646:J’insiste beaucoup sur le recours à des collaborations extérieures, les connexions avec des personnes étrangères à l’entreprise, qui permettent de stimuler les incroyables talents dont nous disposons en interne. Notre potentiel vient de notre manière d’utiliser ces talents tout en laissant entrer de nouvelles idées et d’autres points de vue sur ce que nous faisons. J’adore ça. ~ Anonymous,
647:I kissed him the way he'd kissed me the night before, not as a prelude to sex, but as a wordless whisper aimed at your lover's heart. Kissing because you simply can't think of another way to show your love for the man you adore.

"See, if you'd done that to me back in February, I would have been completely snookered," he said, his smile softening as he pulled away. ~ Georgina Guthrie,
648:Krishnamurti, a great Indian sage, once said: “You can take a piece of wood that you brought back from your garden, and each day present it with a flower. At the end of a month you will adore it, and the idea of not giving it an offering will be a sin.” In other words, everything that you are used to, once done long enough, starts to seem natural, even though it might not be. ~ Julien Smith,
649:You may adore Love You Forever, but I hear it as a story about an overbearing and smothering mother who infantilizes her son and can only tell him she loves him when he is fast asleep. I also contend that she drugs his cocoa. And that when the man's baby daughter wakes up sixteen years later and finds him fondling her in her room, she will be calling 911 and going into therapy. ~ Jane Yolen,
650:Consequently, we know the most perfect way of seeking God, and the most suitable order, is not for us to attempt with bold curiosity to penetrate to the investigation of his essence, which we ought more to adore than meticulously to search out, but for us to contemplate him in his works whereby he renders himself near and familiar to us, and in some manner communicates himself. ~ John Calvin,
651:the meaning of it all came crashing through the window of Paige’s soul with a startling violence: She had just partaken in a ritual of token cannibalism, the eating of the flesh and the drinking of the blood of a man whom those around her professed to worship and adore, a celebration of human sacrifice – a sacrifice of human perfection. And in the heart of modern-day America. ~ Quent Cordair,
652:I learned years ago, I adore acting and I think it's the most alive I know how to be - almost - but I really want a good life. I've been married for 17 years - I know, they call us the last couple. I have a 13-year-old daughter. I have a lovely home life with good friends who aren't in the business... and I have no desire to cost my whole life in pursuit of the career alone. ~ Kathleen Turner,
653:Because he is; that is, because he is an infinitely glorious, good, wise, holy, powerful, righteous, self-subsisting , self-sufficient , and all-sufficient being; the fountain and author of all being and good; the first cause, last end, and sovereign Lord of all; therefore, he is to be worshipped: therefore, are we to admire, adore, and love him; to praise, to trust and to fear him. ~ John Owen,
654:The believing man does not claim to understand. He falls to his knees and whispers, "God." The man of earth kneels also, but not to worship. He kneels to examine, to search, to find the cause and the how of things. Just now we happen to be living in a secular age. Our thought habits are those of the scientist, not those of the worshipper. We are more likely to explain than to adore. ~ A W Tozer,
655:Sophie, however, did not adore it. Instead, she had crumpled the paper with fervor and considered the options that lay before her. Not options. Option. Singular. Because the truth was that women in Britain in 1833 did not have options. They had the path upon which they tread. Upon which they were forced to tread. Upon which they were made to feel grateful they were forced to tread. ~ Sarah MacLean,
656:Crabbed age and youth cannot live together; Youth is full of pleasure, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full sport, age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee. ~ William Shakespeare,
657:Livia, I can’t get started if we can’t finish. I can’t trust myself to stop.”
Livia smiled at his concern and grabbed her jacket, digging in the pocket. “Kyle had one, and I grabbed it.” Livia held the condom up victoriously.
“Only one? I better make it count.” Blake still had the mask on, so he left it to his fingers to adore her. “I’m going to paint my passion on your skin. ~ Debra Anastasia,
658:And when we look in through the windows, all we see are shadows. And when we try and listen, all we hear is a whispering. And we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by a war. A war that we have both won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves. ~ Arundhati Roy,
659:Staying requires being curious about who you actually are when you don't take yourself to be a collection of memories.When you don't infer your existence form replaying what happened to you, when you don't take yourself to be the girl your mother/father/brother/teacher/lover didn't see or adore. When you sense yourself directly, immediately, right now, without preconception, who are you? ~ Geneen Roth,
660:Staying requires being curious about who you actually are when you don't take yourself to be a collection of memories.When you don't infer your existence from replaying what happened to you, when you don't take yourself to be the girl your mother/father/brother/teacher/lover didn't see or adore. When you sense yourself directly, immediately, right now, without preconception, who are you? ~ Geneen Roth,
661:Though I adore the idea of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Sandman, the Tooth Fairy, and such luminary characters—especially their altruism and devotion—I still don't believe in them.  For I know the truth.  Only one such miracle worker exists who performs magic in my life, seeing to my wants and needs without fail.  That queen is my mother.  With unwavering faith I believe in her. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
662:It's not her fault she can't cook."
"You are too nice natured, darling. You won't get anywhere in this world being kind and generous. You must turn into a lioness like me and gobble up people who disagree with you."
"I'm not very good at gobbling," I said. "And I want to like people, and be liked by them."
She sighed. "The sooner you get married and have babies to adore the better. ~ Rhys Bowen,
663:Our relationship with the followers of Islam has taken on great importance, since they are now significantly present in many traditionally Christian countries, where they can freely worship and become fully a part of society. We must never forget that they "profess to hold the faith of Abraham, and together with us they adore the one, merciful God, who will judge humanity on the last day". ~ Pope Francis,
664:We should have given up years ago. It's so clear now. We should have "explored other options." We should have adopted. We gave up years of our lives and we very nearly destroyed our marriage. Our happy ending could have and should have arrived so much sooner. And even though I adore the fact that Francesca has Ben's eyes, I also see now that her biological connection to us is irrelevant. ~ Liane Moriarty,
665:The spiritual intense fixation of the mind, by contemplation on God in Christ, until the soul be as it were swallowed up in admiration and delight, and being brought unto an utter loss, through the infiniteness of those excellencies which it doth admire and adore . . . are things to be aimed at in prayer, and which, through the riches of divine condescension, are frequently enjoyed. 293 ~ Timothy J Keller,
666:It had never occurred to her that she might adore the adult Clay even more than she had the youth, but there it was. The man her friend had grown into—well, he enchanted her, brooding temper, dark kisses, animal protectiveness, and all. To her delight, the feeling seemed to be mutual. But the separation had scarred them both. What would it do to Clay if this disease succeeded in killing her? ~ Nalini Singh,
667:O Lord, my sweet Master, Thou whom I adore in silence and to whom I have entirely consecrated myself, Thou who governest my life, kindle in my heart the flame of Thy pure love that it may burn like a glowing brazier, consuming all imperfections and transforming into a comforting warmth and radiating light the dead wood of egoism and the black coals of ignorance.
   ~ The Mother, Prayers And Meditations, 55,
668:I am loyal and constant in my love for travel, as I have not always been loyal and constant in my other loves. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn baby—I just don’t care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it’s mine. Because it looks exactly like me. It can barf all over me if it wants to—I just don’t care. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
669:Without lifting his head from his own journal, he said, “Not having any luck figuring me out, then? Don’t worry, you’ll get better with practice. And, yes”—he grinned wickedly, eyes fixed on his paper—“you’ll still fancy me tomorrow no matter how much you wish otherwise. I’m unpredictable, and you adore it. Just as I cannot wrap my massive brain around the equation of you and yet adore it. ~ Kerri Maniscalco,
670:I stare at him, unwilling to hide my hurt. “You hate me?”
He blinks as if trying to break out of a fog. Color tints his cheeks, and his breath kicks up one more. “I think,” he says, “adore would be the better word.”
Oh. Hell.
Those intense eyes fixate on me, baring his soul. It is filled with pain and need. “You are my greatest weakness because I have no defense when it comes to you. ~ Kristen Callihan,
671:Just women who are really eclectic, so every woman from Gwyneth Paltrow to Peggy Nolan, who has half a shaved head and has a totally wild aesthetic. They're woman who are doing things, running their own businesses, taking chances at different levels of success and different industries. A lot of my friends are creatives. It was just who I really adore and wanted to share with a greater audience. ~ Sophia Amoruso,
672:Okay,” she said. “Good question. I’m the idiot box. I’m the TV. I’m the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I’m the boob tube. I’m the little shrine the family gathers to adore.” “You’re the television? Or someone in the television?” “The TV’s the altar. I’m what people are sacrificing to.” “What do they sacrifice?” asked Shadow. “Their time, mostly,” said Lucy. “Sometimes each other. ~ Neil Gaiman,
673:Hear me well, John Blackwood, because I know how hard it is for you to take a compliment. You talk of my strength? You are the strongest person I’ve ever known. You are a survivor. Every day you fight for a better life. I am in awe of you. I adore you. I have since the beginning. Fear isn’t an easy thing to shake. But for you? I will be right there fighting by your side and never regret a day. ~ Kristen Callihan,
674:One thing at a time,' said the Boy. 'You must be patient. This is a day of hope and wild revenge. Do not interrupt me. I am a courier from another world. I bring you golden words.

Listen!' said the Boy. 'Where I come from there is no more fear. But there is a roaring and a bellowing and a cracking of bones. And sometimes there is silence when, lolling on your thrones, your slaves adore you. ~ Mervyn Peake,
675:I choose to love you in silence…
For in silence I find no rejection,

I choose to love you in loneliness…
For in loneliness no one owns you but me,

I choose to adore you from a distance…
For distance will shield me from pain,

I choose to kiss you in the wind…
For the wind is gentler than my lips,

I choose to hold you in my dreams…
For in my dreams, you have no end. ~ Rumi,
676:The earthly [city] has made for herself, according to her heart's desire, false gods out of any sources at all, even out of human beings, that she might adore them with sacrifices. The heavenly one, on the other hand, living like a wayfarer in this world, makes no false gods for herself. On the contrary, she herself is made by the true God that she may be herself a true sacrifice to Him. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
677:...if I had been told what I was to learn through these protracted sufferings, I am afraid I should have shrunk back in terror and so have lost all the sweet lessons God proposed to teach me. As it is, He has led me on, step by step, answering my prayers in His own way; and I cannot bear to have a single human being doubt that it has been a perfect way. I love and adore it just as it is. ~ Elizabeth Payson Prentiss,
678:He sucked in a harsh breath and was silent a long while, relishing her words. “Ah, Gwen, my lovely wee Gwen, I thought I might ne’er hear such words.” He lifted her hair away from her face and kissed her temple tenderly. “I love you. I adore you. I will cherish you all the days of my life,” he vowed. “I knew even back in your century that you were the one for me, the one I’d longed for all my life. ~ Karen Marie Moning,
679:While Putin expected a bad reaction from the United States, he had no idea what kind of hornet’s nest he’d stirred up in his own country. One can criticize Russians for many things, but their love of children isn’t one of them. Russia is one of the only countries in the world where you can take a screaming child into a fancy restaurant and no one will give you a second look. Russians simply adore children. ~ Bill Browder,
680:In my career there's many things I've won and many things I've achieved. But my greatest achievement is my family. What matters is being a good father and a good husband-just being connected to family as much as possible. Being a dad is more important than football, more important than anything. I adore children. I love the fact our children are part of both of us. It's one of the most amazing things ever. ~ David Beckham,
681:It is only by hearsay (by word of mouth passed down from generation to generation) that whole peoples adore the God of their fathers and of their priests: authority, confidence, submission and custom with them take the place of conviction or of proofs: they prostrate themselves and pray, because their fathers taught them to prostrate themselves and pray: but why did their fathers fall on their knees? ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,
682:I want someone who will adore me so much that they cannot even walk past me without touching me in some way. I want someone who will worship me, even when.. I'm sitting around in fluffy slippers with no makeup on and hair scraped back. I'm sick and tired of being on my own. Most of the time I'm fine. Some of the time I even quite enjoy it. But at this precise moment in time I'm fed up with it. I've had enough. ~ Jane Green,
683:We all should choose our friends carefully. I used to think that no one could know me better than somebody else, because you're inside yourself, your body, you can't see yourself. If you think like that, you surround yourself with other people who are willing to tell you who you are, which are usually judgmental people ... we should really surround ourselves with the ones that adore us and believe in the highest of us. ~ Jewel,
684:Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever? ~ Mary Oliver,
685:They hate kings, they hate priests, they hate soldiers, they hate sailors. They distrust men of science, they denounce the middle classes, they despair of working men, but they adore humanity. Only they always speak of humanity as if it were a curious foreign nation. They are dividing themselves more and more from men to exalt the strange race of mankind. They are ceasing to be human in the effort to be humane. ~ G K Chesterton,
686:A kiss says it all—
I like you.
I love you.
I need you.
I want you.
I value you.
I fancy you.
I adore you.
I prefer you.
I missed you.
I cherish you.
I support you.
I care for you.
I long for you.
I think of you.
I treasure you.
I hope for you.
I consider you.
I dream of you.
I delight in you.
I appreciate you.
And I will never, ever forget you. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
687:And there it is! Bravo! I knew it was only a matter of time before Byron realized he had an audience. That man is simply incapable of keeping his shirt on when there are spectators. One Christmas Eve, he stripped his shirt off right in the middle of the choir's rendition of Oh Child of Bethlehem. Coincidentally, the next song was Come Let Us Adore Him and the imbecile actually launched into some interpretive dance. ~ Kirt J Boyd,
688:Magic is that which it is; it is by itself, like the mathematics; for it is the exact and absolute science of Nature and its laws . Magic is the science of the Ancient Magi: and the Christian religion, which has imposed silence on the lying oracles, and put an end to the prestiges of the false Gods , itself reveres those Magi who came from the East, guided by a Star , to adore the Saviour of the world in His cradle. ~ Albert Pike,
689:My Lord Jesus Christ, who, for the love You bear to mankind, do remain night and day in this Sacrament, full of pity and love, awaiting, calling, and receiving all who come to visit You; I believe that You are present in the Sacrament of the Altar; I adore You from the depths of my own nothingness; I thank You for the many graces You have given me, and especially for having given me Yourself in this Sacrament. ~ Alphonsus Liguori,
690:We are discreet sheep; we wait to see how the drove is going, and then go with the drove. We have two opinions: one private, which we are afraid to express; and another one - the one we use - which we force ourselves to wear to please Mrs. Grundy, until habit makes us comfortable in it, and the custom of defending it presently makes us love it, adore it, and forget how pitifully we came by it. Look at it in politics. ~ Mark Twain,
691:I want someone who will adore me so much that they cannot even walk past me without touching me in some way. I want someone who will worship me, even when.. I'm sitting around in fluffy slippers with no makeup on and hair scraped back.

I'm sick and tired of being on my own. Most of the time I'm fine. Some of the time I even quite enjoy it. But at this precise moment in time I'm fed up with it. I've had enough.. ~ Jane Green,
692:This is a real presence which includes every dimension of who Jesus is: body and blood, human soul and divine person. The consecrated Eucharistic species are the Lord and therefore command our adoration. We do not adore ourselves, nor the ordained priest, nor the Bible, even though these are vehicles for Christ's spiritual presence; we do adore the Eucharist, this blessed sacrifice made really present sacramentally. ~ Francis George,
693:Love Me, believe in Me, hope in Me, and adore Me, trusting that I will accomplish in you, in My own way, all that My Heart desires to see in you. I will re-create you, by the power of My grace and by the inward action of the Holy Spirit, into the man I want you to be, into the priest who will correspond in all things to My will and the desires of My Sacred Heart. There is no need to be anxious, no need to fear My silence. ~ Anonymous,
694:They hate kings, they hate priests, they hate soldiers, they hate sailors. They distrust men of science, they denounce the middle classes, they despair of working men, but they adore humanity. Only they always speak of humanity as if it were a curious foreign nation. They are dividing themselves more and more from men to exalt the strange race of mankind. They are ceasing to be human in the effort to be humane. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,
695:When I find myself sitting at dinner next to someone who knows just as much about novels as I do but has somehow also found the mental space to adore and be knowledgeable about opera, have strong opinions about the relative rankings of Renaissance painters, an encyclopedic knowledge of the English Civil War, of French wines—I feel an anxiety that nudges beyond the envious into the existential. How did she find the time? ~ Zadie Smith,
696:Remember, how often the great art of the past didn't look great at first, how often it didn't look like art at all; how much easier it is, decades or centuries later, to adore it, not only because it is, in fact, great but because it's still here; because the inevitable little errors and infelicities tend to recede in an object that's survived the War of 1812, the eruption of Krakatoa, the rise and fall of Nazism. ~ Michael Cunningham,
697:adore Thee in a spirit of reparation for all the priests of the Church, but especially for those who never, or hardly ever, stop in Thy presence, there to put down their burdens, and to receive from Thee new strength, new lights, new capacities to love, to pardon, and to bless. I do not want to leave this tabernacle today. I want, at every instant, to remain immersed in the adoration for which Thou waitest from Thy priests. ~ Anonymous,
698:My Lord Jesus Christ, who, for the love You bear to mankind, do remain night and day in this Sacrament, full of pity and love, awaiting, calling, and receiving all who come to visit You; I believe that You are present in the Sacrament of the Altar; I adore You from the depths of my own nothingness; I thank You for the many graces You have given me, and especially for having given me Yourself in this Sacrament. ~ Saint Alphonsus Liguori,
699:THERE ARE TIMES when just waking up can feel like the hardest thing anyone could ever ask you to do. The first morning after your child has died, perhaps. Or after the man you adore has walked out. You would give anything, certainly the rest of your life, to stay down in the darkness of not knowing.
It never happens, though, does it? You always come back to yourself. The world is still there. You are still there... ~ Sharon J Bolton,
700:We had a great connection with Pedro Almodovar from the beginning. Even before I met him, it was so strange. I felt like I already knew him. I loved him even before I met him. It was so powerful. And when I looked at him in the eyes, this was the feeling that I knew I was going to have with him. It gets bigger and bigger every day. I adore him. It's much more than working together. He's a really special person in my life. ~ Penelope Cruz,
701:[Althea Warren] believed librarians' single greatest responsibility was to read voraciously. Perhaps she advocated this in order to be sure librarians knew their books, but for Warren, this directive was based in emotion and philosophy: She wanted librarians to simply adore the act of reading for its own sake, and perhaps, as a collateral benefit, they could inspire their patrons to read with a similarly insatiable appetite ~ Susan Orlean,
702:Could truth perhaps be a woman who has reasons for not permitting her reasons to be seen? Could her name perhaps be--to speak Greek--Baubo?... Oh, those Greeks! They understood how to live: to do that it is necessary to stop bravely at the surface, the fold, the skin, to adore the appearance, to believe in forms, in tones, in words, in the whole Olympus of appearance! Those Greeks were superficial--out of profundity! ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
703:I'm always reading many books at a time. It might be quite unorthodox, but what I do is, since I'm always surrounded with books, I'll read a page of physics, and then I'll read a chapter of a novel that I really love, and then I'll say, "Oh well, what does that mixture do in my head?" I adore reference books. I love encyclopedias. I also like just going back to original texts, because a lot of these self-help books today. ~ Daphne Guinness,
704:The Prayer for a Parking Space Oh, divine and merciful God, History is without equal for how much I will adore You, when You give me today, a place to park. For You are the provider. And You are the source. From You all good is delivered. Within You all is found. In Your care will I find respite. With Your guidance, will I find peace. To stop, to rest, to idle, to park. These are Yours to give me. This is what I ask. Amen. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
705:Private Arrangements by Sherry Thomas. So, so great. As far as contemporary, I’d say my current favorite is Landslide by Kathryn Nolan. Or The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang. Then there’s Kennedy Ryan’s stuff. It’s pretty damn incredible—I teach her books a lot in my classes. Tessa Bailey’s cop romances slay me in the best way. Oh! To go back to historicals, I adore Elizabeth Hoyt—she writes slinky, feely sex like no one else ~ Jessica Peterson,
706:Closing my eyes, I exhaled softly. “You want to see me, but I’m not sure you really want to. I don’t look like—”
“I know what you look like,” he said, his voice low as his gaze met and held mine. “I have two eyes and I’ve been checking you out often. Enough that it would probably make you uncomfortable if you knew. I fucking adore what I see.” He drew my hand to his groin, folding my palm over the rigid length. “I want what I see. ~ J Lynn,
707:I—I adore you, too. Well, I don't know if I adore you. That's not really the word I'd use. But I—I—" I managed to wrench it out. God, this was hard! "I love you."
"Of course you do," he said, totally unsurprised.
"WHAT? I finally tell you my deepest, most personal feelings and you're all, 'Yeah, I already got that memo'? This, this is why you drive me nuts! This is why it's so hard to tell you things! I take it back. ~ MaryJanice Davidson,
708:What cannot be seen with the eye, but that whereby the eye can see: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore. What cannot be heard with the ear but that whereby the ear can hear: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore…. What cannot be thought with the mind, but that whereby the mind can think: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore.7 ~ Eckhart Tolle,
709:I call the years when our children are between six and twelve the "golden years," not because everything's perfect . . . but because the kids are capable and independent. . . . They're becoming fascinating human beings who continually astound us and make us laugh. And they build our self-esteem. They still adore us for the most part, not yet having reached that age of thinking everything we do is dumb, old-fashioned and irrelevant. ~ Vicki Lansky,
710:... Providence conducts us with so much kindness through the different periods of our life, that we scarcely feel the change; our days glide gently and imperceptibly along, like the motion of the hour-hand, which we cannot discover. ... we advance gradually; we are the same to-day as yesterday, and to-morrow as to-day: thus we go on, without perceiving it, which is a miracle of the Providence I adore. ~ Marie de Rabutin Chantal marquise de Sevigne,
711:What gives a wriggle And makes you giggle When you eat'em? Whose weensy little feet Make my heart really beat? Why, it's those little creepy crawlies That make me feel so jolly. For the darling centipede My favorite buggy feed I always want some more. That's the insect I adore More than beetles, more than crickets, Which at times gives me the hiccups. I crave only to feed On a juicy centipede And I shall be happy forevermore." -Soren ~ Kathryn Lasky,
712:Any pub will do?”
“McPherson’s, I think. One with music that will alter my life forever, give me eternal happiness, and make me see God. You know. One like that.”
“So you need the magical sound of Ireland and some information about an Abbeyglen native. Francine”—Beckett’s eyes danced in the streaming sunlight—“I’m about to solve your every problem.” Beckett stood up and gave my hair a light tug. “Prepare to worship and adore me. ~ Jenny B Jones,
713:I should interweave my theology with prayer. I should frequently interrupt my talking about God by talking to God. Not far behind the theological sentence, "God is generous," should come the prayerful sentence, "Thank you, God." On the heels of, "God is glorious," should come, "I adore your glory." What I have come to see is that this is the way it must be if we are feeling God's reality in our hearts as well as describing it with our heads. ~ John Piper,
714:Hell, yes. I love you; that’s not going to change. I want this, I want you, and I think . . . Oh hell, here comes the Dawson’s Creek.”

He grimaced and I chuckled in spite of the moment.

His gaze grew wistful, and he looked so young. “I don’t want to put things off, even though we haven’t been together a really long time. I don’t want to wait—you never know what can . . . Look. I adore you, and I want a home. Again. With you. ~ Alice Clayton,
715:I do love a hotel room: adore it. What's not to love about everything you need in one room? Would you have a kettle on a tea tray with biscuits in a packet in your bedroom at home? No, you very likely wouldn't. And – please excuse me, MDRC, I'm getting a little giddy here – the kettle. The little tiny kettle on a little tiny stand! Admittedly it's hard to fill as it never quite fits under the basin taps, but that's all just part of the fun. ~ Miranda Hart,
716:Non, je ne me trompe pas ! je lis dans ses yeux noirs le sincère intérêt
qu'elle prend à moi et à mon sort. Oui, je sens, et là-dessus je puis m'en
rapporter à mon coeur, je sens qu'elle… Oh ! l'oserai-je ? oserai-je prononcer
ce mot qui vaut le ciel ?… Elle m'aime !
Elle m'aime ! combien je me deviens cher à moi-même ! combien…
j'ose te le dire à toi, tu m'entendras… combien je m'adore depuis qu'elle
m'aime ! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
717:Isn't it ironic . . . we ignore those who adore us, adore those who ignore us, hurt those who love us, and love those who hurt us.


Every flaw he held and every perfection he flaunted made her love him even more.

"I hate this feeling. Like I'm here, but I'm not. Like someone cares. But they don't. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air. ~ Ellen Hopkins,
718:[Jesus] did not say, 'Simon, son of Jonas, fearest thou me.' He did not say, 'Dost thou admire me? Dost thou adore me?' Nor was it even a question concerning his faith. He did not say, 'Simon, son of Jonas, believest thou in me?' but he asked him another question, 'Lovest thou me?' I take it, that is because love is the very best evidence of godliness. Love is the brightest of all the graces; and hence it becomes the best evidence. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
719:If the impulse to worship God and to adore Him in truth by the goodness and order of our own lives is nothing more than a transitory and emotional thing, that is our own fault. It is so only because we make it so, and because we take what is substantially a deep and powerful and lasting moral impetus, supernatural in its origin and in its direction, and reduce it to the level of our own weak and unstable and futile fancies and desires. Prayer ~ Thomas Merton,
720:Jeffré [Phillips] is the most wonderful guy in the world. He has the most wonderful heart, he's a beautiful human being, and I just simply adore him. It's so interesting how you have to switch your thoughts and your feelings when you're working together as a business partner with your best friend and, all of a sudden, love enters the picture. It's such a beautiful thing, but at the same time, you're trying to decide, "Where do I place this?" ~ LaToya Jackson,
721:You often do not know your friends as well as you imagine. Friends often agree on things in order to avoid an argument. They cover up their unpleasant qualities so as not offend each other. They laugh extra hard at each others jokes. Since honesty rarely strengthens friendship, you may never know how a friend truly feels. Friends will say they love your poetry, adore your music, envy your taste in clothes - maybe they mean, often they do not. ~ Robert Greene,
722:O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom. ~ Li Young Lee,
723:As long as we secretly adore ourselves, our own deficiencies will remain to torture us with an apparent defilement. But if we live for others, we will gradually discover that no one expects us to be “as gods.” We will see that we are human, like everyone else, that we all have weaknesses and deficiencies, and that these limitations of ours play a most important part in all our lives. It is because of them that we need others and others need us. ~ Thomas Merton,
724:You silly Arthur! If you knew anything about...anything, which you don't, you would know that I adore you. Everyone in London knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you. I have been going about for the last six months telling the whole of society that I adore you. I wonder you consent to have anything to say to me. I have no character left at all. At least, I feel so happy that I am quite sure I have no character left at all. ~ Oscar Wilde,
725:ABDOMEN, n. [1.] The temple of the god Stomach, in whose worship, with sacrificial rights, all true men engage. From women this ancient faith commands but a stammering assent. They sometimes minister at the altar in a half-hearted and ineffective way, but true reverence for the one deity that men really adore they know not. If woman had a free hand in the world's marketing the race would become graminivorous. [2.] A shrine enclosing the object. ~ Ambrose Bierce,
726:This old dead hero had one only daughter left of his race; a beauty that, to describe her truly, one need say only, she was female to the noble male; the beautiful black Venus to our young Mars; as charming in her person as he, and of delicate virtues. I have seen an hundred white men sighing after her, and making a thousand vows at her feet, all vain, and unsuccessful; and she was, indeed, too great for any, but a prince of her own nation to adore. ~ Aphra Behn,
727:I would describe myself as an academic and research superstar. I love learning and I am an extravert who loves to talk, too much at times, or so they tell me. I also love to debate. I have been attached to a university for years now. I don’t ever want to leave, except to time travel back to live in the Jane Austen era. I absolutely adore English literature, Shakespeare, anything Victorian. I have always loved words, grammar, Pride and Prejudice … ~ Tania Marshall,
728:Risk is more than is required. Learn more than is normal. Be strong. Show courage. Breathe. Excel. Love. Lead. Speak your truth. Live your values. Laugh. Cry. Innovate. Simplify. Adore mastery. Release mediocrity. Aim for genius. Stay humble. Be kinder than expected. Deliver more than is needed. Exude passion. Shatter your limits. Transcend your fears. Inspire others by your bigness. Dream big but start small. Act now. Don't stop. Change the world. ~ Robin Sharma,
729:Tess. I love you so much. You’re so beautiful, you take my breath away. I can’t believe you’re still mine after this many years, and I swear – on my life, I swear – I will never let you forget that again. Not for a single second. Not for a single moment in your life will you not feel the love I have for you, will you now know that I adore you with everything that I have. I want your heart, your mind…your soul. I want everything you can give me. ~ Jennifer Van Wyk,
730:Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever? ~ Mary Oliver,
731:God's grace is the most incredible and insurmountable truth ever to be revealed to the human heart, which is why God has given us His Holy Spirit to superintend the process of more fully revealing the majesty of the work done on our behalf by our Savior. He teaches us to first cling to, and then enables us to adore with the faith He so graciously supplies, the mercy of God. This mercy has its cause and effect in the work of Jesus on the cross.
13. ~ John Bunyan,
732:I adore Wilkie Collins,” Tessa cried. “Oh—Armadale! And The Woman in White … Are you laughing at me?” “Not at you,” said Will, grinning, “more because of you. I’ve never seen anyone get so excited over books before. You’d think they were diamonds.” “Well, they are, aren’t they? Isn’t there anything you love like that? And don’t say ‘spats’ or ‘lawn tennis’ or something silly.” “Good Lord,” he said with mock horror, “it’s like she knows me already. ~ Cassandra Clare,
733:Because you feel it. If I touched you right now I’d probably find you’re wet for me. And even though I’m crazy, all I want to do is drive deep inside you—I want to worship you in my own way. I want to adore you by touching you, kissing you, biting you.” I dropped my gaze to her lips, loving the swollen pinkness, the tempting glisten. “Forget about everything but how your body feels. Do you want me? Do you want me to release your anger with my tongue? ~ Pepper Winters,
734:who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? The words compelle intrare, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of the Divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of man, and His compulsion is our liberation. ~ C S Lewis,
735:We are going to die, as is everyone we adore - I hate this! But the question is, how do we live as women and men in the face of this? Why do we let ourselves be so distracted and obsessed by meaningless B.S. in light of having one short, precious life? When are we going to wake up and be fully alive to each other and nature and magic and wonder and Life with a capital L? When will we stop hitting the snooze button? And then, how alive are we willing to be? ~ Anne Lamott,
736:you often do not know your friends as well as you imagine. Friends often agree on things in order to avoid an argument. They cover up their unpleasant qualities so as to not offend each other. They laugh extra hard at each other’s jokes. Since honesty rarely strengthens friendship, you may never know how a friend truly feels. Friends will say that they love your poetry, adore your music, envy your taste in clothes—maybe they mean it, often they do not. When ~ Robert Greene,
737:My mother has made choices in her life, as we all must, and she is at peace with them. I can see her peace. She did not cop out on herself. The benefits of her choices are massive-a long, stable marriage to a man she still calls her best friend; a family that has extended now into grandchildren who adore her; a certainty in her own strength. Maybe some things were sacrificed, and my dad made his sacrifices, too-but who amongst us lives without sacrifice? ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
738:Remain in My presence whenever and for as long as you can. Being with Me is the great means to healing and to holiness. It is enough to remain with Me if you be like Me. Come to Me, full of expectant hope, and I will do all the rest. To adore Me is to seek My Face and to approach My Heart, full of wonder and of holy fear, and above all, full of love. Adoration is the wordless confession of My divinity. Adoration proclaims that I am all and that all else is nought.2 ~ Anonymous,
739:For the record, my own loyalties are uncomplicated. I adore few humans more than I love books. I make no promises, but I do not expect to purchase a Kindle or a Nook or any of their offspring. I hope to keep bringing home bound paper books until my shelves snap from their weight, until there is no room in my apartment for a bed or a couch or another human being, until the floorboards collapse and my eyes blur to dim. But the book, bless it, is not a simple thing. ~ Ben Ehrenreich,
740:I adore Wilkie Collins,” Tessa cried. “Oh—Armadale! And The Woman in White …
Are you laughing at me?”
“Not at you,” said Will, grinning, “more because of you. I’ve never seen anyone get so
excited over books before. You’d think they were diamonds.”
“Well, they are, aren’t they? Isn’t there anything you love like that? And don’t say ‘spats’ or ‘lawn tennis’ or something silly.”
“Good Lord,” he said with mock horror, “it’s like she knows me already. ~ Cassandra Clare,
741:It's super-essential. Even though I don't have a very big team, for me, the word muse may be démodé or not. I adore it, but I am also one, in my delirium, to be quite classical. For a designer - especially a male designer - he absolutely has to have that female voice by his side, which he listens to, he filters, he digests. It's a huge need, because when you see through the eyes of a man, you see a woman a certain way, and how they have little tricks of their own. ~ Riccardo Tisci,
742:The students adore your father,' a perfumed woman said to me. 'Aren't you lucky to live with such a charming man!'
'He's even more charming at home,' Mom said. 'Isn't he, Bea? He rides a unicycle through the house -'
'- even up and down the stairs,' I added.
'He juggles eggs as he makes breakfast every morning -'
'- which he serves to us in bed of course,' I said.
'- and pulls fragrant bouquets out of his ass,' Mom finished.
'He's just a joy. ~ Natalie Standiford,
743:Natalie Gilcher, I love you more than anyone could love another. My world only makes sense since you’ve come into it. I want to marry you, love you, adore you, give you children and anything else you want. I’ll provide for you and never take you for granted. I know what life is like without you, and I only want to live in a world with you by my side. When I’m gone, my heart will remain with you. Will you allow me the honor to love you from now until the end of time? ~ Corinne Michaels,
744:I'm so honored to be on this recording with Ann & Nancy Wilson. They are iconic and I've truly been one of their biggest fans since I was a kid. And what a perfect song to sing with them, since I adore Vince Gill and have been very proud for his commitment to his own musical vision. When we were recording at Nancy's house, and even though I'm friends with those girls now, I had to keep 'pinching' myself and marvel at how blessed my life is! It was a very PROUD moment for me. ~ Deana Carter,
745:I adore vintage clothes. When I go on the road doing auditions for So You Think You Can Dance, I always research the cities we're traveling to so I know where all the best vintage stores are. There are several stores and flea markets I love here in LA. Shareen is amazing with the best edit in town! Golyester is great. I really enjoy the Rose Bowl market. A word of warning: wear layers, comfortable shoes, be prepared to hunt, and fuel yourself with a bucket of cappuccino! Enjoy! ~ Cat Deeley,
746:The shepherds - simple souls - came to adore the Infant Savior. Mary rejoiced at seeing their homage and willing offerings they made to her Jesus... How happy is the loving soul when it has found Jesus with Mary, His Mother! They who know the Tabernacle where He dwells, they who receive Him into their souls, know that His conversation is full of divine sweetness, His consolation ravishing, His peace superabundant, and the familiarity of His love and His Heart ineffable ~ Peter Julian Eymard,
747:To my unsuspecting love.
When I look into your eyes, I loose all sense of time and place. Reason robbed, clear thought erased, I am lost in the paradise I find within you gaze.
I long to touch your blushing cheek, to whisper in your ear how I adore you, how I cannot bear the thought of living without you.
To be so near you without touching you is agony. Your blindness to my feelings is a daily torment, and I feel driven to the edge of madness by my love for you ~ Julianne Donaldson,
748:I knew she was broken. I knew she was desperate for attention. For affection. But I didn't know ... I didn't know it was going to be like this. I didn't count on her needing me the way she does – i.e., so badly, it's driving her to violence. It's almost beautiful ... I don't think I've ever had anyone truly need me. Like me, yes. Adore me, yes. Obsessed with me, yes. Need is a different beast. Need implies she can't survive without me. Somehow, I've become responsible for her ~ Stylo Fantome,
749:The best sex takes us somewhere. Somewhere warm and expansive, a paradise of lust and happiness. Sex is and can be and should be but only very rarely is an act of communion with something bigger than ourselves. Men fuck and women make love, people say, but we men make love when we fuck a woman we adore: it’s the same thing to us. We mean it sincerely. I had places inside me only Cathy could fill with her body, and I made her happy with my body more than I ever thought I could. ~ Deborah Smith,
750:In every lifetime, I believe that each soul is given one mate. Don’t get me wrong, I think that a person can fall in love more than one time. But finding your soul mate is a different matter altogether. You don’t just love that person, you adore him or her. That person is your world. Your reason for living. The one thing in this life that will make everything OK. When you find your soul mate, you’ve found your purpose. To love that one person. To experience life with that one person. ~ Abbi Glines,
751:But what if I create a universe that is free, free even of me? What if I veil My Divinity so that the creatures are free to pursue their individual lives without being overwhelmed by My overpowering Presence? Will the creatures love Me? Can I be loved by creatures whom I have not programmed to adore me forever? Can love arise out of freedom? My angels love me unceasingly, but they can see Me at all times. What if I create beings in My own image as a Creator, beings who are free? But ~ Philip Yancey,
752:And Thou, O Lord, who art all this made one and much more, O sovereign Master, extreme limit of our thought, who standest for us at the threshold of the Unknown, make rise from that Unthinkable some new splendour, some possibility of a loftier and more integral realisation, that Thy work may be accomplished and the universe take one step farther towards the sublime Identity, the supreme Manifestation.
   And now my pen falls mute and I adore Thee in silence.*
   ~ The Mother, Prayers And Meditations, 270,
753:Barbie was no longer afraid of anything. It was like the thing Mab had said about belief. The belief is sometimes the biggest part of it all. You can choose to believe in your published book being held in the loving hands of strangers, your name tattooed forever on the heart of the one you adore; you can choose to believe in tiny red-haired pesky piskies--all the things 'they' may tell you not to believe in. But who are they anyway? What do they know? What makes them any more real? ~ Francesca Lia Block,
754:Gods, I love this place," Locke said, drumming his fingers against his thighs. "Sometimes I think this whole city was put here simply because the gods must adore crime. Pickpockets rob the common folk, merchants rob anyone they can dupe, Capa Barsavi robs the robbers and the common folk, the lesser nobles rob nearly everyone, and Duke Nicovante occasionally runs off with his army and robs the shit out of Tal Verarr or Jerem, not to mention what he does to his own nobles and his common folk. ~ Scott Lynch,
755:I choose to love you in silence...
For in silence I find no rejection.

I choose to love you in loneliness...
For in loneliness no one owns you but me.

I choose to adore you from a distance...
For distance will shield me from pain.

I choose to kiss you in the wind...
For the wind is gentler than my lips.

I choose to hold you in my dreams...
For in my dreams, you have no end.


JALAL AL-DIN RUMI.
Persia, 13th century.
"I choose to love you". ~ Rumi,
756:Before examining this more carefully and investigating its consequences, I want to dwell for a moment in the contemplation of God, to ponder His attributes in me, to see, admire, and adore the beauty of His boundless light, insofar as my clouded insight allows. Believing that the supreme happiness of the other life consists wholly of the contemplation of divine greatness, I now find that through less perfect contemplation of the same sort I can gain the greatest joy available in this life. ~ Rene Descartes,
757:To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law. Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars. We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject the absurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary, to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion; to clear God of caterpillars. ~ Victor Hugo,
758:That little girl, I adore her, but she’s an anarchist. She wakes us up whenever she feels like it, she thinks high-energy at seven in the morning is a positive, sometimes she screams for no reason, she decides on a second-to-second basis which foods she’ll eat and which she’ll fight you over, she puts her hands and face into truly disgusting places, and she’s attached to our hips for at least another fourteen years, if we’re lucky enough for a college we can’t afford to take her off our hands. ~ Dennis Lehane,
759:Still adore me?” he said into that kiss, his tone husky. A tone between lovers, between mates, between a man and the only woman he had ever wanted.

“Too much,” was her response. “I only feel whole when I’m with you. Does that make me weak?”

The cat stretched out inside him as she pressed kisses along his jawline, down his neck. “If you’re weak, then so am I.” He could function without her but in the way a machine functions. His heart, his soul, he had given to her a long time ago. ~ Nalini Singh,
760:Croyez-vous qu'on ne puisse prendre le mal d'amour en touchant l'or et la pourpre? Les privilèges dont vous parlez ne sont-ils pas la substance même de Jocaste et si étroitement enchevêtrés à ses organes qu'on ne puisse les désunir. De toute éternité nous appartenions l'un à l'autre. Son ventre cache les plis et replis d'un manteau de pourpre beaucoup plus royal que celui qu'elle agrafe sur ses épaules. Je l'aime, je l'adore, Tirésias, auprès d'elle il me semble que j'occupe enfin ma vraie place; ~ Jean Cocteau,
761:What gives a wriggle
And makes you giggle
When you eat'em?
Whose weensy little feet
Make my heart really beat?
Why, it's those little creepy crawlies
That make me feel so jolly.

For the darling centipede
My favorite buggy feed
I always want some more.
That's the insect I adore
More than beetles, more than crickets,
Which at times gives me the hiccups.
I crave only to feed
On a juicy centipede
And I shall be happy forevermore."
-Soren ~ Kathryn Lasky,
762:Would you rather you were able to experience the reunion with a long-lost set of parents who had been suffering for years missing and loving you or would you rather they weren't hurting while you were raised by human parents who adore you?"
Laurel swallowed. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
Tamani smiled softly and lifted a hand to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and letting his thumb rest on her cheek. "Trust me, it's no picnic missing you. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. ~ Aprilynne Pike,
763:Mary lived in the divine Eucharist, the center of her love. All her thoughts, words, and actions sprang from It like the rays from the sun. The Eucharist was the oracle which she consulted, the grace which she followed. But Jesus Christ in His Sacrament lives the same life of love which consumed Him in His mortal days. In His sacramental state He continues to adore His Father by His depthless self-abasement. He is still the Mediator and Interceder with divine goodness for the salvation of men ~ Peter Julian Eymard,
764:No, we love war.

War. Starvation. Plague. They fast-track us to enlightenment.

“It's the mark of a very, very young soul,” Mr. Whittier used to say, “to try and fix the world. To try and save anyone from their ration of misery.”

We have always loved war. We are born knowing that war is why we're here. And we love disease. Cancer. We love earthquakes. In this amusement-park fun house we call the planet earth, Mr. Whittier says we adore forest fires. Oil spills. Serial killers. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
765:O Holy Spirit, Soul of my soul, I adore Thee. Enlighten me, guide me, strengthen me, console me. Establish my soul in Truth. Today, Monday, is Thy day, O Thou who proceedest from the Father and the Son. I consecrate this day to Thee, O Divine Paraclete, and all the Mondays for the rest of my life. Today, I desire to live in Thy presence, attentive to Thy inspirations, and obedient to Thy voice. O Holy Spirit, come into my life through Mary. Renew and invigorate my priesthood. Sanctify Me and all priests. ~ Anonymous,
766:we are told, "that it is not necessary to know what God is; that we must adore him; that we are not permitted to extend our views to his attributes." But, before we know that we must adore a God, must we not know certainly, that he exists? But, how can we assure ourselves, that he exists, if we never examine whether the various qualities, attributed to him, do really exist and agree in him? Indeed, to adore God, is to adore only the fictions of one's own imagination, or rather, it is to adore nothing. ~ Paul Henri Thiry,
767:It wouldn’t always be like this. Seven years of marriage had taught us that every day would be different, that life would throw us curve balls and we wouldn’t always get along. But our eyes were wide open now. We knew what we wanted. And that was each other. He would drive me crazy and I would inevitably make him furious. But he would also make me happier than I had ever been. He would also take care of me, adore me, love me. And I would love him in return. I would support him. And I would respect him. ~ Rachel Higginson,
768:She untucked the flap and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Chloe-lass: If I’m not here with you now, I’m beyond this life, for ’tis the only way I’ll ever let you go. She flinched, her whole body jerking. Several long moments passed before she managed to force herself to keep reading. I hoped I loved you well, sweet, for I know even now that you are my brightest shining star. I knew it the moment I saw you. Ah, lass, you so adore your artifacts. This thief covets but one priceless treasure: You. Dageus ~ Karen Marie Moning,
769:Fire found that she was holding the kitten close, cradling him against her breast, as if she were shielding him from something. From the way it felt to have her movements, her feelings, even, debated by two prickly men. She had the sudden mad wish that this little green-haired creature in her arms were her own baby, to hold and adore and to deliver her from people who did not understand her. Foolish, she thought to herself furiously. Don’t even think it. What does the world need with another mind-stealing baby? ~ Kristin Cashore,
770:Do you realize how deeply I feel about you?”
I slowly shook my head, needing her to tell me. She placed my hand over her
heart and her hand over mine. I felt its steady beat under my palm, the steady
beat that got faster as my eyes locked on hers. “It’s like music,” she explained.
“When I look at you, when you touch me, when I see your face … when we
kiss, my heart plays a song. It sings that it needs you like I need air. It sings to
me that I adore you. It sings that I’ve found its perfect missing part. ~ Tillie Cole,
771:You make me tremendously happy to hold me undivided - to let me be the artist, as it were, and yet not forgo the man, the animal, the hungry, insatiable lover. No woman has ever granted me all the privileges I need - and you, why you sing out so blithely, so boldly, with a laugh even - yes, you invite me to go ahead, be myself, benture anything. I adore you for that. That is where you are truly regal, a woman extraordinary. What a woman you are! I laugh to myself now when I think of you. I have no fear of your femaleness. ~ Henry Miller,
772:The creative process is a very collaborative process. I know it might seem that way because so much ink is spilled and the media is obsessed with business and numbers and studios... but filmmakers don't think of it that way. We just go off and we tell our stories. It's the same torture that we adore, it's the same torture that our forefathers endured making movies in the golden era of Hollywood. So, from my perspective it's no different, I'm sure, from the men and women who I admire so much who made the earliest movies. ~ Steven Spielberg,
773:To crush out fanaticism and revere the infinite, such is the law. Let us not confine ourselves to falling prostrate beneath the tree of creation and contemplating its vast ramifications full of stars. We have a duty to perform, to cultivate the human soul, to defend mystery against miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and to reject the absurd; to admit nothing that is inexplicable excepting what is necessary, to purify faith and obliterate superstition from the face of religion, to remove the vermin from the garden of God. ~ Victor Hugo,
774:crisis. Attempts were made to organize a captive breeding population, but the natural objections of the population in question to being so manipulated—combined with our own innate reflexive obedience— foiled all such programs. We are conditioned to adore and obey our Creators on a personal basis, and while it is easy enough to understand the abstract need to preserve their kind as a whole, the conflict between their specific desires and the needs of the species imposed an impossible burden upon their would-be conservators. We ~ Charles Stross,
775:Diego Rodriguez (who also teaches at Stanford and writes the blog Metacool) asks bosses who want more creativity: ‘Where is your place for failing?’ I adore this question because creativity requires generating many ideas – most of which are bad. It requires judging ideas honestly and openly and then discarding most. In the hands of a bad boss, this process embarrasses and stifles people who develop ideas that don’t make the cut – and degrades the quality of those that are selected, developed, and thrown into the marketplace. ~ Robert I Sutton,
776:The End
ADIEU, Madame! The moon of May
Wanes now above the orchard grey;
The white May-blossoms fall like snow,
As Love foretold a month ago-Or was it only yesterday?
All pleasant things must pass away;
You would not, surely, have me stay?
I own I shun the inference! No!
Adieu, Madame!
Come, dry your eyes, for not this way
Should end your pretty pastoral play.
You have no heart--you told me so-And I adore you, as you know;
Smile, while I break my heart and say
Adieu, Madame!
~ Edith Nesbit,
777:You know what’s really strange to think about?” Kai said, as much to himself as to Thorne. “If Levana hadn’t tried to kill Cinder when she was a kid, I might be engaged to her right now. She would already be queen. We could be plotting an alliance together.” “Yeah, but she would have been raised on Luna. And from what I can tell, being raised on Luna really messes people up. She wouldn’t be the cuddly cyborg we’ve all come to adore.” “I know. I could have despised her as much as I despise Levana, though it’s difficult to imagine. ~ Marissa Meyer,
778:COME swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.

Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.

~ William Butler Yeats, A Drunken Mans Praise Of Sobriety
,
779:it’s not all random, if it really was all random, the universe would abandon us completely. and the universe doesn’t. it takes care of its most fragile creations in ways we can’t see. like with parents who adore you blindly. and a big sister who feels guilty for being human over you. and a little gravelly-voiced kid whose friends have left him over you. and even a pink-haired girl who carries your picture in her wallet. maybe it is a lottery, but the universe makes it all even out in the end. the universe takes care of all its birds. ~ R J Palacio,
780:I want to adore the world, not as one likes a looking-glass, because it is one’s self, but as one loves a woman, because she is entirely different. If souls are separate love is possible. If souls are united love is obviously impossible. A man may be said loosely to love himself, but he can hardly fall in love with himself, or, if he does, it must be a monotonous courtship. If the world is full of real selves, they can be really unselfish selves. But upon Mrs. Besant’s principle the whole cosmos is only one enormously selfish person. ~ G K Chesterton,
781:Today I didn’t actually ski on anything other than the bunny slope, but at least I graduated from ski class.” She jerked her thumb at Leah. “Klutz over here has to take the class again tomorrow.”
Leah wiggled her eyebrows, not at all offended. “You bet. Ian is such a hottie. He’s Australian and has the most delicious accent. I adore it. He promised to give me private lessons tomorrow if I don’t do any better.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I won’t do any better tomorrow.”
“He’s that hot, huh?”
“His presence melts snow. ~ Rachel Hawthorne,
782:You are me, and I am You -- what is the difference between us? We are like gold and the bracelet, or water and the waves. If I did not commit any sins, O Infinite Lord, how would You have acquired the name, 'Redeemer of sinners'? You are my Master, the Inner-knower, Searcher of hearts. The servant is known by his God, and the Lord and Master is known by His servant. Grant me the wisdom to worship and adore You with my body. O Ravi Daas, one who understands that the Lord is equally in all, is very rare.

~ Ravidas, You are me, and I am You
,
783:Growth
I watched the glory of her childhood change,
Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew,
(Loved long ago in lily-time),
Become a maid, mysterious and strange,
With fair, pure eyes - dear eyes, but not the eyes I knew
Of old, in the olden time!
Till on my doubting soul the ancient good
Of her dear childhood in the new disguise
Dawned, and I hastened to adore
The glory of her waking maidenhead,
And found the old tenderness within her deepening eyes,
But kinder than before.
~ Ernest Christopher Dowson,
784:And of the sixth day yet remained
There wanted yet the master work, the end
Of all yet done: a creature who not prone
And brute as other creatures but endued
With sanctity of reason might erect
His stature and, upright with front serene,
Govern the rest, self-knowing, and from thence
Magnanimous to correspond with Heaven,
But grateful to acknowledge whence his good
Descends, thither with heart and voice and eyes
Directed in devotion to adore
And worship God supreme who made him chief
Of all His works. ~ John Milton,
785:No, no, it's not all random, if it really was all random, the universe would abandon us completely. and the universe doesn't. it takes care of its most fragile creations in ways we can't see. like with parents who adore you blindly. and a big sister who feels guilty for being human over you. and a little gravelly-voiced kid whose friends have left him over you. and even a pink-haired girl who carries your picture in her wallet. maybe it is a lottery, but the universe makes it all even out in the end. the universe takes care of all its birds. ~ R J Palacio,
786:no, no, it's not all random, if it really was all random, the universe would abandon us completely. and the universe doesn't. it takes care of its most fragile creations in ways we can't see. like with parents who adore you blindly. and a big sister who feels guilty for being human over you. and a little gravelly-voiced kid whose friends have left him over you. and even a pink-haired girl who carries your picture in her wallet. maybe it is a lottery, but the universe makes it all even out in the end. the universe takes care of all its birds. ~ R J Palacio,
787:Everyone in the club is thirteen and in the eighth grade, except for our junior officers, Mallory Pike and Jessica Ramsey. Mal and Jessi are best friends. They are eleven years old and in the sixth grade. Both have pierced ears, and both adore horses — and any movie, book, or video game that has a horse in it. I don’t know how many times they’ve read Marguerite Henry’s Misty of Chincoteague, but I do know they’ve seen The Black Stallion at least twenty times. They recite the lines along with the actors. (I don’t recommend watching it with them.) ~ Ann M Martin,
788:Tom Dancer’s gift of a whitebark pine cone You never know What opportunity Is going to travel to you, Or through you. Once a friend gave me A small pine cone- One of a few He found in the scat Of a grizzly In Utah maybe, Or Wyoming. I took it home And did what I supposed He was sure I would do- I ate it, Thinking How it had traveled Through that rough And holy body. It was crisp and sweet. It was almost a prayer Without words. My gratitude, Tom Dancer, For this gift of the world I adore so much And want to belong to. And thank you too, great bear ~ Mary Oliver,
789:You can be whoever you want to be. But you will pay a price. Your parents and everyone else will punish you if you choose to be you and not them. That’s the price of your freedom. The cage is unlocked, but everyone is too scared to walk out because they whack you when you try, and they whack you hard. They want you to be scared, too. They want you to stay in the cage. But once you are a few steps beyond the trapdoor, they can’t reach you anymore, so the whacking stops. That’s another secret: They’re too afraid to follow. They adore their own cages. ~ Matthew Quick,
790:As it happens, there are many reasons why I don’t have children: I am very good at birth control; though I love children and adore aunthood, I also love solitude; I was raised by unhappy, unkind people, and I wanted neither to replicate their form of parenting nor to create human beings who might feel about me the way that I felt about my begetters; I really wanted to write books, which as I’ve done it is a fairly consuming vocation. I’m not dogmatic about not having kids. I might have had them under other circumstances and been fine — as I am now. ~ Rebecca Solnit,
791:I have every iPod that's been made ˘ that's how sick I am. I carry anything and everything I possibly would want to listen to. I have a lot of jazz. I adore Ralph Towner, Leo Kottke. I've always been a big Oscar Peterson fan. I've branched out a little bit more in rock-and-roll, but that's maybe because I'm 50 years old and I can now listen to Steely Dan again without shame. I adore the Grateful Dead. Creedence Clearwater Revival. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. All that's been fun to get back into. But I'm no longer interested in the Doobie Brothers. ~ Thomas Hampson,
792:The ways in which management can express appreciation for an employee's contribution are without end; the key is to act in ways that communicate Thanks! That was a great job! We can really count on you! It's great having you here! While some people love having plaques to hang on their personal Wall of Fame and they adore being acknowledged at a formal Recognition Banquet and some people are only interested in money, I find the most effective forms of recognition are personal and either spontaneous or very close in time to a significant accomplishment. ~ Judith M Bardwick,
793:Freaks was a thing I photographed a lot. It was one of the first things I photographed and it had a terrific kind of excitement for me. I just used to adore them. I still do adore some of them. I don't quite mean they're my best friends but they made me feel a mixture of shame and awe. There's a quality of legend about freaks. Like a person in a fairy tale who stops you and demands that you riddle. Most people go through life dreading they'll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They've already passed their test in life. They're aristocrats. ~ Diane Arbus,
794:The Heaven Vests For Each
694
The Heaven vests for Each
In that small Deity
It craved the grace to worship
Some bashful Summer's Day—
Half shrinking from the Glory
It importuned to see
Till these faint Tabernacles drop
In full Eternity—
How imminent the Venture—
As one should sue a Star—
For His mean sake to leave the Row
And entertain Despair—
A Clemency so common—
We almost cease to fear—
Enabling the minutest—
And furthest—to adore
~ Emily Dickinson,
795:Whether Or Not You Know This
Whether or not you know this,
Enter my courtyard.
I adore you (I would sacrifice my life for you),
Enter my courtyard.
For me, there is nobody else but you.
Though I search every forest, plain and desert.
Though I search the entire world.
Enter my courtyard.
People believe you are a lowly cowherd,
Named Raanjha.
But you are my faith, my religion.
Enter my courtyard.
I left my parents for love of you,
My Lord, Shah Inaayat.
Honor this love I bear for you.
Enter my courtyard.
~ Bulleh Shah,
796:Oh," the girl said, shaking her head. "Don't be so simple. People adore monsters. They fill their songs and stories with them. They define themselves in relation to them. You know what a monster is, young shade? Power. Power and choice. Monsters make choices. Monsters shape the world. Monsters force us to become stronger, smarter, better. They sift the weak from the strong and provide a forge for the steeling of souls. Even as we curse monsters, we admire them. Seek to become them, in some ways." Her eyes became distant. "There are far, far worse things to be than a monster. ~ Jim Butcher,
797:Coldplay songs deliver an amorphous, irrefutable interpretation of how being in love is supposed to feel, and people find themselves wanting that feeling for real. They want men to adore them like Lloyd Dobler would, and they want women to think like Aimee Mann, and they expect all their arguments to sound like Sam Malone and Diane Chambers. They think everything will work out perfectly in the end (just like it did for Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones and Nick Hornby's Rob Fleming), and they don't stop believing because Journey's Steve Perry insists we should never do that. ~ Chuck Klosterman,
798:Heald did not understand cats. All his life he had been a dog person, naturally averse to cats due to his allergies. Many of the women that he knew in the city had cats. It couldn’t be as simple as men being “dog people” and women being “cat people”; he knew that was too one- dimensional. Maybe something about cats’ apprehensive and complicated nature drew women to adore them, sensing a mirrored personality that had to be appreciated, or at the very least, respected. Dogs, with their fanatical, uncomplicated, and singular devotion, were everything a man could ever ask for. ~ Michael A Ferro,
799:Messner sighed and handed him the phone. “One minute.” “I swear it,” Simon said. He was already dialing the number. The phone rang five times and then the answering machine picked up the line. It was his own voice, saying first in Spanish and then again in French that they were out, saying they would return the call. Why hadn’t Edith recorded the message? What had he been thinking of? He put his hand over his eyes and began to cry. The sound of his own voice was almost unbearable to him. When it stopped there was a long, dull tone. “Je t’adore,” he said. “Je t’aime, Je t’adore. ~ Ann Patchett,
800:…"Oh," the girl said, shaking her head. "Don't be so simple. People adore monsters. They fill their songs and stories with them. They define themselves in relation to them. You know what a monster is, young shade? Power. Power and choice. Monsters make choices. Monsters shape the world. Monsters force us to become stronger, smarter, better. They sift the weak from the strong and provide a forge for the steeling of souls. Even as we curse monsters, we admire them. Seek to become them, in some ways." Her eyes became distant. "There are far, far worse things to be, than a monster."… ~ Jim Butcher,
801:The cult of the omnipotent state has millions of followers in the united States. Americans of today view their government in the same way as Christians view their God; they worship and adore the state and they render their lives and fortunes to it. Statists believe that their lives - their very being - are a privilege that the state has given to them. They believe that everything they do is - and should be - dependent on the consent of the government. Thus, statists support such devices as income taxation, licensing laws, regulations, passports, trade restrictions, and the like. ~ Jacob G Hornberger,
802:Je crois beaucoup à l’équilibre. Il y a des périodes où le design doit prendre le dessus, et le business doit lui laisser la place. À d’autres moments, ce doit être le contraire. Comme sur une table de mixage il faut toujours chercher le juste équilibre entre le son et la balance. C’est sans fin. Tout au long d’une chanson, ça va évoluer de nombreuses fois, et c’est ce que je ressens dans les différents rôles que j’assume. Je suis un chorégraphe qui essaie d’atteindre ce mélange parfait. J’adore ça. J’aime pousser sur ce bouton, éteindre provisoirement celui-là. Pour nous, c’est très naturel. ~ Anonymous,
803:The One whom we adore as the Mother is the divine Conscious Force that dominates all existence, one and yet so many-sided that to follow her movement is impossible even for the quickest mind and for the freest and most vast intelligence. The Mother is the consciousness and force of the Supreme and far above all she creates. But something of her ways can be seen and felt through her embodiments and the more seizable because more defined and limited temperament and action of the goddess forms in whom she consents to be manifest to her creatures. ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Mother With Letters On The Mother, [T4],
804:This practice of adoration is based on strong and solid reasons. For the Eucharist is at once a sacrifice and a sacrament; but it differs from the other sacraments in that it not only produces grace, but contains in a permanent manner the Author of Grace Himself. When, therefore, the Church bids us to adore Christ hidden behind the Eucharistic veils and to pray to Him for spiritual and temporal favors, of which we ever stand in need, she manifests faith in her divine Spouse who is present beneath these veils, she professes her gratitude to Him, and she enjoys the intimacy of His friendship ~ Pope Pius XII,
805:What was more needed by this old man who divided the leisure hours of his life, where he had so little leisure, between gardening in the daytime, and contemplation at night? Was not this narrow enclosure, with the sky for a background, enough to enable him to adore God in his most beautiful as well as in his most sublime works? Indeed, is not that all, and what more can be desired? A little garden to walk, and immensity to reflect upon. At his feet something to cultivate and gather; above his head something to study and meditate upon: a few flowers on the earth, and all the stars in the sky. ~ Victor Hugo,
806:Gratitude exclaims . . . ‘How good of God to give me this.’ Adoration says, ‘What must be the quality of that Being whose far-off and momentary coruscations are like this!’ One’s mind runs back up the sunbeam to the sun.”312 He learns to instinctively think “What kind of God would create this, give me this?” He concludes that while he doesn’t succeed in always keeping this discipline, it has enriched both his joy in everyday life and his concentrated times of prayer. He says we “shall not be able to adore God on the highest occasions if we have learned no habit of doing so on the lowest.”313 ~ Timothy J Keller,
807:traveling is the great true love of my life. I have always felt, ever since I was sixteen years old and first went to Russia with my saved-up babysitting money, that to travel is worth any cost or sacrifice. I am loyal and constant in my love for travel, as I have not always been loyal and constant in my other loves. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn baby—I just don’t care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it’s mine. Because it looks exactly like me. It can barf all over me if it wants to—I just don’t care. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
808:I have known many true connoisseurs, with excellent tastes that range across the humanities and the culinary arts--and they never fail to have a fatal effect on my self-esteem. When I find myself sitting at dinner next to someone who knows just as much about novels as I do but has somehow also found the mental space to adore and be knowledgeable about the opera, have strong opinions about the relative rankings of Renaissance painters, an encyclopedic knowledge of the English civil war, of French wines--I feel an anxiety that nudges beyond the envious into the existential. How did she find the time? ~ Zadie Smith,
809:1. Live now. Be concerned with the present rather than with past or future.
2. Live here. Deal with what is present rather than with what is absent.
3. Stop imagining. Experience the real.
4. Stop unnecessary thinking. Rather, taste and see.
5. Express rather than manipulate, explain, justify, or judge.
6. Give in to unpleasantness and pain just as to pleasure. Do not restrict your awareness.
7. Accept no should or ought other than your own. Adore no graven image.
8. Take full responsibility for your actions, feelings, and thoughts.
9. Surrender to being as you are. ~ Claudio Naranjo,
810:This one truth, that the few people you adore will die, is plenty difficult to absorb. But on top of it, someone’s brakes fail, or someone pulls the trigger or snatches the kid, or someone deeply trusted succumbs to temptation, and everything falls apart. We are hurt beyond any reasonable chance of healing. We are haunted by our failures and mortality. And yet the world keeps on spinning, and in our grief, rage, and fear a few people keep on loving us and showing up. It’s all motion and stasis, change and stagnation. Awful stuff happens and beautiful stuff happens, and it’s all part of the big picture. ~ Anne Lamott,
811:You truly contain within your gentleness, within your humanity, all the unyielding immensity and grandeur of the world. And it is because of this, it is because there exists in you this ineffable synthesis of what our human thought and experience would never have dared join together in order to adore them—element and totality, the one and the many, mind and matter, the infinite and the personal; it is because of the indefinable contours which this complexity gives to your appearance and to your activity, that my heart, enamoured of cosmic reality, gives itself passionately to you. ~ Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Cosmic Life,
812:Idealism
I know the woman has no soul, I know
The woman has no possibilities
Of soul or mind or heart, but merely is
The masterpiece of flesh: well, be it so.
It is her flesh that I adore; I go
Thirsting afresh to drain her empty kiss.
I know she cannot love: it is not this
My vanquished heart implores in overthrow.
Tyrannously I crave, I crave alone,
Her splendid body, Earth's most eloquent
Music, divinest human harmony;
Her body now a silent instrument,
That 'neath my touch shall wake and make for me
The strains I have but dreamed of, never known.
~ Arthur Symons,
813:What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure of his life, where there was so little leisure, between gardening in the daytime and contemplation at night? Was not this narrow enclosure, with the heavens for a ceiling, sufficient to enable him to adore God in his most divine works, in turn? Does not this comprehend all, in fact? and what is there left to desire beyond it? A little garden in which to walk, and immensity in which to dream. At one's feet that which can be cultivated and plucked; over head that which one can study and meditate upon: some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky. ~ Victor Hugo,
814:Paul saith, 'Not of works, lest any man should boast.' Now, faith excludes all boasting. The hand which receives charity does not say, 'I am to be thanked for accepting the gift'; that would be absurd. When the hand conveys bread to the mouth it does not say to the body, 'Thank me; for I feed you.' It is a very simple thing that the hand does though a very necessary thing; and it never arrogates glory to itself for what it does. So God has selected faith to receive the unspeakable gift of His grace, because it cannot take to itself any credit, but must adore the gracious God who is the giver of all good. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
815:I love you, Bastian.”
“I’ll never tire of hearing that.” He nuzzled her ear and rasped against it, “Maybe one day you’ll come to love me as much as I do you.”
She frowned and pushed up on his shoulders so they were facing each other. “I happen to adore you, vampire.” Her hands laced around his neck, and she twined her fingers in his hair. “No, I’m absolutely certain I love you more.
He grinned down at her, that half-grin that made her heart twist, then slowly rocked forward to fill her. “Tell yourself that, Valkyrie.” He leaned down to catch her gasp with his lips. “As much as you like. ~ Kresley Cole,
816:Maybe there’s a universe out there — happening now — where we end up together.
Maybe there’s a universe where I’m the right person for you. Where I adore every nice thing you did for me without starting to resent you. A universe where you actually end up with someone who appreciates you. Where no one becomes a doormat. Where both of us can shed our baggage and curiosity and issues.

If you think of it all this way, then it’s like neither of us did anything wrong.

You just found me in the wrong universe. That’s all.

Because you could have loved me forever. And maybe in another universe, I let you. ~ Gaby Dunn,
817:People hate themselves, people condemn themselves—they go on condemning; they go on thinking that they are rotten. How can the other love you, such a rotten person. No, nobody can love you really—the other must be befooling, cheating; there must be some other reason. She must be after something else; he must be after something else. You know your rottenness, worthlessness—love seems to be out of the question. And when some woman comes and says she adores you, you cannot trust. When you go to a woman and you say you adore her, and she hates herself, how can she believe you? It is self-hatred that is creating the anxiety. There ~ Osho,
818:To live in the way of the Gestalt:
1. Live now. Concern yourself with the present before the past or the future.
2. Live here. Deal with what is present rather than with what is absent.
3. Stop imagining. Experience the real.
4. Stop unnecessary thinking. Rather, taste and see.
5. Express rather than manipulate, explain, justify, or judge.
6. Give in to unpleasantness and pain just as to pleasure. Do not restrict your awareness.
7. Accept no "should" or "must" other than your own. Adore no idol.
8. Take full responsibility for your actions, feelings, and thoughts.
9. Accept being as you are. ~ Claudio Naranjo,
819:But if a man be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds, will separate between him and vulgar things. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
820:Still, despite all this, traveling is the great true love of my life. I have always felt, ever since I was sixteen years old and first went to Russia with my saved-up babysitting money, that to travel is worth any cost or sacrifice. I am loyal and constant in my love for travel, as I have not always been loyal and constant in my other loves. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless, newborn baby--I just don't care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it's mine. Because it looks exactly like me. It can barf all over me if it wants to--I just don't care. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
821:Their characteristics are well-known. They're beautiful -- when they're not astoundingly ugly. They're both goddesses for men to worship, and demons for them to flee. They adore children, sometimes to the point of unhealthy obsession. They have a strong association with nature, from which they're often assumed to draw magical power. Their anger is a terrible thing to behold, and all the more fearsome because anything can spark it; the rules by which these creatures operate are not those of rational men. They are creatures of fanciful whim, and they never, ever, can be understood.

I'm talking, of course, about women. ~ Marie Brennan,
822:But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds, will separate between him and what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
823:I'm the idiot box. I'm the TV. I'm the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I'm the boob tube. I'm the little shrine the family gathers to adore.'

'You're the television? Or someone in the television?'

'The TV's the altar. I'm what people are sacrificing to.'

'What do they sacrifice?' asked Shadow.

'Their time, mostly,' said Lucy. 'Sometimes each other.' She raised two fingers, blew imaginary gunsmoke from the tips. Then she winked, a big old I Love Lucy wink.

'You're a God?' said Shadow.

Lucy smirked, and took a ladylike puff of her cigarette. 'You could say that,' she said. ~ Neil Gaiman,
824:I don’t remember asking for promises.” “I might let you down.” “Probably.” “Or hurt you.” “Possibly.” “And you could end up hating me,” he said, leaning into her touch as he closed his eyes. She inhaled deeply, and when he opened his eyes, she was staring up at him, her eyes worried. “Is that what you want?” “No!” he cried. “God, no!” The elevator dinged to signal their arrival, and she dropped her hand. “Then make a choice to keep me safe and make me proud and make me adore you.” “It can’t be that easy,” he said, wincing as his mother’s shattered face flitted through his mind and vowing never to be the cause of that pain for Libitz. ~ Katy Regnery,
825:my head swirls on this, but then softer thoughts soothe, like a flatted third on a major chord. no, no, it’s not all random, if it really was all random, the universe would abandon us completely. and the universe doesn’t. it takes care of its most fragile creations in ways we can’t see. like with parents who adore you blindly. and a big sister who feels guilty for being human over you. and a little gravelly-voiced kid whose friends have left him over you. and even a pink-haired girl who carries your picture in her wallet. maybe it is a lottery, but the universe makes it all even out in the end. the universe takes care of all its birds. ~ R J Palacio,
826:What is God’s glory? It is his infinite weight, his supreme importance. To glorify God is to obey him unconditionally. To ever say, “I’ll obey if . . .” is to give something else more importance or glory than God. But while glorifying God is never less than obedience, it is more. God’s glory also means his inexpressible beauty and perfection. It does not glorify him, then, if we only ever obey God simply out of duty. We must give him not only our will but also our heart, as we adore and enjoy him, as we find him infinitely attractive. And there is no greater beauty than to see the Son of God laying aside his glory and dying for us ~ Timothy J Keller,
827:We went there to grope for our happiness, which all the world was threatening with the utmost ferocity. We were ashamed of wanting what we wanted, but something had to be done about it all the same. Love is harder to give up than life. In this world we spend our time killing or adoring, or both together. "I hate you! I adore you!" We keep going, we fuel and refuel, we pass on our life to a biped of the next century, with frenzy, at any cost, as if it were the greatest of pleasures to perpetuate ourselves, as if, when all's said and done, it would make us immortal. One way or another, kissing is as indispensable as scratching. ~ Louis Ferdinand C line,
828:I heard a tale once,' said Isi, 'of the gifts of language. Do you know it? How in faraway places, there are people who can speak with birds or horses or rain, and some when they speak to other people have the unnatural power to persuade, their every word a kind of magic? Once in Ingridan I heard Sileph speak and wondered if he had not just walked out of that old tale.' Enna's skin tingled with an icy chill. Isi was trying to tell her something - Sileph had the gift of people-speaking. A dangerous gift, Isi had said once. When one with this gift speaks, it's not easy to resist the power of their persuasion. It's difficult not to adore them. ~ Shannon Hale,
829:The problem is that you often do not know your friends as well as you imagine. Friends often agree on things in order to avoid an argument. They cover up their unpleasant qualities so as to not offend each other. They laugh extra hard at each other’s jokes. Since honesty rarely strengthens friendship, you may never know how a friend truly feels. Friends will say that they love your poetry, adore your music, envy your taste in clothes—maybe they mean it, often they do not. When you decide to hire a friend, you gradually discover the qualities he or she has kept hidden. Strangely enough, it is your act of kindness that unbalances everything. ~ Robert Greene,
830:I saw you waving that hacksaw at the Dark Sisters,” Will pointed out. “And if I recall correctly, Lady Audley’s secret was, in fact, that she was a murderer.”

“So you’ve read it!” Tessa couldn’t hide her delight.

He looked amused. “I prefer The Trail of the Serpent. More adventure, less domestic drama. Neither is as good as The Moonstone, though. Have you read Collins?”

“I adore Wilkie Collins,” Tessa cried. “Oh—Armadale! And The Woman in White … Are you laughing at me?”

“Not at you,” said Will, grinning, “more because of you. I’ve never seen anyone get so excited over books before. You’d think they were diamonds. ~ Cassandra Clare,
831:Actually, I believe there are only two kinds of women in this world: Martha people and Oprah people. That doesn’t mean one can’t have an affinity for both of them, but my theory is that every chick is more firmly in one camp than the other. The typical Oprah woman is all self-actualized and best-life-y and Eat, Pray, Love. The Big O seems like the kind of gal who’d insist we all spend the afternoon wearing jammy pants. And how fun would that be?!

But Martha?

She’s not putting up with that nonsense, and that makes me adore her all the more. She’ll tell you what to eat, where to pray, and who to love, and I appreciate the guidance. ~ Jen Lancaster,
832:There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you; anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do. ~ William Goldman,
833:Sonnet Ix
Amid the florid multitude her face
Was like the full moon seen behind the lace
Of orchard boughs where clouded blossoms part
When Spring shines in the world and in the heart.
As the full-moon-beams to the ferny floor
Of summer woods through flower and foliage pour,
So to my being's innermost recess
Flooded the light of so much loveliness;
She held as in a vase of priceless ware
The wine that over arid ways and bare
My youth was the pathetic thirsting for,
And where she moved the veil of Nature grew
Diaphanous and that radiance mantled through
Which, when I see, I tremble and adore.
~ Alan Seeger,
834:Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
  Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
  Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
  Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
  And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
  Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
  Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
  Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
  But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
  Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
  The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
  From his low tract, and look another way:
    So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
    Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son. ~ William Shakespeare,
835:Fiona, my love, as much as I adore you, I cannot stand your brothers. Any of them."
"Gregor is much nicer now that he's married. Even you must admit that."
"Only when Venetia is with him. When she's not, he's as annoying as ever."
Fiona's lips quirked into a smile, her green eyes gleaming. "Rather like you, I hear."
"Who has been carrying tales?"
"Everyone." She placed her hand on her husband's cheek and smiled up into his blue eyes. With his dark auburn hair and devastating good looks, "Black Jack" Kincaid had once been the scourge of London's polite society. Now he was her own personal scourge, one she couldn't imagine living without. ~ Karen Hawkins,
836:Two chubby, expressionless boys stand to my right. They were once cute children, but now I imagine that they spend hours in dark rooms looking at violent porn. Or perhaps they have tender reveries about being sweet to the girls that they adore from a distance. I'd like to think about them in a generous light -- that they are actually gentle young men -- but it's hard not to stereotype them as potential serial killers. It's their eerie, still blankness that makes me think they're capable of murder -- and the fact that I'm in the Midwest. The Midwest seems to cultivate serial killing. Must be the boxed in geography. (Jonathan Ames, Middle-American Gothic) ~ Dave Eggers,
837:Devotion, Captain Tobias Hume's The First Part Of
Airs, &C.
FAIN would I change that note
To which fond Love hath charm'd me
Long, long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harm'd me:
Yet when this thought doth come,
'Love is the perfect sum
Of all delight,'
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice
To sing or write.
O Love! they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleasure is,
I do adore thee:
I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.
~ Anonymous,
838:[From our side] our relation to God is unrighteous. Secretly we are ourselves the masters in this relationship. We are not concerned with God, but with our own requirements, to which God must adjust Himself. Our arrogance demands that, in addition to everything else, some super-world should also be known and accessible to us. Our conduct calls for some deeper sanction, some approbation and remuneration from another world. Our well-regulated, pleasurable life longs for some hours of devotion, some prolongation into infinity. And so, when we set God upon the throne of the world, we mean by God ourselves. In “believing” on Him, we justify, enjoy, and adore ourselves. ~ Karl Barth,
839:Adam, we hear, walked in easy fellowship with God in the cool of the evening and spoke to him as to a friend. This ordering of Adam to God meant that our first parent was effortlessly caught up in adoration. The term "adoration" comes from the Latin ado ratio, which in turn is derived from "ad ora" (to the mouth). To adore, therefore, is to be mouth to mouth with God, properly aligned to the divine source, breathing in God's life. When one is in the stance of adoration, the whole of one's life - mind, will, emotions, imagination, sexuality - becomes ordered and harmonized, much as the elements of a rose window arrange themselves musically around a central point. ~ Robert E Barron,
840:My Picture Left In Scotland
I now think love is rather deaf, than blind,
For else it could not be,
That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
And cast my love behind:
I'm sure my language was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence of as subtle feet
As hath the youngest he,
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
Oh, but my conscious fears,
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundreds of gray hairs,
Told seven and forty years,
Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace
My mountain belly and my rock face,
As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.
~ Ben Jonson,
841:De Profundis Clamavi
Have pity, You alone whom I adore
From down this black pit where my heart is sped,
A sombre universe ringed round with lead
Where fear and curses the long night explore.
Six months a cold sun hovers overhead;
The other six is night upon this land.
No beast; no stream; no wood; no leaves expand.
The desert Pole is not a waste so dead.
Now in the whole world there's no horror quite
so cold and cruel as this glacial sun,
So like old Chaos as this boundless night;
I envy the least animals that run,
Which can find respite in brute slumber drowned,
So slowly is the skein of time unwound.
~ Charles Baudelaire,
842:Love transcends time, space, distance, universes.
“Love can’t be confined to pages or photos or memories—it’s forever alive and wild and free. Romance comes and goes, lust flickers and smoulders, trials appear and test, life gets in the way and educates, pain can derail happiness, joy can delete sadness, togetherness is more than just a fairy-tale...it’s a choice.
“A choice to love and cherish and honour and trust and adore.
“A choice to choose love, all the while knowing it has the power to break you.
“A choice, dear friends, to give someone your entire heart.
“But in the end, love is what life is about.
“And love is the purpose of everything. ~ Pepper Winters,
843:To be honest, it was pretty hard to leave. I desperately wanted to turn around, and tell him everything would be okay. That I adore him and I trust him and that I'll stand by him while he goes through this tough time. But I'm just too tired. I'm thirty years old. I'm tired of relationships that are always painful. I'm tired of hurting. I'm tired of waiting by the phone, and second-guessing what a guy says and trusting someone not to hurt me. Again. I've been storming the relationship castle for fifteen years, and I still don't have my prince. I've got a bunch of battle scars from the field and I want to go home and nurse my wounds. I don't want to fight anymore. ~ Kim Gruenenfelder,
844:I have been a little embarrassed always. But less so the last time. It will all disappear. You have such a delicious sense of humor--I adore that in you. I want always to see you laughing. It belongs to you. I have been thinking of places we ought to go together--little obscure places, here and there, in Paris. Just to say--here I went with Anais--here we ate or danced or got drunk together. Ah, to see you really drunk sometime, that would be a treat! I am almost afraid to suggest it--but Anais, when I think of how you press against me, how eagerly you open your legs and how wet you are, God, it drives me mad to think what you would be like when everything falls away. ~ Henry Miller,
845:TRUE GLORY. What is God’s glory? It is his infinite weight, his supreme importance. To glorify God is to obey him unconditionally. To ever say, “I’ll obey if . . .” is to give something else more importance or glory than God. But while glorifying God is never less than obedience, it is more. God’s glory also means his inexpressible beauty and perfection. It does not glorify him, then, if we only ever obey God simply out of duty. We must give him not only our will but also our heart, as we adore and enjoy him, as we find him infinitely attractive. And there is no greater beauty than to see the Son of God laying aside his glory and dying for us (Philippians 2:5–11). ~ Timothy J Keller,
846:When you wake raise your soul to God, realising His divine presence; adore the Blessed Trinity, imitating the great St. Francis Xavier, "I adore You, God the Father, who created me, I adore You, God the Son, who redeemed me, I adore You, God the Holy Ghost who have sanctified me, and continue to carry on the work of my sanctification. I consecrate this day entirely to Your love and to Your greater glory. I know not what this day will bring me either pleasant or troublesome, whether I shall be happy or sorrowful, shall enjoy consolation or undergo pain and grief, it shall be as You please; I give myself into Your hands and submit myself to whatever You will. ~ Jean Pierre de Caussade,
847:Tom Dancer’s gift of a whitebark pine cone

You never know
What opportunity
Is going to travel to you,
Or through you.

Once a friend gave me
A small pine cone-
One of a few
He found in the scat

Of a grizzly
In Utah maybe,
Or Wyoming.
I took it home

And did what I supposed
He was sure I would do-
I ate it,
Thinking

How it had traveled
Through that rough
And holy body.
It was crisp and sweet.

It was almost a prayer
Without words.
My gratitude, Tom Dancer,
For this gift of the world
I adore so much
And want to belong to.
And thank you too, great bear ~ Mary Oliver,
848:Est-ce que j'ai seulement envie de quelque chose? J'ai tout. Chaque matin j'ouvre les yeux et je me découvre milliardaire: la vie est là, discrète, bruyante, colorée, petite, immense.
[...]
Vraiment, j'ai tout. Pourquoi aurais-je envie de quelques chose de plus? Y a-t-il quelque chose de plus que tout?
[...]
Je ne comprends rien à ce monde. J'adore regarder ce monde auquel je ne comprends rien. Le regarder et l'écouter.
[...]
Voir, entendre, aimer. La vie est un cadeau dont je défais les ficelles chaque matin, au réveil. La vie est un trésor dont je découvre le plus beau chaque soir, avant de fermer les paupières: Geai assise au pied du lit, souriante. ~ Christian Bobin,
849:wash your dress in running water. dry it on the southern side of a rock. let them have four guesses and make them all wrong. take a fistful of snow in the summer heat. cook haluski in hot sweet butter. drink cold milk to clean your insides. be careful when you wake: breathing lets them know how asleep you are. don't hang your coat from a hook in the door. ignore curfew. remember weather by the voice of the wheel. do not become the fool they need you to become. change your name. lose your shoes. practice doubt. dress in oiled cloth around sickness. adore darkness. turn sideways in the wind. the changing of stories is a cheerful affair. give the impression of not having known. ~ Colum McCann,
850:It was not simply that I frenziedly desired what I could not have. That was but a blunt and unrefined kind of suffering. I was condemned to be with her even in her very rejection of me. And how long and how slow and how long-drawn-out that rejection would be. Still temptation would follow where she was. Endlessly she would give herself to others taking me with her. Like an obscene puny familiar I would sit in the corners of bedrooms where she kissed and loved. She would make consort with my foes, she would adore those that mocked me, she would drink contempt for me from alien lips. And all the time my very soul would travel with her, invisible and crying soundlessly with pain. ~ Iris Murdoch,
851:I asked participants who claimed to be "strong followers of Jesus" whether Jesus spent time with the poor. Nearly 80 percent said yes. Later in the survey, I sneaked in another question, I asked this same group of strong followers whether they spent time wit the poor, and less than 2 percent said they did. I learned a powerful lesson: We can admire and worship Jesus without doing what he did. We can applaud what he preached and stood for without caring about the same things. We can adore his cross without taking up ours. I had come to see that the great tragedy of the church is not that rich Christians do not care about the poor but that rich Christians do not know the poor. ~ Shane Claiborne,
852:there has to be somebody whom you adore who adores you. Someone whom you cannot but praise who praises and loves you—that is the foundation of identity. The praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards.3 However, if we put this power in the hands of a fallible, changeable person, it can be devastating. And if this person’s regard is based on your fallible and changeable life efforts, your self-regard will be just as fleeting and fragile. Nor can this person be someone you can lose, because then you will have lost your very self. Obviously, no human love can meet these standards. Only love of the immutable can bring tranquillity. Only the unconditional love of God will do. ~ Timothy J Keller,
853:Sonnet Xiiii
REtourne agayne my forces late dismayd,
Vnto the siege by you abandon'd quite,
great shame it is to leaue like one afrayd,
so fayre a peece for one repulse so light.
Gaynst such strong castles needeth greater might,
then those small forts which ye were wont belay,
such haughty mynds enur'd to hardy fight,
disdayne to yield vnto the first assay.
Bring therefore all the forces that ye may,
and lay incessant battery to her heart,
playnts, prayers, vowes, ruth, sorrow, and dismay,
those engins can the proudest loue conuert.
And if those fayle fall downe and dy before her,
so dying liue, and liuing do adore her.
~ Edmund Spenser,
854:The Possessed
The sun in crepe has muffled up his fire.
Moon of my life! Half shade yourself like him.
Slumber or smoke. Be silent and be dim,
And in the gulf of ennui plunge entire;
I love you thus! However, if you like,
Like some bright star from its eclipse emerging,
To flaunt with Folly where the crowds are surging -Flash, lovely dagger, from your sheath and strike!
Light up your eyes from chandeliers of glass!
Light up the lustful looks of louts that pass!
Morbid or petulant, I thrill before you.
Be what you will, black night or crimson dawn;
No fibre of my body tautly drawn,
But cries: "Beloved demon, I adore you!"
~ Charles Baudelaire,
855:Gamache loved to see inside the homes of people involved in a case. To look at the choices they made for their most intimate space. The colors, the decorations. The aromas. Were there books? What sort?

How did it feel?

He'd been in shacks in the middle of nowhere, carpets worn, upholstery torn, wallpaper peeling off. But stepping in he'd also noticed the smell of fresh coffee and bread. Walls were taken up with immense smiling graduation photos and on rusty pocked TV trays stood modest chipped vases with cheery daffodils or pussy willows or some tiny wild flower picked by worn hands for eyes that would adore it.

And he'd been in mansions that felt like mausoleums. ~ Louise Penny,
856:There were parties, readings and music. At the theatre Hadrian, inevitably, excelled himself. Unlike Nero, Hadrian never appeared as a buffoon on the stage, but day after day he simply played himself, an extraordinary actor-manager of his own life on the stage of the city. The crowds entered theatres to find the seats had been sprayed with a mist of balsam and saffron, a fragrance which rose with the warmth of the audience. If the special effects of the building were breathtaking, the matter presented on stage was maybe less so: Hadrian put on the archaic Greek plays that his circle had learned to adore, but there were also pantomime and war-dances for those of less refined taste. ~ Elizabeth Speller,
857:Even in the best of times, when we’re not stressed or needy, many of us enjoy petting our dogs as much as any other aspect of dog ownership. This is not a trivial need. Quiet stroking can significantly change your body’s physiology, lowering your heart rate and blood pressure. It releases endogenous opiates, or internal chemicals that calm and soothe us and play a significant role in good health. Lucky for us, most of our dogs adore being touched. Most normal, well-socialized dogs cherish getting belly rubs and head massages and butt scratches. Many dogs like grooming so much that they’re willing to work for it, pawing or barking whenever needed to remind their human not to stop. ~ Patricia B McConnell,
858:to change people most profoundly, we must change what we worship. Thinking, arguments, and beliefs are crucial as means of moving the heart, but ultimately we are what we adore. We are what captures our imagination, what leads us to praise and to compel others to praise it. Our inordinate anger, anxiety, and discouragement result from disordered loves. Our relational problems result from disordered loves, and our social and cultural problems as well. What can re-engineer our very inner being, the structure of our personality? What can create healthy human community? Worship and adoration of God. We must love God supremely, and that can be cultivated only through praise and adoration. ~ Timothy J Keller,
859:Turning Lillian to face him, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll procure the necessary items, and work out the proportions,” he said. His expression was sober, but his dark eyes were warm as they gazed into hers. “In the meanwhile, I will leave the situation in your capable hands.”
Tenderly Lillian traced the edge of his shirt collar, letting her fingertip touch the tanned skin of his throat. “You’d better hurry. If St. Vincent wakes to find himself at my mercy, he’ll probably expire on the spot.”
They exchanged a brief grin and Westcliff left the room. “Arrogant, high-handed creature,” Lillian remarked, her smile lingering as she watched the earl’s departure. “God, I adore him. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
860:You're probably wondering what you did in a past life to get stuck with us." Catherine says this as she drowns a fry in ketchup, her many rings glinting as she works her fingers.
"Gee, thanks," Brendan murmurs.
She gives him a look. "Don't be so sensitive. You know I adore you."
I lower my mostly uneaten burger. "Of course not. Just glad for anyone who wants to be my friend."
"Hey, Jacinda!" Nathan calls from his table, half rising. He waves and jerks his head, beckoning me over.
Catherine's smile slips. She reaches for another fry, avoiding my gaze. "You've got plenty of people willing to be your friend. Go on. Sit with Nathan. He's a decent guy-unfortunate pink shirt and all. ~ Sophie Jordan,
861:Why are you so angry at me?” she asked. The question ratcheted him even closer to the boiling point. “Because for some insane reason, I adore you. For three solid years I have thought you were the closest thing to perfection on this earth, and I can’t watch you risk your life crossing that bridge!” Had she understood correctly? After all these years of cold decorum, Zack’s eyes glittered in a face streaked with soot and sweat as he stepped closer, shouting over the roar of wind and fire. “I’ve been insane about you since the moment you waltzed into my office three years ago in that ridiculous suit and your hair as prim as a schoolmarm,” he shouted. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed on me now! ~ Elizabeth Camden,
862:it is natural to want to employ your friends when you find yourself in times of need. The world is a harsh place, and your friends soften the harshness. Besides, you know them. Why depend on a stranger when you have a friend at hand?

The problem is that you often do not know your friends as well as you imagine. Friends often agree on things in order to avoid an argument. They cover up their unpleasant qualities so as not offend each other. They laugh extra hard at each others jokes. Since honesty rarely strengthens friendship, you may never know how a friend truly feels. Friends will say they love your poetry, adore your music, envy your taste in clothes - maybe they mean, often they do not. ~ Robert Greene,
863:So many people had tried for Blake, but so many had failed. All it takes is one to be the glue. It’s going to be me. Livia moved quietly to straddle him. She put her hands on his scruffy cheeks. “I know all that you are. You almost don’t belong here, your soul’s so pure.” Livia put a hand on his chest. “You’re perfect to me. You’re chivalrous to me. I adore your manners. You can’t disappoint me. It’s not possible.” Livia leaned in and kissed him sweetly. See? See how much I can fix?
Blake became absorbed by her hair, grabbing handfuls of it. He pulled her to his chest, combing it out with his fingers as he hummed a soothing song in her ear. The liquid velvet of his voice lifted her into dreams. ~ Debra Anastasia,
864:Luther’s teaching is this: Anything we look to more than we look to Christ for our sense of acceptability, joy, significance, hope, and security is by definition our god — something we adore, serve, and rely on with our whole life and heart. In general, idols can be good things (family, achievement, work and career, romance, talent, etc. — even gospel ministry) that we turn into ultimate things to give us the significance and joy we need. Then they drive us into the ground because we must have them. A sure sign of the presence of idolatry is inordinate anxiety, anger, or discouragement when our idols are thwarted. So if we lose a good thing, it makes us sad, but if we lose an idol, it devastates us. ~ Timothy J Keller,
865:He sleeps in Jesus—peaceful rest —     No mortal strife invades, his breast; No pain, or sin, or woe, or care,     Can reach the silent slumberer there.  “He lived, his Saviour to adore,     And meekly all his sufferings bore. He loved, and all resigned to God;     Nor murmured at his chastening rod.  “’Does earth attract thee here?’ they cried,     The dying Christian thus replied: While pointing upward to the sky,     ‘My treasure is laid up on high.’  “He sleeps in Jesus—soon to rise,     When the last trump shall rend the skies; Then burst the fetters of the tomb,     To wake in full, immortal bloom.  “He sleeps in Jesus—cease thy grief;     Let this afford thee sweet relief— That, freed from death’s triumphant ~ James White,
866:To my unsuspecting love.
When I look into your eyes, I lose all sense of time and place. Reason robbed, clear thought erased, I am lost in the paradise I find within your gaze.
I long to touch your blushing cheek, to whisper in your ear how I adore you, how I have lost my heart to you, how I cannot bear the thought of living without you.
To be so near to you without touching you is agony. Your blindness to my feelings is a daily torment, and I feel driven to the edge of madness by my love for you.
Where is your compassion when I need it most? Open your eyes , Love, and see what is right before you: that I am not merely a friend, but a man deeply, desperately , in love with you.
Longing for you. ~ Julianne Donaldson,
867:People are merely "amusing themselves" by asking for the patience which a famine or a persecution would call for if, in the meantime, the weather and every other inconvenience sets them grumbling. One must learn to walk before one can run. So here. We - or at least I - shall not be able to adore God on the highest occasions if we have learned no habit of doing so on the lowest. At best, our faith and reason will tell us that He is adorable, but we shall not have found Him so, no have "tasted and seen." Any patch of sunlight in a wood will show you something about the sun which you could never get from reading books on astronomy. These pure and spontaneous pleasures are "patches of Godlight" in the woods of our experience. ~ C S Lewis,
868:I adore the way fan fiction writers engage with and critique source texts, by manipulating them and breaking their rules. Some of it is straight-up homage, but a lot of [fan fiction] is really aggressive towards the source text. One tends to think of it as written by total fanboys and fangirls as a kind of worshipful act, but a lot of times you’ll read these stories and it’ll be like ‘What if Star Trek had an openly gay character on the bridge?’ And of course the point is that they don’t, and they wouldn’t, because they don’t have the balls, or they are beholden to their advertisers, or whatever. There’s a powerful critique, almost punk-like anger, being expressed there—which I find fascinating and interesting and cool. ~ Lev Grossman,
869:...both Tom and I adore detective stories. Isn't that so, Tom?" [Lady Brace]
"Right!" agreed her husband...."But they've got to be proper detective stories. They've got to present a tricky, highly sophisticated problem, which you're given fair opportunity to solve."
"And," amplified Virginia, "no saying they're psychological studies when the author can't write for beans."
"Correct!" her husband agreed again. "Couldn't care less when you're supposed to get all excited as to whether the innocent man will be hanged or the innocent heroine will be seduced. Heroine ought to be seduced; what's she there for? The thing is the mystery. It's not worth reading if the mystery is simple or easy or no mystery at all. ~ Carter Dickson,
870:Lament
WHEN you hear the white-throat pealing
From a tree-top far away,
And the hills are touched with purple
At the borders of the day;
When the redwing sounds his whistle
At the coming on of spring,
And the joyous April pipers
Make the alder marshes ring;
When the wild new breath of being
Whispers to the World once more,
And before the shrine of beauty
Every spirit must adore;
When long thoughts come back with twilight,
And a tender deepened mood
Shows the eyes of the beloved
Like hepaticas in the wood;
Ah, remember, when to nothing
Save to love your heart gives heed,
And spring takes you to her bosom,—
So it was with Golden Weed!
~ Bliss William Carman,
871:Far too often, people are woefully predictable. And I know many things. It's a curse. Here's something else I know: You are not doomed to be your parents. You can break the cycle. You can be whoever you want to be. But you will pay a price. You parents and everyone else will punish you if you choose to be you and not them. That's the price of your freedom. The cage is unlocked, but everyone is too scared to walk out because they whack you when you try, and they whack you hard. They want you to be scared, too. They want you to stay in the cage. But once you are a few steps beyond the trapdoor, they can't reach you anymore, so the whacking stops. That's another secret: They're too afraid to follow. They adore their own cages. ~ Matthew Quick,
872:The other day I told you the meaning of bhakti. It is to adore God with body, mind, and words. 'With body' means to serve and worship God with one's hands, go to holy places with one's feet, hear the chanting of the name and glories of God with one's ears, and behold the divine image with one's eyes. 'With mind' means to contemplate and meditate on God constantly and to remember and think of His lila. 'With words' means to sing hymns to Him and chant His name and glories.
Devotion as described by Narada is suited to the Kaliyuga. It means to chant constantly the name and glories of God. Let those who have no leisure worship God at least morning and evening by whole-heartedly chanting His name and clapping their hands. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
873:WHEN RELIGION CANNOT KNEEL Aristotle said democracy would only work in a culture already committed to virtue. There is no communal myth left that teaches us the essentially tragic nature of human life; there is no vision that proclaims the primacy of the common good; there is no transcendent image that makes human virtue a divine reflection. There is No One to reflect and No One to love and serve. I do not want to belong to a religion that cannot kneel. I do not want to live in a world where there is No One to adore. It is a lonely and labored world if I am its only center. My life is too short to discover wisdom on my own, to identify and properly name my own self-importance, to learn how to love if I have to start at zero. ~ Richard Rohr,
874:I ask you neither for health nor for sickness, for life nor for death; but that you may dispose of my health and my sickness, my life and my death, for your glory ... You alone know what is expedient for me; you are the sovereign master, do with me according to your will. Give to me, or take away from me, only conform my will to yours. I know but one thing, Lord, that it is good to follow you, and bad to offend you. Apart from that, I know not what is good or bad in anything. I know not which is most profitable to me, health or sickness, wealth or poverty, nor anything else in the world. That discernment is beyond the power of men or angels, and is hidden among the secrets of your providence, which I adore, but do not seek to fathom. ~ Blaise Pascal,
875:Je rêve d'un homme qui aime les vieux groupes de rock que plus personne n'écoute. Qui me laissera dormir avec mon tee-shirt troué que j'adore et mes collants en laine. Qui se réveillera à quatre heures du matin pour arroser l'olivier parce qu'il saura que j'oublie toujours de le faire. Qui autorisera les animaux à boire des cafés. Qui m'achètera des frites. Qui ne s'ennuiera jamais. Qui aura lu Miller, Salinger et Desnos. Et aussi Kateb, Mammeri et Mahfouz. Qui, à l'aube, prendra un train avec moi sans en connaitre la destination. Qui se fichera que les yaourts soient périmés depuis la veille. Qui saura se mettre en colère et rire en même temps. Qui chantera faux. Qui aimera la mer et la campagne et peut-être même la montagne, aussi. ~ Kaouther Adimi,
876:Je rêve d'un homme qui aime les vieux groupes de rock que plus personne n'écoute. Qui me laissera dormir avec mon tee-shirt troué que j'adore et mes collants en laine. Qui se réveillera à quatre heures du matin pour arroser l'olivier parce qu'il saura que j'oublie toujours de le faire. Qui autorisera les animaux à boire des cafés. Qui m'achètera des frites. Qui ne s'ennuiera jamais. Qui aura lu Miller, Salinger et Desnos. Et aussi Kateb, Mammeri et Mahfouz. Qui, à l'aube, prendra un train avec moi sans en connaitre la distination. Qui se fichera que les yaourts soient périmés depuis la veille. Qui saura se mettre en colère et rire en même temps. Qui chantera faux. Qui aimera la mer et la campagne et peut-être même la montagne, aussi. ~ Kaouther Adimi,
877:Idols

You put her on a pedestal. Love her, adore her, crown her
as your queen. Then you watch and wait, for a slip, a split
second when her guard is down. You would tear her into
pieces just to claim a fragment of her story.
No one can be perfect all the time. Why do you expect her to
be any different? Why is she held to an impossible standard?
Why do you take it so personally when she contradicts the
version of herself that exists only in your head?
You think you know her, that she owes you somehow. That
her existence is only relative to yours. But she is her own
person. She lives and breathes, she hopes and dreams. She has
a life, a love, a family, a purpose. And she doesn’t owe anyone
a damn thing. ~ Lang Leav,
878:I need him only because I happen to adore him, because his company brings me gladness and comfort, and because, as a friend's grandfather once put it, “Sometimes life is too hard to be alone, and sometimes life is too good to be alone.” The same goes for Felipe: He needs me only for my companionship as well. Seems like a lot, but it isn't much at all; it is only love. And a love-based marriage does not guarantee the lifelong binding contract of a clan-based marriage or an asset-based marriage; it cannot. By unnerving definition, anything that the heart has chosen for its own mysterious reasons it can always unchoose later--again, for its own mysterious reasons. And a shared private heaven can quickly descend into a failed private hell. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,
879:Eternal Power! Eternal Power, whose high abode Becomes the grandeur of a God: Infinite lengths beyond the bounds Where stars revolve their little rounds: Thee while the first archangel sings, He hides his face behind his wings: And ranks of shining thrones around Fall worshipping, and spread the ground. Lord, what shall earth and ashes do? We would adore our Maker too; From sin and dust to Thee we cry, The Great, the Holy, and the High. Earth, from afar, hath heard Thy fame, And worms have learn’d to lisp Thy Name; But O! the glories of Thy mind Leave all our soaring thoughts behind. God is in heaven, and men below: Be short our tunes; our words be few: A solemn reverence checks our songs, And praise sits silent on our tongues. —Issac Watts, 1674-1748 ~ A W Tozer,
880:We should have given up years ago. It’s so clear now. We should have “explored other options.” We should have adopted. We gave up years of our lives and we very nearly destroyed our marriage. Our happy ending could have and should have arrived so much sooner. And even though I adore the fact that Francesca has Ben’s eyes, I also see now that her biological connection to us is irrelevant. She is her own little person. She is Francesca. If we weren’t her “natural” parents, we would still have loved her just as much. I mean, for heaven’s sake, I named Francesca after her great-grandmother, who has no genetic connection to us at all and wasn’t even part of our lives until I was eight years old. I couldn’t love Frannie any more than I do. So there’s that. But ~ Liane Moriarty,
881:It is therefore of supreme importance that we consent to live not for ourselves but for others. When we do this we will be able first of all to face and accept our own limitations. As long as we secretly adore ourselves, our own deficiencies will remain to torture us with an apparent defilement. But if we live for others, we will gradually discover that no expects us to be 'as gods'. We will see that we are human, like everyone else, that we all have weaknesses and deficiencies, and that these limitations of ours play a most important part in all our lives. It is because of them that we need others and others need us. We are not all weak in the same spots, and so we supplement and complete one another, each one making up in himself for the lack in another. ~ Thomas Merton,
882:Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,” he said, “That from the nunnery, Of they chaste breast and quiet mind.”
I looked up at him, and said the next line, “To war and arms I fly.”
“True, a new mistress now I chase,” he said.
“The first foe in the field,” I said, and let him draw me closer.
“And with a stronger faith embrace,” he said.
“A sword, a horse, a shield.” And the last word was whispered against his chest, still looking up into those eyes, searching his face.
“Yet this inconstancy is such, As thou too shalt adore,” he whispered against my hair.
I finished the poem with my face pressed against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, that truly beat with my blood. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more. ~ Laurell K Hamilton,
883:Overcast
Are they blue, gray or green? Mysterious eyes
(as if in fact you were looking through a mist)
in alternation tender, dreamy, grim
to match the shiftless pallor of the sky.
That's what you're like- these warm white afternoons
which make the ravished heart dissolve in tears,
the nerves, inexplicably overwrought,
outrage the dozing mind.
Not always, though-sometimes
you're like the horizon when the sun
ignites our cloudy autumn-how you glow!
A sodden countryside in sudden rout,
turned incandescent by a changing wind.
Dangerous woman-demoralizing days!
Will I adore your killing frost as much,
and in that implacable winter, when it comes,
discover pleasures sharper than iron and ice?
~ Charles Baudelaire,
884:Decalogue
Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.
No images nor idols make
For Roger Ingersoll to break.
Take not God's name in vain: select
A time when it will have effect.
Work not on Sabbath days at all,
But go to see the teams play ball.
Honor thy parents. That creates
For life insurance lower rates.
Kill not, abet not those who kill;
Thou shalt not pay thy butcher's bill.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife, unless
Thine own thy neighbor doth caress.
Don't steal; thou'lt never thus compete
Successfully in business. Cheat.
Bear not false witness--that is low-But 'hear 'tis rumored so and so.'
Covet thou naught that thou hast got
By hook or crook, or somehow, got.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
885:Well, surely you know. Didn’t you rebel? Don’t you? Why, Leon said of you there is a core in you which no one touches."

"Nonsense. I merely know and accept everything. There is no resistance."

"But how can it be?"

"Beauty, you must learn it. You must accept and yield, and then you shall see everything is simple."

"I would not be here with you if I yielded because of the Prince..."

"Yes, you could be here with me. I adore my Queen and I am here with you. I love you both. I yield to that entirely as well as everything else and even the knowledge I may be punished. And when I am punished, I shall dread it, and suffer it and understand it and accept it. Beauty, when you accept you will flower in the pain, you will flower in your suffering. ~ Anne Rice,
886:J’adore servir à table. C’est là qu’on surprend ses maîtres dans toute la saleté, dans toute la bassesse de leur nature intime. Prudents, d’abord, et se surveillant l’un l’autre, ils en arrivent, peu à peu, à se révéler, à s’étaler tels qu’ils sont, sans fard et sans voiles, oubliant qu’il y a autour d’eux quelqu’un qui rôde et qui écoute et qui note leurs tares, leurs bosses morales, les plaies secrètes de leur existence, tout ce que peut contenir d’infamies et de rêves ignobles le cerveau respectable des honnêtes gens. Ramasser ces aveux, les classer, les étiqueter dans notre mémoire, en attendant de s’en faire une arme terrible, au jour des comptes à rendre, c’est une des grandes et fortes joies du métier, et c’est la revanche la plus précieuse de nos humiliations… ~ Octave Mirbeau,
887:THE foolish man thinks that little faults, little indulgences, little sins, are of no consequence; he persuades himself that so long as he does not commit flagrant immoralities he is virtuous, and even holy; but he is thereby deprived of virtue and holiness, and the world knows him accordingly; it does not reverence, adore, and love him; it passes him by; he is reckoned of no account; his influence is destroyed. The efforts of such a man to make the world virtuous, his exhortations to his fellow men to abandon great vices, are empty of substance and barren of fruitage. The insignificance which he attaches to his small vices permeates his whole character, and is the measure of his manhood. He who regards his smallest delinquencies as of the gravest nature becomes a saint. ~ James Allen,
888:Dearest Alexia,
Oh, please absolve me of this guilt I already feel squishing on my very soul! My troubled heart weeps! Oh dear, Ivy was getting flowery. My bones ache with the sin that I am about to commit. Oh, why must I have bones? I have lost myself to this transplanting love. You could not possibly understand how this feels! Yet try to comprehend, dearest Alexia, I am like a delicate bloom. Marriage without love is all very well for people like you, but I should wilt and wither. I need a man possessed of a poet’s soul! I am simply not so stoic as you. I cannot stand to be apart from him one moment longer! The caboose of my love has derailed, and I must sacrifice all for the man I adore! Please do not judge me harshly! It was all for love! ~ Gail Carriger Ivy. ~ Gail Carriger,
889:Annie R. Smith:—  “He sleeps in Jesus—peaceful rest —     No mortal strife invades, his breast; No pain, or sin, or woe, or care,     Can reach the silent slumberer there.  “He lived, his Saviour to adore,     And meekly all his sufferings bore. He loved, and all resigned to God;     Nor murmured at his chastening rod.  “’Does earth attract thee here?’ they cried,     The dying Christian thus replied: While pointing upward to the sky,     ‘My treasure is laid up on high.’  “He sleeps in Jesus—soon to rise,     When the last trump shall rend the skies; Then burst the fetters of the tomb,     To wake in full, immortal bloom.  “He sleeps in Jesus—cease thy grief;     Let this afford thee sweet relief— That, freed from death’s triumphant reign,     In heaven will he live again.  ~ James White,
890:How can you be so optimistic about the whole damn world but not about yourself?”
“My magic, you mean.”
“Your neck, Pen.”
She drew her head back as if he’d just shouted. His words struck her that forcefully.
“My . . . ?”
“I adore your neck. And your eyes. Do you know how long it’s been since I thought the word ‘indigo’? Maybe when I read it in a poem, years ago. But that’s the color you use to stare at me.”
Heat shivered up her spine, along the tops of her breasts and across her cheeks. Never. Not ever had she imagined such a treasure. So shocked, she said the first thing that came into her head. Pure instinct.
“Yours are like a clear piece of glass with the sky behind it.”
He grinned lazily. “Is that what you think? Well, feel free to continue. ~ Ellen Connor,
891:Whilst I adore this ineffable life which is at my heart, it will not condescend to gossip with me, it will not announce to me any particulars of science, it will not enter into the details of my biography, and say to me why I have a son and daughters born to me, or why my son dies in his sixth year of life. Herein, then I have this latent omniscience coexistent with omnigorance. Moreover, whilst this Deity glows at the heart, and by his unlimited presentiments gives me all Power, I know that to-morrow will be as this day, I am a dwarf, and I remain a dwarf. That is to say, I believe in Fate. As long as I am weak, I shall talk of Fate; whenever the God fills me with his fullness, I shall see the disappearance of Fate. I am defeated all the time; yet to Victory I am born. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
892:O DIVINE Force, supreme Illuminator, hearken to our prayer, move not away from us, do not withdraw, help us to fight the good fight, make firm our strength for the struggle, give us the force to conquer!
   O my sweet Master, Thou whom I adore without being able to know Thee, Thou who I am without being able to realise Thee, my entire conscious individuality prostrates itself before Thee and implores, in the name of the workers in their struggle, and of the earth in her agony, in the name of suffering humanity and of striving Nature;
   O my sweet Master, O marvellous Unknowable, O Dispenser of all boons, Thou who makest light spring forth in the darkness and strength to arise out of weakness, support our effort, guide our steps, lead us to victory.
   ~ The Mother, Prayers And Meditations, 211,
893:The New Decalogue
Have but one God: thy knees were sore
If bent in prayer to three or four.
Adore no images save those
The coinage of thy country shows.
Take not the Name in vain. Direct
Thy swearing unto some effect.
Thy hand from Sunday work be held-Work not at all unless compelled.
Honor thy parents, and perchance
Their wills thy fortunes may advance.
Kill not--death liberates thy foe
From persecution's constant woe.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife. Of course
There's no objection to divorce.
To steal were folly, for 'tis plain
In cheating there is greater pain.
Bear not false witness. Shake your head
And say that you have 'heard it said.'
Who stays to covet ne'er will catch
An opportunity to snatch.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
894:I truly believe that if they turned all the pianos in the world to firewood, he would throw himself on top of the bonfire.
We have laughed together about how I am famous, not him. But we both know that I look much prettier in a dress than he does, that I play much more photogenically.... I am a "girl," and therefore more marketable.
But I know that he is the genius, that he can take the Chopin Etudes and add a touch of magic, a spark, that makes them definitively his own. I also knew that one day the world will recognize this. And I will be happy to take second place.
I'm sure my playing has gone from strength to strength because of him.
And I adore him.
He is my piano. He is my bonfire. And if he were no longer there, I would throw myself on top of that fire willingly. ~ Lucinda Riley,
895:The Dark That Was Is Here
A girl, in ancient Greece,
Be sure, had no more peace
Than one in Idaho.
To feel and yet to know
Was hard in Athens, too.
I'm sure confusion grew
In Nika's mind as she,
While wanting to be free,
Hoped deeply to adore
Someone; and so no more
Be wretched and alone.
— Ah, hear the keen, wise moan
Of wind at twilight past
Old trees, which darken fast.
That wind was heard, that blur
Of trees was seen by her
Of Attica.— The sound
Of wind on dry, cool ground
Once more is heard by girl,
With heart in autumn whirl.
The trees stand up in grey;
It is their ancient way—
All this in Idaho,
Where grieving girls now go
In mingled love and fear.
The dark that was is here.
~ Eli Siegel,
896:A Song In Praise
Hail, blessed Blunder! golden idol, hail!
Clay-footed deity of all who fail.
Celestial image, let thy glory shine,
Thy feet concealing, but a lamp to mine.
Let me, at seasons opportune and fit,
By turns adore thee and by turns commit.
In thy high service let me ever be
(Yet never serve thee as my critics me)
Happy and fallible, content to feel
I blunder chiefly when to thee I kneel.
But best felicity is his thy praise
Who utters unaware in works and ways
Who _laborare est orare_ proves,
And feels thy suasion wheresoe'er he moves,
Serving thy purpose, not thine altar, still,
And working, for he thinks it his, thy will.
If such a life with blessings be not fraught,
I envy Peter Robertson for naught.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
897:I know you adore Father, but he isn't the white knight you imagine him to be. He never was. True, he's charming and loving in his way. But he's selfish. He's a limited man determined to bring about his own end-"
"But-"
Tom grabs both my hands in his and gives them a small squeeze. "Gemma, you can't save him. Why can't you accept that?"
I see my reflection on the surface of the Thames. My face is a watery outline, all blurred edges with nothing settled.
"Because if I let go of that" - I swallow hard, once, twice - "then I have to accept that I am alone."
The ship's horn howls again as it slips out toward sea. Tom's reflection appears beside mine, just as uncertain.
"We're every one of us alone in this world, Gemma." He doesn't say it bitterly. "But you have company, if you want. ~ Libba Bray,
898:Smiley himself was one of those solitaires who seem to have come into the world fully educated at the age of eighteen. Obscurity was his nature, as well as his profession. The byways of espionage are not populated by the brash and colourful adventurers of fiction. A man who, like Smiley, has lived and worked for years among his country's enemies learns only one prayer: that he may never, never be noticed. Assimilation is his highest aim, he learns to love the crowds who pass him in the street without a glance; he clings to them for his anonimity and his safety. His fear makes him servile - he could embrace the shoppers who jostle him in their impatience, and force him from the pavement. He could adore the officials, the police, the bus conductors, for the terse indifference of their attitudes. (ch. 9) ~ John le Carr,
899:Listen to me. I admire you. Adore you. Hell, I’ve spent four years constructing some twisted, blasphemous religion around you. And you must know how badly I want you.” He slid a hand to the small of her back and crushed her belly against his aching groin, then kissed her again, to stifle his unwilling groan. “But I can’t love you, Cecily, not the way you deserve.” “Who are you, to judge what I deserve?” She wrestled away from him and stalked to the cottage door, taking hold of the door handle and giving it a full-force tug. “And what do you mean, you can’t love me? Love isn’t a matter of can or can’t.” She pulled again, but the door would not budge. “It’s a matter of do or don’t. Either you do love me, and damn the consequences”—she tugged again, to no avail—“or you don’t, and we go our separate ways.” She ~ Tessa Dare,
900:Bring peace to the Earth by bringing peace to all those whose lives you touch. Be peace. Feel and express in every moment your Divine Connection with the All, and with every person, place, and thing. Embrace every circumstance, own every fault, share every joy, contemplate every mystery, walk in every man’s shoes, forgive every offense (including your own), heal every heart, honor every person’s truth, adore every person’s God, protect every person’s rights, preserve every person’s dignity, promote every person’s interests, provide every person’s needs, presume every person’s holiness, present every person’s greatest gifts, produce every person’s blessing, and pronounce every person’s future secure in the assured love of God. Be a living, breathing example of the Highest Truth that resides within you. ~ Neale Donald Walsch,
901:The creature you find in Speak, Memory is rare enough to be zoo-worthy. He’s not just smarter but somehow more effete than most of us without seeming put on. Resenting him for it would be like resenting a gazelle for her grace. He doesn’t sound prissy painting himself as a cultivated synesthete who can hear colors and see music, nor vain talking as a polyglot who translates his own work back and forth into many languages. He’s just your standard virtuoso aristocrat from a gilded age. Which is the miracle of his talent. He has shaped the book to highlight his own magnificent way of viewing the world, a viewpoint that so eats your head that you never really leave his very oddly bejeweled skull, and you value things in the book’s context as he does, never missing what you otherwise adore in another kind of writer. ~ Mary Karr,
902:This is the price at which you eat sugar in Europe. Yet when my mother sold me for ten patagons20 on the coast of Guinea, she said to me: ‘My dear child, bless our fetiches, adore them for ever; they will make thee live happily; thou hast the honour of being the slave of our lords, the whites, which is making the fortune of thy father and mother.’ Alas! I know not whether I have made their fortunes; this I know, that they have not made mine. Dogs, monkeys, and parrots are a thousand times less wretched than I. The Dutch fetiches, who have converted me, declare every Sunday that we are all of us children of Adam—blacks as well as whites. I am not a genealogist, but if these preachers tell truth, we are all second cousins. Now, you must agree, that it is impossible to treat one’s relations in a more barbarous manner. ~ Voltaire,
903:Dearest Alexia, the message read. Oh, please absolve me of this guilt I already feel squishing on my very soul! Lady Maccon huffed, trying not to laugh. My troubled heart weeps! Oh dear, Ivy was getting flowery. My bones ache with the sin that I am about to commit. Oh, why must I have bones? I have lost myself to this transplanting love. You could not possibly understand how this feels! Yet try to comprehend, dearest Alexia, I am like a delicate bloom. Marriage without love is all very well for people like you, but I should wilt and wither. I need a man possessed of a poet’s soul! I am simply not so stoic as you. I cannot stand to be apart from him one moment longer! The caboose of my love has derailed, and I must sacrifice all for the man I adore! Please do not judge me harshly! It was all for love! ~ Gail Carriger Ivy. ~ Gail Carriger,
904:Ballade Of A Horoscope
Astrology we sing!
Though people don't adore us
The horoscope's the thing
That makes allowance for us:
Our resolution porous?
Our morals vertigo?
We had the Sun in taurus
The Moon in Scorpio.
To both extremes we swing
While moderates deplore usNow full of visioning,
Now tough as dinosaurs.
At least they'll not ignore us,
And if our tastes are low,
We had the Sun in taurus
The Moon in Scorpio.
Then let the Scrpion sting
And let the Great Bull gore us:
An alibi we bring
For conduct indecorous:
Yes, when our mothers bore us
The stars were thus and soWe had the Sun in taurus
The Moon in Scorpio.
O Zodiac, restore us
When friends are shocked. You know
We had the Sun in taurus
The Moon in Scorpio.
~ Christopher Morley,
905:I will care for and protect you, nurture you, and support you, and tell you your butt is perfect in every dress and adore everything about you. I promise to love you tirelessly through perfect times and the merely fabulous times. I promise to leave you alone one week every month, for my sanity and yours. I promise to try to always put the toilet seat down. I promise to try to remember to put my dirty clothes in the hamper and replace the toilet paper when the roll is empty. I promise to use plenty of lube before trying to poke things in your bellybutton, no promise about your ears, though. In the presence of our beloved family and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your godlike partner and lover. In good times and bad and in joy as well as sorrow, I give you my heart, my love, my soul. I love you, now and forever.” Conly ~ Milly Taiden,
906:so doesn't that make the universe a giant lottery, then? you purchase a ticket when you're born. and it's all just random whether you get a good ticket or a bad ticket. it's all just luck. my head swirls on this, but then softer thoughts soothe, like a flatted third on a major chord. no, no, it's not all random, if it really was all random, the universe would abandon us completely. and the universe doesn't. it takes care of its most fragile creations in ways we can't see. like with the parents who adore you blindly. and the big sister who feels guilty for being human over you. and a little gravelly-voiced kid whose friends have left him over you. and even a pink-haired girl who carries your picture in her wallet. maybe it is a lottery, but the universe makes it all even out in the end. the universe takes care of all of its birds. ~ R J Palacio,
907:Queen of the Night Salsa 2.0 This is a jazzed-up version of an earlier recipe from our Precious Darlin’ George. He is ever seeking new and more delicious ways to please us and we adore him for this and other reasons.   MIX ALL THIS stuff together—1 15-ounce can drained and rinsed black beans, 1 11-ounce can Niblets corn, 1 small can chopped green chilis, 1 small can chopped black olives, 2 to 3 chopped fresh tomatoes, at least 8 ounces shredded Monterey Jack, 1 bunch chopped green onions, some cilantro (fresh or dried, to taste), 1/2 teaspoon chili powder, 1/2 teaspoon cumin, 1/2 to 3/4 of a 16-ounce bottle of Wishbone Robusto Italian dressing, and a whole big lot of chopped-up bacon. Obviously, the more bacon, the better—duh. Chill all that overnight in the refrigerator and then eat it all at one sitting the next day with Fritos. ~ Jill Conner Browne,
908:But the Grateful Dead, as the fanatic fans point out, are a way of life: someone else's. Twentieth-century teenagers, especially American ones, have been brilliant at creating their own culture, their own music, clothes, and point(s) of view. It's sad and fraudulent that the kind of wholesale worship of some historical way of life has settled over so many young people, infecting them like a noxious gas... I love the dead--grew up in the thrall of Shakespeare and Hank Williams and James Dean. And I adore the Rolling Stones. But there's a difference between cherishing "Satisfaction" and wearing Keith Richards' hair while doing Keith Richards' drugs. I don't want to be Keith Richards. I wanna be me. Not--like the neo-Deadheads--just another extra in an overblown costume drama about something that wasn't that interesting the first time around. ~ Sarah Vowell,
909:BAYARD: How can you say that? Hitler is the creation of the capitalist class. VON BERG, in terrible mourning and anxiety: But they adore him! My own cook, my gardeners, the people who work in my forests, the chauffeur, the gamekeeper—they are Nazis! I saw it coming over them, the love for this creature—my housekeeper dreams of him in her bed, she’d serve my breakfast like a god had slept with her; in a dream slicing my toast! I saw this adoration in my own house! That, that is the dreadful fact. Controlling himself: I beg your pardon, but it disturbs me. I admire your faith; all faith to some degree is beautiful. And when I know that yours is based on something so untrue—it’s terribly disturbing. Quietly: In any case, I cannot glory in the facts; there is no reassurance there. They adore him, the salt of the earth. . . . Staring: Adore him. ~ Arthur Miller,
910:He ran a hand over his face and shook his head. "Lass, I have never lied to you. I adore you and there have never been any other women from the future here. And these"- he flung a tampon in the air- "cleaning swabs, I cannot fathom why they upset you so greatly, but I assure you I have never let the maids use them."

Lisa's brow furrowed. No man could be so stupid. "Cleaning Swabs?"

He snatched up a gun and jerked the barrel in her direction, and an unwrapped tampon shot out. It was coated with black from the slow corrosion of the steel. She eyed it for a moment, bent, and plucked it from the floor. "You clean your guns with these?"

He lowered the gun. "Is that not the purpose for which they were designed? I vow I could not conceive of another."

Didn't you read the box?"

There were too many words I didn't understand! ~ Karen Marie Moning,
911:Well I knew when I first laid eyes on her
I could never be free
One look at her and I knew right away
She should always be with me
Well the dream dried up a long time ago
Don't know where it is anymore
True to life, true to me
Was the girl from the red river shore
Well I'm wearing the cloak of misery
And I've tasted jilted love
And the frozen smile upon my face
Fits me like a glove
Well I can't escape from the memory
Of the one I'll always adore
All those nights when I lay in the arms
Of the girl from the red river shore
Well we're living in the shadows of a fading past
Trapped in the fires of time
I've tried not to ever hurt anybody
And to stay out of the life of crime
And when it's all been said and done
I never did know the score
One more day is another day away
From the girl from the red river shore. ~ Bob Dylan,
912:Am I staring? Forgive me. It's only that I adore the way you laugh."
Pandora blushed up to her hairline. She went to the nearest target and began to jerk out arrows. "Please don't compliment me."
Gabriel went to the next target. "You don't like compliments?"
"No, they make me feel awkward. They never seem true."
"Perhaps they don't seem true to you, but that doesn't mean they're not." After sliding his arrows into a leather quiver, Gabriel came to help collect hers.
"In this case," Pandora said, "it's definitely not true. My laugh sounds like a serenading tree frog swinging on a rusty gate."
Gabriel smiled. "Like silver wind chimes in a summer breeze."
"That's not at all how it sounds," Pandora scoffed.
"But thats how it makes me feel." The intimate note in his voice seemed to vibrate along the network of fine, taut nerves strung all through her. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
913:Put this one on right now,” he says, switching back into exaggerated, giddy-girl mode.
“You better cut that out or you’re going to have me thinking things about you that you probably don’t want me to.” I giggle and tug the hat down on my head.
Darren adjusts it for me, off-centering the brim from my forehead. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me to the mirror, moving sections of my hair from behind so it lies on my chest. My eyes take in the hat--which I secretly think I adore and must have--before they meet his gaze.
Keeping his hands on my shoulders and his eyes locked on mine in the mirror, he tilts his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brush against my ear. “What kind of things?”
My whole body quivers as I close my eyes, unable to look at him looking at me that way if he’s not going to do anything about it. I’m so far gone now, there’s no turning back. ~ Kristin Rae,
914:But this month is all about CITY OF JASMINE which I hope you already have in your hot little hands. My favorite review snippet? KIRKUS REVIEWS said it’s “part screwball comedy”.

I can’t tell you how much time I spent with Carole Lombard and William Powell and Irene Dunne when I was writing it. I adore the 30s comedies for their light-hearted take on relationships and adventure—and the glamorous settings and occasional dash of intrigue only heighten the magic. (Did you know that Nicholas Brisbane from my Lady Julia series was named for THE THIN MAN’s Nick Charles? And apologies to Dashiell Hammett, but I fell in love with the film long before I read the book and appreciated how much it had been lightened in the adaptation!) So when you’re reading CITY OF JASMINE, give some thought to who you’d like to see playing Evie and Gabriel—I’d love to hear who you’d cast in your own production. ~ Deanna Raybourn,
915:One million fifty-one thousand and
two hundred minutes
That's approximatley how many minutes
I've loved you
It's how many times i've thought about you
How many minutes i've worried about you
How many minutes i've thanked God for you
How many minutes i've thanked every deity in the universe for you.
One million
Fifty-one Thousand
And
Two
Hundred
Minutes
One million fifty-one thousand amd two hundred times.
It's how many times you've made me smile.
How many times you've made me dream,
How many times you've made me believe,
How many times you've made me discover,
How many times you've made me adore,
How many times you've made me cheris,
My life.
....
And exactlly one million fifty-one thousand and two hundred minutes from now, i am going to propose to you, and ask that you share all the rest of the minutes
Of your life, with me. ~ Colleen Hoover,
916:Baby's First Journey
Lightly they hold him and lightly they sway himSoft as a pillow are somebody's arms.
Down he goes slowly, ever so lowly
Over the rim of the cradle they lay himBaby's first journey is free from alarms.
Baby is growing while Mama sings by-lo,
Sturdy and rosy and laughing and fair,
Crowing and growing past every one's knowing,
Out goes the cradle and in comes the 'high-lo,'
Baby's next journey is into this chair.
Crying or cooing or waking or sleeping,
Baby is ever a thing to adore.
Look at him yonder-oh what a wonder,
Who would believe it, the darling is creeping,
Baby's next journey is over the floor.
Sweeter and cuter and brighter and stronger,
Mama can see every day how he's grown.
Shoes are all battered, stockings all tattered,
Oh! but the baby is baby no longer
Look at the fellow-he's walking alone!
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
917:Surely there can be but one rule of right, if morality has an eternal foundation, and whoever sacrifices virtue, strictly so called, to present convenience, or whose DUTY it is to act in such a manner, lives only for the passing day, and cannot be an accountable creature. The poet then should have dropped his sneer when he says, "If weak women go astray, The stars are more in fault than they." For that they are bound by the adamantine chain of destiny is most certain, if it be proved that they are never to exercise their own reason, never to be independent, never to rise above opinion, or to feel the dignity of a rational will that only bows to God, and often forgets that the universe contains any being but itself, and the model of perfection to which its ardent gaze is turned, to adore attributes that, softened into virtues, may be imitated in kind, though the degree overwhelms the enraptured mind. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft,
918:Leo Vincey, know now the truth; that all things are illusions, even that there exists no future and no past, that what has been and what shall be already is eternally. Know that I, Ayesha, am but a magic wraith, foul when thou seest me foul, fair when thou seest me fair; a spirit-bubble reflecting a thousand lights in the sunshine of thy smile, grey as dust and gone in the shadow of thy frown. Think of the throned Queen before whom the shadowy Powers bowed and worship, for that is I. Think of the hideous, withered Thing thou sawest naked on the rock, and flee away, for that is I. Or keep me lovely, and adore, knowing all evil centred in my spirit, for that is I. Now, Leo, thou hast the truth. Put me from thee for ever and for ever if thou wilt, and be safe; or clasp me, clasp me to thy heart, and in payment for my lips and love take my sin upon thy head! Nay, Holly, be thou silent, for now he must judge alone. ~ H Rider Haggard,
919:He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel.
He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine.
I take a bite. And my eyes snap open.
"Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief.
"Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it."
"I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfunny, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious. ~ Stacey Ballis,
920:Christmastide
I may not go to-night to Bethlehem,
Nor follow star-directed ways, nor tread
The paths wherein the shepherds walked, that led
To Christ, and peace, and God's good will to men.
I may not hear the Herald Angel's song
Peal through the Oriental skies, nor see
The wonder of that Heavenly company
Announce the King the world had waited long.
The manger throne I may not kneel before,
Or see how man to God is reconciled,
Through pure St. Mary's purer, holier child;
The human Christ these eyes may not adore.
I may not carry frankincense and myrrh
With adoration to the Holy One;
Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son,
To be with those wise kings a worshipper.
Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them,
For ages since Time swung and locked his gates,
But I may kneel without--the star still waits
To guide me on to holy Bethlehem.
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
921:Now, Macarius, true lover of Christ, we must take a step further in the faith of our holy religion, and consider also the Word’s becoming Man and His divine Appearing in our midst. That mystery the Jews traduce, the Greeks deride, but we adore; and your own love and devotion to the Word also will be the greater, because in His Manhood He seems so little worth. For it is a fact that the more unbelievers pour scorn on Him, so much the more does He make His Godhead evident. The things which they, as men, rule out as impossible, He plainly shows to be possible; that which they deride as unfitting, His goodness makes most fit; and things which these wiseacres laugh at as “human” He by His inherent might declares divine. Thus by what seems His utter poverty and weakness on the cross He overturns the pomp and parade of idols, and quietly and hiddenly wins over the mockers and unbelievers to recognise Him as God. ~ Saint Athanasius of Alexandria,
922:If I may put it so, she does not tell us to love our neighbours; she tells us to be our neighbours. That is Mrs. Besant's thoughtful and suggestive description of the religion in which all men must find themselves in agreement. And I never heard of any suggestion in my life with which I more violently disagree. I want to love my neighbour not because he is I, but precisely because he is not I. I want to adore the world, not as one likes a looking-glass, because it is one's self, but as one loves a woman, because she is entirely different. If souls are separate love is possible. If souls are united love is obviously impossible. A man may be said loosely to love himself, but he can hardly fall in love with himself, or, if he does, it must be a monotonous courtship. If the world is full of real selves, they can be really unselfish selves. But upon Mrs. Besant's principle the whole cosmos is only one enormously selfish person. ~ G K Chesterton,
923:Rule number one: There will be no large gatherings of the people to preach to each other. Rule number two: You will not sing your stupid little songs to your imaginary savior or God. Rule number three: You will not quote passages from that book you so adore. Rule number four: You will get up in the mornings when your person in charge says you will get up. You will also go to bed when your person in charge says to go to bed. Rule number five: The person in charge can appoint someone to be their eyes and ears. Video cameras can only pick up so much, so we need to know who the subversives in your groups are so we can deal with them before they cause too much trouble. “If even one of you does not abide by these rules, there will be consequences for your group. Punishment is completely up to your person in charge. If you abide by these rules and be good boys and girls, I’m sure we’ll get along famously. Too-da-loo and so long for now. ~ Cliff Ball,
924:The most holy association is to Be as you are. This is Freedom. This is beyond imagination, very new and very fresh. So just keep Quiet. Do not think. It is you. It is you. Don't stir a thought, and if a thought comes, let it, don't waver, don't doubt your majesty. It is so simple. The one who has It will know that they have done it. When you are quiet it is Beauty, Joy and Stillness. It is effortless. Effort is to disturb your mind, effort is playing with corpses in the graveyard. Just contemplate that which is always silence. Go to the Source. Do not believe anything, simply stay quiet and return home and do not rest until you are there. Peace is only available when there is no “I” and you need an “I” to do practice. The secret to Bliss is to stop the search, stop thinking, stop not-thinking, and keep Quiet. The best practice is to Know “Who am I.” You are Brahman, know this. If you want to do anything, just Always adore Self. ~ H W L Poonja,
925:Yes, O Lord, we adore all that belongs to Thee, and we take to our hearts Thy Godhead, Thy power and goodness, Thy mercy towards us, Thy condescension and Thy Incarnation. And as men fear touching red-hot iron, not because of the iron but because of the heat, so do we worship Thy flesh, not for the nature of flesh, but through the Godhead united to that flesh according to substance. We worship Thy sufferings. Who has ever known death worshipped, or suffering venerated? Yet we [54] truly worship the physical death of our God and His saving sufferings. We adore Thy image and all that is Thine; Thy servants, Thy friends, and most of all Thy Mother, the Mother of God. We beseech, therefore, the people of God, the faithful flock, to hold fast to the ecclesiastical traditions. The gradual taking away of what has been handed down to us would be undermining the foundation stones, and would in no short time overthrow the whole structure. ~ John of Damascus,
926:JERRY: Look at the way you're looking at me. I can't wait for you. I'm bowled over, I'm totally knocked out, you dazzle me, you jewel, my jewel, I can't ever sleep again, no, listen, it's the truth, I won't walk, I'll be a cripple, I'll descend, I'll diminish, into total paralysis, my life is in your hands, that's what you're banishing me to, a state of catatonia, do you know the state of catatonia? do you? do you? the state of...where the reigning prince is the prince of emptiness, the prince of absence, the prince of desolation. I love you.
EMMA: My husband is at the other side of that door.
JERRY: Everyone knows. The world knows. It knows. But they'll never know, they'll never know, they're in a different world. I adore you. I'm madly in love with you. I can't believe that what anyone is at this moment saying has ever happened has ever happened. Nothing has ever happened. Nothing. Your eyes kill me. I'm lost. You're wonderful. ~ Harold Pinter,
927:Later on, like practically everyone else in our stupid and godless society, I was to consider these two years as “my religious phase.” I am glad that that now seems very funny. But it is sad that it is funny in so few cases. Because I think that practically everybody does go through such a phase, and for the majority of them, that is all that it is, a phase and nothing more. If that is so, it is their own fault: for life on this earth is not simply a series of “phases” which we more or less passively undergo. If the impulse to worship God and to adore Him in truth by the goodness and order of our own lives is nothing more than a transitory and emotional thing, that is our own fault. It is so only because we make it so, and because we take what is substantially a deep and powerful and lasting moral impetus, supernatural in its origin and in its direction, and reduce it to the level of our own weak and unstable and futile fancies and desires. ~ Thomas Merton,
928:Two Set Out on Their Journey

We sit side by side,
brother and sister, and read
the book of what will be, while a breeze
blows the pages over—
desolate odd, cheerful even,
and otherwise. When we come
to our own story, the happy beginning,
the ending we don’t know yet,
the ten thousand acts
encumbering the days between,
we will read every page of it.
If an ancestor has pressed
a love-flower for us, it will lie hidden
between pages of the slow going,
where only those who adore the story
ever read. When the time comes
to shut the book and set out,
we will take childhood’s laughter
as far as we can into the days to come,
until another laughter sounds back
from the place where our next bodies
will have risen and will be telling
tales of what seemed deadly serious once,
offering to us oldening wayfarers
the light heart, now made of time
and sorrow, that we started with. ~ Galway Kinnell,
929:Turn your thoughts now, and lift up your thoughts to a devout and joyous contemplation on sage Vyasa and Vasishtha, on Narda and Valmiki. Contemplate on the glorious Lord Buddha, Jesus the Christ, prophet Mohammed, the noble Zoroaster (Zarathushtra), Lord Mahavira, the holy Guru Nanak. Think of the great saints and sages of all ages, like Yajnavalkya, Dattatreya, Sulabha and Gargi, Anasooya and Sabari, Lord Gauranga, Mirabai, Saint Theresa and Francis of Assisi. Remember St. Augustine, Jallaludin Rumi, Kabir, Tukaram, Ramdas, Ramakrishna Paramhamsa, Vivekananda and Rama Tirtha. Adore in thy heart the sacred memory of Mahatma Gandhi, sage Ramana Maharishi, Aurobindo Ghosh, Gurudev Sivananda and Swami Ramdas. They verily are the inspirers of humanity towards a life of purity, goodness and godliness. Their lives, their lofty examples, their great teachings constitute the real wealth and greatest treasure of mankind today.
   ~ Sri Chidananda, Advices On Spiritual Living,
930:Loving Ford became simple in the quiet, when Ford breathed in and out like regular tides, when his eyelids fluttered over his eyes, when his brow smoothed out like a child's. Lying beside him, or holding him in his lap or against his shoulders, or even watching him across a room, Dan could love him easily and without effort, as long as he was resting. In the stillness of Ford's house, in the closeness of Dan's, the feeling that was so precious to them both unfolded like a flower blooming, and the simplicity of their togetherness rose from the feeling like sweet scent. At moments, if he could have remembered it, Dan understood that their best place was this silence. Ford could love him more easily without words, merely with his presence. Words created the future, exacerbated problems, raised barriers between them. But in the silence of Ford's sleep, Ford could love Dan easily; in the stillness of Ford's rest, Dan could adore him without question or fear. ~ Jim Grimsley,
931:It was only now that he realized the meaning of words such as 'adore', 'prostate', 'worship', 'treat as idol or Gods' that poets used when they spoke of a beloved. It was only that he understood how it was possible for someone to love a human being in the way people love flocks of birds as they go back to their nests on an evening bathed in the orange light scattered on a river's bank; the way people can love the Raga Bhairavi being played on the santur in the last watch of the night; the way people can love the sound of a cataract in the background of snow-clad peaks when the dark night's collars is sundered by the first rays of morning; the way people love their doorstep when they return home from a long journey; the way people love beautiful carpets, heart-ravishing paintings: they just want to go on looking, watching, hearing, with no desire to possess, no expectation of a result, no experience of time passing, no illusion of something achieved. ~ Shamsur Rahman Faruqi,
932:Hallowing God’s name requires praise for the goodness and greatness of his redemptive work too, with its dazzling blend of wisdom, love, justice, power, and faithfulness. By wisdom God found a way to justify the unjust justly; in love he gave his Son to bear death’s agony for us; in justice he made the Son, as our substitute, suffer the sentence that our disobedience deserved; with power he unites us to Christ risen, renews our hearts, frees us from sin’s bondage, and moves us to repent and believe; and in faithfulness he keeps us from falling, as he promised to do (see John 10:28ff.; 1 Corinthians 1:7ff.; 1 Peter 1:3-9), till he brings us triumphantly to our final glory. We do not save ourselves! Neither the Father’s saving grace, nor the Son’s saving work, nor our own saving faith originate with us; all is God’s gift. Salvation, first to last, is of the Lord, and the hallowing of God’s name requires us to acknowledge this, and to praise and adore him for the whole of it. ~ J I Packer,
933:But no one leaves. - Let us set out once more on our native roads, burdened with my vice, that vice that since the age of reason has driven roots of suffering into my side - that towers to heaven, beats me, hurls me down, drags me on.

Ultimate innocence, final timidity. All's said. Carry no more my loathing and treacheries before the world.

Come on! Marching, burdens, the desert, boredom and anger.

Hire myself to whom? What beasts adore? What sacred images destroy? What hearts shall I break? What lie maintain? - Through what blood wade?

Better to keep away from justice. - A hard life, outright stupor, - with a dried-out fist to lift the coffin lid, lie down, and suffocate. No old age this way, no danger: terror is very un-French.

- Ah! I am so forsaken I will offer at any shrine impulses toward perfection.

Oh my self-denial, my marvelous Charity! my Selfless love! And still here below!

De Profundis Domine, what an ass I am! ~ Arthur Rimbaud,
934:In The Bleak Midwinter
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.
Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.
What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
935:One million fifty-one thousand and two hundred minutes. That’s approximately how many minutes I’ve loved you, It’s how many minutes I’ve thought about you, How many minutes I’ve worried about you, How many minutes I’ve thanked God for you, How many minutes I’ve thanked every deity in the Universe for you. One million Fifty-one thousand And Two Hundred Minutes. . .  One million fifty-one thousand and two hundred times. It’s how many times you’ve made me smile, How many times you’ve made me dream, How many times you’ve made me believe, How many times you’ve made me discover, How many times you’ve made me adore, How many times you’ve made me cherish, My life. (Gavin walks toward the back of the room, where Eddie is sitting. He bends down on one knee in front of her as he reads the last line of his poem.) And exactly one million fifty-one thousand and two hundred minutes from now, I’m going to propose to you, and ask that you share all the rest of the minutes of your life with me. ~ Colleen Hoover,
936:O God, we are one with You. You have made us one with You. You have taught us that if we are open to one another, You dwell in us. Help us to preserve this openness and to fight for it with all our hearts. Help us to realize that there can be no understanding where there is mutual rejection. O God, in accepting one another wholeheartedly, fully, completely, we accept You, and we thank You, and we adore You, and we love You with our whole being, because our being is Your being, our spirit is rooted in Your spirit. Fill us then with love, and let us be bound together with love as we go our diverse ways, united in this one spirit which makes You present in the world, and which makes You witness to the ultimate reality that is love. Love has overcome. Love is victorious. Amen. ~ Thomas Merton, in his closing prayer to an informal address delivered in Calcutta, India (October 1968), from The Asian Journal of Thomas Merton (1975); quoted in Thomas Merton, Spiritual Master : The Essential Writings (1992), p. 237,
937:....though he hated to admit it, they were all Anglophiles. They were a family of Anglophiles. Pointed in the wrong direction, trapped outside their own history and unable to retrace their steps because their footprints had been swept away. He explained to them that history was like an old house at night. With all the lamps lit. And ancestors whispering inside.

"To understand history," Chacko said, "we have to go inside and listen to what they're saying. And look at the books and the pictures on the wall. And smell the smells."...

..."But we can't go in," Chacko explained, "because we've been locked out. And when we look in through the windows, all we see are shadows. And when we try and listen, all we hear is a whispering. And we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by war. A war that we have won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves. ~ Arundhati Roy,
938:....though he hated to admit it, they were all Anglophiles. They were a family of Anglophiles. Pointed in the wrong direction, trapped outside their own history and unable to retrace their steps because their footprints had been swept away. He explained to them that history was like an old house at night. With all the lamps lit. And ancestors whispering inside.

'To understand history,' Chacko said, 'we have to go inside and listen to what they're saying. And look at the books and the pictures on the wall. And smell the smells.'...

...'But we can't go in,' Chacko explained, 'because we've been locked out. And when we look in through the windows, all we see are shadows. And when we try and listen, all we hear is a whispering. And we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by war. A war that we have won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves. ~ Arundhati Roy,
939:When one wishes to play the wit, he sometimes wanders a little from the truth. I have not been altogether honest in what I have told you about the lamplighters. And I realize that I run the risk of giving a false idea of our planet to those who do not know it. Men occupy a very small place upon the Earth. If the two billion inhabitants who people its surface were all to stand upright and somewhat crowded together, as they do for some big public assembly, they could easily be put into one public square twenty miles long and twenty miles wide. All humanity could be piled up on a small Pacific islet.

The grown-ups, to be sure, will not believe you when you tell them that. They imagine that they fill a great deal of space. They fancy themselves as important as the baobabs. You should advise them, then, to make their own calculations. They adore figures, and that will please them. But do not waste your time on this extra task. It is unnecessary. You have, I know, confidence in me. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,
940:Sometimes it takes a terrible tragedy for people to see their need for God. Confronted with terrible evil, Americans have sought divine help before. George Washington and Abraham Lincoln both prayed publicly for the nation. President Franklin D. Roosevelt's prayer for America in the opening salvos of D-day is a beautiful example: ". . . for us at home—fathers, mothers, children, wives, sisters, and brothers of brave men overseas, whose thoughts and prayers are ever with them—help us, Almighty God, to rededicate ourselves in renewed faith in Thee in this hour of great sacrifice." Regrettably, it is also part of the human condition to quickly forget the need for prayer once we perceive that a threat has passed and "normalcy" has been restored. This makes the words penned in 1632 by Renaissance poet Francis Quarles particularly poignant today: Our God and soldier we alike adore Ev'n at the brink of danger, not before; After deliverance, both alike requited, Our God's forgotten, and our soldiers slighted. ~ Oliver North,
941:Something is beginning in order to end: adventure does not let itself be drawn out; it only makes sense when dead. I am drawn, irrevocably, towards this death which is perhaps mine as well. Each instant appears only as part of a sequence. I cling to each instant with all my heart: I know that it is unique, irreplaceable -- and yet I would not raise a finger to stop it from being annihilated. This last moment I am spending -- in Berlin, in London -- in the arms of a woman casually met two days ago -- moment I love passionately, woman I may adore -- all is going to end, I know it. Soon I shall leave for another country. I shall never rediscover either this woman or this night. I grasp at each second, trying to suck it dry: nothing happens which I do not seize, which I do not fix forever in myself, nothing, neither the fugitive tenderness of those lovely eyes, nor the noises of the street, nor the false dawn of early morning: and even so the minute passes and I do not hold it back, I like to see it pass. ~ Jean Paul Sartre,
942:On The Dutchess Of Grafton
Under the Name of ALINDA.
A SONG.
Th' ambitious Eye that seeks alone,
Where Beauties Wonders most are shown;
Of all that bounteous Heaven displays,
Let him on bright Alinda gaze;
And in her high Example see,
All can admir'd, or wisht-for, be
An unmatch't Form, Mind like endow'd,
Estate, and Title great and proud;
A Charge Heaven dares to few commit,
So few, like her, can manage it;
Without all Blame or Envy bear,
The being Witty, Great and Fair!
So well these Murd'ring Weapons weild,
As first Herself with them to shield,
Then slaughter none in proud Disport,
Destroy those she invites to Gourt:
Great are her Charmes, but Vertue more,
She wounds no Hearts, though All adore!
'Tis Am'rous Beauty Love invites,
A Passion, like it self, excites:
The Paragon, though all admire,
Kindles in none a fond desire:
No more than those the Kings Renown
And State applaud, affect his Crown.
~ Anne Killigrew,
943:It so happens that this is particular love was precisely the sort best suited to the state of her soul. It was a sort of remote worship, a mute contemplation, a deification by an unknown votary. It was the apprehension of adolescence by adolescence, her dreams becoming romance ad remain in dream, the wished-for phantom realized at last and made flash, but still without name or wrong or fault, or need, or defect; in a word, a lover distant and ideal, a chimera having form. Any closer and more palpable encounter at this first stage would have terrified Cosette, still half buried in the magnifying mirage of the cloister. She had all the terrors of children and all the terrors of nuns mingled. The spirit of the convent, in which she had been steeped for five years, was still evaporating from her whole person, and made everything tremulous around her. In this condition, it was not a lover she needed, it was not even an admirer, it was a vision. She began to adore Marius as something charming, luminous, and impossible. ~ Victor Hugo,
944:On the coffee table is a bottle of Madeira, a plate of dark chocolates, a bowl of tiny tangerines. He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel.
He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine.
I take a bite. And my eyes snap open.
"Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief.
"Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it."
"I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfancy, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious. ~ Stacey Ballis,
945:Hymn to Fourth Avenue
Ah, all the books waiting for you
In the crowded bookshops of Fourth Avenue.
Experiences galore;
Experiences you'll adore.
Bibliographical thrills
New as the hills.
Mental fountains,
Emotional mountains.
II
In books, you'll find what you are looking for.
In books is that which makes existence more.
Our hopes in life are often in an old book store.
III
A book in Schulte's perhaps can explain
A puzzling thing. A book to lessen pain
Is now in Weiser's, rich in mental gain.
IV
Surprise is waiting on the Biblo shelves.
Green Book Store volumes tell about ourselves,
And bring us news: the word that shines and delves.
The same is true of all the other shops.
Our lives are there in all their skips and stops,
In all their valleys, all their mountain-tops.
VI
Come, then, and see what's in Fourth Avenue .
Ah, all the wealth that's old and all that's new!—
And what a page, a book, can do and do.
15
~ Eli Siegel,
946:It is religion which has ordered men to bow down before God, where once man rose up in joyful outreach. It is religion which has burdened man with worries about God’s wrath, where once man sought God to lighten his burden! It is religion which told man to be ashamed of his body and its most natural functions, where once man celebrated those functions as the greatest gifts of life! It is religion which taught you that you must have an intermediary in order to reach God, where once you thought yourself to be reaching God by the simple living of your life in goodness and in truth. And it is religion which commanded humans to adore God, where once humans adored God because it was impossible not to! Everywhere religion has gone it has created disunity—which is the opposite of God. Religion has separated man from God, man from man, man from woman—some religions actually telling man that he is above woman, even as it claims God is above man—thus setting the stage for the greatest travesties ever foisted upon half the human race. ~ Neale Donald Walsch,
947:Peter hesitates. "Ridiculous" is the least of it. How about offensive, insulting? How about the implication that "someone who's never used" is a sad and small figure, standing on the platform, sensibly dressed, as the bus pulls in? Even now, after all those ad campaigns, after all we've learned about how bad it really and truly gets, there is the glamour of self-destruction, imperishable, gem-hard, like some cursed ancient talisman that cannot be destroyed by any known means. Still, still, the ones who go down can seem as if they're more complicatedly, more dangerously attuned to the sadness and, yes, the impossible grandeur. They're romantic, goddamn them; we just can't get it up in quite the same way for the sober and sensible, the dogged achievers, for all the good they do. We don't adore them with the exquisite disdain we can bring to the addicts and miscreants. It helps, of course - let's not get carried away - if you're a young prince like Mizzy, and you've actually got something of value to destroy in the first place. ~ Michael Cunningham,
948:I adore these words, worship them actually, and yet I do not buy that part about ‘the last time in history.’ Because the narrator himself is having such a wondrous moment; because every American who comes to love this lovable, hateful place knows this wonder, too. Because screeching the brakes on my rental bike and watching a turtle that is who knows how old creep across the wilderness of palm fronds that juts against such a painfully cute subset of civilization, I know exactly why the painfully cute civilization wants to be here, build here, make their homes and babies at such a place. So what if they got it wrong? Is there anything more American than constructing some squeaky-clean city on a hill looking out across the terrible beauty of this land? While most of the rest of us have internalized these impulses, turned them into metaphors, at Celebration, Disney is attempting the real deal; like the Puritans and the pioneers, they’re carving out a new community. An eerie, xenophobic, nostalgic community I can’t wait to leave, but still. ~ Sarah Vowell,
949:Historically, ignorance has been a form of grace for the good woman; education was denied women to keep them morally good. The elevation of a woman requires that she have this innocence, this purity, this chastity: she must not know the world, which men embody. The worship of a woman or a female religious symbol is often the unmediated worship of chastity. The virgin is the great religious symbol of female good, the female who is by nature (in her body) good, who embodies the good. The awe and honor accorded the chaste female by men are frequently pointed to to show that men do not hate or degrade women, that men worship, adore, and admire women. The morally superior nature of women is honored mostly in the abstract, and women are worshiped mostly in the abstract. The worship is worship of a symbol— a symbol manipulated to justify the uses to which fallen women are put. The morally good woman is put on a pedestal—a small, precarious, raised stage, often mined, on which she stands for as long as she can—until she falls off or jumps or it goes boom. ~ Andrea Dworkin,
950:A Christmas Carol
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him,
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.
Angels and archangels
May have gathered there.
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.
21
What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part, Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
951:I could need you in many ways yet I don’t; I love you in many ways. It is peculiar. I need you only in the sense that you need yourself. I don’t expect anything to be mutually intense among us. I somehow like the thought of being the one who is feeling already more than one should. But I need you to believe that you are distinctively refreshing. And uncommon. And intriguing. It is an extreme oddity of mine but I need you to believe that. Call it a form of paranoia; I know that I am feeding your ego right now. Call it self-defense; I am putting in words your uniqueness in an attempt to explain to my own self why is it that I adore you. The truth is: You shine out like the sun shines out and you melt away all my intentions of a fatal, whatsoever, description regarding what is it exactly that you do. There is no exactness. See, it takes suns and miraculous imagery to slightly sketch you in words whereas you probably are as complex as an impressionist painting of impeccable quality. You continually provoke my blatantly awful poetical instincts; that is for sure. ~ Katherine Mansfield,
952:. . . In all parts of our globe, fanatics have cut each other's throats, publicly burnt each other, committed without a scruple and even as a duty, the greatest crimes, and shed torrents of blood . . .

Savage and furious nations, perpetually at war, adore, under divers names, some God, conformable to their ideas, that is to say, cruel, carnivorous, selfish, blood-thirsty. We find, in all the religions, 'a God of armies,' a 'jealous God,' an 'avenging God,' a 'destroying God,' a 'God,' who is pleased with carnage, and whom his worshippers consider it a duty to serve. Lambs, bulls, children, men, and women, are sacrificed to him. Zealous servants of this barbarous God think themselves obliged even to offer up themselves as a sacrifice to him. Madmen may everywhere be seen, who, after meditating upon their terrible God, imagine that to please him they must inflict on themselves, the most exquisite torments. The gloomy ideas formed of the deity, far from consoling them, have every where disquieted their minds, and prejudiced follies destructive to happiness. ~ Paul Henri Thiry,
953:Miss Molyneux, what a treat!” smiled Sabretasche, who could say impudent things so gracefully, that every one liked them from his lips. “You have the candour to say what every other young lady thinks. We know you all like us very much, but none of you will ever admit it! You say you enjoyed the review? I thought no belle, after her first season, ever condescended to ‘enjoy’ anything.” “Don’t they!” laughed Violet; “how I pity them! I am an exception, then, for I enjoy an immense number of things; everything, indeed, except my presentation, where I was ironed quite flat, and very nearly crushed to death, and, finally, came before her Majesty in a state of collapse, like a maimed india-rubber ball. Not enjoy things! Why, I enjoy my morning gallop on Bonbon; I enjoy my flowers, and birds, and dogs. I delight in the opera, I adore waltzing, I perfectly idolise music, and the day when a really good book comes out, or a really good painting is exhibited, I am in a seventh heaven. Not enjoy things! Oh, Colonel Sabretasche, when I cease to enjoy life, I hope I shall cease to live! ~ Ouida,
954:Shenandoah
Oh Shenandoah,
I long to hear you,
Away you rolling river,
Oh Shenandoah,
I long to hear you,
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.
Oh Shenandoah,
I love your daughter,
Away you rolling river,
I'll take her
'cross your rollin' water,
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.
'Tis seven years
since last I saw you.
Away you rolling river,
'Tis seven years
since last I saw you.
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.
Oh Shenandoah,
I love your daughter,
Away you rolling river,
Oh Shenandoah,
I'll come to claim her.
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.
In all these years,
Whene'er I saw her,
We have kept
Our love a secret,
Oh! Shenandoah,
I do adore her,
Away, I'm bound away
257
'Cross the wide Missouri.
Oh Shenandoah,
She's bound to leave you.
Away you rolling river,
Oh Shenandoah,
I'll not deceive you.
Away, I'm bound away
'Cross the wide Missouri.
~ Anonymous Americas,
955:You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England. I did not then see what is now the most shining and obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? The words “compelle intrare,” compel them to come in, have been so abused be wicked men that we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of the Divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation. ~ C S Lewis,
956:Jesus, Do I Love Thee?
Jesus, do I love Thee?
Thou art far above me,
Seated out of sight
Hid in Heavenly Light
Of most highest height.
Martyred hosts implore Thee,
Seraphs fall before Thee,
Angels and Archangels,
Cherub throngs adore Thee;
Blessed She that bore Thee!
All the Saints approve Thee,
All the Virgins love Thee.
I show as a blot
Blood hath cleansed not,
As a barren spot
In Thy fruitful lot.
I, fig-tree fruit-unbearing;
Thou, righteous Judge unsparing:
What canst Thou do more to me
That shall not more undo me?
Thy Justice hath a sound—
Why cumbereth it the ground?
Thy Love with stirrings stronger
Pleads—Give it one year longer.
Thou giv'st me time: but who
Save Thou shall give me dew;
Shall feed my root with Blood,
And stir my sap for good?
Oh, by Thy Gifts that shame me,
Give more lest they condemn me:
Good Lord, I ask much of Thee,
But most I ask to love Thee;
Kind Lord, be mindful of me,
Love me, and make me love Thee.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
957:The harlot sang to the beggar-man.
I meet them face to face,
Conall, Cuchulain, Usna's boys,
All that most ancient race;
Maeve had three in an hour, they say.
I adore those clever eyes,
Those muscular bodies, but can get
No grip upon their thighs.
I meet those long pale faces,
Hear their great horses, then
Recall what centuries have passed
Since they were living men.
That there are still some living
That do my limbs unclothe,
But that the flesh my flesh is gripped
I both adore and loathe.

Are those things that men adore and loathe
Their sole reality?
What stood in the Post Office
With Pearse and Connolly?
What comes out of the mountain
Where men first shed their blood?
Who thought Cuchulain till it seemed
He stood where they had stood?

No body like his body
Has modern woman borne,
But an old man looking back in life
Imagines it in scorn.
A statue's there to mark the place,
By Oliver Sheppard done.
So ends the tale that the harlot
Sang to the beggar-man.

~ William Butler Yeats, The Death of Cuchulain
,
958:You think I would take a wild lily and trim it to appear an English rose? You shall meet the ton as a bright Italian star."
Callie couldn't help but chuckle. "Capital. Shall we choose some fabrics?"
The words sent the cluster of women around them into a flurry, rolling out yards of muslins and satins, jaconet and crepe, velvet and gros de Naples in every imaginable color and pattern.
"Which do you like?" Callie asked.
Juliana turned her attention to the pile of fabrics, a bemused smile on her face. Mariana approached and locked their arms together. Leaning close, she said, "I adore that mulberry crepe. It would go beautifully with your hair." Turning to Callie she said, "And you, sister?"
Callie cocked her head in the direction of a willow green satin, and said, "If you don't leave here with an evening dress in satin, I shall be very disappointed."
Juliana laughed. "Well, then I shall have to have it! And I do like that rose muslin."
Madame Hebert lifted the bolt and passed it to a seamstress. "Excellent choice, signorina. May I suggest the gold satin as well? For evening, of course. ~ Sarah MacLean,
959:He filled his hands with the cool, clean liquid and washed his face, running a wet hand across his neck, down to his pecs, then looked around. “I…” Seeing Dan, he stopped, and smiled. “Adore you.”

Dan was about to laugh at the words, but the laughter got stuck in his throat and he tilted his head, smiling. “Why?” Reaching for the tap with hot water to clean himself up.

Vadim only stepped out of the way enough to allow Dan to wash himself, lips finding Dan’s hot skin, smelling the fresh sweat, and his hair. “Because….you can make this stop.” Vadim touched his temple. “You can kill all thoughts, all memories.”

Dan shut the tap off, dried his cock and tucked himself back in, biding his time. Turning back to Vadim, he raised his hand and touched the temple at the same place, caressing the short hair. “All bad memories?”

Vadim leaned in to kiss Dan’s wrist. “Everything. Those, too, I don’t care about them anymore, and then they’re gone.” He placed a hand on Dan’s ass and pulled him close and around enough, to kiss him. “You….” He murmured, “would blank out the sun, Dan. Everything. ~ Aleksandr Voinov,
960:What kind of love do you want?" he asked gently.
"Once I might have said like Donald and Lady Pamela. But they're imaginary. I want you to adore me like Macrath adores Virginia. Like Logan adores Mairi. I want to make your life better for being in it."
He came to her, bent his head until his lips were against her temple. "You've changed me, Ellice. You've made me whole. I won't live my life without you."
He rested his forehead against hers.
" 'Life has no meaning without you in it. Without the glory of the dawn in the shine of your hair. Without the blue of the skies in your eyes.' "
"I wrote that," she said, pulling back. "I was a bit overblown there, wasn't I?"
He smiled down at her. "Not at all. Donald is a man in love. Men in love say things that sound a bit overblown to anyone else."
"Do they?"
He nodded again. "Things like your eyes are as soft as velvet sometimes. And sometimes as hard as stone. I can always gauge your mood by how your eyes sparkle or if they don't. If you're amused or sad or a dozen other emotions. The rest of your face can be perfectly still, but you can't hide your eyes. ~ Karen Ranney,
961:Blessed Lord! I adore the love with which Thou didst teach a woman, who had refused Thee a cup of water, what the worship of God must be. I rejoice in the assurance that Thou wilt no less now instruct Thy disciple, who comes to Thee with a heart that longs to pray in spirit and in truth. O my Holy Master! do teach me this blessed secret. Teach me that the worship in spirit and truth is not of man, but only comes from Thee; that it is not only a thing of times and seasons, but the outflowing of a life in Thee. Teach me to draw near to God in prayer under the deep impression of my ignorance and my having nothing in myself to offer Him, and at the same time of the provision Thou, my Saviour, makest for the Spirit's breathing in my childlike stammerings. I do bless Thee that in Thee I am a child, and have a child's liberty of access; that in Thee I have the spirit of Sonship and of worship of truth. Teach me, above all, Blessed Son of the Father, how it is the revelation of the Father that gives confidence in prayer; and let the infinite Fatherliness of God's Heart be my joy and strength for a life of prayer and of worship. Amen. ~ Andrew Murray,
962:Suffer Little Children, And Forbid Them Not, To Come
Unto Me
To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented
Their children-what fears and what hopes they must feel!
When this the disciples would fain have prevented,
Our Saviour reproved their unseasonable zeal.
Not only free leave to come to him was given
But 'of such' were the blessed words Christ our Lord spake,
'Of such is composed the kingdom of heaven:'
The disciples, abashëd, perceived their mistake.
With joy then the parents their children brought nigher
And earnestly begged that his hands he would lay
On their heads; and they made a petition still higher,
That he for a blessing upon them would pray.
O happy young children, thus brought to adore him,
To kneel at his feet, and look up in his face;
No doubt now in heaven they still are before him,
Children still of his love, and enjoying his grace.
For being so blest as to come to our Saviour,
How deep in their innocent hearts it must sink!
'Twas a visit divine; a most holy behaviour
Must flow from that spring of which then they did drink.
~ Charles Lamb,
963:I too, as happens to every man once in his life, have been taken by Satan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he showed me all the kingdoms of the world, and as he said before, so said he to me, `Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?' I reflected long, for a gnawing ambition had long preyed upon me, and then I replied, `Listen, — I have always heard of providence, and yet I have never seen him, or anything that resembles him, or which can make me believe that he exists. I wish to be providence myself, for I feel that the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is to recompense and punish.' Satan bowed his head, and groaned. `You mistake,' he said, `providence does exist, only you have never seen him, because the child of God is as invisible as the parent. You have seen nothing that resembles him, because he works by secret springs, and moves by hidden ways. All I can do for you is to make you one of the agents of that providence.' The bargain was concluded. I may sacrifice my soul, but what matters it?" added Monte Cristo. "If the thing were to do again, I would again do it. ~ Various,
964:But how much happier will be the man, when he gets to heaven, who has it said of him, “He will shine like the stars forever and ever, because he was wise and turned many to righteousness.” It is always my greatest joy to believe, that if I should enter heaven before many of you, I will see heaven’s gates open, and you will fly by me, looking at me with a smile on your face, and proceed to God’s throne, where you will worship and adore him, before flying back to me, and though I do not know you, you will grab my hand, and if there were tears in heaven, I would surely weep, as you say to me: “Brother, it was from your lips that I heard the gospel. It was your voice that first warned me about my sin. Here I am and you are the means God used to save me.” And as the gates open again and again, more will come in. Souls redeemed and more souls redeemed. And for each one of these a star, another gem in the crown of glory. Each one another honor and another note in the song of praise. “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.” “‘Blessed indeed,’ says the Spirit, ‘that they may rest from their labors, for their deeds follow them! ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
965:We live in an unbelieving age but one which is markedly and lopsidedly spiritual. There is one type of modern man who recognizes spirit in himself but who fails to recognize a being outside himself whom he can adore as Creator and Lord; consequently he has become his own ultimate concern. He says with Swinburne, "Glory to man in the highest, for he is the master of things," or with Steinbeck, "In the end was the word and the word was with men." For him, man has his own natural spirit of courage and dignity and pride and must consider it a point of honor to be satisfied with this.

There is another type of modern man who recognizes a divine being not himself, but who does not believe that this being can be known anagogically or defined dogmatically or received sacramentally. Spirit and matter are separated for him. Man wanders about, caught in a maze of guilt he can't identify, trying to reach a God he can't approach, a God powerless to approach him.

And there is another type of modern man who can neither believe nor contain himself in unbelief and who searches desperately, feeling about in all experience for the lost God. ~ Flannery O Connor,
966:I have a religion, my own religion, and I even have more religion than all of them, with their mummery and hocus-pocus. I adore God! I believe in the Supreme Being, in a Creator, whatever He is, it doesn't matter to me, who has placed us here below to fulfill our duties as citizens and as fathers; but I don't need to go to church to kiss silver plates and empty my pocket to fatten a lot of humbugs who are better fed than we are! For one can honor Him just as well in the woods, in a field, or even by contemplating the vault of the heavens, as the ancients did. My personal God is the God of Socrates, of Franklin, Voltaire, and Béranger. I'm for the Profession of Faith of the Savoyard Vicar and the immoral principles of '89! So I don't admit any old codger of a God who walks in his garden with a cane in his hand, lodges his friends in the bellies of whales, dies with a groan and comes to life at the end of three days: absurdities in themselves and, furthermore, completely opposed to all physical laws; which proves, by the way, that the priests have always beens sunk in a mire of ignorance in which they force the populace to wallow with them. ~ Gustave Flaubert,
967:The Christening
Arrayed-a half angelic sightIn nests of pure baptismal white,
The mother to the font doth bring
The little, helpless, nameless thing,
With hushes soft, and mild caressing,
At once to get-a name and blessing!
Close to the babe the priest doth stand,
The sacred water at his hand,
That must assoil the soul within
From every stain of Adam's sin.
The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,
Nor knows what all this wonder means;
And now he smiles, as if to say,
'I am a Christian made to-day;'
Now, frighted, clings to nurse's hold,
Shrinking from the water cold,
Whose virtues, rightly understood,
Are, as Bethesda's waters, goodStrange words! 'The World, the Flesh, the Devil.'
Poor Babe, what can it know of evil?
But we must silently adore
Mysterious truths, and not explore.
Enough for him, in after times,
When he shall read these artless rhymes,
If, looking back upon this day,
With easy conscience he can say'I have in part redeemed the pledge
Of my baptismal privilege
And vow, and more will strive to flee
All that my sponsors kind renounced for me.
~ Charles Lamb,
968:Cady had drawn a goblet filled with layers of peaches and brown sugar and rum and shortbread crumbs, topped with maple whipped cream.
"I love the Scottish shortbread in here. Let's add a cookie to the top." Elliott drew that onto the picture.
"I'll make some candied violets for a garnish. It will look spectacular. And since Elliott has now been trained, he can be my sous-chef." Cady smirked.
Elliott chuckled and patted Cady on the head. "Nice try. I approve of the candied violets, especially since Jenny will adore that idea." He added some more notations onto the menu. "And let's cut the richness of this meal with a little palate cleanser between the entrée and dessert. How about tipsy oranges?"
"Oh. That sounds good. How do you make that?" She leaned closer to him, needing to feel his heat. He pressed his arm against hers, instinctively reacting to her needs. How had this happened so fast? This connection between them?
"Easiest thing in the world. Section the orange, drizzle Drambuie on top, sprinkle some brown sugar on there and broil quickly to get the sugar bubbling. Add some fresh mint. A quick, refreshing stop before Cady's decadent dessert. ~ Penny Watson,
969:Six Telltale Signs of a Winning Strategy

1) An activity system that looks different from any competitor's system. It means you are tempting to deliver value in a distinctive way.

2) Customers who absolutely adore you, and noncustomers who can't see why anybody would buy from you. This means you have been choiceful.

3) Competitors who make a good profit doing what they are doing. It means your strategy has left where-to-play and how-to-win choices for competitors, who don't need to attack the heart of your market to survive.

4) More resources to spend on an ongoing basis than competitors have. This means you are winning the value equation and have the biggest margin between price and costs and best capacity to add spending to take advantage of an opportunity to defend your turf.

5) Competitors who attack one another, not you. It means that you look like the hardest target in the (broadly defined) industry to attack.

6) Customers who look first to you for innovations, new products, and service enhancement to make their lives better. This means that your customers believe that you are uniquely positioned to create value for them. ~ A G Lafley,
970:Gwenvael looked down at his body. Horrified, he sat up. “What is this? What’s happened to me?”
“Calm down. It’ll heal quick enough, I’m sure.”
“Heal? I’m hideous!”
“You’re alive.”
“Hideously alive!” He covered her face with his hands. “Don’t look at me! Look away!”
“Stop it!” She pulled at his hands. “Have you lost your mind?”

Gwenvael dropped back to the bed, turned his face toward the wall. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Gwenvael—”
“I’ll have to live alone, at the top of a castle somewhere. I’ll hide from the daylight and only come out at night.”
“Please stop this.”
“I’ll be alone but not for long because you’ll all want me more. You’ll lust for the beautiful warrior I once was and pity the hideous creature I’ve become. Most importantly, you’ll want to soothe my pain.” He looked at her again. “Don’t you want to soothe my pain? Right now? Without that dress on?”
“No. I do not.”
Dagmar tried to stand, and Gwenvael caught her hand, pulling her back down. “You can’t leave me. I’m tortured and brooding. You need to show me how much you adore me so I can learn to love myself again.”
“You’ve never stopped loving yourself.”
“Because I’m amazing. ~ G A Aiken,
971:CLEANTE. That is the usual strain of all your kind; They must have every one as blind as they. They call you atheist if you have good eyes; And if you don't adore their vain grimaces, You've neither faith nor care for sacred things. No, no; such talk can't frighten me; I know What I am saying; heaven sees my heart. We're not the dupes of all your canting mummers; There are false heroes—and false devotees; And as true heroes never are the ones Who make much noise about their deeds of honour, Just so true devotees, whom we should follow, Are not the ones who make so much vain show. What! Will you find no difference between Hypocrisy and genuine devoutness? And will you treat them both alike, and pay The self-same honour both to masks and faces Set artifice beside sincerity, Confuse the semblance with reality, Esteem a phantom like a living person, And counterfeit as good as honest coin? Men, for the most part, are strange creatures, truly! You never find them keep the golden mean; The limits of good sense, too narrow for them, Must always be passed by, in each direction; They often spoil the noblest things, because They go too far, and push them to extremes. I merely say this by the way, good brother. ~ Moli re,
972:Primal, All-pervasive, Unrivaled, Unchanging, First Mover, Hoard of virtue, All-powerful, Beyond creation, Incomprehensible, Forever present. Only Ram's name can entice the heart. Repeat this always: His name is ambrosia, it is the true reality. Remember His name and suffering shall vanish. Remember His name and birth, old age, death shall not touch you. If you wish to defeat Yama and his hordes, seek honor, peace and goodness. The present, the past, the future are all transitory and fleeting -- only He is everlasting and infinite. Forsake all lusts; do not look longingly upon what others posses and hold -- it is not fitting. Abandon all evil deeds and all evil thoughts. Go and seek the refuge of Chakradhar. Experience for yourself Hari's love through holiness, through right deeds, through right words. What use is yoga? What good is the world? What good is giving alms, what good penance? Adore Gobind, Gobind, O mortal, for He is the source of all spiritual power. Openly, without hesitation, Jayadeva comes seeking His refuge -- for He existed in the past, He exists today. He abides in all things. [2184.jpg] -- from Songs of the Saints from the Adi Granth, Translated by Nirmal Dass

~ Jayadeva, Raga Gujri
,
973:This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever? ~ Mary Oliver,
974:November 1 “Faithful is he that calleth you, who also will do it.” 1 Thessalonians 5:24 WHAT will he do? He will sanctify us wholly. See the previous verse. He will carry on the work of purification till we are perfect in every part. He will preserve our “whole spirit, and soul, and body, blameless unto the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.” He will not allow us to fall from grace, nor come under the dominion of sin. What great favours are these! Well may we adore the giver of such unspeakable gifts. Who will do this? The Lord who has called us out of darkness into his marvellous light, out of death in sin into eternal life in Christ Jesus. Only he can do this: such perfection and preservation can only come from the God of all grace. Why will he do it? Because he is “faithful,” – faithful to his own promise which is pledged to save the believer; faithful to his Son, whose reward it is that his people shall be presented to him faultless; faithful to the work which he has commenced in us by our effectual calling. It is not their own faithfulness, but the Lord’s own faithfulness, on which the saints rely. Come, my soul, here is a grand feast to begin a dull month with. There may be fogs without, but there should be sunshine within. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
975:Nature teaches us to devour each other and gives us the example of all the crimes and all the vices which the social state corrects or conceals. We should love virtue; but it is well to know that this is simply and solely a convenient expedient invented by men in order to live comfortably together. What we call morality is merely a desperate enterprise, a forlorn hope, on the part of our fellow creatures to reverse the order of the universe, which is strife and murder, the blind interplay of hostile forces. She destroys herself, and the more I think of things, the more convinced I am that the universe is mad. Theologians and philosophers, who make God the author of Nature and the architect of the universe, show Him to us as illogical and ill-conditioned. They declare Him benevolent, because they are afraid of Him, but they are forced to admit that His acts are atrocious. They attribute a malignity to him seldom to be found even in mankind. And that is how they get human beings to adore Him. For our miserable race would never lavish worship on just and benevolent deities from which they would have nothing to fear; they would feel only a barren gratitude for their benefits. Without purgatory and hell, your good God would be a mighty poor creature. ~ Anatole France,
976:When the organ peals out its melodious tones, but the heart is not in the singing, do you think that God has ears like a man, which can be tickled with sweet sounds? Why have you brought Him down to your level? He is spiritual! The music that delights Him is the love of a true heart, the prayer of an anxious spirit! He has better music than all your organs and drums can ever bring to Him! If He wanted music, He would not have asked you, for winds and wave make melodies transcendently superior to all your chief musicians can compose! Does He want candles when His torch makes the mountains to be great altars smoking with the incense of praise to the God of Creation? Oh, Brothers and Sisters, I fear that it has been true of many who externally appeared to be devout, [that] ‘when they knew God, they glorified Him not as God!’ Weep over your sins; then have you glorified Him as God! Fall on your face and be nothing before the Most High; then you have glorified Him as God! Accept His righteousness. Adore His bleeding Son. Trust in His infinite compassion. Then you have glorified Him as God, for ‘God is a Spirit and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.’ How far, my dear hearers, have you complied with that requisition?”–1892, Sermon 2257 ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
977:Pushing Elsie back, I said, “I’m not the most special guy in the world. I’m no one’s perfect dream. I’m not sure I’ll ever do anything extraordinary with my life. I’ll always be that little bit awkward, and that little bit too shy. I’ll always blush and dip my head, but if you’ll let me, I’ll be the one that’s there for you. I’ll be happy knowing I’ve got you and you’ve got me. That’s enough for me, to be the one that you can lean on, to be the one to tell you you’re beautiful every day. And talk to. I’ll adore every sound that comes out of your mouth. I’ll be the one to love you like nothing you’ve ever seen, bella mia.” I blushed with embarrassment, but managed to rasp, “If you’ll just let me… If you want me.”

Elsie sobbed out a cry, tears tumbling down her rosy cheeks. “Levi. You are my dream realized, in every possible way. You are the most special person in my world. And I love that you blush—because I do too.” She wiped at her cheeks. “I love that you’re shy, and,” her breathing hitched, “I love that you love my voice. I love that I never have hide who I am, disguise how I sound. Because I’m tired of trying to please others.” She dipped her eyes and almost flattened me when she said, “You’re my kind of extraordinary. Levi Carillo, you’re the sweetest of souls. ~ Tillie Cole,
978:He is stark mad, whoever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour ;
Who will believe me, if I swear
That I have had the plague a year?
Who would not laugh at me, if I should say
I saw a flash of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into love's hands it come !
All other griefs allow a part
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some ;
They come to us, but us love draws ;
He swallows us and never chaws ;
By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die ;
He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

If 'twere not so, what did become
Of my heart when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the room,
But from the room I carried none with me.
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
More pity unto me ; but Love, alas !
At one first blow did shiver it as glass.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite ;
Therefore I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, though they be not unite ;
And now, as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more. ~ John Donne,
979:Favourable Chance, I fancy, is the god of all men who follow their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe in. Let even a polished man of these days get into a position he is ashamed to avow, and his mind will be bent on all the possible issues that may deliver him from the calculable results of that position. Let him live outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work that brings wages, and he will presently find himself dreaming of a possible benefactor, a possible simpleton who may be cajoled into using his interest, a possible state of mind in some possible person not yet forthcoming. Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, and he will inevitably anchor himself on the chance that the thing left undone may turn out not to be of the supposed importance. Let him betray his friend's confidence, and he will adore that same cunning complexity called Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend will never know. Let him forsake a decent craft that he may pursue the gentilities of a profession to which nature never called him, and his religion will infallibly be the worship of blessed Chance, which he will believe in as the mighty creator of success. The evil principle deprecated in that religion is the orderly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind. ~ George Eliot,
980:Winter Twilight
ALONG the wintry skyline,
Crowning the rocky crest,
Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees
Against the saffron west,—
Its gray and purple network
Of branching tracery
Outspread upon the lucent air,
Like weed within the sea.
The scarlet robe of autumn
Renounced and put away,
The mystic Earth is fairer still, —
A Puritan in gray.
The spirit of the winter,
How tender, how austere!
Yet all the ardor of the spring
And summer's dream are here.
Fear not, O timid lover,
The touch of frost and rime!
This is the virtue that sustained
The roses in their prime.
The anthem of the northwind
Shall hallow thy despair,
The benediction of the snow
Be answer to thy prayer.
And now the star of evening
That is the pilgrim's sign,
Is lighted in the primrose dusk, —
A lamp before a shrine.
Peace fills the mighty minster,
Tranquil and gray and old,
And all the chancel of the west
Is bright with paling gold.
A little wind goes sifting
Along the meadow floor,—
Like steps of lovely penitents
Who sighingly adore.
Then falls the twilight curtain,
And fades the eerie light,
And frost and silence turn the keys
223
In the great doors of night.
~ Bliss William Carman,
981:On The Turn
Like the twang of an old complaint, the pong
of decomposing swan songs hit him
as a jangle rose
from the dee-jay equipment
and the gates groaned open on Hullabaloo. The threshold
yawned like something out of Jaws. “Je t’adore, flophead.
Jette this way, s’il vous plait.”
She didn’t actually say
she was charmed, but he knew she was. They all were.
Adjusting his tie in a mirror, the old goat
stared fixedly ahead.
Just then a knock
knock joke surfaced and submerged him, Eurydice
felt, in a funk
band fantasy — part enactment, part cow.
Then without warning a ding-a-ling
effect.
“Hello? Yes, it’s true
Riff-Raff, I’m a virgin. When the black priest comes
for eight days I will offer you a candle.”
Muttering
“Attaboy” intermittently, the big-eared gimmick
held out his hands to Chaste Lily
for example.
“Swiftly,
I’ve been a swine too long. To change ...” is what
he thought they might have wanted him to say —
tingling, softly, in a flutter.
He was a bit of a looker
into dark places and the artless. He often
plucked arrangements people
up to their old tricks
pulled apart and attached strings to. Later he’d
call them names of course — Chouchou,
Oh Rarefied, Nix.
~ Chris Edwards,
982:Montreal
October 1704
Temperature 55 degrees

None of the captives possessed the freedom to choose anything or take care of anyone.
It turned out that Eben Nims believed otherwise.
Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.”
Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl.
“I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.”
Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.”
“I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.”
They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission?
“My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.”
Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me. ~ Caroline B Cooney,
983:O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen. ~ Mark Twain,
984:mention that!). Teresa is way more than an agent. She’s also a lovely, thoughtful person. I’d also like to thank my good friends Susan McKenzie and Lili de Grandpré, for their help and support. And finally I want to say a word about the poetry I use in this book, and the others. As much as I’d love not to say anything and hope you believe I wrote it, I actually need to thank the wonderful poets who’ve allowed me to use their works and words. I adore poetry, as you can tell. Indeed, it inspires me—with words and emotions. I tell aspiring writers to read poetry, which I think for them is often the literary equivalent of being told to eat Brussels sprouts. They’re none too enthusiastic. But what a shame if a writer doesn’t at least try to find poems that speak to him or her. Poets manage to get into a couplet what I struggle to achieve in an entire book. I thought it was time I acknowledged that. In this book I use, as always, works from Margaret Atwood’s slim volume Morning in the Burned House. Not a very cheerful title, but brilliant poems. I’ve also quoted from a lovely old work called The Bells of Heaven by Ralph Hodgson. And a wonderful poem called “Gravity Zero” from an emerging Canadian poet named Mike Freeman, from his book Bones. I wanted you to know that. And I hope these poems speak to you, as they speak to me. ~ Louise Penny,
985:Adorable
Yet, at the same time that adorable says everything, it also says what is lacking in everything.

I encounter millions of bodies in my life; of these millions, I may desire some hundreds, but of these hundreds, I love only one.

The choice, so vigorous that it retains only the Unique, constitutes, it is said, the difference between the analytical transference and the amorous transference; one is universal, the other specific. It has taken many accidents, many surprising coincidences (and perhaps many efforts), for me to find the Image which, out of thousand, suits my desire.

Herein a great enigma, to which I shall never possess the key: why is it that I desire so-and-so? Why is it that I desire so-and-so lastingly, longingly? It is the whole so-and-so I desire.

In that case, what is it in this loved body which has the vocation of a fetish for me? what perhaps incredibly tenuous portion -- what accident? The way a nail is cut, a tooth broken slightly aslant, a lock of hair, a way of spreading fingers while talking, while smoking? About all these folds of the body, I want to say that they are adorable. Adorable means: this is my desire, insofar as it is unique.

The adorable is what is adorable. Or again, I adore you because you are adorable, I love you because I love you. ~ Roland Barthes,
986:The Common Lot
It is a common fate – a woman’s lot –
To waste on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
As I look up into your eyes, and wait
For some response to my fond gaze and touch,
It seems to me there is no sadder fate
Than to be doomed to loving overmuch.
Are you not kind? Ah, yes, so very kind –
So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true.
Yes, yes, dear heart; but I, not being blind,
Know that I am not loved, as I love you.
One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
Will fill my soul with music and with song;
And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
The heart-tone from your voice, my world goes wrong.
And oftentimes you think me childish – weak –
When at some thoughtless word the tears will start;
You cannot understand how aught you speak
Has power to stir the deapths of my poor heart.
I cannot help it, dear – I wish I could,
Or feign indifference where I now adore;
For if I seemed to love you less, you would,
Manlike, I have no doubt, love me the more.
‘Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,
A constant heart; for fact doth daily prove
That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,
While fickle natures win the deeper love.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
987:Let kings stack their treasure houses ceiling-high, and merchants burst their vaults with hoarded coin, and fools envy them. I have a treasure that outvalues theirs. A diamond as big as a man’s skull. Twelve rubies each as big as the skull of a cat. Seventeen emeralds each as big as the skull of a mole. And certain rods of crystal and bars of orichalcum. Let Overlords swagger jewel-bedecked and queens load themselves with gems, and fools adore them. I have a treasure that will outlast theirs. A treasure house have I builded for it in the far southern forest, where the two hills hump double, like sleeping camels, a day’s ride beyond the village of Soreev. “A great treasure house with a high tower, fit for a king’s dwelling—yet no king may dwell there.  Immediately below the keystone of the chief dome my treasure lies hid, eternal as the glittering stars. It will outlast me and my name, I, Urgaan of Angarngi. It is my hold on the future. Let fools seek it. They shall win it not. For although my treasure house be empty as air, no deadly creature in rocky lair, no sentinel outside anywhere, no pitfall, poison, trap, or snare, above and below the whole place bare, of demon or devil not a hair, no serpent lethal-fanged yet fair, no skull with mortal eye a-glare, yet have I left a guardian there. Let the wise read this riddle and forbear. ~ Fritz Leiber,
988:An Elegy
THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing be such
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise.
A virtue, like allay so gone
Throughout your form as, though that move
And draw and conquer all men's love,
This subjects you to love of one.
Wherein you triumph yet-because
'Tis of your flesh, and that you use
The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against or faith or honour's laws.
But who should less expect from you?
In whom alone Love lives again:
By whom he is restored to men,
And kept and bred and brought up true.
His falling temples you have rear'd,
The wither'd garlands ta'en away;
His altars kept from that decay
That envy wish'd, and nature fear'd:
And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyalty's expense,
As Love to acquit such excellence
Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he-the deity
To whom all lovers are design'd
That would their better objects find;
Among which faithful troop am IWho as an off'ring at your shrine
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat
To light upon a love of mine.
27
Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view;
Yet give me leave to adore in you
What I in her am grieved to want!
~ Ben Jonson,
989:Femmes Damnées
Like pensive cattle, lying on the sands,
they turn their eyes towards the sea’s far hills,
and, feet searching each other’s, touching hands,
know sweet languor and the bitterest thrills.
Some, where the stream babbles, deep in the woods,
their hearts enamoured of long intimacies,
go spelling out the loves of their own girlhoods,
and carving the green bark of young trees.
Others, like Sisters, walk, gravely and slow,
among the rocks, full of apparitions,
where Saint Anthony saw, like lava flows,
the bared crimson breasts of his temptations.
There are those, in the melting candle’s glimmer,
who in mute hollows of caves still pagan,
call on you to relieve their groaning fever,
O Bacchus, to soothe the remorse of the ancients!
And others, whose throats love scapularies,
who, hiding whips under their long vestment,
in the sombre groves of the night, solitaries,
blend the sweats of joy with the tears of torment.
O virgins, o demons, o monsters, o martyrs,
great spirits, despisers of reality,
now full of cries, now full of tears,
pious and lustful, seeking infinity,
you, whom my soul has pursued to your hell,
poor sisters, I adore you as much as I weep,
for your dismal sufferings, thirsts that swell,
and the vessels of love, where your great hearts steep!
~ Charles Baudelaire,
990:After the races had ended, the faire wound down, and Grayden tugged me toward a stand where the vendor’s wares were rapidly depleting.
“Come!” he exclaimed. “I want to get you something--a remembrance.”
I laughed, for he was pulling me toward a display of headpieces made of woven flowers and ribbons, but he was not to be deterred. He worked toward the front of the stand, extracted a coin from his money pouch and flipped it at the woman in charge.
“I’d like your best one for the girl I’m courting,” he proclaimed, and I suspected the real truth was that he wanted to say the words.
“They are all finely made, young sir. Which one is best is a matter of the color you desire.”
Grayden studied me, trying to choose. I struck a pose to help.
“Green,” he decided. “For she has the loveliest hazel eyes.”
His words shocked me into silence, and a strange notion flashed in my brain. He had said my eyes were lovely. Could he possibly think I was beautiful?
“Shaselle?” he faltered, probably afraid he had offended me. “Would you prefer a different color?”
“Not at all! I adore green!”
His grin resurfaced and he nestled the chosen crown into my hair, which fell in a simple braid down my back. I beamed at him, the world seeming brighter, less tainted and revitalized, for somehow my uncle Cannan had come through--he had found me a young man that Papa would have been proud to know. ~ Cayla Kluver,
991:France is to me the only country in the world. She has experienced everything. But it is in little things that she is great—in tenderness, in patience, in reverence. France does not lust to dominate the world. She is like a woman, rather, who seduces you. She is not even a beautiful woman at first sight. But she knows how to entwine herself in your affections. She reveals herself slowly, circumspectly, always holding back the real charm, the real treasures, until the moment when they will be justly appreciated. She does not fling herself at you like a whore. The soul of France is chaste and pure, like a flower. We are reticent not out of timidity but because we have much to give. France is an inexhaustible treasure vault and we, the people of France, are the humble guardians of that great treasure. We are not generous like you—perhaps because what we possess we have gained through great suffering. Every inch of our soil has been fought over time and again. If we love our soil, as few people in the world do, it is because it has been well watered by the blood of our forefathers. To you it may seem like a small life that we lead but to us it is deep and rich—especially to us who live in the provinces. I have lived in Paris and I adore it, but this is the real life here among the people of the soil. We are bored sometimes, it is true, but that passes. We remain French—that is the important thing. ~ Henry Miller,
992:I do not want to keep these things from you. I adore you, puppy. I am just afraid of losing Thomas.”
It was nice hearing Boris say that, but it didn’t make Hans feel much better. He’d still behaved like a child throwing a tantrum. These two men were giving him everything—a job he liked doing, a great place to live, good food, fantastic sex, affection—and he’d blown up because they had a couple of things they liked to reserve for themselves. “I’m sorry. I do understand.”
Boris reached out and took his hand. “I will start teaching you if you really want to learn. Thomas tells me it is a very hard language for English speakers. The vocabulary is strange.”
“Really?” Hans asked, growing ridiculously excited, as if someone had just handed him the map to Blackbeard’s treasure.
“It will take a very long time, puppy, before you can understand the things Thomas and I say to each other. But we have been rude. We should not speak so much in front of you.”
“No!” Hans exclaimed. “Don’t do that. I want to start picking up phrases. You should talk in front of me more!”
Boris laughed. “I had no idea this was so important to you. You really want to be close to us.”
“I do!”
Boris pulled him in for a long kiss, caressing his back and then sliding his hand partway under Hans’s ass. By the time the kiss ended, they both had raging hard-ons. “You want a pet name for me, puppy?”
“Yes! ~ Jamie Fessenden,
993:The ambition of domineering over the mind, is one of the strongest passions. A theologian, a missionary, or a partisan of any description, is always for conquering like a prince, and there are many more sects than there are sovereigns in the world…. I conclude, that every sensible man, every honest man, ought to hold Christianity in abhorrence. ‘The great name of Theist, which we can never sufficiently revere,’ is the only name we ought to adopt. The only gospel we should read is the grand book of nature, written with God’s own hand, and stamped with his own seal. The only religion we ought to profess is, 'to adore God, and act like honest men.’ It would be as impossible for this simple and eternal religion to produce evil, as it would be impossible for Christian fanaticism not to produce it…. But what shall we substitute in its place? say you. What? A ferocious animal has sucked the blood of my relatives. I tell you to rid yourselves of this beast, and you ask me what you shall put in its place! Is it you that put this question to me? Then you are a hundred times more odious than the Pagan Pontiffs, who permitted themselves to enjoy tranquility among their ceremonies and sacrifices, who did not attempt to enslave the mind by dogmas, who never disputed the powers of the magistrates, and who introduced no discord among mankind. You have the face to ask what you must substitute in the place of your fables! ~ Voltaire,
994:Chubby: A regular-size person who could lose a few, for whom you feel affection. Chubster: An overweight, adorable child. That kid from Two and a Half Men for the first couple of years. Fatso: An antiquated term, really. In the 1970s, mean sorority girls would call a pledge this. Probably most often used on people who aren’t even really fat, but who fear being fat. Fatass: Not usually used to describe weight, actually. This deceptive term is more a reflection of one’s laziness. In the writers’ room of The Office, an upper-level writer might get impatient and yell, “Eric, take your fat ass and those six fatasses and go write this B-story! I don’t want to hear any more excuses why the plot doesn’t make sense!” Jabba the Hutt: Star Wars villain. Also, something you can call yourself after a particularly filling Thanksgiving dinner that your aunts and uncles will all laugh really hard at. Obese: A serious, nonpejorative way to describe someone who is unhealthily overweight. Obeseotron: A nickname you give to someone you adore who has just stepped on your foot accidentally, and it hurts. Alternatively, a fat robot. Overweight: When someone is roughly thirty pounds too heavy for his or her frame. Pudgy: See “Chubby.” Pudgo: See “Chubster.” Tub o’ Lard: A huge compliment given by Depression-era people to other, less skinny people. Whale: A really, really mean way that teen boys target teen girls. See the following anecdote. ~ Mindy Kaling,
995:The only acceptable hobby, throughout all stages of life, is cookery. As a child: adorable baked items. Twenties: much appreciated spag bol and fry-ups. Thirties and forties: lovely stuff with butternut squash and chorizo from the Guardian food section. Fifties and sixties: beef wellington from the Sunday Telegraph magazine. Seventies and eighties: back to the adorable baked items. Perfect. The only teeny tiny downside of this hobby is that I HATE COOKING.
Don't get me wrong; I absolutely adore the eating of the food. It's just the awful boring, frightening putting together of it that makes me want to shove my own fists in my mouth. It's a lovely idea: follow the recipe and you'll end up with something exactly like the pretty picture in the book, only even more delicious. But the reality's rather different. Within fifteen minutes of embarking on a dish I generally find myself in tears in the middle of what appears to be a bombsite, looking like a mentally unstable art teacher in a butter-splattered apron, wondering a) just how I am supposed to get hold of a thimble and a half of FairTrade hazelnut oil (why is there always the one impossible-to-find recipe ingredient? Sesame paste, anyone?) and b) just how I managed to get flour through two closed doors onto the living-room curtains, when I don't recall having used any flour and oh-this-is-terrible-let's-just-go-out-and-get-a-Wagamama's-and-to-hell-with-the-cost, dammit. ~ Miranda Hart,
996:He leaned forward and placed his forehead against hers, smiling as he spoke in low, liquid tones. “I adore you. I adore your laugh and your wit and your intelligence and your confidence. I cannot think of another woman I would rather have by my side than you. You are as brilliant as you are beautiful and I probably should have realized it years ago, but I seem to be rather dull-witted.” She shook her head, “I think that, at this particular moment, you are rather a genius.” “Oh, you do?” he said teasingly. “And what else are you thinking?” She smiled softly at his obvious attempt to entice her into revealing her feelings. “I’m thinking you have the most beautiful eyes in the world. And that your shoulders have grown exponentially broader since last year. And that your smile is the only thing able to make me forget myself and do things that are thoroughly inexcusable. “Mostly, however, I’m thinking that you’ve been my savior for years…since before I can remember…my friend for the same length of time. And I honestly believe that there is nothing that could have stopped me from falling in love with you. It was only a matter of time.” “Say the words,” he prodded. “I love you, Gavin. I love the boy you were and the man you have become.” She had never been so certain of anything in her life. “Capital,” he pronounced, and kissed her roundly, threading his fingers through her hair, scattering her hairpins and setting her heart racing. After ~ Sarah MacLean,
997:the first necessity; :::
   The first necessity is to dissolve that central faith and vision in the mind which concentrate it on its development and satisfaction and interests in the old externalised order of things. It is imperative to exchange this surface orientation for the deeper faith and vision which see only the Divine and seek only after the Divine. The next need is to compel all our lower being to pay homage to this new faith and greater vision. All our nature must make an integral surrender; it must offer itself in every part and every movement to that which seems to the unregenerated sensemind so much less real than the material world and its objects. Our whole being - soul, mind, sense, heart, will, life, body - must consecrate all its energies so entirely and in such a way that it shall become a fit vehicle for the Divine. This is no easy task; for everything in the world follows the fixed habit which is to it a law and resists a radical change. And no change can be more radical than the revolution attempted in the integral Yoga. Everything in us has constantly to be called back to the central faith and will and vision. Every thought and impulse has to be reminded in the language of the Upanishad that That is the divine Brahman and not this which men here adore. Every vital fibre has to be persuaded to accept an entire renunciation of all that hitherto represented to it its own existence.
   ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, Self-Consecration, 72,
998:We adore You, O Christ, and we praise You, because by Your holy cross, You have redeemed the world. Jesus, most innocent, who neither did nor could commit a sin, was condemned to death, and moreover, to the most ignominious death of the cross. To remain a friend of Caesar, Pilate delivered Him into the hands of His enemies. A fearful crime – to condemn Innocence to death, and to offend God in order not to displease men! O innocent Jesus, having sinned, I am guilty of eternal death, but You willingly accept the unjust sentence of death, that I might live. For whom, then, shall I live, if not for You, my Lord? Should I desire to please men, I could not be Your servant. Let me, therefore, rather displease men and all the world, than not please You, O Jesus. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. Lord Jesus, crucified, have mercy on us! The Second Station Jesus is made to carry His Cross ~ Saint Francis of Assisi,
999:We are all shits, my friends. We are all literary snobs in this vicarious little room of our own, dilettantish, smug, hidden from the fucked-up world. We are enslaved to the folly and the whirlpool of our own obsessions. Where is now rather than our own deeply intoxicating pasts? Where is Lampedusa, where is the tragedy of others? What do we think of a man playing "Nessun Dorma" on a saw in the shadows of a U-station? The lost homeless in Kreuzberg, the drug pushers in Gorlitzer Park, the illegally immigrant prostitutes, freezing their arses at Hackescher Markt? And all the other foreigners, wretched foreigners, who don't have wine and company? Why do we meet for this writer who laments his lost Russia, when losses are everywhere? We adore him because we find some cracked mirror there, we think that words will save us, that a fine description will drag us away from our own disappointments, and offer consolation, or explanation, or the return of a disappeared father. We want to cancel our nothingness with his vigour of incarnation, we want to believe, truly believe, in literary salvation. Who else tells us that a twig reflected in a puddle is worthy of our notice? That it looks like an undeveloped photograph, that it symptomises something inside us, that it reminds us of the entanglements of words and things and reflections; that we must all notice the withering as well as the blossoming; and that immortal gesture is always present and exists inside the world... ~ Gail Jones,
1000:When Postman wrote the introduction to his important book Amusing Ourselves to Death, he set forth the stance he adopts by contrasting the warnings of George Orwell’s 1984 and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World: Orwell warns that we will be overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley’s vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their autonomy, maturity, and history. As he saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think…. What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much information that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared that the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared that we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared that we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. In 1984, Orwell added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we hate will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us. This book is about the possibility that Huxley, not Orwell, was right.34 ~ D A Carson,
1001:Dinner was a family affair. And oh, how she enjoyed it! Who knew there was so much to talk about each day? She loved when the men shared stories about their work in the mines, while she often regaled them with stories about life in the castle when she was a small child or about the types of birds she spotted from the window. And then there were the questions. She found she had many! After staying silent for so long, there was much she longed to know, and she was always interested in learning more about the men and their lives. She wanted to know who had carved the beautiful wooden doorways and furniture around the cottage, and why the deer and the birds seemed to linger at the kitchen window while she prepped meals.
"They must adore you, as we do," gushed Bashful.
"And I you!" Snow would say. She found she could talk to them till the candle burned out each night.
It felt like she was finally waking up and finding her voice after years of silent darkness. And while she promised the men she would not do more than her share of the housework, she couldn't help trying to find small ways to repay them for their kindness when she wasn't busy strategizing. Despite their protests, she prepared a lunch basket for them to take to work each day. She mended tiny socks. And secretly, she was using yarn and needles she had found to knit them blankets for their beds. It might have been summer, but she couldn't help noticing they had few blankets for the winter months. ~ Jen Calonita,
1002:From the first day I met his daughter, all I could think about was snuffling up under that sweet dimity like some bad old bear, just crawling up into that honeycomb, nose twitching, and never come out of there till early spring. Think that’s disgusting? Dammit, I do, too, but that’s the way male animals are made. Those peculiar delights were created to entrap us, and anybody who disapproves can take it up with God.

In their wondrous capacity of knowing the Lord’s mind, churchly folks will tell you that He would purely hate to hear such dirty talk. My idea is, He wouldn’t mind it half so much as they would have us think, because even according to their own queer creed, we are God’s handiwork, created in His image, lust, piss, shit, and all. Without that magnificent Almighty lust that we mere mortals dare to call a sin, there wouldn’t be any more mortals, and God’s grand design for the human race, if He exists and if He ever had one, would turn to dust, and dust unto dust, forever and amen. Other creatures would step up and take over, realizing that man was too weak and foolish to properly reproduce himself. I nominate hogs to inherit the Earth, because hogs love to eat any old damned thing God sets in front of them, and they’re ever so grateful for God’s green earth even when it’s all rain and mud, and they just plain adore to feed and fuck and frolic and fulfill God’s holy plan. For all we know, it’s hogs which are created in God’s image, who’s to say? ~ Peter Matthiessen,
1003:I don’t ever remember being afraid of “oldness”.

There are things I miss about being younger - chiefly the ability to pull all-nighters and keep working and working well; and being smiled at by girls I didn’t know who thought I was cute; and I wish I had the eyesight I had even five years ago… but that stuff feels pretty trivial.

I’m happier than I’ve been at any time in my life these days. I have a wonderful wife whom I adore, watched three amazing kids grow into two delightful adults and my favourite teenager, an astonishing number of grand life experiences, I’ve made art I’m proud of, I have real, true, glorious friends, and I’ve been able to do real good for things I care about, like freedom of speech, like libraries.

Sometimes I’ll do something like An Evening With Neil and Amanda, or the 8 in 8 project, and completely surprise myself.

I miss friends who have died, but then, I’m glad that time gave them to me, to befriend, even for a while, and that I was alive to know them. I knew Douglas Adams, and I knew Roger Zelazny, and I knew John M Ford, and I knew Diana Wynne Jones… do you know how lucky that makes me?

Ah, I’m rabbiting on, and I sound a bit more Pollyannaish than I’m intending to sound: I know the downside of age and the downside of time, and I am sure that the view from age 51 is not the view from age 71.

I wish the time hadn’t gone so fast, though. And sometimes I wish I’d enjoyed it more on the way, and worried about it less. ~ Neil Gaiman,
1004:The New Days
The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing,
The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring,
The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true,
And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue
The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest,
The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best
But I—I sing the new days, the days that lie before,
The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.
The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are;
The selfsame sunshine heralds them, the selfsame evening star
Shines out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land,
And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned.
The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true,
And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do,
Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast;
It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest.
The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing,
The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring;
The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the new
The gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew;
We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old;
The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold;
There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do,
And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1005:Therefore let us desire nothing else let us wish for nothing else let nothing else please us and cause us delight except our Creator and Redeemer and Savior, the one true God, Who is the Fullness of Good all good, every good, the true and supreme good Who alone is Good merciful and gentle delectable and sweet Who alone is holy just and true holy and right Who alone is kind innocent pure from Whom and through Whom and in Whom is all pardon all grace all glory of all the penitent and the just of all the blessed who rejoice together in heaven. Therefore let nothing hinder us nothing separate us or nothing come between us. Let all of us wherever we are in every place at every hour at every time of day everyday and continually believe truly and humbly and keep in our heart and love, honor, adore,serve praise and bless glorify and exalt magnify and give thanks to the most high and supreme eternal God Trinity and Unity the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit Creator of all Savior of all who believe in Him and hope in Him and love Him Who is without beginning and without end unchangeable, invisible, indescribable, ineffable, incomprehensible, unfathomable, blessed, worthy of praise, glorious, exalted on high, sublime, most high, gentle, lovable, delectable and totally desirable above all else forever. Amen. [1495.jpg] -- from Francis and Clare: The Complete Works: The Classics of Western Spirituality, Translated by Regis J. Armstrong, OFM CAP / Translated by Ignatius C. Brady, OFM

~ Saint Francis of Assisi, Let us desire nothing else
,
1006:Do You Not Father Me
Do you not father me, nor the erected arm
For my tall tower's sake cast in her stone?
Do you not mother me, nor, as I am,
The lovers' house, lie suffering my stain?
Do you not sister me, nor the erected crime
For my tall turrets carry as your sin?
Do you not brother me, nor, as you climb,
Adore my windows for their summer scene?
Am I not father, too, and the ascending boy,
The boy of woman and the wanton starer
Marking the flesh and summer in the bay?
Am I not sister, too, who is my saviour?
Am I not all of you by the directed sea
Where bird and shell are babbling in my tower?
Am I not you who front the tidy shore,
Nor roof of sand, nor yet the towering tiler?
You are all these, said she who gave me the long suck,
All these, he said who sacked the children's town,
Up rose the Abraham-man, mad for my sake,
They said, who hacked and humoured, they were mine.
I am, the tower told, felled by a timeless stroke,
Who razed my wooden folly stands aghast,
For man-begetters in the dry-as-paste,
The ringed-sea ghost, rise grimly from the wrack.
Do you not father me on the destroying sand?
You are your sisters' sire, said seaweedy,
The salt sucked dam and darlings of the land
Who play the proper gentleman and lady.
Shall I still be love's house on the widdershin earth,
Woe to the windy masons at my shelter?
Love's house, they answer, and the tower death
Lie all unknowing of the grave sin-eater.
~ Dylan Thomas,
1007:My whole life I’ve searched for a love to satisfy the deepest longings within me to be known, treasured, and wholly accepted. When You created me, Lord, Your very first thought of me made Your heart explode with a love that set You in pursuit of me. Your love for me was so great that You, the God of the whole universe, went on a personal quest to woo me, adore me, and finally grab hold of me with the whisper, “I will never let you go.” Lord, I release my grip on all the things I was holding on to, preventing me from returning Your passionate embrace. I want nothing to hold me but You. So, with breathless wonder, I give You all my faith, all my hope, and all my love. I picture myself carrying the old, torn-out boards that inadequately propped me up and placing them in a pile. This pile contains other things I can remove from me now that my new intimacy-based identity is established. I lay down my need to understand why things happen the way they do. I lay down my fears about others walking away and taking their love with them. I lay down my desire to prove my worth. I lay down my resistance to fully trust Your thoughts, Your ways, and Your plans, Lord. I lay down being so self-consumed in an attempt to protect myself. I lay down my anger, unforgiveness, and stubborn ways that beg me to build walls when I sense hints of rejection. I lay all these things down with my broken boards and ask that Your holy fire consume them until they become weightless ashes. And as I walk away, my soul feels safe. Held. And truly free to finally be me. ~ Lysa TerKeurst,
1008:My Love, Oh, She Is My Love
SHE casts a spell, oh, casts a spell!
Which haunts me more than I can tell.
Dearer, because she makes me ill
Than who would will to make me well.
She is my store! oh, she my store!
Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,
Who will not place in mine her palm,
Nor love, nor calm me any more.
She is my pet, oh, she my pet!
Whom I can never more forget;
Who would not lose by me one moan,
Nor stone upon my cairn would set.
She is my roon, oh, she my roon!
Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;
Who would not lose by me one sigh,
Were death and I within one room.
She is my dear, oh, she my dear!
Who cares not whether I be here.
Who will not weep when I am dead,
But makes me shed the silent tear.
Hard my case, oh, hard my case!
For in her eye no hope I trace,
She will not hear me any more,
But I adore her silent face.
She is my choice, oh, she my choice!
Who never made me to rejoice;
Who caused my heart to ache so oft,
Who put no softness in her voice.
Great my grief, oh, great my grief!
Neglected, scorned beyond belief,
By her who looks at me askance,
By her who grants me no relief.
13
She’s my desier, oh, my desire!
More glorious than the bright sun’s fire;
Who were than wild-blown ice more cold
Were I so bold as to sit by her.
She it is who stole my heart,
And left a void and aching smart;
But if she soften not her eye,
I know that life and I must part.
~ Douglas Hyde,
1009:the Pilgrim of the Way rises first of all to a degree corresponding to that of a star. The effulgence of that star's light appears to him., It is disclosed to him that the entire world beneath adores its influence and the effulgence of its light. And so, because of the very beauty and superbness of the thing, he is made aware of something which cries aloud saying, "This is my Lord?"[1] He passes on; and as he be. comes conscious of the light-degree next above. it, namely, that symbolized by the moon, lo! in the aerial canopy he beholds that star set, to wit, in comparison with its superior; and he saith, "Nought that setteth do I adore!" And so he rises till he arrives at last at the degree symbolized by the sun. This, again, he sees is greater and higher than the former, but nevertheless admits of comparison therewith, in,

[1. See for this whole passage S. 6, 75-8.]

{p. 128}

virtue of a relationship between the two. [31] But to bear relationship to what is imperfect carries with it imperfection-the "setting" of our allegory. And by reason thereof he saith: "I have turned my face unto That Who made the heavens and the earth! I am a true believer, and, not of those who associate other gods with Allah!" Now what is meant to be conveyed by this "THAT WHO" is the vaguest kind of indication, destitute of all relation or comparison. For, were anyone to ask, "What is the symbol comparable with or corresponding to this That?' no answer to the question could be conceived. Now He Who transcends all relations is ALLAH, the ONE REALITY. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,
1010:Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!   “Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —   For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimmage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!   We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.   (After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits.”   … ~ Smedley D Butler,
1011:Plead For Me
Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
And tell, why I have chosen thee!
Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say,
Why I did cast the world away.
Why I have persevered to shun
The common paths that others run,
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless, alike, of wealth and power Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.
These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But, careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever - present, phantom thing;
My slave, my comrade, and my king,
A slave, because I rule thee still;
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill:
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight, My darling pain that wounds and sears
And wrings a blessing out from tears
By deadening me to earthly cares;
63
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And am I wrong to worship, where
Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee !
~ Emily Jane Brontë,
1012:Speak, God Of Visions
O, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
O, thy sweet tongue must plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!
Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say
Why I did cast the world away;
Why I have presevered to shun
The common paths that others run,
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless alike of wealth and power,
Of Glory's wreath and Pleasure's flower.
These once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever-present, phantom thing—
My slave, my comrade, and my king.
A slave, because I rule thee still,
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill;
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight,—
My darling pain that wounds and sears,
And wrings a blessing out of tears
Be deadening me to earthly cares;
79
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And I am wrong to worship where
Faith cannot doubt, nor Hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of Visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!
~ Emily Jane Brontë,
1013:Three errors there are, that forever are found
On the lips of the good, on the lips of the best;
But empty their meaning and hollow their sound
And slight is the comfort they bring to the breast.
The fruits of existence escape from the clasp
Of the seeker who strives but those shadows to grasp

So long as man dreams of some age in this life
When the right and the good will all evil subdue;
For the right and the good lead us ever to strife,
And wherever they lead us the fiend will pursue.
And (till from the earth borne, and stifled at length)
The earth that he touches still gifts him with strength!

So long as man fancies that fortune will live,
Like a bride with her lover, united with worth;
For her favors, alas! to the mean she will give
And virtue possesses no title to earth!
That foreigner wanders to regions afar,
Where the lands of her birthright immortally are!

So long as man dreams that, to mortals a gift,
The truth in her fulness of splendor will shine;
The veil of the goddess no earth-born may lift,
And all we can learn isto guess and divine!
Dost thou seek, in a dogma, to prison her form?
The spirit flies forth on the wings of the storm!

O, noble soul! fly from delusions like these,
More heavenly belief be it thine to adore;
Where the ear never hearkens, the eye never sees,
Meet the rivers of beauty and truth evermore!
Not without thee the streamsthere the dull seek them;No!
Look within theebehold both the fount and the flow!
~ Friedrich Schiller, The Words Of Error
,
1014:One of the great divides, I think, between people who date a lot and people who date never is that people who date never don’t understand putting up with “fine.” I can’t begin to conceive of why anybody would voluntarily spend great chunks of her free time dedicated to someone she doesn’t adore, because I never do that. My dater friends, on the other hand, do this all the time. I know this because I’m the one they meet up with after, and I’m the one who has to try to understand why my otherwise brilliant friends keep hanging out with people about whom they only have bad (or very, very mediocre) things to say. A person who has spent her life planning her free time based only on herself, and the friends she knows she loves, can’t understand this. Why would I want to go out to dinner and a movie with someone I’m not completely crazy about when I already know how much I like eating dinner and watching a movie by myself, or with Rylee? Getting someone else involved means I have to put on a nicer outfit and stress out about the way I look chewing my food. If I’m going to have to consider my chewing face, I only want to do it for someone I think I might be able to really like. I know that might make it harder for me. I know there is a possibility—a very little one, though, that I have a hard time really believing in—that chemistry can grow where there wasn’t any to begin with. I know that if I don’t put myself out there, I won’t just answer my door someday to find my perfect spouse waiting on the other side of the stoop. AND I know that if that did happen, I should probably call the police. ~ Katie Heaney,
1015:Oh, Thy Bright Eyes Must Answer Now
Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
And tell why I have chosen thee!.
Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say
Why I did cast the world away,
Why I have persevered to shun
The common paths that others run;
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless, alike of wealth and power
Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.
These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart, I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever-present, phantom thing
My slave, my comrade, and my king.
A slave, because I rule thee still;
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill:
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight,
My darling pain that wounds and sears,
And wrings a blessing out from tears
By deadening me to earthly cares;
60
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And am I wrong to worship where
Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!.
~ Emily Jane Brontë,
1016:Printre exodurile mele

exista şi una Zenobia supranumită refuzul falsei conştiinţe

pe o şosea cânta purta baticuri

ne adoram ştia două trei cuvinte mai scurte într-o limbă necunoscută

eu treceam singur ca orice fihinţă umană o adoram mă făceam că nici n-o observ

îi dădeam târcoale într-un camion de transport ghemuit printre prelate şi busturi de marmură

în dreptul ei mă coboram intram în cabina telefonică formam un număr oarecare îmi ceream scuze

apoi mă ghemuiam lângă ea era poate singura fericire posibilă


era plăcut ne culcam cu oasele noastre îmbibate de amintirea unei străvechi adoraţii

cu ochii noştri lucioşi înăuntru era o puternică adoraţie

filozofam prostii ne simţeam bine

departe rătăciţi orbiţi de faruri

nu se putea să nu mă adore era o fihinţă umană

ţinea degetele bine întinse pe o coapsă bine întinsă

ne adoram Ce nevoie ai tu de cuvintele astea cam scurte

(o dar cum le rostea ce superb eram fiecare în adoraţia celuilalt)

să nu uiţi adoraţia asta ce fihinţă ai fi tu fără ea

cunosc o pasăre care ne adoră nici nu ne vede ne pune gheara pe frunte

ne poartă în marea ei limpezime o supranumită Zenobia pe o şosea internaţională

de fapt ce fihinţă ai fi şi mai vrei să plantezi busturile astea pe stânga şoselei

notează în carnet adoraţia


stăteam aşa cu degetele bine întinse

era o lumină gălbuie ceva între fulger şi gheaţă

respiraţia noastră acoperea vuietele totul se legăna liniştit

mă speria ferocea mea luciditate ~ Gellu Naum,
1017:The laws of nature are sublime, but there is a moral sublimity before which the highest intelligences must kneel and adore. The laws by which the winds blow, and the tides of the ocean, like a vast clepsydra, measure, with inimitable exactness, the hours of ever-flowing time; the laws by which the planets roll, and the sun vivifies and paints; the laws which preside over the subtle combinations of chemistry, and the amazing velocities of electricity; the laws of germination and production in the vegetable and animal worlds, — all these, radiant with eternal beauty as they are, and exalted above all the objects of sense, still wane and pale before the Moral Glories that apparel the universe in their celestial light. The heart can put on charms which no beauty of known things, nor imagination of the unknown, can aspire to emulate. Virtue shines in native colors, purer and brighter than pearl, or diamond, or prism, can reflect. Arabian gardens in their bloom can exhale no such sweetness as charity diffuses. Beneficence is godlike, and he who does most good to his fellow-man is the Master of Masters, and has learned the Art of Arts. Enrich and embellish the universe as you will, it is only a fit temple for the heart that loves truth with a supreme love. Inanimate vastness excites wonder; knowledge kindles admiration, but love enraptures the soul. Scientific truth is marvellous, but moral truth is divine; and whoever breathes its air and walks by its light, has found the lost paradise. For him, a new heaven and a new earth have already been created. His home is the sanctuary of God, the Holy of Holies. ~ Horace Mann,
1018:Secondly, we worship creatures by [109] honouring those places or persons whom God has associated with the work of our salvation, whether before our Lord's coming or since the dispensation of His incarnation. For instance, I venerate Mount Sinai, Nazareth, the stable at Bethlehem, and the cave, the sacred mount of Golgotha, the wood of the Cross, the nails and sponge and reed, the sacred and saving lance, the dress and tunic, the linen cloths, the swathing clothes, the holy tomb, the source of our resurrection, the sepulchre, the holy mountain of Sion and the mountain of Olives, the Pool of Bethsaida and the sacred garden of Gethsemane, and all similar spots. I cherish them and every holy temple of God, and everything connected with God's name, not on their own account but because they show forth the divine power, and through them and in them it pleased God to bring about our salvation. I venerate and worship angels and men, and all matter participating in divine power and ministering to our salvation through it. I do not worship the Jews. They are not participators in divine power, nor have they contributed to my salvation. They crucified my God, the King of [110] Glory, moved rather by envy and hatred against God their Benefactor. "Lord, I have loved the beauty of Thy house," (Ps. 26.8) says David, "we will adore in the place where his feet stood. And adore at His holy mountain." (Ps. 132.7; 99.9) The holy Mother of God is the living holy mountain of God. The apostles are the teaching mountains of God. "The mountains skipped like rams, and the hills like the lambs of the flock." (I Cor. 10.11) The ~ John of Damascus,
1019:Draft-dodging is what chicken-hawks do best. Dick Cheney, Glenn Beck, Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh (this capon claimed he had a cyst on his fat ass), Newt Gingrich, former Attorney General John Ashcroft—he received seven deferments to teach business education at Southwest Missouri State—pompous Bill O’Reilly, Jeb Bush, hey, throw in John Wayne—they were all draft-dodgers. Not a single one of these mouth-breathing, cowardly, and meretricious buffoons fought for his country. All plumped for deferments. Former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani? Did not serve. Former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney? Did not serve in the military. (He served the Mormon Church on a thirty-month mission to France.) Former Senator Fred Thompson? Did not serve. Former President Ronald Reagan? Due to poor eyesight, he served in a noncombat role making movies for the Army in southern California during WWII. He later seems to have confused his role as an actor playing a tail gunner with the real thing. Did Rahm Emanuel serve? Yes, he did during the Gulf War 1991—in the Israeli Army. John Boehner did not serve, not a fucking second. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell, R-KY? Not a minute! Former Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott, R-MS? Avoided the draft. Senate Minority Whip Jon Kyl, R-AZ—did not serve. National Republican Senatorial Committee Chair John Cornyn, R-TX—did not serve. Former Senate Republican Policy Committee Chair John Ensign, R-NV? Did not serve. Jack Kemp? Dan Quayle? Never served a day. Not an hour. Not an afternoon. These are the jackasses that cherish memorial services and love to salute and adore hearing “Taps. ~ Alexander Theroux,
1020:Alle Zattere
Only to live, only to be
In Venice, is enough for me.
To be a beggar, and to lie
At home beneath the equal sky,
To feel the sun, to drink the night,
Had been enough for my delight;
Happy because the sun allowed
The luxury of being proud
Not to some only; but to all
The right to lie along the wall.
Here my ambition dies; I ask
No more than some half-idle task,
To be done idly, and to fill
Some gaps of leisure when I will.
I care not if the world forget
That it was ever in my debt;
I care not where its prizes fall;
I long for nothing, having all.
The sun each morning, on his way,
Calls for me at the Zattere;
I wake and greet him, I go out,
Meet him, and follow him about;
We spend the day together, he
Goes to bed early; as for me,
I make the moon my mistress, prove
Constant to my inconstant love.
For she is coy with me, will hie
To my arms amorously, and fly
Ere I have kissed her; ah! but she,
She it is, to eternity,
I adore only; and her smile
Bewilders the enchanted isle
To more celestial magic, glows
At once the crystal and the rose.
The crazy lover of the moon,
I hold her, on the still lagoon,
Sometimes I hold her in my arms;
'Tis her cold silver kiss that warms
10
My blood to singing, and puts fire
Into the heart of my desire.
And all desire in Venice dies
To such diviner lunacies.
Life dreams itself: the world goes on,
Oblivious, in oblivion;
Life dreams itself, contents to keep
Happy immortality, in sleep.
~ Arthur Symons,
1021:Elaborating on this idea later in his Confessions, Augustine wrote: Wherever the soul of man turns, unless towards God, it cleaves to sorrow, even though the things outside God and outside itself to which it cleaves may be things of beauty. (Confessions 4.10.15)310 Smith, following Augustine, argues that our ultimate loves are constitutive of our identity. They determine “that to which we are fundamentally oriented, what ultimately governs our vision of the good life, what shapes our being-in-the-world . . . and makes sense of all our penultimate desires and actions.”311 The things we love individually not only determine our character, but what a society loves collectively shapes its culture. This latter idea was the heart of Augustine’s great work City of God. He believed societies are the mutual associations of individuals united by what they love in common. What does this mean? Smith’s entire book is committed to the thesis that to change people most profoundly, we must change what we worship. Thinking, arguments, and beliefs are crucial as means of moving the heart, but ultimately we are what we adore. We are what captures our imagination, what leads us to praise and to compel others to praise it. Our inordinate anger, anxiety, and discouragement result from disordered loves. Our relational problems result from disordered loves, and our social and cultural problems as well. What can re-engineer our very inner being, the structure of our personality? What can create healthy human community? Worship and adoration of God. We must love God supremely, and that can be cultivated only through praise and adoration. ~ Timothy J Keller,
1022:Oh, don't get me started! I love fantasy, I read it for pleasure, even after all these years. Pat McKillip, Ursula Le Guin and John Crowley are probably my favorite writers in the field, in addition to all the writers in the Endicott Studio group - but there are many others I also admire. In children's fantasy, I'm particularly keen on Philip Pullman, Donna Jo Napoli, David Almond and Jane Yolen - though my favorite novels recently were Midori Snyder's Hannah's Garden, Holly Black's Tithe, and Neil Gaiman's Coraline.

I read a lot of mainstream fiction as well - I particularly love Alice Hoffman, A.S. Byatt, Sara Maitland, Sarah Waters, Sebastian Faulks, and Elizabeth Knox. There's also a great deal of magical fiction by Native American authors being published these days - Louise Erdrich's Antelope Wife, Alfredo Vea Jr.'s Maravilla, Linda Hogan's Power, and Susan Power's Grass Dancer are a few recent favorites.

I'm a big fan of Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens, and Anthony Trollope - I re-read Jane Austen's novels in particular every year.Other fantasists say they read Tolkien every year, but for me it's Austen. I adore biographies, particularly biographies of artists and writers (and particularly those written by Michael Holroyd). And I love books that explore the philosophical side of art, such as Lewis Hyde's The Gift, Carolyn Heilbrun's Writing a Woman's Life, or David Abram's Spell of the Sensuous.

(from a 2002 interview) ~ Terri Windling,
1023:Not a day has gone by for me that I haven't been waiting for you. That I haven't dreamed of a faceless you. That I haven't imagined what you would feel like under my palms. Waiting was never the problem, it was doubting. I began to doubt that you were real, that you were actually coming to me. But I should never have doubted you. I'm amazed when I look at your face to see the love I feel for you smiling back at me. I would do anything you asked of me to keep that smile there. You are all there is, my world... I'm honored just to be in your presence, let alone have your heart. I adore the way you look at my world. The love you have for my family. How you can be so completely innocent and so achingly sexy all at the same time. How you're always selfless, and there, and full of love even after everything you've been through. Baby, I've said it a million times and I'll continue to say it 'til my last breath… You're amazing. Tomorrow you'll be mine in every way, every sense, every second, but I know that no matter how tight I hold you, it'll never be close enough. No matter how long or hard or passionately I kiss your lips, it'll never be sating. You're my soul-mate, my reason to keep pulling air into my lungs, my gorgeous significant that fits in my arms and my life perfectly, my whole life, my love, my partner in crime, my very heart, my amazing girl. Marry me. Take the beating heart in my chest and do with it what you wish. It's been yours since the day you saved my life. You've been saving it ever since. I love you, baby, more than will ever be understandable, but I dare you to try. Every tomorrow is all that matters, my love. The ~ Shelly Crane,
1024:Your candidness is charming and not at all off-putting. Our parents’ friends adore you. You are…lively.” “Lively.” Alex tested the word on her tongue. “That makes me sound like an unpredictable racing horse.” A broad grin spread across Blackmoor’s face and Alex resisted the urge to hit him. That would have been unpredictable. “Do you think me horselike, my lord?” Realizing the threat to his personage, Blackmoor wiped the smile from his face and replied, “Not at all. I said I think you charming.” “A fine start.” “And I appreciate your exuberance.” His eyes glittered with barely contained laughter. “Like that of a child.” Hers sparkled with irritation. “And, of course, you are entertaining.” “Excellent. Like the aforementioned child’s toy.” He couldn’t hide a chuckle. “Not at all. You are a far better companion than any of the toys I had as a child.” “Oh, I am most flattered.” “You should be. I had some tremendous toys.” Eyes wide, she turned on him, catching his laughing gaze. “Oh! You are incorrigible! Between you and my brothers, it’s no wonder I can’t manage to be more of a delicate flower!” Blackmoor stopped in the midst of acknowledging the Viscountess of Hawksmore, who, accompanied by her enormous black poodle, walked past. He turned back to Alex and answered with one eyebrow raised, “I beg your pardon? A delicate flower?” Alex sat back in the curricle, quoting in a singsong voice, “A young lady should be as a delicate flower; a fragile bud, with care, will blossom by the hour.” Blackmoor’s eyes widened. “Where on earth did you hear that rubbish?” “My governess.” “I do not traditionally speak ill of women, but your governess is a cabbagehead. ~ Sarah MacLean,
1025:Parables
WE clutch our joys as children do their flowers;
We look at them, but scarce believe them ours,
Till our hot palms have smirched their colors rare
And crushed their dewy beauty unaware.
But the wise Gardener, whose they were, comes by
At hours when we expect not, and with eye
Mournful yet sweet, compassionate though stern,
Takes them.
Then in a moment we discern
By loss, what was possession, and, half-wild
With misery, cry out like angry child:
'O cruel! thus to snatch my posy fine!'
He answers tenderly, 'Not thine, but mine,'
And points to those stained fingers which do prove
Our fatal cherishing, our dangerous love;
At which we, chidden, a pale silence keep;
Yet evermore must weep, and weep, and weep.
So on through gloomy ways and thorny brakes,
Quiet and slow, our shrinking feet he takes
Let by the soilèd hand, which, laved in tears,
More and more clean beneath his sight appears.
At length the heavy eyes with patience shine-'I am content. Thou took'st but what was thine.'
And then he us his beauteous garden shows,
Where bountiful the Rose of Sharon grows:'
Where in the breezes opening spice-buds swell,
And the pomegranates yield a pleasant smell:
While to and fro peace-sandalled angels move
In the pure air that they--not we--call Love:
An air so rare and fine, our grosser breath
Cannot inhale till purified by death.
And thus we, struck with longing joy, adore,
And, satisfied, wait mute without the door,
Until the gracious Gardener maketh sign,
'Enter in peace. All this is mine--and thine.'
~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,
1026:PRAYER OF COMMUNION We who are about to partake of each other, shall walk past all amorous sickness and deaths, for we are within the magical equinox. Amen We who proudly make unto ourselves every graven image, shall have great copulations and are allowed to love our Gods, for we know the Sacred Alignments. Amen We who do not crucify—nothing shall hurt us that is of the 'Nature'; neither our comings and goings from the womb, for we have the Key to all aesthetics. Amen In this sacred moment (here occurs the symbolic eating of flesh and blood) we forget our enemies: therefore let our dead children sleep. And let our dead loves arise, so they too may watch and enjoy our ecstasies. Let their animation be power to our memories and so resurge all ecstasy, for in this day there shall be no inhibitions. Amen Thou insatiable peripheral quadriga of sex. Amen PRAYER OF ADORATION Thou lambent spirit of Erh! Thou hast kindled the sacred fire from dead ashes, so my torch lightens all darknesses. Thou hast become the fulcrum of my will. Everlastingly in Thee I know not respite: Except in the sensuous impact of flesh, there are no meanings. Thou hast awakened me into eternities. Thou makest all things beautiful unto the grotesque. Whom thou succour hath no sterility. I am reborn and reborn into desirous becomings: I have recreated my Soul by birthing pleasure. Through Thee my will, desire, belief and word become the law That carries me into the Catastrophic beyond becoming: Thou the emissary of Neither-Neither! Ever Silent Watcher! Thou hast shown me the new sexualities And all the mysteries of the Threshold! Only Thee I adore in my Soul and my everlasting body. Alpha-Omega—Amen! ~ Anonymous,
1027:From An Essay On Man
Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state:
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul, proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n,
Behind the cloud topp'd hill, an humbler heav'n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd,
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky.
103
~ Alexander Pope,
1028:Grey-Eyed Mabel
I gazed on orbs of flashing black;
I met the glow of hazel light;
I marked the hue of laughing blue,
That sparkled in the festive night.
But none could fling a lasting spell
To hold me with unchanging power-The chains they cast were never fast
Beyond the gay and fleeting hour-Till Grey-eyed Mabel's gentle glance,
With blushing sense and beauty rife,
Bade my soul cry with burning sigh,
'I'm thine, and only thine, for life.'
Black, blue, and hazel stars have set,
But Mabel's grey eyes lead me yet.
What was it in sweet Mabel's eyes
That told me what no others told,
That roused the dull, that pleased the wise,
That charmed the young and cheered the old?
What was it held my world-worn breast
In holy thrall--unknown before?
What was it those grey eyes expressed
That made me worship and adore?
It was the pure and tender ray
That filled those eyes in joy or woe;
It was the beam that could not play
Without the fountain stream below;
It was the beam of simple truth,
Of Woman's faith and trusting Youth.
Those soft, grey eyes were watched by mine
With earnest, deep, and secret prayer;
I knew, I felt, my earthly shrine
Was found and fixed for ever--there.
I poured my heart one moonlit night
Into sweet Mabel's listening ear;
Our mutual vow, from then till now,
Bound each to each--fond, firm, and dear.
Our boys and girls are growing round,
And all give promise, brave and fair,
But one, young cherub form is found
First in my love, my hope, my care.
And why?--ah! why? My soul replies,
'She has dear Mabel's soft, grey eyes.'
~ Eliza Cook,
1029:Scripture requires searching--much of it can only be learned by careful study. There is milk for babes, but also meat for strong men. The rabbis wisely say that a mountain of matter hangs upon every word, yea, upon every title of Scripture. Tertullian exclaims, "I adore the fulness of the Scriptures." No man who merely skims the book of God can profit thereby; we must dig and mine until we obtain the hid treasure. The door of the word only opens to the key of diligence. The Scriptures claim searching. They are the writings of God, bearing the divine stamp and imprimatur--who shall dare to treat them with levity? He who despises them despises the God who wrote them. God forbid that any of us should leave our Bibles to become swift witnesses against us in the great day of account. The word of God will repay searching. God does not bid us sift a mountain of chaff with here and there a grain of wheat in it, but the Bible is winnowed corn--we have but to open the granary door and find it. Scripture grows upon the student. It is full of surprises. Under the teaching of the Holy Spirit, to the searching eye it glows with splendour of revelation, like a vast temple paved with wrought gold, and roofed with rubies, emeralds, and all manner of gems. No merchandise is like the merchandise of Scripture truth. Lastly, the Scriptures reveal Jesus: "They are they which testify of me." No more powerful motive can be urged upon Bible readers than this: he who finds Jesus finds life, heaven, all things. Happy he who, searching his Bible, discovers his Saviour.                                    Morning, June 10   [506]Go To Evening Reading   "We live unto the Lord."   ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1030:Ballade Of The Voyage To Cythera
I know Cythera long is desolate;
I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green.
Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight
A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been,
Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!
So be it, but we seek a fabled shore,
To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,
To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile;
There let us land, there dream for evermore:
'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.'
The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate,
If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene
We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate
Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen.
Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen
That veils the fairy coast we would explore.
Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar,
Come, for the air of this old world is vile,
Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar;
'It may be we shall touch the happy isle.'
Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate
Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen,
And ruined is the palace of our state;
But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen
The shrill wind sings the silken cords between.
Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore,
Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar,
Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile;
Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore:
'It may be we shall touch the happy isle!'
ENVOY.
Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore.
Ah, singing birds your happy music pour!
Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile;
Flit to these ancient gods we still adore:
47
'It may be we shall touch the happy isle!'
~ Andrew Lang,
1031:The Hills Of Youth
Once, on the far blue hills,
Alone with the pine and the cloud, in those high still places;
Alone with a whisper of ferns and a chuckle of rills,
And the peat-brown pools that mirrored the angels’ faces,
Pools that mirrored the wood-pigeon’s grey-blue feather,
And all my thistledown dreams as they drifted along;
Once, oh, once, on the hills, thro’ the red-bloomed heather
I followed an elfin song.
Once, by the wellsprings of joy,
In the glens of the hart’s-tongue fern, where the brooks came leaping
Over the rocks, like a scrambling bare-foot boy
That never had heard of a world grown old with weeping;
Once, thro’ the golden gorse (do the echoes linger
In Paradise woods, where the foam of the may runs wild?)
I followed the flute of a light-foot elfin singer,
A god with the eyes of a child.
Once, he sang to me there,
From a crag on a thyme-clad height where the dew still glistened;
He sang like the spirit of Spring in that dawn-flushed air,
While the angels opened their doors and the whole sky listened:
He sang like the soul of a rainbow, if heaven could hear it,
Beating to heaven, on wings that were April’s own;
A song too happy and brave for the heart to bear it,
Had the heart of the hearer known.
Once, ah, once, no more,
The hush and the rapture of youth in those holy places,
The stainless height, the hearts that sing and adore
Till the sky breaks out into flower with the angels’ faces!
Once, in the dawn, they were mine; but the noon bereft me.
At midnight now, in an ebb of the loud world’s roar,
I catch but a broken stave of the songs that left me
On hills that are mine no more.
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~ Alfred Noyes,
1032:This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk, just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ’roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke loves Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omertà—the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story. ~ Jess Walter,
1033:This is a love story, Michael Deane says.
But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omerta` --the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story. ~ Jess Walter,
1034:This is a love story,” Michael Dean says, ”but really what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery or the chase, or the nosey female reporter who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely, the serial murder loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets, or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice-trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk. Just as the housewives live for catching glimpses of their own botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors and the rocked out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on hookbook. Because this is reality, they are all in love, madly, truly, with the body-mic clipped to their back-buckle and the producer casually suggesting, “Just one more angle.”, “One more jello shot.”.

And the robot loves his master. Alien loves his saucer. Superman loves Lois. Lex and Lana. Luke loves Leia, til he finds out she’s his sister. And the exorcist loves the demon, even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace. As Leo loves Kate, and they both love the sinking ship. And the shark, god the shark, loves to eat. Which is what the Mafioso loves too, eating and money and Pauly and Omertà. The way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar and sometimes loves the other cowboy. As the vampire loves night and neck. And the zombie, don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool, has anyone ever been more love-sick than a zombie, that pale dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms. His very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains. This, too is a love story. ~ Jess Walter,
1035:Atticus adjusted his glasses as he peered down at the blanket. “Hey, is that the book Nellie told us about?”
Jake’s eyes flicked to Olivia’s book. “You’ve got it outside in the sun? Are you out of your minds?”
Amy crossed her arms. “We’re being careful.”
“It’s not about careful, this is a five-hundred-year-old manuscript! You should be wearing gloves—Atticus brought some—and keeping it out of the sunlight.”
“It didn’t take you long to start barking orders!” Any exclaimed, her face flushing. “But then you always know best, don’t you?”
“Somebody has to be mature in this situation,” Jake said, his gaze flashing at Ian, who was now intently trying to brush cookie crumbs off his pants.
“True. In that case, we’d rather consult your little brother,” Ian said with a smirk. “Medieval manuscripts are his field, am I right?”
“Technically, it’s early Renaissance,” Jake said.
“Thanks for the correction, my good man. Amy is right—you do know best.” Ian slipped his arm around Amy. “She’s so perceptive. One of the many things I adore about her.”
“It’s getting chilly. Why don’t we go inside?” Amy suggested brightly as she tried to step out of the circle of Ian’s arm.
Ian took the opportunity to rub her shoulder. “You do feel rather cold,” he said. “Let’s sit by the fire. Jake, since you’re so interested in proper handling, why don’t you take the book?”
Jake snatched up the book and furiously stomped off toward the house.
“You forgot to wear gloves!” Ian called after him.
Amy pushed him away. “Really, Ian.”
“What a touchy guy,” Ian said. “Frankly, I don’t know what you see in him.”
He winced as the kitchen door slammed, then glanced at Amy’s red face. “Hmmm. It might be a good time for me to take a walk. ~ Jude Watson,
1036:The False Gods
“We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit,
From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet.
You may serve us if you must, and you shall have your wage of ashes,—
Though arrears due thereafter may be hard for you to meet.
“You may swear that we are solid, you may say that we are strong,
But we know that we are neither and we say that you are wrong;
You may find an easy worship in acclaiming our indulgence,
But your large admiration of us now is not for long.
“If your doom is to adore us with a doubt that’s never still,
And you pray to see our faces—pray in earnest, and you will.
You may gaze at us and live, and live assured of our confusion:
For the False Gods are mortal, and are made for you to kill.
“And you may as well observe, while apprehensively at ease
With an Art that’s inorganic and is anything you please,
That anon your newest ruin may lie crumbling unregarded,
Like an old shrine forgotten in a forest of new trees.
“Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ,
There’s an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy;
Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing
Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy.
“When we promise more than ever of what never shall arrive,
And you seem a little more than ordinarily alive,
Make a note that you are sure you understand our obligations—
For there’s grief always auditing where two and two are five.
“There was this for us to say and there was this for you to know,
Though it humbles and it hurts us when we have to tell you so.
If you doubt the only truth in all our perjured composition,
May the True Gods attend you and forget us when we go.”
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,
1037:You love me?” “Yes, Maddie.” His reached for her, his hand curling around her neck. “I love you. I adore you. I can’t live without you. Please don’t make me.” Her heart filled with joy, erasing the last hours from her mind in an instant. “I thought you hated me. I didn’t think you’d forgive me.” He gave a sharp nod. “I was angry. I was hurt. And it didn’t matter. I loved you anyway.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her body close to his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t feel like I had any other choice. I was wrong. I will never go behind your back again.” He shook his head and trailed a path down her spine. “You’re right, I didn’t give you a choice. I shut you out. I didn’t fight for you. I don’t have a good excuse. Only I fell for you so quickly and I was afraid to let you go, for fear I’d ruin you.” Confused, she searched his gaze. “Ruin me?” “Every day that passed, I became more of a mess. Every time I turned around, something else was falling apart and I had no answers. Everything in my life was going to hell: my family sucks, I own a bar I hate, I couldn’t go back to the career I loved, and my father is being blackmailed. And worst of all, I couldn’t figure out a way to keep you. I have never felt so helpless.” Tears flooded the corners of her eyes. “Mitch, why didn’t you tell me?” “Because.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat as his fingers tightened on the back of her neck. “You were becoming the woman you needed to be. Every day, you got stronger. More confident. More sure of who you were and what you wanted. I couldn’t ruin it for you.” She went to her tiptoes and kissed him, a soft brush of promise. “Don’t you understand?” He shook his head. “I’ve never been so clueless in my life.” She rubbed her thumb over his jaw. “You saved me. And I will love you forever. ~ Jennifer Dawson,
1038:Miss Mackintosh waved her arms wildly.

"Oh, please stop, and let me guess," she cried. "I shall go crazy with joy if I'm right. It was an old Peerage, and so she found that Lady Deal was Helena Herman--"

"Whom she had seen ten years ago at a music hall as a male impersonator," cried Diva.

"And didn't want to know her," interrupted Miss Mackintosh.

"Yes, that's it, but that is not all. I hope you won't mind, but it's too rich. She saw you this morning coming out of your house in your bath-chair, and was quite sure that you were that Lady Deal."

The three ladies rocked with laughter. Sometimes one recovered, and sometimes two, but they were re-infected by the third, and so they went on, solo and chorus, and duet and chorus, till exhaustion set in.

"But there's still a mystery," said Diva at length, wiping her eyes. "Why did the Peerage say that Lady Deal was Helena Herman?"

"Oh, that's the last Lady Deal," said Miss Mackintosh. "Helena Herman's Lord Deal died without children and Florence's Lord Deal, my Lady Deal, succeeded. Cousins."

"If that isn't a lesson for Elizabeth Mapp," said Diva. "Better go to the expense of a new Peerage than make such a muddle. But what a long call we've made. We must go."

"Florence shall hear every word of it to-morrow night," said Miss Mackintosh. "I promise not to tell her till then. We'll all tell her."

"Oh, that is kind of you," said Diva.

"It's only fair. And what about Miss Mapp being told?"

"She'll find it out by degrees," said the ruthless Diva. "It will hurt more in bits."

"Oh, but she mustn't be hurt," said Miss Mackintosh. "She's too precious, I adore her."

"So do we," said Diva. "But we like her to be found out occasionally. You will, too, when you know her. ~ E F Benson,
1039:To His Coy Mistress
Had we but World enough, and Time,
This coyness Lady were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges side.
Should'st Rubies find: I by the Tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood:
And you should if you please refuse
Till the Conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable Love should grow
Vaster then Empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.
Two hundred to adore each Breast.
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An Age at least to every part,
And the last Age should show your Heart.
For Lady you deserve this State;
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I alwaies hear
Times winged Charriot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lye
Desarts of vast Eternity.
Thy Beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound
My ecchoing Song: then Worms shall try
That long preserv'd Virginity:
And your quaint Honour turn to durst;
And into ashes all my Lust.
The Grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hew
Sits on thy skin like morning glew,
And while thy willing Soul transpires
At every pore with instant Fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our Time devour,
172
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.
Let us roll all our Strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one Ball:
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,
Thorough the Iron gates of Life.
Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
~ Andrew Marvell,
1040:My name is Claudine, I live in Montigny; I was born there in 1884; I shall probably not die there. My Manual of Departmental Geography expresses itself thus: "Montigny-en-Fresnois, a pretty little town of l, 950 inhabitants, built in tiers above the Thaize; its well-preserved Saracen tower is worthy of note .... "Tome, those descriptions are totally meaningless! To begin with, the Thaize doesn't exist. Of course I know it's supposed to run through the meadows under the level-crossing but you won't find enough water there in any season to give a sparrow a foot-bath. Montigny "built in tiers"? No, that's not how I see it; to my mind, the houses just tumble haphazard from the top of the hill to the bottom of the valley. They rise one above the other, like a staircase, leading up to a big chateau that was rebuilt under Louis XV and is already more dilapidated than the squat, ivy-sheathed Saracen tower that crumbles away from the top a trifle more every day. Montigny is a village, not a town: its streets, thank heaven, are not paved; the showers roll down them in little torrents that dry up in a couple of hours; it is a village, not even a very pretty village, but, all the same, I adore it.
The charm, the delight of this countryside composed of hills and of valleys so narrow that some are ravines, lies in the woods-the deep, encroaching woods that ripple and wave away into the distance as far as you can see .... Green meadows make rifts in them here and there, so do little patches of cultivation. But these do not amount to much, for the magnificent woods devour everything. As a result, this lovely region is atrociously poor and its few scattered farms provide just the requisite number of red roofs to set off the velvety green of the woods.
Dear woods! I know them all; I've scoured them so often.
(...) ~ Colette,
1041:To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run. ~ Andrew Marvell,
1042:To One In Allienation
Last night I saw you decked to meet
The coming of those most reluctant feet:
The little bonnet that you wear
When you would fain, for his sake, be more fair;
The primrose ribbons that so grace
The perfect pallor of your face;
The dark gown folded back about the throat,
And folds of lacework that denote
All that beneath them, just beneath them, lies:
God, for his eyes!
So the man came and took you; and we lay
So near and yet so far away,
You in his arms, awake for joy, and I
Awake for very misery,
Cursing a sleepless brain that would but scrawl
Your image on the aching wall,
That would but pang me with the sense
Of that most sweet accursed violence
Of lovers' hands that weary to caress
(Those hands!) your unforbidden loveliness.
And with the dawn that vision came again
To an unrested and recurrent brain:
To think your body, warm and white,
Lay in his arms all night;
That it was given him to surprise,
With those unhallowed eyes,
The secrets of your beauty, hid from me,
That I may never (may I never?) see:
I who adore you, he who finds in you
(Poor child!) a half-forgotten point of view.
II
As I lay on the stranger's bed,
And clasped the stranger-woman I had hired,
Desiring only memory dead
Of all that I had once desired;
132
It was then that I wholly knew
How dearly I had loved you, my lost friend;
While I am I, and you are you,
How I must love you to the end.
For I lay in her arms awake,
Awake and cursing the indifferent night,
That ebbed so slowly, for your sake,
My heart's desire, my soul's delight;
For I lay in her arms awake,
Awake in such a solitude of shame,
That when I kissed her, for your sake,
My lips were sobbing on your name.
~ Arthur Symons,
1043:I adore macaroni and cheese. Whenever I see it on a menu at a restaurant, I have to order it. I’ve had (and consequently made) fried mac and cheese balls, lobster mac and cheese, truffle mac and cheese, quattro formaggi mac and cheese, and Kraft mac and cheese. Now, don’t get me wrong—all of the fancy macaroni and cheese dishes have been delectable and enjoyable, but at home, I like a simple, delicious mac and cheese. So here’s my recipe. This dish is best when served during a game or movie night with family and friends. Serves 8 to 10 8 ounces (225 g) elbow macaroni 1½ cups Velveeta cheese (about 7 ounces/190g), cut into ½-inch cubes 2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon all-purpose flour 1½ teaspoons kosher salt 1½ teaspoons dry mustard ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg ⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper ⅔ cup (165 ml) sour cream 2 large eggs, lightly beaten 1½ cups (360 ml) half-and-half 1½ cups (360 ml) heavy cream ⅓ cup (55 g) grated onion 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 2 cups grated sharp Cheddar cheese (about 8 ounces/230g) • Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease a 9-by-13-inch (23-by-33-cm) baking dish. Bring a 4-quart (3.8-L) saucepan of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook it halfway through, about 3 minutes. Drain the pasta and transfer it to the baking dish. Stir in the cubed Velveeta. • Combine the flour, salt, mustard, black pepper, nutmeg, and cayenne in a large mixing bowl. Add the sour cream and eggs and whisk until smooth. Whisk in the half-and-half, cream, onion, Worcestershire sauce, and a sprinkle of black pepper. Pour the egg mixture over the pasta mixture in the prepared baking dish and stir to combine. Sprinkle the Cheddar cheese evenly over the surface. Bake until the pasta mixture is set around the edges but still a bit loose in the center, about 30 minutes. Let it cool for 10 minutes before serving. ~ Melissa Gilbert,
1044:SAY, which Immortal
Merits the highest reward?
With none contend I,
But I will give it
To the aye-changing,
Ever-moving
Wondrous daughter of Jove.
His best-beloved offspring.
Sweet Phantasy.

For unto her
Hath he granted
All the fancies which erst
To none allow'd he
Saving himself;
Now he takes his pleasure
In the mad one.

She may, crowned with roses,
With staff twined round with lilies,
Roam thro' flow'ry valleys,
Rule the butterfly-people,
And soft-nourishing dew
With bee-like lips
Drink from the blossom:

Or else she may
With fluttering hair
And gloomy looks
Sigh in the wind
Round rocky cliffs,
And thousand-hued.
Like morn and even.
Ever changing,
Like moonbeam's light,
To mortals appear.

Let us all, then,
Adore the Father!
The old, the mighty,
Who such a beauteous
Ne'er-fading spouse
Deigns to accord
To perishing mortals!

To us alone
Doth he unite her,
With heavenly bonds,
While he commands her,
in joy and sorrow,
As a true spouse
Never to fly us.

All the remaining
Races so poor
Of life-teeming earth.
In children so rich.
Wander and feed
In vacant enjoyment,
And 'mid the dark sorrows
Of evanescent
Restricted life,--
Bow'd by the heavy
Yoke of Necessity.

But unto us he
Hath his most versatile,
Most cherished daughter
Granted,--what joy!

Lovingly greet her
As a beloved one!
Give her the woman's
Place in our home!

And oh, may the aged
Stepmother Wisdom
Her gentle spirit
Ne'er seek to harm!

Yet know I her sister,
The older, sedater,
Mine own silent friend;
Oh, may she never,
Till life's lamp is quench'd,
Turn away from me,--
That noble inciter,
Comforter,--Hope!
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, My Goddess
,
1045:WATERMELON COOKIES Preheat oven to 325 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 1 package (.16-ounce) watermelon (or any other flavor) Kool-Aid powder (Don’t get the kind with sugar or sugar substitute added.) 1 and ⅔ cup white (granulated) sugar 1 and ½ cups softened butter (2 and ½ sticks, 10 ounces) 2 large eggs, beaten (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 3 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) ½ cup white (granulated) sugar in a bowl Hannah’s 1st Note: When Brandi makes these cookies, she rolls them out on a floured board and uses cookie cutters. Rolled cookies take more time than other types of cookies, so Lisa and I modified Brandi’s recipe for use at The Cookie Jar. Mix the watermelon Kool-Aid with the granulated sugar. Add the softened butter and mix until it’s nice and fluffy. Add the eggs and mix well. Mix in the salt and the baking soda. Make sure they’re well incorporated. Add the flour in half-cup increments, mixing after each addition. Spray cookie sheets with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. You can also use parchment paper if you prefer. Roll dough balls one inch in diameter with your hands. (We use a 2-teaspoon cookie scooper at The Cookie Jar.) Roll the cookie balls in the bowl of white sugar and place them on the cookie sheet, 12 to a standard-size sheet. Bake the Watermelon Cookies at 325 degrees F. for 10 to 12 minutes (mine took 11 minutes) or until they’re just beginning to turn golden around the edges. Don’t overbake. Let the cookies cool on the cookie sheets for no more than a minute, and then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. Yield: Approximately 6 dozen pretty and unusual cookies that kids will adore, especially if you tell them that they’re made with Kool-Aid. Hannah’s 2nd Note: Brandi’s mother baked these cookies to send to school on birthdays. She ~ Joanne Fluke,
1046:Well, there’s that one thing that kind of goes with I’m in love with you,” he continued. “If you want to get married, I’m game.” “I don’t know…” “And if you don’t want to, it’s okay. As long as I have your naked body up against mine on a very frequent basis, I’ll get along. I’m leaving the whole issue completely up to you, Muriel.” “Why, Walt?” He shrugged. “I don’t have a problem with marriage. I liked it, it worked for me. No boogeymen or curses as far as I’m concerned. Whatever you decide you want to do, either way I’m claiming you. Don’t try to wiggle out of it. It’s a done deal.” “I don’t want to get out of it. I like you.” “You love me,” he corrected. “Passionately. Desperately. Insatiably.” “I do,” she laughed. “You make me feel twenty-one,” he said. “Honest to God. And when the fabulous sex simmers down a little, you’re the best friend I’ve had in a long time. Muriel, you’re not a convenience. I’d walk across a mile of cut glass in my bare feet to hold your hand and talk to you for one hour. You’re everything to me.” She sighed deeply and her eyes glistened a little. “I’d better go before I give up the only Oscar of my lifetime by playing house with you.” “Tell me I’m everything to you, too,” he said. “Damned if you aren’t,” she said. “Now kiss me in a way that will hold me for a couple of weeks.” “Kind of took you by surprise, didn’t I?” he teased. “Admit it, you didn’t think this would turn out to be so much, did you?” “Walt, the second I saw you blush when you asked if I was married, I knew. And I wanted you. Right then. Right there. Sweaty and naked on the trail.” That made his smile huge. “You didn’t let on.” “I hadn’t wanted something like that in a long, long time,” she said, smiling. Then she rose on her toes and planted a big sloppy one on his lips, holding him close. “I adore you,” she whispered against his lips. “I’ll count the seconds until you’re back.” * ~ Robyn Carr,
1047:Imagine how differently you might approach each day by simply stating: God is good. God is good to me. God is good at being God. And today is yet another page in our great love story. Nothing that happens to you today will change that or even alter it in the slightest way. Lift your hands, heart, and soul, and receive that truth as you pray this prayer: My whole life I’ve searched for a love to satisfy the deepest longings within me to be known, treasured, and wholly accepted. When You created me, Lord, Your very first thought of me made Your heart explode with a love that set You in pursuit of me. Your love for me was so great that You, the God of the whole universe, went on a personal quest to woo me, adore me, and finally grab hold of me with the whisper, “I will never let you go.” Lord, I release my grip on all the things I was holding on to, preventing me from returning Your passionate embrace. I want nothing to hold me but You. So, with breathless wonder, I give You all my faith, all my hope, and all my love. I picture myself carrying the old, torn-out boards that inadequately propped me up and placing them in a pile. This pile contains other things I can remove from me now that my new intimacy-based identity is established. I lay down my need to understand why things happen the way they do. I lay down my fears about others walking away and taking their love with them. I lay down my desire to prove my worth. I lay down my resistance to fully trust Your thoughts, Your ways, and Your plans, Lord. I lay down being so self-consumed in an attempt to protect myself. I lay down my anger, unforgiveness, and stubborn ways that beg me to build walls when I sense hints of rejection. I lay all these things down with my broken boards and ask that Your holy fire consume them until they become weightless ashes. And as I walk away, my soul feels safe. Held. And truly free to finally be me. ~ Lysa TerKeurst,
1048:Never, not in her wildest dreams, had she dared to imagine that she'd be that important to someone. As if she was air and without her, he couldn't breathe.

"I love you too," she whispered. "And I forgive future Sailor for being a dumbass." Linking her arms around his neck, she spoke through the storm inside her. "In fact, I think future Sailor is going to be an incredible man I'll adore more with each and every day."

"Yeah?" His lips kicked up in that familiar smile, but there was a question in his eyes, a quiet hunger. "What's he going to do?"

Ísa knew what he was asking her, what he needed her to tell him. "He's going to be a man who works hard but who has time for the people he loves. And he definitely has time to get up to wicked things with a certain redhead."

"I like this guy's priorities already."

"He's also the kind of father who takes a turn doing the school run because he enjoys spending time with his child." It was scary doing this, laying out her dreams, but Sailor had given her everything.

Ísa would be brave enough to give him the same back. "He has time to play with his baby, and to kiss his wife, and even if he forgets things now and then, or if he gets a little busy for a while, it's all right because his wife and child and all the members of his family know they're loved beyond measure." Perfection had never been what Ísa wanted. "Because when it matters, he's there. He sees the people who love him."

Demon-blue eyes solemn, Sailor said, "I can do that." It was a vow. "I can be that guy."

"You already are." Ísa whispered. "You're my dream, Sailor."

But Sailor shook his head. "You ain't seen nothing yet, spitfire. I'm going to court the hell out of you." After a meditative pause, he added, "Nakedness during said courting is optional but highly encouraged."

He was wonderful. And he was hers. ~ Nalini Singh,
1049:April 12 MORNING “My heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels.” — Psalm 22:14 OUR blessed Lord experienced a terrible sinking and melting of soul. “The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?” Deep depression of spirit is the most grievous of all trials; all besides is as nothing. Well might the suffering Saviour cry to His God, “Be not far from me,” for above all other seasons a man needs his God when his heart is melted within him because of heaviness. Believer, come near the cross this morning, and humbly adore the King of glory as having once been brought far lower, in mental distress and inward anguish, than any one among us; and mark His fitness to become a faithful High Priest, who can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities. Especially let those of us whose sadness springs directly from the withdrawal of a present sense of our Father’s love, enter into near and intimate communion with Jesus. Let us not give way to despair, since through this dark room the Master has passed before us. Our souls may sometimes long and faint, and thirst even to anguish, to behold the light of the Lord’s countenance: at such times let us stay ourselves with the sweet fact of the sympathy of our great High Priest. Our drops of sorrow may well be forgotten in the ocean of His griefs; but how high ought our love to rise! Come in, O strong and deep love of Jesus, like the sea at the flood in spring tides, cover all my powers, drown all my sins, wash out all my cares, lift up my earth-bound soul, and float it right up to my Lord’s feet, and there let me lie, a poor broken shell, washed up by His love, having no virtue or value; and only venturing to whisper to Him that if He will put His ear to me, He will hear within my heart faint echoes of the vast waves of His own love which have brought me where it is my delight to lie, even at His feet for ever. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1050:April 14 MORNING “All they that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out the lip, they shake the head.” — Psalm 22:7 MOCKERY was a great ingredient in our Lord’s woe. Judas mocked Him in the garden; the chief priests and scribes laughed Him to scorn; Herod set Him at nought; the servants and the soldiers jeered at Him, and brutally insulted Him; Pilate and his guards ridiculed His royalty; and on the tree all sorts of horrid jests and hideous taunts were hurled at Him. Ridicule is always hard to bear, but when we are in intense pain it is so heartless, so cruel, that it cuts us to the quick. Imagine the Saviour crucified, racked with anguish far beyond all mortal guess, and then picture that motley multitude, all wagging their heads or thrusting out the lip in bitterest contempt of one poor suffering victim! Surely there must have been something more in the crucified One than they could see, or else such a great and mingled crowd would not unanimously have honoured Him with such contempt. Was it not evil confessing, in the very moment of its greatest apparent triumph, that after all it could do no more than mock at that victorious goodness which was then reigning on the cross? O Jesus, “despised and rejected of men,” how couldst Thou die for men who treated Thee so ill? Herein is love amazing, love divine, yea, love beyond degree. We, too, have despised Thee in the days of our unregeneracy, and even since our new birth we have set the world on high in our hearts, and yet Thou bleedest to heal our wounds, and diest to give us life. O that we could set Thee on a glorious high throne in all men’s hearts! We would ring out Thy praises over land and sea till men should as universally adore as once they did unanimously reject. “Thy creatures wrong Thee, O Thou sovereign Good! Thou art not loved, because not understood: This grieves me most, that vain pursuits beguile Ungrateful men, regardless of Thy smile. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
1051:Well then. Let us begin with essentials. Are you free to marry me?” He exhaled slowly, in a pointed effort not to hold his breath.
“Of course. When I come of age, that is.”
“Tell me your birthday.”
She smiled. “The first of February.”
“It will be our wedding day.” He traced the shape of the birthmark on her hip. “Very convenient for me, for your birthday and our anniversary to coincide. I’ll be more likely to remember both.”
“I wish you would stop touching me there.”
“Do you? Why?”
“Because it is ugly. I hate it.”
He tilted his head, surprised. “I quite adore it. It reminds me that you are imperfectly perfect and entirely mine.” He slid down her body and bent to kiss the mark to prove the point. “There’s a little thrill in knowing no one else has seen it.”
“No other man, you mean.” He kissed her there again, this time tracing the shape with his tongue. She squirmed and laughed. “When I was a child, I would scrub at it in the bath. My nursemaid used to tell me, God gives children birthmarks so they won’t get lost.” Her mouth curled in a bittersweet smile. “Yet here I am, adrift on the ocean on the other side of the world. Don’t they call that irony?”
“I believe they call it Providence.” He tightened his hands over her waist. “You’re here, and I’ve found you. And I take pains not to lose what’s mine.”
He kissed her hip again, then slid his mouth toward her center as he settled between her thighs.
“Gray,” she protested through a sigh of pleasure. “It’s late. We must rise.”
“I assure you, I’ve risen.”
“I’ve work to do.” She writhed in his grip. “The men will be wanting their breakfast.”
“They’ll wait until the captain has finished his.”
“Gray!” She gave a gasp of shock, then one of pleasure. “What a scoundrel you are.”
He came to his knees and lifted her hips, sinking into her with a low groan. “Sweet,” he breathed as she began to move with him, “you would not have me any other way. ~ Tessa Dare,
1052:He’d lost the battle to protect his heart.
“I love you,” he murmured as he lost himself inside her. “I love you, my dearest Celia.” When hope shone in her face, he said, “I’ll always love you.”
Then he collapsed on top of her.
They lay there, joined together, for several moments. When he rolled off, she curled herself against him and stared into his face uncertainly. “Did you mean it?”
“Of course.” He brushed a kiss over her lips. “I love you, sweeting.”
Joy leapt in her face, but as he continued to stare at her, it shifted to something that looked remarkably like calculation. “I suppose you expect me to say something similar.”
Though his breath caught in his throat, he arched an eyebrow. “Still torturing me for this morning?”
Pure mischief lit her pretty eyes. “Perhaps.”
“Then I’ll have to make you more sure of me,” he drawled and reached for the bell cord.
“Don’t you dare!” she cried, half frowning, half laughing, as he closed his hand around it.
“Do you love me?” he asked and dangled the cord over her head.
“I might,” she teased. “A little. Do you still think me a spoiled lady?”
She grabbed for the cord, and he lifted it higher. “Probably no more spoiled than any other beautiful female used to getting her own way with men who adore her.”
“At least you’re mixing compliments with the insults now.” She regarded him from beneath lowered lashed. “So you adore me, do you?”
“Madly. Passionately.” He released the cord. “And no, I don’t think you’re spoiled. If I’d ever had any doubt, my aunt banished it completely.”
“Your aunt?”
“I told her everything…well, not everything, but the important parts. And after she pointed out that I’m probably the worst suitor ever when it comes to proposing, she defended your behavior this morning with great enthusiasm.”
A devilish smile crossed her lips. “I think I’m going to like your aunt.”
“I’m sure you will. The two of you are peas in a pod. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,
1053:Dave does extra-mural work for the University, and collects about him many youths who have a part-time interest in truth. Dave’s pupils adore him, but there is a permanent fight on between him and them. They aspire like sunflowers. They are all natural metaphysicians, or so Dave says in a tone of disgust. This seems to me a wonderful thing to be, but it inspires in Dave a passion of opposition. To Dave’s pupils the world is a mystery; a mystery to which it should be reasonably possible to discover a key. The key would be something of the sort that could be contained in a book of some eight hundred pages. To find the key would not necessarily be a simple matter, but Dave’s pupils feel sure that the dedication of between four and ten hours a week, excluding University vacations, should suffice to find it. They do not conceive that the matter should be either more simple or more complex than that. They are prepared within certain limits to alter their views. Many of them arrive as theosophists and depart as Critical Realists or Bradeians. It is remarkable how Dave’s criticism seems os often to be purely catalytic in its action. He blazes upon them with the destructive fury of the sun, but instead of shrivelling up their metaphysical pretensions, achieves merely their metamorphosis from one rich stage into another. This curious fact makes me think that perhaps after all Dave is, in spite of himself, a good teacher. Occasionally he succeeds in converting some peculiarly receptive youth to his own brand of linguistics analysis; after which as often as not the youth loses interest in philosophy altogether. To watch Dave at work on these young men is like watching someone prune a rose bush. It is all the strongest and most luxuriant shoots which have to come off. Then later perhaps there will be blossoms; but not philosophical ones, Dave trusts. His great aim is to dissuade the young from philosophy. He always warns me off it with particular earnestness. ~ Iris Murdoch,
1054:No podéis beber la copa del Señor, y la copa de los demonios; no podéis participar de la mesa del Señor, y de la mesa de los demonios. 1 CORINTIOS 10.21 En 1 Corintios 10.20, Pablo dice que un ídolo en sí mismo no era nada: «Antes digo que lo que los gentiles sacrifican, a los demonios lo sacrifican, y no a Dios; y no quiero que vosotros os hagáis partícipes con los demonios». Nada de lo que el mundo pagano entero sacrifica a sus ídolos de piedra, plata u oro le agrada al Dios verdadero, pero sí a las fuerzas del infierno. Todo está ligado a Satanás y los demonios. Usted tal vez diga: «Ah, ¡pobres paganos bien intencionados! Están abriéndose paso a Dios de la mejor manera que saben». No, están abriéndose paso al infierno. Están conectándose con fuerzas demoníacas que se hacen pasar por ídolos que no existen. No hay dioses aparte del Dios verdadero. La gente piensa que sí, porque los demonios se hacen pasar por los dioses que adoran y hacen suficientes trucos como para mantener a esas personas conectadas con sus falsas deidades. No es simplemente un caso de «qué malo que sean ignorantes”. No están en el limbo sino que se dirigen al infierno. La ignorancia no es excusa. La razón natural que busca a Dios acaba en la ignorancia, la idolatría y lo demoníaco. Los demonios están detrás de todas las religiones falsas. Están detrás de todos los sistemas filosóficos y religiosos. Están detrás de todo lo encumbrado que se levanta contra el conocimiento de Dios. Toda idea no bíblica y contraria a Dios, es diabólica. Algunos me han preguntado: «¿Hay mucha religión satánica en nuestra sociedad?». Sí. Todo, excepto el verdadero cristianismo, es satánico, hasta cierto punto, de una forma u otra. No es que todo el mundo adore directamente a Satanás, aunque algunos lo hacen. Pero toda persona que no adora al Dios vivo y verdadero por Jesucristo, adora, en efecto, a Satanás. ¿Qué puede hacer para ayudar a alguien que está atrapado en una falsa creencia acerca de Dios? ~ John F MacArthur Jr,
1055:The Emigrant's Vision
As his bark dashed away on the night-shrouded deep,
And out towards the South he was gazing,
First there passed o’er his spirit a darkness like sleep,
Then the light of a vision amazing!
As rises the moon, from the white waves afar
Came a goddess, it seemed, of love, wisdom, and war,
And on her bright helmet, encircling a star,
Behold there was graven “Australia.”
Her robes were of green, like the mantle of spring
Newly spread by the streams that so mildly
Flow on through yon flock-dappled plains, or that sing
’Mid those blue ranging mountains so wildly:
Her locks were as bright as the lustre that lies
At morn on the seas of the South, and her eyes
Were as deep in their joy as the clear sunny skies—
The clear sunny skies of Australia.
“O stranger!” she said, “hast thou fled from the home
Which they forefathers bled for so vainly?
Does shame for its past thus induce thee to roam,
Or despair of its future constrain thee?
In the far sunny South there’s a refuge from wrong,
’Tis the Shiloh of freedom expected so long;
There genius and glory shall shout forth their song—
’Tis the evergreen land of Australia.
“There Truth her abode on the forest-clad hills
Shall establish, a dweller for ever,
And Plenty rejoice by the gold-pebbled rills,
Well mated to honest endeavour,
Till the future a numberless people shall see,
Eager, and noble, and equal, and free,
And the God they adore their sole monarch shall be—
Then come, build thy home in Australia!”
She said. Towards the South she passed brightly away,
And at once, as from slumber, he started;
But the cadences sweet of the welcoming lay
Yet breathed of the vision departed;
179
And when o’er the deep these had fadingly spread,
The swell of his heart, as he rose from his bed,
Broke loud into words on his tongue, and he said—
“Be the home of my hope, then, Australia!”
~ Charles Harpur,
1056:Less is not known as a teacher, in the same way Melville was not known as a customs inspector. And yet both held the respective positions. Though he was once an endowed chair at Robert’s university, he has no formal training except the drunken, cigarette-filled evenings of his youth, when Robert’s friends gathered and yelled, taunted, and played games with words. As a result, Less feels uncomfortable lecturing. Instead, he re-creates those lost days with his students. Remembering those middle-aged men sitting with a bottle of whiskey, a Norton book of poetry, and scissors, he cuts up a paragraph of Lolita and has the young doctoral students reassemble the text as they desire. In these collages, Humbert Humbert becomes an addled old man rather than a diabolical one, mixing up cocktail ingredients and, instead of confronting the betrayed Charlotte Haze, going back for more ice. He gives them a page of Joyce and a bottle of Wite-Out—and Molly Bloom merely says “Yes.” A game to write a persuasive opening sentence for a book they have never read (this is difficult, as these diligent students have read everything) leads to a chilling start to Woolf’s The Waves: I was too far out in the ocean to hear the lifeguard shouting, “Shark! Shark!” Though the course features, curiously, neither vampires nor Frankenstein monsters, the students adore it. No one has given them scissors and glue sticks since they were in kindergarten. No one has ever asked them to translate a sentence from Carson McCullers (In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together) into German (In der Stadt gab es zwei Stumme, und sie waren immer zusammen) and pass it around the room, retranslating as they go, until it comes out as playground gibberish: In the bar there were two potatoes together, and they were trouble. What a relief for their hardworking lives. Do they learn anything about literature? Doubtful. But they learn to love language again, something that has faded like sex in a long marriage. Because of this, they learn to love their teacher. ~ Andrew Sean Greer,
1057:We're having roast beef tonight, Lord Charles," Mildred announced, as though the smell that wafted throughout the house was not enough reason for Charles to guess that fact for himself. "I wouldn't have known." "I just adore roast beef," she continued breezily.  "It is one of my absolute favorite dishes." "Mine too," Ophelia added.  "Do you like roast beef, Captain?" "I do.  And did you cook it yourself, Miss Leighton?" "Oh no, Amy makes all the meals around here." "So I've noticed.  She is a very accomplished cook." "Oh, she's passably fair," Ophelia said, with an airy little laugh.  "I'm a better one, when I put my mind to it." "Are you?  Perhaps, then, you should put your mind, and your hands, to it tomorrow.  I daresay I would enjoy sampling your efforts and deciding for myself whether or not your claim is a valid one." Ophelia's smug smile promptly vanished.  She was trapped, and she knew it. Will saw instantly what the captain was up to.  "What a good idea!" he said loudly, earning a vicious glare from his sister.  "You haven't cooked anythin' in ages, Ophelia!  Why, I'll bet you're so out of practice that even the water won't remember how to boil for you!" "I'm not cooking unless Millie helps me!" "Do you mean that Mildred can also cook?" Charles murmured, raising his brows.  "Dear me.  I didn't know that either of you possessed such . . . talents." "Of course I can cook!  And I can make anything that Ophelia makes taste like slops in comparison!" "I should like to see you try!" snapped Ophelia. "Yes, so would I," mused Charles.  "But since you are both so eager to prove your culinary expertise to me, perhaps Ophelia can cook tomorrow, and Mildred can have her turn the following day." ""I can't cook tomorrow, I have other things to do.  Besides, Amy does the all the cooking around here." Charles smiled thinly.  "Yes, so I've noticed," he murmured.  And then, his voice hardening, "As well as all the baking, sewing, mending, cleaning, washing, weaving, marketing, and soap-making.  Rather a lot for one woman, isn't it?" Ophelia ~ Danelle Harmon,
1058:It is natural to want to employ your friends when you find yourself in times of need. The world is a harsh place, and your friends soften the harshness. Besides, you know them. Why depend on a stranger when you have a friend at hand? Men are more ready to repay an injury than a benefit, because gratitude is a burden and revenge a pleasure. TACITUS, c. A.D. 55-120 The problem is that you often do not know your friends as well as you imagine. Friends often agree on things in order to avoid an argument. They cover up their unpleasant qualities so as to not offend each other. They laugh extra hard at each other’s jokes. Since honesty rarely strengthens friendship, you may never know how a friend truly feels. Friends will say that they love your poetry, adore your music, envy your taste in clothes—maybe they mean it, often they do not. When you decide to hire a friend, you gradually discover the qualities he or she has kept hidden. Strangely enough, it is your act of kindness that unbalances everything. People want to feel they deserve their good fortune. The receipt of a favor can become oppressive: It means you have been chosen because you are a friend, not necessarily because you are deserving. There is almost a touch of condescension in the act of hiring friends that secretly afflicts them. The injury will come out slowly: A little more honesty, flashes of resentment and envy here and there, and before you know it your friendship fades. The more favors and gifts you supply to revive the friendship, the less gratitude you receive. Ingratitude has a long and deep history. It has demonstrated its powers for so many centuries, that it is truly amazing that people continue to underestimate them. Better to be wary. If you never expect gratitude from a friend, you will be pleasantly surprised when they do prove grateful. The problem with using or hiring friends is that it will inevitably limit your power. The friend is rarely the one who is most able to help you; and in the end, skill and competence are far more important than friendly feelings. ~ Robert Greene,
1059:Remembrance
How dear to me the twilight hour!
It breathes, it speaks of pleasures past;
When Laura sought this humble bower,
And o'er it courtly splendours cast.
Fond fancy's friend, dim twilight, hail!
Thou canst the absent nymph restore;
And as around thy shadows sail,
They bring the form I still adore.
Again her pensive smile I view,
Her modest eye's soft chastened fire;
And mark her cheek of tender hue
From thee a softer tint acquire.
No eye but mine in that dim hour
The softly blushing maid could see;
And then her voice of magic power
Charmed with its sweetness none but me.
But now, alas! to distant plains,
To crowded scenes, perhaps, she flies;
She speaks, to charm unnumbered swains;
She smiles, to bless unnumbered eyes.
Yet if, while crowds before thee bow,
Thy lips to favouring smiles incline,
Think not, sweet maid, their bosoms glow
With love as pure, as true as mine.
Reflect,....I knelt before thy feet,
Afraid to speak, or look, or move,
Nor e'en thy pity dared entreat
For hours of hopeless pining love.
They can with bold unfaltering tongue
Their loudly-boasted flame reveal;
But, Laura, spurn the heartless throng,
They talk of pangs I only feel .
38
From glowing cheeks, and sparkling eyes,
O turn, my Laura! turn to him
From whose sunk cheek the colour flies,
Whose eye with hopeless love is dim.
O turn to me, whose blighted youth
The wreck of former days appears!....
But well the change has proved my truth,
And thou wilt own that change endears.
Yet, no; ah, no! forget, forget
My ardent love, my faith, and me;
Remember not we ever met;
I would not cause one pang to thee.
And when I hear that thou art blest,
My own distress I'll learn to scorn;
I'll bid imperious anguish rest,
While smiles my pallid lips adorn.
Deep in my heart the load of grief,
Concealed from every glance, shall lie;
Till sorrow proves its own relief,
And I shall suffer, smile, and die.
~ Amelia Opie,
1060:Oh, puppy…,” Thomas sighed.
“I’m not sure that’s what you meant by making you feel my love,” Hans said, panting.
Thomas chuckled and ran a hand through Hans’s hair. “I felt it. It wasn’t just sex. I felt you. I felt both of you.”
“I love you,” Hans insisted.
“I know,” Thomas said. “And I think I’ve been denying that I love you because I didn’t want to hurt Boris.”
“I suspected,” Boris said with a shrug. “You know how I feel.”
“You really do still love me? Not just as a friend, not like a brother, not like a fuckbuddy… You are still in love with me?”
“Malish,” Boris said, drawing lines through the come trickling down Thomas’s side, “my love for you has not changed. I still adore you. I still get a hard-on just thinking about you. I would do anything for you—including ending our relationship with Hans, if that was the only way for you to be happy.”
Hans hated to hear that. It felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest, especially after what had just happened between the three of them. Boris moved forward and kissed his forearm, just as Hans thought about pulling away from them.
“But please do not send the puppy away,” Boris continued. “I love him too. I would be very unhappy to lose him.”
“Hans isn’t going anywhere,” Thomas said. “At least, I don’t want him to.” He stroked the side of Hans’s face. “I love him too.”
Hans went from devastated to overflowing with emotion in a microsecond. He smiled and closed his eyes against the sting of tears. “I love you. Both of you.”
“You’re growing hard again,” Thomas said, laughing. “I can feel it. Do you want to do something about that?”
“You must be pretty worn out by now.”
“I doubt I could come again,” Thomas admitted. “Not for an hour or so, anyway. But I think you can fuck me again if you take it slow.”
Boris roused himself from the torpor he normally drifted into after he’d had an orgasm. “No. I am vetoing this. If you need more fucking, you can stick it in my ass. Thomas will probably be in severe pain tomorrow as it is.”
Thomas laughed. “It’s hard for me to say. Things are kind of numb down there ~ Jamie Fessenden,
1061:Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
  Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
  Without that modest softening that enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again:
  E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
  E'en then my soul with exultation dances
For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
  Heavens! how desperately do I adore
  Thy winning graces;--to be thy defender
  I hotly burn--to be a Calidore--
A very Red Cross Knight--a stout Leander--
  Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;
  Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,
  Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.
From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare
  To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd
  They be of what is worthy,--though not drest
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;
  These lures I straight forget--e'en ere I dine,
Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark
  Such charms with mild intelligences shine,
My ear is open like a greedy shark,
  To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being?
  Who can forget her half retiring sweets?
  God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
  Will never give him pinions, who intreats
  Such innocence to ruin,--who vilely cheats
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing
One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear
  A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
Her form seems floating palpable, and near;
  Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take
A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
  And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.
by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

~ John Keats, Woman! When I Behold Thee Flippant, Vain
,
1062:Midway through the gruesomely pleasant dinner, Kev became aware that Amelia, who was seated at the end of the table, was unusually quiet. He looked at her closely, realizing her color was off and her cheeks were sweaty. Since he was seated at her immediate left, Kev leaned close and whispered, “What is it?” Amelia gave him a distracted glance. “Ill,” she whispered back, swallowing weakly. “I feel so … Oh, Merripen, do help me away from the table.” Without another word, Kev pushed his chair back and helped her up. Cam, who was at the other end of the long table, looked at them sharply. “Amelia?” “She’s ill,” Kev said. Cam reached them in a flash, his face taut with anxiety. As he gathered Amelia in his arms and carried her, protesting, from the room, one would think she’d suffered a severe injury rather than a probable case of indigestion. “Perhaps I might be of service,” Dr. Harrow said with quiet concern, laying his napkin on the table as he made to follow them. “Thank you,” Win said, smiling at him gratefully. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Kev barely restrained himself from gnashing his teeth in jealousy as Harrow left the room. The rest of the meal was largely neglected, the family going to the main receiving room to wait for a report on Amelia. It took an unnervingly long time for anyone to appear. “What could be the matter?” Beatrix asked plaintively. “Amelia’s never ill.” “She’ll be fine,” Win soothed. “Dr. Harrow will take excellent care of her.” “Perhaps I should go to their room,” Poppy said, “and ask how she is.” But before anyone could offer an opinion, Cam appeared in the doorway of the receiving room. He looked bemused, his hazel eyes vivid as he glanced at the assorted family members around him. He appeared to search for words. Then a dazzling smile appeared despite his obvious effort to moderate it. “No doubt the gadje have a more civilized way to put this,” he said, “but Amelia is with child.” A chorus of happy exclamations greeted the revelation. “What did Amelia say?” Leo asked. Cam’s smile turned wry. “Something to the effect that this wouldn’t be convenient.” Leo laughed quietly. “Children rarely are. But she’ll adore having someone new to manage. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1063:I love you,' Buttercup said. 'I know this must come as something of a surprise to you, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman has ever loved a man, but a half hour after that I knew that what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But ten minutes after that, I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know? Well they are. How many minutes ago was I? Twenty? Had I brought my feelings up to then? It doesn't matter.' Buttercup still could not look at him. The sun was rising behind her now; she could feel the heat on her back, and it gave her courage. 'I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be comparison. I love you so much more now then when you opened your hovel door, there cannot be comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you; anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do. I know I cannot compete with the Countess in skills or wisdom or appeal, and I saw the way she looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at her. But remember, please, that she is old and has other interests, while I am seventeen and for me there is only you. Dearest Westley--I've never called you that before, have I?--Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley,--darling Westley, adored Westley, sweet perfect Westley, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.' And with that, she dared the bravest thing she'd ever done; she looked right into his eyes. ~ William Goldman,
1064:Raquel? You coming?”
“I honestly never thought I would see the light of day again.”
“Aww, come on. With me on your side? Of course things worked out.”
She tried to smile, but her eyes filled with tears. Thank you, Evie.”
I threw my arms around her in a hug. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I really do. You wonderful girl. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Well, now that we’re both unemployed fugitives, think of how much time we’ll have to hang out!”
She laughed drily, and we walked with our arms around each other to the house. I opened the door and yelled, “Evie alert! Coming into the family room!”
“You made it!” Lend shouted back. “Just a sex, I’ll go to the kitchen. Raquel’s with you?”
“Yup!”
“Good job! Jack and Arianna got back a couple of minutes ago.”
I walked into the family room to find Arianna and Jack sitting on the couch, arguing. “But here would have been no point to you being there if it hadn’t been for my computer prowess.”
“But your computer prowess wouldn’t have mattered if you couldn’t have gotten into the Center in the first place.”
“Being a glorified taxi does not make you the bigger hero.”
“Being a nerd who can tap on a keyboard or being able to navigate the dark eternities of the Faerie Paths . . . hmmm . . . which is a rarer and more valuable skill . . .”
I put my hands on my hips. “Okay, kids, take it elsewhere. Raquel and I have work to do.”
“Evie,” Raquel said. She was staring at Jack in horror.
“Oh, that.” I waved a hand dismissively. “It’s all good. Jack’s been helping us.”
“Don’t you remember how he tried to kill you?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Boring. We’ve all moved on.”
“Really?”
“Not really,” I said. “But he’s behaving. And everyone needs a glorified taxi now and then.”
“Admit it: you all adore me.” Jack bowed dramatically as he left the room. Arianna smiled tightly at Raquel and left after him.
Raquel collapsed onto the couch and closed her eyes. “You’re working with Reth and Jack? Have you lost your mind?”
“Oh, that happened ages ago. But I’ve had to do a lot of rescuing lately, and those two come in handy.”
“Do you trust them?”
“No, we don’t,” Lend called from the kitchen. ~ Kiersten White,
1065:HEART OF TEA DEVOTION
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev ning in.
WILLIAM COWPER
Perhaps the idea of a tea party takes you back to childhood. Do you remember dressing up and putting on your best manners as you sipped pretend tea out of tiny cups and shared pretend delicacies with your friends, your parents, or your teddy bears? Were you lucky enough to know adults who cared enough to share tea parties with you? And are you lucky enough to have a little person with whom you could share a tea party today? Is there a little girl inside you who longs for a lovely time of childish imagination and "so big" manners?
It could be that the mention of teatime brings quieter memories-cups of amber liquid sipped in
peaceful solitude on a big porch, or friendly confidences shared over steaming cups. So many of my own special times of closeness-with my husband, my children, my friends-have begun with putting a kettle on to boil and pulling out a tea tray.
But even if you don't care for tea-if you prefer coffee or cocoa or lemonade or ice water, or if you like chunky mugs better than gleaming silver or delicate china, or if you find the idea of traditional tea too formal and a bit intimidating-there's still room for you at the tea table, and I think you would love it there! I have shared tea with so many people-from business executives to book club ladies to five-year-old boys. And I have found that few can resist a tea party when it is served with the right spirit.
You see, it's not tea itself that speaks to the soul with such a satisfying message-although I must confess that I adore the warmth and fragrance of a cup of Earl Grey or Red Zinger. And it's not the teacups themselves that bring such a message of beauty and serenity and friendship-although my teacups do bring much pleasure.
It's not the tea, in other words, that makes teatime special, it's the spirit of the tea party.
It's what happens when women or men or children make a place in their life for the ~ Emilie Barnes,
1066:Je T'Adore À L'Égal De La Voûte Nocturne (More Than
Night's Vault, It's You That I Adore)
Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne,
Ô vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne,
Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis,
Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits,
Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues
Qui séparent mes bras des immensités bleues.
Je m'avance à l'attaque, et je grimpe aux assauts,
Comme après un cadavre un choeur de vermisseaux,
Et je chéris, ô bête implacable et cruelle!
Jusqu'à cette froideur par où tu m'es plus belle!
I Adore You as Much as the Nocturnal Vault...
I adore you as much as the nocturnal vault,
O vase of sadness, most taciturn one,
I love you all the more because you flee from me,
And because you appear, ornament of my nights,
More ironically to multiply the leagues
That separate my arms from the blue infinite.
I advance to attack, and I climb to assault,
Like a swarm of maggots after a cadaver,
And I cherish, implacable and cruel beast,
Even that coldness which makes you more beautiful.
— Translated by William Aggeler
More Than Night's Vault, It's You That I Adore
More than night's vault, it's you that I adore,
Vessel of sorrow, silent one, the more
Because you flee from me, and seem to place,
Ornament of my nights! more leagues of space
Ironically between me and you
Than part me from these vastitudes of blue.
208
I charge, attack, and mount to the assault
As worms attack a corpse within a vault.
And cherish even the coldness that you boast,
By which, harsh beast, you subjugate me most.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
I Worship You
I worship you, O proud and taciturn,
As I do night's high vault; O sorrow's urn,
I love you all the more because you flee
And seem, gem of my nights, ironically
To multiply the weary leagues that sunder
My arms from all infinity's blue wonder.
I skirmish and I climb to the attack,
I, a worms' chorus on a corpse's back,
O fierce cruel beast, I cherish to the full
The very chill that makes you beautiful.
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1067:The year 1789 does not yet affirm the divinity of man, but the divinity of the people, to the degree in
which the will of the people coincides with the will of nature and of reason. If the general will is freely
expressed, it can only be the universal expression of reason. If the people are free, they are infallible.
Once the King is dead, and
the chains of the old despotism thrown off, the people are going to express what, at all times and in all
places, is, has been, and will be the truth. They are the oracle that must be consulted to know what the
eternal order of the world demands. Vox populi, vox naturae. Eternal principles govern our conduct:
Truth, Justice, finally Reason. There we have the new God. The Supreme Being, whom cohorts of young
girls come to adore at the Feast of Reason, is only the ancient god disembodied, peremptorily deprived of
any connection with the earth, and launched like a balloon into a heaven empty of all transcendent
principles. Deprived of all his representatives, of any intercessor, the god of the lawyers and philosophers
only has the value of a demonstration. He is not very strong, in fact, and we can see why Rousseau, who
preached tolerance, thought that atheists should be condemned to death. To ensure the adoration of a
theorem for any length of time, faith is not enough; a police force is needed as well. But that will only
come later. In 1793 the new faith is still intact, and it will suffice, to take Saint-Just's word, to govern
according to the dictates of reason. The art of ruling, according to him, has produced only monsters
because, before his time, no one wished to govern according to nature. The period of monsters has come
to an end with the termination of the period of violence. "The human heart advances from nature to
violence, from violence to morality." Morality is, therefore, only nature finally restored after centuries of
alienation. Man only has to be given law "in accord with nature and with his heart," and he will cease to
be unhappy and corrupt. Universal suffrage, the foundation of the new laws, must inevitably lead to a
universal morality. "Our aim is to create an order of things which establishes a universal tendency toward
good. ~ Albert Camus,
1068:I wonder if he realized the peacocks would soon begin multiplying, because if I’m not much mistaken, I see a few babies poking their heads out of the shrubbery,” Abigail said. “Baby peacocks?” Rosetta took off toward the shrubbery before anyone could stop her. A shrill screech split the air right as an entire flock of peacocks came charging out of the shrubbery and directly toward Rosetta. Dropping Abigail’s arm, Millie broke into a run, dodging peacock after peacock as she tried to get to the child. By the time she finally reached her, Millie had been pecked numerous times. Scooping Rosetta up into her arms, she hugged the little girl tightly to herself before she looked over the child’s curls, discovering, much to her dismay, that they were now completely surrounded by the birds. “Shoo,” she shouted, but all that managed to do was set off additional screeching. A small hand on her cheek had her looking down. Rosetta, much to Millie’s surprise, wasn’t looking frightened in the least. In fact, she was smiling. “Aren’t they beautiful?” Rosetta asked before she tucked her small head into the crook of Millie’s neck. She then let out the smallest of sighs as her other hand reached up and closed around the fabric of Millie’s blouse. Right there and then, Millie lost her heart. Leaning closer to the little girl nestled against her, she breathed in the sweet scent of Rosetta’s hair, but then remembered she was right in the midst of a flock of mad peacocks. Lifting her head, she eyed the birds that were closing in on her. “They’re not going to hurt you,” Elizabeth called over the screeching. “Animals adore Rose. You’ll be fine walking through them.” Millie’s first thought, since the numerous pecks the peacocks had given her were beginning to sting, was that Elizabeth was up to no good, but then she remembered she was carrying Rosetta. It had been clear from the start that Elizabeth took her role as older sibling very seriously. Taking a steadying breath, Millie tightened her hold on Rosetta and began moving ever so slowly forward. To her relief, the peacocks stopped screeching and then filed, one after another, into a straight line behind her. Hoping she was not setting herself up for an attack, Millie headed for the house, wanting to put a solid wall between her and the birds. “I ~ Jen Turano,
1069:Be a light unto the world, and hurt it not. Seek to build not destroy. Bring My people home.

How?

By your shining example. Seek only Godliness. Speak only in truthfulness. Act only in love.
Live the Law of Love now and forever more. Give everything require nothing.
Avoid the mundane.
Do not accept the unacceptable.
Teach all who seek to learn of Me.
Make every moment of your life an outpouring of love.
Use every moment to think the highest thought, say the highest word, do the highest deed. In this, glorify your Holy Self, and thus too, glorify Me.
Bring peace to the Earth by bringing peace to all those whose lives you touch. Be peace. Feel and express in every moment your Divine Connection with the All, and with every person, place, and thing.
Embrace every circumstance, own every fault, share every joy, contemplate every mystery, walk in every man’s shoes, forgive every offense (including your own), heal every heart, honor every person’s truth, adore every person’s God, protect every person’s rights, preserve every person’s dignity, promote every person’s interests, provide every person’s needs, presume every person’s holiness, present every person’s greatest gifts, produce every person’s blessing, pronounce every person’s future secure in the assured love of God.
Be a living, breathing example of the Highest Truth that resides within you. Speak humbly of yourself, lest someone mistake your Highest Truth for boast. Speak softly, lest someone think you are merely calling for attention. Speak gently, that all might know of Love. Speak openly, lest someone think you have something to hide. Speak candidly, so you cannot be mistaken. Speak often, so that your word may truly go forth. Speak respectfully, that no one be dishonored. Speak lovingly, that every syllable may heal. Speak of Me with every utterance. Make of your life a gift. Remember always, you are the gift!
Be a gift to everyone who enters your life, and to everyone whose life you enter. Be careful not to enter another’s life if you cannot be a gift. (You can always be a gift, because you always are the gift—yet sometimes you don’t let yourself know that.) When someone enters your life unexpectedly, look for the gift that person has come to receive from you…I HAVE SENT YOU NOTHING BUT ANGELS. ~ Neale Donald Walsch,
1070:You never asked. How would I like you to kill it? You are a captain in the Red Army, for goodness’ sake. What do they teach you there?” “How to kill human beings. Not mice.” She barely touched her food. “Well, throw a grenade at it. Use your rifle. I don’t know. But do something.” Alexander shook his head. “You went out into the streets of Leningrad while the Germans were throwing five-hundred-kilo bombs that blew arms and legs off the women standing ahead of you in line, you stood fearless in front of cannibals, you jumped off a moving train to go and find your brother, but you are afraid of mice?” “Now you got it,” Tatiana said defiantly. “It doesn’t make sense,” Alexander said. “If a person is fearless in the big things—” “You’re wrong. Again. Are you done with your questions? Anything else you want to ask? Or add?” “Just one thing.” Alexander kept his face serious. “It looks like,” he said slowly, his voice calm, “we’ve found three uses for that too-high potato countertop I built yesterday.” And he burst out laughing. “Go ahead, laugh,” Tatiana said. “Go ahead. I’m here for your amusement.” Her eyes twinkled. Putting his own plate on the bench, Alexander took the plate out of her hands and brought her to him to stand between his legs. Reluctantly she came. “Tania, do you have any idea how funny you are?” He kissed her chest, looking up at her. “I adore you.” “If you really adored me,” she said, trying to twist herself out of his arms, unsuccessfully, “you wouldn’t be sitting here idly flirting when you could be militarizing that cabin.” Alexander stood up. “Just to point out,” he said, “it’s not called flirting once you’ve made love to the girl.” After Alexander went inside, a smiling Tatiana sat on the bench and finished her food. In a few minutes he emerged from the cabin holding his rifle in one hand, his pistol in the other, and a bayonet attachment between his teeth. The dead mouse was swinging at the end of the bayonet. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “How did I do?” Tatiana failed to keep a straight face. “All right, all right,” she said, chortling. “You didn’t have to bring out the spoils of war.” “Ah, but I know you wouldn’t believe in a dead mouse unless you saw it with your own eyes.” “Will you stop quoting me back to me? Shura, you tell me, I will believe it,” said Tatiana. “Now, go on, get out of here with that thing.” “One last question.” “Oh, no,” said Tatiana, covering her face, trying not to laugh. “Do you think this dead mouse is worth the price of a…killed mouse?” “Will you just go?” Tatiana heard his boisterous laughter all the way to the woods and back. ~ Paullina Simons,
1071:Paige, I want you to know something. I know it’s too soon for you to think about a whole lifetime, but I’m not fooling around here. I don’t have any expectations, I swear. I just want you to know that. I’m in all the way. Committed. I don’t want you to ever worry that I’m just passing the time.” She ran her fingertips through the short hair at his temple. “Aren’t you a little afraid you could get tired of me, John?” He shook his head. “I’m not that kind of guy. I take it slow—too slow, sometimes. I give things a lot of time—being sure is a good thing. But I don’t change my mind. I know in some things that can be bad. I like things to stay the same.” “I won’t hold you to anything,” she said. “I’m just so happy to be here, like this, right now....” “There’s something else I want to say about that, about us. I’m not the kind of guy who doesn’t want you to talk back or have your opinions or expects you to never have a bad day when you’re all cranky and annoyed. I want all of that—I want you to speak up, make demands, insist on the most exceptional treatment and get pissed off if you don’t get it. I want you to feel safe to yell at me just because you’re in a mood. If I’m not what you want for the long haul, I can live with that. What I could never live with is you being afraid of how I’ll act when you’re just being yourself.” It was impossible to keep tears from gathering in her eyes. “John... No one’s ever loved me like that....” “Well, baby, I do. In fact, that’s the only way I love you. Every part of you—strong and bossy, scared and needy—it doesn’t matter. If I’m gonna have you, it has to be all of you, not some little part that feels safe.” She kissed him, quick, on the lips. He brushed a tear off her cheek. “I know that baby you lost wasn’t planned, and it still hurt you pretty bad that it didn’t make it. Maybe someday, when you’re ready, you’ll talk to me about adding to our family. Giving Chris a little brother or sister.” “You’d like children?” she asked. “I never thought I would. But with you, it comes to mind.” He laughed. “It comes to mind pretty hard. It’ll keep, Paige. It’s just an idea....” She gently touched his face. “You do understand that if there’s a baby between us, you might have to cut back a little?” “How much?” he asked, that frown that she had come to adore drawing his brows together. And she laughed at him. “You’re teasing me,” he said. “Okay, you asked for it,” he said, starting on her eyelids. She grabbed his face in her hands and stopped him. “John,” she said. “I want it, too. Everything. All of you. I’ve never been this happy.” He smiled. “More where that came from,” he said. “Forever, if you want.” * ~ Robyn Carr,
1072:The Will To Live
SINCE Faith is a veil that has nothing behind it,
And Hope wanders lost where no mortal can find it,
Since Love is a mirror we break in a minute
In snatching the image our soul has cast in it,
What is the use of the Summers and Springs,
The wave of the woods and the waft of the wings-Since all means nothing, and good things and ill
Make madness,--a mirage tormenting us still?
Since all the fighting, the ardent endeavour,
The heart cast bleeding to feed the Ideal,
Are vain, vain, vain, and the one thing real
Is that all's vain, for ever and ever;
Why then, be a man and stand back from the strife,
Fall by the sword, but keep out of the snare;
Will but to be--and be willing to bear
All that the gods may lay on your of life!
In the far East, where light ever dawns first,
There has man learned how the Fates may be cheated,
How by our craft may their strength be defeated,
Though all our best be no match for their worst!
Kill the desire that they set in your bosom,
Long not for fruit when you gaze on the blossom,
Dream not of flowers when you gaze on the bud,
Kill all the rebels that shout in your blood.
Sorrow and sickness, disease and decay-These toll the hours of Life's desolate day;
Hopes unfulfilled and forbidden delight
These are the dreams of Life's treacherous night.
So let me image an infinite peace
Touched with no joy but the ease of release.
Out of the eddies I climb and I cease
Keeping, in change for this man's soul of me,
Something which, by the eternal decree,
Is as like Nothing as Something can be!
Not to desire, to admit, to adore,
Casting the robe of the soul that you wore
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Just
This
This
This
as the soul casts the body's robe down.
is man's destiny, this is man's crown.
is the splendour, the end of the feast;
is the light of the Star in the East.
So, Silence reconciles Life's jarring phrases
Far in the future, austere and august:
Meanwhile, the buds of the poplars are falling,
Spring's on the lawn, and a little voice calling:
'Daddy, come out! Daddy darling, you must!
Daddy come out and help Molly pick daisies!'
And, since one's here, and the Spring's in the garden
(How many lives hence will that thought earn pardon?)
Since one's a man and man's heart is insistent,
And, since Nirvana is doubtful and distant,
Though life's a hard road and thorny to travel-Stones in the borders and grass on the gravel,
Still there's the wisdom that wise men call folly,
Still one can go and pick daisies with Molly!
~ Edith Nesbit,
1073:Speaking of those children...."  He tried to turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours." "Yes, my daughter. She's just over six months." "Will you lift her up so I may see her? I adore children." Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his daughter. Not hard at all. "You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be after you ... like hounds to the fox."  To Juliet he said, "What is her name?" "Charlotte."  The baby was wide awake now and tugging at the lace of his sleeve. "Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ... protect you and your mama?" Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of her amusement, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her emotions. Gareth managed to make himself heard over Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended you, somehow...." "No." "Then what is it?" "Her papa's dead." "Oh. I, ah ... I see."  He looked distressed, and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I fear." Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away. Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying herself. She made a noise of helpless despair. "Here ... set her on your lap, beside my head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat." "No, you're hurt." He smiled. "And your daughter is crying. Oblige me, and she will stop."  He stretched a hand toward the baby, offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children." With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked. Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat. ~ Danelle Harmon,
1074:Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin I’m writing you this declaration— What more can I in candour say? It may be now your inclination To scorn me and to turn away; But if my hapless situation Evokes some pity for my woe, You won’t abandon me, I know. I first tried silence and evasion; Believe me, you‘d have never learned My secret shame, had I discerned The slightest hope that on occasion— But once a week—I’d see your face, Behold you at our country place, Might hear you speak a friendly greeting, Could say a word to you; and then, Could dream both day and night again Of but one thing, till our next meeting. They say you like to be alone And find the country unappealing; We lack, I know, a worldly tone, But still, we welcome you with feeling. Why did you ever come to call? In this forgotten country dwelling I’d not have known you then at all, Nor known this bitter heartache’s swelling. Perhaps, when time had helped in quelling The girlish hopes on which I fed, I might have found (who knows?) another And been a faithful wife and mother, Contented with the life I led. Another! No! In all creation There’s no one else whom I’d adore; The heavens chose my destination And made me thine for evermore! My life till now has been a token In pledge of meeting you, my friend; And in your coming, God has spoken, You‘ll be my guardian till the end…. You filled my dreams and sweetest trances; As yet unseen, and yet so dear, You stirred me with your wondrous glances, Your voice within my soul rang clear…. And then the dream came true for me! When you came in, I seemed to waken, I turned to flame, I felt all shaken, And in my heart I cried: It’s he! And was it you I heard replying Amid the stillness of the night, Or when I helped the poor and dying, Or turned to heaven, softly crying, And said a prayer to soothe my plight? And even now, my dearest vision, Did I not see your apparition Flit softly through this lucent night? Was it not you who seemed to hover Above my bed, a gentle lover, To whisper hope and sweet delight? Are you my angel of salvation Or hell’s own demon of temptation? Be kind and send my doubts away; For this may all be mere illusion, The things a simple girl would say, While Fate intends no grand conclusion…. So be it then! Henceforth I place My faith in you and your affection; I plead with tears upon my face And beg you for your kind protection. You cannot know: I’m so alone, There’s no one here to whom I’ve spoken, My mind and will are almost broken, And I must die without a moan. I wait for you … and your decision: Revive my hopes with but a sign, Or halt this heavy dream of mine— Alas, with well-deserved derision! I close. I dare not now reread…. I shrink with shame and fear. But surely, Your honour’s all the pledge I need, And I submit to it securely. ~ Alexander Pushkin,
1075:Call Me Away
Call me away; there's nothing here,
That wins my soul to stay;
Then let me leave this prospect drear,
And hasten far away.
To our beloved land I'll flee,
Our land of thought and soul,
Where I have roved so oft with thee,
Beyond the world's control.
I'll sit and watch those ancient trees,
Those Scotch firs dark and high;
I'll listen to the eerie breeze,
Among their branches sigh.
The glorious moon shines far above;
How soft her radiance falls,
On snowy heights, and rock, and grove;
And yonder palace walls!
Who stands beneath yon fir trees high?
A youth both slight and fair,
Whose bright and restless azure eye
Proclaims him known to care,
Though fair that brow, it is not smooth;
Though small those features, yet in sooth
Stern passion has been there.
Now on the peaceful moon are fixed
Those eyes so glistening bright,
But trembling teardrops hang betwixt,
And dim the blessed light.
Though late the hour, and keen the blast,
That whistles round him now,
Those raven locks are backward cast,
To cool his burning brow.
His hands above his heaving breast
Are clasped in agony --
39
'O Father! Father! let me rest!
And call my soul to thee!
I know 'tis weakness thus to pray;
But all this cankering care -This doubt tormenting night and day
Is more than I can bear!
With none to comfort, none to guide
And none to strengthen me.
Since thou my only friend hast died -I've pined to follow thee!
Since thou hast died! And did he live
What comfort could his counsel give -To one forlorn like me?
Would he my Idol's form adore -Her soul, her glance, her tone?
And say, "Forget for ever more
Her kindred and thine own;
Let dreams of her thy peace destroy,
Leave every other hope and joy
And live for her alone"?'
He starts, he smiles, and dries the tears,
Still glistening on his cheek,
The lady of his soul appears,
And hark! I hear her speak -'Aye, dry thy tears; thou wilt not weep -While I am by thy side -Our foes all day their watch may keep
But cannot thus divide
Such hearts as ours; and we tonight
Together in the clear moon's light
Their malice will deride.
No fear our present bliss shall blast
And sorrow we'll defy.
Do thou forget the dreary past,
The dreadful future I.'
40
Forget it? Yes, while thou art by
I think of nought but thee,
'Tis only when thou art not nigh
Remembrance tortures me.
But such a lofty soul to find,
And such a heart as thine,
In such a glorious form enshrined
And still to call thee mine -Would be for earth too great a bliss,
Without a taint of woe like this,
Then why should I repine?
~ Anne Brontë,
1076:RICHARD FEYNMAN LETTER TO ARLINE FEYNMAN, 1946 Richard Feynman (1918–1988) shared the 1965 Nobel Prize in Physics for his work on quantum electrodynamics. Unrivaled in his generation for his brilliance and innovation, he was also known for being witty, warm, and unconventional. Those last three qualities were particularly evident in this letter, which he wrote to his wife Arline nearly two years after her death from tuberculosis. Feynman and Arline had been high school sweethearts and married in their twenties. Feynman’s second marriage, in 1952, ended in divorce two years later. His third marriage, in 1960, lasted until his death. D’Arline, I adore you, sweetheart. I know how much you like to hear that—but I don’t only write it because you like it—I write it because it makes me warm all over inside to write it to you. It is such a terribly long time since I last wrote to you—almost two years but I know you’ll excuse me because you understand how I am, stubborn and realistic; & I thought there was no sense to writing. But now I know my darling wife that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, and that I have done so much in the past. I want to tell you I love you. I want to love you. I always will love you. I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead—but I still want to comfort and take care of you—and I want you to love me and care for me. I want to have problems to discuss with you—I want to do little projects with you. I never thought until just now that we can do that together. What should we do. We started to learn to make clothes together—or learn Chinese—or getting a movie projector. Can’t I do something now. No. I am alone without you and you were the “idea-woman” and general instigator of all our wild adventures. When you were sick you worried because you could not give me something that you wanted to & thought I needed. You needn’t have worried. Just as I told you then there was no real need because I loved you in so many ways so much. And now it is clearly even more true—you can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my way of loving anyone else—but I want you to stand there. You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive. I know you will assure me that I am foolish & that you want me to have full happiness & don’t want to be in my way. I’ll bet you are surprised that I don’t even have a girl friend (except you, sweetheart) after two years. But you can’t help it, darling, nor can I—I don’t understand it, for I have met many girls & very nice ones and I don’t want to remain alone—but in two or three meetings they all seem ashes. You only are left to me. You are real. My darling wife, I do adore you. I love my wife. My wife is dead. Rich. P.S. Please excuse my not mailing this—but I don’t know your new address. ~ Lisa Grunwald,
1077:Jehovah Reigns
Jehovah reigns: let every nation hear,
And at his footstool bow with holy fear;
Let heaven's high arches echo with his name,
And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim;
Then send it down to hell's deep glooms resounding,
Through all her caves in dreadful murmurs sounding.
He rules with wide and absolute command
O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land:
Jehovah reigns, unbounded, and alone,
And all creation hangs beneath his throne:
He reigns alone; let no inferior nature
Usurp, or share the throne of the Creator.
He saw the struggling beams of infant light
Shoot through the massy gloom of ancient night;
His spirit hushed the' elemental strife,
And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life:
Seasons and months began their long procession,
And measured o'er the year in bright succession.
The joyful sun sprung up the' ethereal way,
Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay;
And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light
Superior o'er the dusky brow of night;
Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies adorning,
Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning.
Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he drest,
And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast;
Then from the hollow of his hand he pours
The circling water round her winding shores,
The new-born world in their cool arms embracing,
And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing.
At length she rose complete in finished pride,
All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride;
Fresh with untarnished lustre as she stood,
Her Maker blessed his work, and called it good;
The morning-stars with joyful acclamation
Exulting sang, and hailed the new creation.
Yet this fair world, the creature of a day,
78
Though built by God's right hand, must pass away;
And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things,
The fate of empires, and the pride of kings:
Eternal night shall veil their proudest story,
And drop the curtain o'er all human glory.
The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest,
Shall in his silent dark pavilion rest;
His golden urn shall broke and useless lie,
Amidst the common ruins of the sky;
The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion,
And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean.
But fixed, O God! for ever stands thy throne;
Jehovah reigns, a universe alone;
The' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame,
Collected, or diffused, is still the same.
He dwells within his own unfathomed essence,
And fills all space with his unbounded presence.
But oh! our highest notes the theme debase,
And silence is our least injurious praise:
Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight controul,
Revere him in the stillness of the soul;
With silent duty meekly bend before him,
And deep within your inmost hearts adore him.
~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
1078:Le Possédé (The Possessed)
Le soleil s'est couvert d'un crêpe. Comme lui,
Ô Lune de ma vie! emmitoufle-toi d'ombre
Dors ou fume à ton gré; sois muette, sois sombre,
Et plonge tout entière au gouffre de l'Ennui;
Je t'aime ainsi! Pourtant, si tu veux aujourd'hui,
Comme un astre éclipsé qui sort de la pénombre,
Te pavaner aux lieux que la Folie encombre
C'est bien! Charmant poignard, jaillis de ton étui!
Allume ta prunelle à la flamme des lustres!
Allume le désir dans les regards des rustres!
Tout de toi m'est plaisir, morbide ou pétulant;
Sois ce que tu voudras, nuit noire, rouge aurore;
II n'est pas une fibre en tout mon corps tremblant
Qui ne crie: Ô mon cher Belzébuth, je t'adore!
The One Possessed
The sun was covered with a crape. Like him,
Moon of my life! swathe yourself with darkness;
Sleep or smoke as you will; be silent, be somber,
And plunge your whole being into Ennui's abyss;
I love you thus! However, if today you wish,
Like an eclipsed star that leaves the half-light,
To strut in the places which Madness encumbers,
That is fine! Charming poniard spring out of your sheath!
Light your eyes at the flame of the lusters!
Kindle passion in the glances of churls!
To me you're all pleasure, morbid or petulant;
Be what you will, black night, red dawn;
There is no fiber in my whole trembling body
That does not cry: 'Dear Beelzebub, I adore you!'
317
— Translated by William Aggeler
The Possessed
The sun in crepe has muffled up his fire.
Moon of my life! Half shade yourself like him.
Slumber or smoke. Be silent and be dim,
And in the gulf of boredom plunge entire;
I love you thus! However, if you like,
Like some bright star from its eclipse emerging,
To flaunt with Folly where the crowds are surging —
Flash, lovely dagger, from your sheath and strike!
Light up your eyes from chandeliers of glass!
Light up the lustful looks of louts that pass!
Morbid or petulant, I thrill before you.
Be what you will, black night or crimson dawn;
No fibre of my body tautly-drawn,
But cries: 'Beloved demon, I adore you!'
— Translated by Roy Campbell
The Possessed
The sun in crepe has muffled up his fire.
Moon of my life! Half shade yourself like him.
Slumber or smoke. Be silent and be dim,
And in the gulf of ennui plunge entire;
I love you thus! However, if you like,
Like some bright star from its eclipse emerging,
To flaunt with Folly where the crowds are surging Flash, lovely dagger, from your sheath and strike!
Light up your eyes from chandeliers of glass!
Light up the lustful looks of louts that pass!
318
Morbid or petulant, I thrill before you.
Be what you will, black night or crimson dawn;
No fibre of my body tautly drawn,
But cries: 'Beloved demon, I adore you!'
Translated by Anonymous
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1079:He raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get this? Is our Anne Boleyn suddenly from Mars?" He chuckled. "I always thought she hailed from Wiltshire."
Luce's mind raced to catch up. She was playing Anne Boleyn? She'd never read this play, but Daniel's costume suggested he was playing the king, Henry VIII.
"Mr. Shakespeare-ah,Will-thought it would look good-"
"Oh,Will did?" Daniel smirked, bot believing her at all but seeming not to care. It was strange to feel that she could do or say almost anything and Daniel would still find it charming. "You're a little bit mad, aren't you, Lucinda?"
"I-well-"
He brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. "I adore you."
"I adore you,too." The words tumbled from her mouth,feeling so real and so true after the last few stammering lies. It was like letting out a long-held breath. "I've been thinking, thinking a lot,and I wanted to tell you that-that-"
"Yes?"
"The truth is that what I feel for you is...deeper than adoration." She pressed her hands over his heart. "I trust you. I trust your love. I know how strong it is,and how beautiful." Luce knew that she couldn't come right out and say what she really meant-she was supposed to be a different version of herself,and the other times,when Daniel had figured out who she was, where she'd come from,he'd clammed up immediately and told her to leave. But maybe if she chose her words carefully, Daniel would understand. "It may seem like sometimes I-I forgot what you mean to me and what I mean to you,but deep down...I know.I know because we are meant to be together.I love you, Daniel."
Daniel looked shocked. "You-you love me?"
"Of course." Luce almost laughed at how obvious it was-but then she remembered: She had no idea which moment from her past she'd walked into.Maybe in this lifetime they'd only exchanged coy glances.
Daniel's chest rose and fell violently and his lower lip began to quiver. "I want you to come away with me," he said quickly.There was a desperate edge to his voice.
Luce wanted to cry out Yes!, but something held her back.It was so easy to get lost in Daniel when his body was pressed so close to hers and she could feel the heat coming off his skin and the beating of his heart through his shirt.She felt she could tell him anything now-from how glorious it had felt to die in his arms in Versailles to how devastated she was now that she knew the scope of his suffering. But she held back: The girl he thought she was in this lifetime wouldn't talk about those things, wouldn't know them. Neither would Daniel. So when she finally opened her mouth,her voice faltered.
Daniel put a finger over her lips. "Wait. Don't protest yet. Let me ask you properly.By and by, my love."
He peeked out the cracked wardrobe door, toward the curtain.A cheer came from the stage.The audience roared with laughter and applause. Luce hadn't even realized the play had begun.
"That's my entrance.I'll see you soon." He kissed her forehead,then dashed out and onto the stage. ~ Lauren Kate,
1080:As we have seen, prayer, celebration of the religious offices, alms, consoling the afflicted, the cultivation of a little piece of ground, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, self-sacrifice, confidence, study, and work, filled up each day of his life. Filled up is exactly the phrase; and in fact, the Bishop's day was full to the brim with good thoughts, good words, and good actions. Yet it was not complete if cold or rainy weather prevented him from passing an hour or two in the evening, when the two women had retired, in his garden before going to sleep. It seemed as though it were a sort of rite with him, to prepare himself for sleep by meditating in the presence of the great spectacle of the starry firmament. Sometimes late at night, if the two women were awake, they would hear him slowly walking the paths. He was out there alone with himself, composed, tranquil, adoring, comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the skies, moved in the darkness by the visible splendors of the constellations, and the invisible splendor of God, opening his soul to the thoughts that fall from the Unknown. In such moments, offering up his heart at the hour when the flowers of night emit their perfume, lit like a lamp in the center of the starry night, expanding his soul in ecstasy in the midst of creation’s universal radiance, perhaps he could not have told what was happening in his own mind; he felt something depart from him, and something descend upon him; mysterious exchanges of the depths of the soul with the depths of the universe.

He contemplated the grandeur, and the presence of God; the eternity of the future, that strange mystery; the eternity of the past, a stranger mystery; all the infinities hidden deep in every direction; and, without trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, he saw it. He did not study God; he was dazzled by Him. He reflected upon the magnificent union of atoms, which give visible forms to Nature, revealing forces by recognizing them, creating individualities in unity, proportions in extension, the innumerable in the infinite, and through light producing beauty. These unions are forming and dissolving continually; from which come life and death.

He would sit on a wooden bench leaning against a decrepit trellis and look at the stars through the irregular outlines of his fruit trees. This quarter of an acre of ground, so sparingly planted, so cluttered with shed and ruins, was dear to him and satisfied him.

What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure hours of his life, where he had so little leisure, between gardening in the day time, and contemplation at night? Was this narrow enclosure, with the sky for a background not space enough for him to adore God in his most beautiful, most sublime works? Indeed, is that not everything? What more do you need? A little garden to walk in, and immensity to reflect on. At his feet something to cultivate and gather; above his head something to study and meditate on; a few flowers on earth and all the stars in the sky. ~ Victor Hugo,
1081:That man,” she announced huffily, referring to their host, “can’t put two words together without losing his meaning!” Obviously she’d expected better of the quality during the time she was allowed to mix with them.
“He’s afraid of us, I think,” Elizabeth replied, climbing out of bed. “Do you know the time? He desired me to accompany him fishing this morning at seven.”
“Half past ten,” Berta replied, opening drawers and turning toward Elizabeth for her decision as to which gown to wear. “He waited until a few minutes ago, then went of without you. He was carrying two poles. Said you could join him when you arose.”
“In that case, I think I’ll wear the pink muslin,” she decided with a mischievous smile.
The Earl of Marchman could scarcely believe his eyes when he finally saw his intended making her way toward him. Decked out in a frothy pink gown with an equally frothy pink parasol and a delicate pink bonnet, she came tripping across the bank. Amazed at the vagaries of the female mind, he quickly turned his attention back to the grandfather trout he’d been trying to catch for five years. Ever so gently he jiggled his pole, trying to entice or else annoy the wily old fish into taking his fly. The giant fish swam around his hook as if he knew it might be a trick and then he suddenly charged it, nearly jerking the pole out of John’s hands. The fish hurtled out of the water, breaking the surface in a tremendous, thrilling arch at the same moment John’s intended bride deliberately chose to let out a piercing shriek: “Snake!
Startled, John jerked his head in her direction and saw her charging at him as if Lucifer himself was on her heels, screaming, “Snake! Snake! Snnnaaaake!” And in that instant his connection was broken; he let his line go slack, and the fish dislodged the hook, exactly as Elizabeth had hoped.
“I saw a snake,” she lied, panting and stopping just short of the arms he’d stretched out to catch her-or strangle her, Elizabeth thought, smothering a smile. She stole a quick searching glance at the water, hoping for a glimpse of the magnificent trout he’d nearly caught, her hands itching to hold the pole and try her own luck.
Lord Marchman’s disgruntled question snapped her attention back to him. “Would you like to fish, or would you rather sit and watch for a bit, until you recover from your flight from the serpent?”
Elizabeth looked around in feigned shock. “Goodness, sir, I don’t fish!”
“Do you sit?” he asked with what might have been sarcasm.
Elizabeth lowered her lashes to hide her smile at the mounting impatience in his voice. “Of course I sit,” she proudly told him. “Sitting is an excessively ladylike occupation, but fishing, in my opinion, is not. I shall adore watching you do it, however.”
For the next two hours she sat on the boulder beside him, complaining about its hardness, the brightness of the sun and the dampness of the air, and when she ran out of matters to complain about she proceeded to completely spoil his morning by chattering his ears off about every inane topic she could think of while occasionally tossing rocks into the stream to scare off his fish. ~ Judith McNaught,
1082:Lord Nevil's Advice
“Friend,” quoth Lord Nevil, “thou art young
To face the world, and thou art blind
To subtle ways of womankind;
The meshes thou wilt fall among.
“Take an old married man's advice;
Use the experience I have earned;
Watch well where women are concerned,—
They're not all birds of paradise!
“Be circumspect, or thou mayst fall;
Abjure a blind faith—nay, trust none—
Till thou hast chosen, proven one;
Then trust her truly—trust in all.
“Keep a calm brain and quiet eye,
And watch. The doll of powder and paint,
The flirt, the artificial saint,
The loud man-woman—pass them by.
“The innocent one, who craves thy cares
To shield her from life's fret and fray;
Lad, watch her—maybe she'll betray
Some doubtful knowledge, unawares.
“The pensive one, who droops and sighs—
Wait till her dreaming comes to test;
Be gentle, yet be wary, lest
'Tis but a graceful grey disguise.
“The world-wise husband-hunter—she
Who knows no love but love of gold,
And lands and titles—empty, cold,—
Pity her, lad, and let her be.
“And the rich heiress—let her pass.
Belike she's stupid, drugged with wealth,
And just enjoys her life and health
As some fat cow in clover grass.
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“Or insolent with prosperity,
Unsharpened, shallow, unrefined;—
And thou art poor, and thou wilt mind
That proud blood cometh down to thee.
“The gushing gossip—she who rains
Incessant chatter in thine ears;—
She may be worth thy keenest fears,
She may be simply lacking brains,
“And lacking grace and modesty.
She will make mischief, at the best;
She may be wily, like the rest;
Keep thy tongue still when she is by.
“They that would master thee, if they could,
In brain and muscle—flaring lights—
The clamorous for false woman's rights;—
Snub them, my friend—it does them good—
“And do not think of them for wives.
Fit mates for such seem somewhat rare;
But when two odd ones make a pair,
They spoil at least four precious lives.
“But shouldst thou chance to meet a girl
With brave, bright eyes, that front thee straight,
A kindly tongue that does not prate,
And quiet lips that cannot curl;
“With fine sense, quick to understand;
With dignity that is not cold,
Sweet, sunny mirth that is not bold,
A ready ear, a willing hand;
“One skilled in household arts, and skilled
In little courteous, graceful ways,
That make no show and win no praise—
Wherewith discordant jars are stilled:
“One who will never touch a sore;
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One who sheds sunshine round about,
And draws life's hidden comfort out;
One whom the boys and babes adore:
“One with an intellect to reach
The highest range that thou canst rise;
Who will aye help thee, woman-wise,
And yet not set herself to teach:
“One of whom women love to speak,
In honest kindness, and whose name
Men let alone; whose chiefest fame
Lies hidden where men may not seek;—
“Friend, woo her, as a good knight can,
And win her. Lay thou at her feet
Faith, love, and honour, true and sweet;
And count thyself a happy man.”
~ Ada Cambridge,
1083:Colby arrived the next day, with stitches down one lean cheek and a new prosthesis. He held it up as Cecily came out to the car to greet him. He held it up as Cecily came out to the car to greet him. “Nice, huh? Doesn’t it look more realistic than the last one?”
“What happened to the last one?” she asked.
“Got blown off. Don’t ask where,” he added darkly.
“I know nothing,” she assured him. “Come on in. Leta made sandwiches.”
Leta had only seen Colby once, on a visit with Tate. She was polite, but a little remote, and it showed.
“She doesn’t like me,” Colby told Cecily when they were sitting on the steps later that evening.
“She thinks I’m sleeping with you,” she said simply.” So does Tate.”
“Why?”
“Because I let him think I was,” she said bluntly.
He gave her a hard look. “Bad move, Cecily.”
“I won’t let him think I’m waiting around for him to notice me,” she said icily. “He’s already convinced that I’m in love with him, and that’s bad enough. I can’t have him know that I’m…well, what I am. I do have a little pride.”
“I’m perfectly willing, if you’re serious,” he said matter-of-factly. His face broke into a grin, belying the solemnity of the words. “Or are you worried that I might not be able to handle it with one arm?”
She burst out laughing and pressed affectionately against his side. “I adore you, I really do. But I had a bad experience in my teens. I’ve had therapy and all, but it’s still sort of traumatic for me to think about real intimacy.”
“Even with Tate?” he probed gently.
She wasn’t touching that line with a pole. “Tate doesn’t want me.”
“You keep saying that, and he keeps making a liar of you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He came to see me last night. Just after I spoke to you.” He ran his fingers down his damaged cheek.
She caught her breath. “I thought you got that overseas!”
“Tate wears a big silver turquoise ring on his middle right finger,” he reminded her. “It does a bit of damage when he hits people with it.”
“He hit you? Why?” she exclaimed.
“Because you told him we were sleeping together,” he said simply. “Honest to God, Cecily, I wish you’d tell me first when you plan to play games. I was caught off guard.”
“What did he do after he hit you?”
“I hit him, and one thing led to another. I don’t have a coffee table anymore. We won’t even discuss what he did to my best ashtry.”
“I’m so sorry!”
“Tate and I are pretty much matched in a fight,” he said. “Not that we’ve ever been in many. He hits harder than Pierce Hutton does in a temper.” He scowled down at her. “Are you sure Tate doesn’t want you? I can’t think of another reason he’d try to hammer my floor with my head.”
“Big brother Tate, to the rescue,” she said miserably. She laughed bitterly. “He thinks you’re a bad risk.”
“I am,” he said easily.
“I like having you as my friend.”
He smiled. “Me, too. There aren’t many people who stuck by me over the years, you know. When Maureen left me, I went crazy. I couldn’t live with the pain, so I found ways to numb it.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I came to my senses until you sent me to that psychologist over in Baltimore.” He glanced down at her. “Did you know she keeps snakes?” he added.
“We all have our little quirks. ~ Diana Palmer,
1084:Ciel Brouillé (Cloudy Sky)
On dirait ton regard d'une vapeur couvert;
Ton oeil mystérieux (est-il bleu, gris ou vert?)
Alternativement tendre, rêveur, cruel,
Réfléchit l'indolence et la pâleur du ciel.
Tu rappelles ces jours blancs, tièdes et voilés,
Qui font se fondre en pleurs les coeurs ensorcelés,
Quand, agités d'un mal inconnu qui les tord,
Les nerfs trop éveillés raillent l'esprit qui dort.
Tu ressembles parfois à ces beaux horizons
Qu'allument les soleils des brumeuses saisons...
Comme tu resplendis, paysage mouillé
Qu'enflamment les rayons tombant d'un ciel brouillé!
Ô femme dangereuse, ô séduisants climats!
Adorerai-je aussi ta neige et vos frimas,
Et saurai-je tirer de l'implacable hiver
Des plaisirs plus aigus que la glace et le fer?
Cloudy Sky
One would say that your gaze was veiled with mist;
Your mysterious eyes (are they blue, gray or green?)
Alternately tender, dreamy, cruel,
Reflect the indolence and pallor of the sky.
You call to mind those days, white, soft, and mild,
That make enchanted hearts burst into tears,
When, shaken by a mysterious, wracking pain,
The nerves, too wide-awake, jeer at the sleeping mind.
You resemble at times those gorgeous horizons
That the sun sets ablaze in the seasons of mist...
How resplendent you are, landscape drenched with rain,
Aflame with rays that fall from a cloudy sky!
O dangerous woman, O alluring climates!
Will I also adore your snow and your hoar-frost,
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And can I draw from your implacable winter
Pleasures keener than iron or ice?
— Translated by William Aggeler
Misty Sky
One would have thought your eyes were veiled in haze
Strange eyes! (Grey, green, or azure is their gaze?)
It seems they would reflect, in each renewal,
The changing skies, dull, dreamy, fond, or cruel.
You know those days both warm and hazy, which
Melt into tears the hearts that they bewitch:
And when the nerves, uneasy to control,
Too-wide awake, upbraid the sleeping soul.
You, too, resemble such a lit horizon
As suns of misty seasons now bedizen...
As you shine out, a landscape fresh with rain
With misty sunbeams sparkling on the plain.
Dangerous girl, seductive as the weather!
Shall I adore your snows and frosts together?
In your relentless winter shall I feel
A kiss more sharp than that of ice and steel?
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Ciel brouillé
thine eyes are veiled with vapour opaline;
— those eyes of mystery! — (azure, grey or green?)
cruel or soft in turn as dreams devise,
reflect the languor of the pallid skies.
thou'rt like these autumn days of silver-grey
whose magic melts the soul to tears: a day
when by a secret evil inly torn
the quivering nerves laugh drowsy wits to scorn.
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thou art as fair as distant dales, where suns
of misty seasons leave their benisons...
how dazzling rich the dewy woodlands lie
flaming in sunlight from a ruffled sky!
o fateful woman! sky that lures and lours!
and shall I love thy snow, its frosty hours,
and learn to clutch from winter's iron gyves
new pleasure keen as cloven ice or knives?
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1085:În secolele târzii care se mândresc pe bună dreptate cu umanitatea lor, persistă încă o teamă atât de mare si de superstitioasă fată de „animalele sălbatice fioroase“, (tocmai dominatia asupra lor constituind mândria acelor secole mai umanitare) încât până si adevărurile evidente au fost trecute sub tăcere, rămânând, oarecum printr-o întelegere tacită, inexprimate secole la rând, deoarece ele aveau aerul că trezesc la viată acele fiare în sfârsit ucise. Poate că mă expun la anumite riscuri lăsând să-mi scape un astfel de adevăr: n-au decât să-i captureze altii si să-i dea de băut „laptele gândirii blajine“, până ce se va reîntoarce, linistit si uitat, în cusca în care dormita. - Trebuie să ne revizuim ideile privitoare la cruzime si să deschidem bine ochii; trebuie să ne deprindem cu nerăbdarea, pentru ca astfel de erori arogante si grosolane să înceteze o dată pentru totdeauna să se mai fâtâie virtuoase si impertinente în fată-ne, cum sunt de pildă erorile întretinute de către vechii si noii filozofi în privinta tragediei. Aproape tot ceea ce numim noi „cultură înaltă" are la bază spiritualizarea si aprofundarea cruzimii - aceasta e convingerea mea; „animalul sălbatic“ n-a fost nicidecum ucis, e bine sănătos, numai că a devenit - divin. Cruzimea este cea care produce voluptatea dureroasă a tragediei; senzatiile plăcute în savurarea asa-numitei compasiuni tragice si, de fapt, în toate cele sublime, până la culmile celor mai subtile fioruri ale metafizicii, îsi datorează dulceata numai si numai grăuntelui de cruzime amestecat în ele. Ce îl atrage pe roman în arenă, pe crestin în extazul crucii, pe spaniol în fata rugurilor sau la luptele de tauri, pe japonezul zilelor noastre care dă năvală la tragedii, pe lucrătorul suburbiilor pariziene care duce dorul revolutiilor sângeroase, pe wagneriana care cu vointa inhibată se lasă „coplesită“ de Tristan si Isolda? Cu totii, ei savurează si năzuiesc să soarbă în ei cu o ardoare misterioasă tocmai licorile aromate ale marii Circe pe nume „Cruzimea“. Fireste că trebuie izgonită totodată si neghioaba psihologie de odinioară care stie să ne învete doar că cruzimea ia nastere la vederea suferintei altcuiva: se poate afla plăcere, o plăcere cât se poate de mare, chiar si în propria-ti suferintă, în a-ti-provoca-suferintă, - si ori de câte ori omul se lasă înduplecat la lepădarea de sine, în sensul religios al cuvântului, sau la automutilare, precum o practicau fenicienii si ascetii, sau, în general, la renuntarea la nevoile simturilor si ale cărnii, la umilintă, la convulsii puritanice de pocăintă, la vivisectia constiintei si la pascaliana sacrifizio dell'inteletto, cruzimea sa este aceea care în taină îl ademeneste si îl îmboldeste, fiorul cel primejdios al cruzimii îndreptate împotriva lui însusi. În fine, luati în consideratie si recunoasteti faptul că însusi cunoscătorul, aplicând constrângerea asupra spiritului său, potrivnic înclinatiei acestuia si adeseori împotriva dorintelor inimii sale - si anume, spunând Nu atunci când ar dori să aprobe, să iubească, să adore -, actionează în chip de artist si adept al cruzimii: orice coborâre spre profunzimile si temeliile lucrurilor constituie prin ea însăsi o siluire, o vrere de îndurerare a vointei fundamentale a spiritului, care se avântă fără încetare spre aparentă si suprafată, - în orice vrere de cunoastere se află si câte o picătură de cruzime. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
1086:She sat on the wall, opened her book, and paid him no mind. After a few minutes the sounds of clipping stopped, and she felt his gaze on her. She turned a page.
“Jane,” he said with a touch of exasperation.
“Shh, I’m reading,” she said.
“Jane, listen, someone warned me that another fellow heard my telly playing and told Mrs. Wattlesbrook, and I had to toss it out this morning. If they spot me hanging around you..”
“You’re not hanging around me, I’m reading.”
“Bugger, Jane…”
“Martin, please, I’m sorry about your TV but you can’t cast me away now. I’ll go raving mad if I have to sit in that house again all afternoon. I haven’t sewn a thing since junior high Home Ec when I made a pair of gray shorts that ripped at the butt seam the first time I sat down, and I haven’t played pianoforte since I quit from boredom at age twelve, and I haven’t read a book in the middle of the day since college, so you see what a mess I’m in.”
“So,” Martin said, digging in his spade. “You’ve come to find me again when there is no one else to flirt with.”
Huh! thought Jane.
He snapped a dead branch off the trunk.
Huh! she thought again. She stood and started to walk away.
“Wait.” Martin hopped after her, grabbing her elbow. “I saw you with those actors, parading around the grounds this morning. I hadn’t seen you with them before. In the context. And it bothered me. I mean, you don’t really go in for this stuff, do you?”
Jane shrugged.
“You do?”
“More than I want to, though you’ve been making it seem unnecessary lately.”
Martin squinted up at a cloud. “I’ve never understood the women who come here, and you’re one of them. I can’t make sense of it.”
“I don’t think I could explain it to a man. If you were a woman, all I’d have to say is ‘Colin Firth in a wet shirt’ and you’d say, ‘Ah.’”
“Ah. I mean, aha! is what I mean.”
Crap. She’d hoped he would laugh at the Colin Firth thing. And he didn’t. And now the silence made her feel as though she were standing on a seesaw, waiting for the weight to drop on the other side.
Then she smelled it. The musty, acrid, sour, curdled, metallic, decaying odor of ending. This wasn’t just a first fight. She’d been in this position too many times not to recognize the signs.
“Are you breaking up with me?” she asked.
“Were we ever together enough to require breaking up?”
Oh. Ouch. She took a step back on that one. Perhaps it was her dress that allowed her to compose herself more quickly than normal. She curtsied.
“Pardon the interruption, I mistook you for someone I knew.”
She turned and left, wishing for a Victorian-type gown so she could have whipped the full skirts for a satisfying little cracking sound. She had to satisfy herself with emphatically tightening her bonnet ribbon as she marched.
You stupid, stupid girl, she thought. You were fantasizing again. Stop it!
It had all been going so well. She’d let herself have fun, unwind, not plague a new romance with constant questions such as, What if? And after? And will he love me forever?
“Are you breaking up with me…?” she muttered to herself. He must think she was a lunatic. And really, he’d be right. Here she was in Pembrook Park, a place where women hand over scads of dough to hook up with men paid to adore them, but she finds the one man on campus who’s in a position to reject her and then leads him into it. Typical Jane. ~ Shannon Hale,
1087:The Legend Of King Arthur
Of Brutus' blood, in Brittaine borne,
King Arthur I am to name;
Through Christendome and Heathynesse
Well knowne is my worthy fame.
In Jesus Christ I doe beleeve;
I am a Christyan bore;
The Father, Sone, and Holy Gost,
One God, I doe adore.
In the four hundred ninetieth yeere,
Oer Brittaine I did rayne,
After my Savior Christ his byrth,
What time I did maintaine
The fellowshipp of the Table Round,
Soe famous in those dayes;
Whereatt a hundred noble knights
And thirty sat alwayes:
Who for their deeds and martiall feates,
As bookes done yett record,
Amongst all other nations
Wer feared through the world
And in the castle of Tyntagill
King Uther mee begate,
Of Agyana, a bewtyous ladye,
And come of hie estate.
And when I was fifteen yeere old,
Then was I crowned kinge:
All Brittaine, that was att an upròre,
I did to quiett bringe;
And drove the Saxons from the realme,
Who had opprest this land;
All Scotland then, throughe manly feates,
I conquered with my hand.
940
Ireland, Denmarke, Norwaye,
These countryes wan I all;
Iseland, Gotheland, and Swetheland;
And made their kings my thrall.
I conquered all Gallya,
That now is called France;
And slew the hardye Froll in feild,
My honor to advance.
And the ugly gyant Dynabus,
Soe terrible to vewe,
That in Saint Barnards mount did lye,
By force of armes I slew.
And Lucyus, the emperour of Rome,
I brought to deadly wracke;
And a thousand more of noble knightes
For feare did turne their backe.
Five kinges of paynims I did kill
Amidst that bloody strife;
Besides the Grecian emperour,
Who alsoe lost his liffe.
Whose carcasse I did send to Rome,
Cladd poorlye on a beere;
And afterward I past Mount-Joye
The next approaching yeere.
Then I came to Rome, where I was mett
Right as a conquerour,
And by all the cardinalls solempnelye
I was crowned an emperour.
One winter there I made abode,
Then word to mee was brought,
How Mordred had oppressd the crowne,
What treason he had wrought
Att home in Brittaine with my queene:
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Therfore I came with speede
To Brittaine backe, with all my power,
To quitt that traiterous deede;
And soone at Sandwiche I arrivde,
Where Mordred me withstoode:
But yett at last I landed there,
With effusion of much blood.
For there my nephew Sir Gawaine dyed,
Being wounded in that sore
The whiche Sir Launcelot in fight
Had given him before.
Then chased I Mordered away,
Who fledd to London right,
From London to Winchester, and
To Cornwalle tooke his flyght.
And still I him pursued with speed,
Till at the last wee mett;
Wherby an appointed day of fight
Was there agreed and set:
Where we did fight, of mortal life
Eche other to deprive,
Till of a hundred thousand men
Scarce one was left alive.
There all the noble chivalrye
Of Brittaine took their end.
O see how fickle is their state
That doe on fates depend!
There all the traiterous men were slaine,
Not one escapte away;
And there dyed all my vallyant knightes.
Alas! that woefull day!
Two and twenty yeere I ware the crowne
In honor and great fame,
And thus by death was suddenlye
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Deprived of the same.
~ Anonymous Olde English,
1088:Because you deserve a duke, damn it!” A troubled expression furrowed his brow. “You deserve a man who can give you the moon. I can’t. I can give you a decent home in a decent part of town with decent people, but you…” His voice grew choked. “You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. It destroys me to think of what you’ll have to give up to be with me.”
“I told you before-I don’t care!” she said hotly. “Why can’t you believe me?”
He hesitated a long moment. “The truth?”
“Always.”
“Because I can’t imagine why you’d want me when you have men of rank and riches at your fingertips.”
She gave a rueful laugh. “You grossly exaggerate my charms, but I can’t complain. It’s one of many things I adore about you-that you see a better version of me than I ever could.” Remembering the wonderful words he’d said last night when she’d been so self-conscious, she left the bed to walk up to him. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
His wary gaze locked with hers. “Proper Pinter. Proud Pinter.
“Yes, but that’s just who you show to the world to protect yourself.” She reached up to stroke his cheek, reveling in the ragged breath that escaped him. “When you let down your guard, however, I see Jackson-who ferrets out the truth, no matter how hard. Who risks his own life to protect the weak. Who’d sacrifice anything to prevent me from having to sacrifice everything.”
Catching her hand, he halted its path. “You see a saint,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not a saint; I’m a man with needs and desires and a great many rough edges.”
“I like your rough edges,” she said with a soft smile. “If I’d really wanted a man of rank and riches, I probably would have married long ago. I always told myself I couldn’t marry because no one wanted me, but the truth was, I didn’t want any of them.” She fingered a lock of hair. “Apparently I was waiting for you, rough edges and all.”
His eyes turned hot with wanting. Drawing her hand to his lips, he kissed the palm so tenderly that her heart leapt into her throat. When he lifted his head, he said, “Then marry me, rough edges and all.”
She swallowed. “That’s what you say now, when we’re alone and you’re caught up in-“
He covered her mouth with his, kissing her so fervently that she turned into a puddle of mush. Blast him-he always did that, too, when they were alone; it was when they were with others that he reconsidered their being together forever. And he still had said nothing of live.
“That’s enough of that,” she warned, drawing back from him. “Until you make a proper proposal, before my family, you’re not sharing my bed.”
“Sweeting-“
“Don’t you ‘sweeting’ me, Jackson Pinter.” She edged away from him. “I want Proper Pinter back now.”
A mocking smile crossed his lips. “Sorry, love. I threw him out when I saw how he was mucking up my private life.”
Love?
No, she wouldn’t let that soften her. Not until she was sure he wouldn’t turn cold later. “You told Oliver you’d behave like a gentleman.”
“To hell with your brother.” He stalked her with clear intent.
Even as she darted behind a chair to avoid him, excitement tore through her. “Aren’t you still worried Gran will cut me off, and you’ll be saddled with a spoiled wife and not enough money to please her?”
“To hell with your grandmother, too. For that matter, to hell with the money.” He tossed the chair aside as if it were so much kindling; it clattered across the floor. “It’s you I want. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,
1089:Ellie! No!” He rushed to her. “God, no! You can’t be leaving me! Don’t!” He grabbed her face and covered her mouth in a hard, desperate kiss. Her eyes flew open in stunned disbelief; she stopped breathing. He released her mouth but not her face, which he held in his hands, his fingers threaded into her hair. “You can’t go, Ellie, you can’t. Don’t you know how much I love you? God, I’d be nothing without you. I never thought I’d get to feel like this again, but you brought me back to life. You took the loneliness away and brought laughter back into my life. Ellie, you’re everything to me—I can’t make it without you. If you leave, I don’t know what I’ll—” She just stared at him, a slight smile on her face. “Really? You don’t say.” “Listen, I know I’m not a good romantic, I know that. I realized just a little while ago that I—Oh, hell, I told you how responsible I was, not how much you light up my life. I told you about my vow and how I could stick to it, not how life without you would be all gray and sad and awful. I didn’t tell you everything you mean to me. I promised myself I’d take care of that tonight, for sure. I was almost too late.” “Tell me now,” she said. “Now?” he asked, dropping his hands from her face. “Right now,” she insisted. “But I haven’t prepared!” “I know. That’s the whole idea,” she said. “I’m listening.” He cleared his throat. “Ellie. Dammit, you saved my life. I was a wallowing, pathetic, self-pitying—” He stopped talking at the sound of her soft laughter. “You’re not supposed to laugh at my attempts to be romantic.” “Noah, that wasn’t romantic. That made me wonder what I ever saw in you. Start over.” He grabbed her face in his hands again. “I want to be with you forever. I want to lie beside you every night, holding you close, whispering to you that I love you more than anything in the world, that you turned my whole world upside down just when it needed to be turned upside down. I want to make forever promises to you out loud, in front of God, and I want you to promise to be my woman, my wife, my one and only love, my best friend and my conscience. You’re never easy, Ellie, but you’re sure never boring…” “I don’t know about that last part,” she commented. “God, I love you so much. If I lost you, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d go after you, that’s what I’d do. I’d find a way to get you back. You know we’re perfect together. I know you feel it because I can feel you feel it.” He grinned roguishly. “We sure fit together perfect, don’t you think? You told me you loved me—tell me again.” “I love you, Noah. I tried not to. I usually screw up love situations. But, apparently, we have that in common.” She grinned. “A good start.” “You won’t leave me?” “Why would I leave you? I adore you. And unless I’m completely stupid, you just asked me to marry you.” “I did. We should give the kids some time to get used to the idea. And we should find a house that can hold us, but as soon as we can work out the details, we should get married.” “Okay,” she said. “Am I late for rehearsal?” “We were waiting for you,” he explained. “Then Walt said he saw you struggling with luggage and thought maybe you weren’t coming, that you were leaving.” She laughed a bit. “Noah, these are Vanni’s hand-me-downs. I thought I had time to unpack them before the rehearsal.” He was shocked silent for a moment, absorbing this, then he grabbed her and kissed her hard. And he said, “I have a feeling I bit off more than I can chew with you.” “No question about that, Your Holiness.” * ~ Robyn Carr,
1090:An Address To The Deity
God of my life! and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all,—for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works though all their parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;
As by a charm, the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust.
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softest cry,
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a silent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give;
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live:
23
From each terrestrial bondage set me free;
Still every wish that centres not in thee;
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.
If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads
By living waters, and through flowery meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,
O teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart—Beware!
With caution let me hear the syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.
If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray,
Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way,
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see,
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Resigned to die, or resolute to live;
Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awful name, emblazoned high
With golden letters on the illumined sky;
Nor less the mystic characters I see
Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree;
In every leaf that trembles to the breeze
I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears controul:
Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms;
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
24
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state:
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to thee, in thee to die.
~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
1091:Practices Of paddleboard People

A paddleboard is helpful for paddling while kneeling or standing. Before, paddleboards had been comprised of wood. This kind of paddleboards are gentle in pounds and straightforward to apply. Individuals use paddleboards for browsing enormous waves. You can have seen a wide variety if paddleboards in merchants close to you. Many of these boards are excellent enjoyable for browsing the waves. If you take pleasure in h2o sporting activities, these boards is often great for you. Consumers who adore drinking water sports really enjoy browsing and paddling.

An amazing numerous drinking water sports are certainly aggressive. There is no age barrier on the use of these boards. You can expect to find it rather challenging to balance on this sort of a board. Adults would also be ready to know but with issue. You can also obtain them in huge departmental retailers in the region. There are online outlets buy paddleboards for buying these types of paddleboards. Children find it simpler to face about the board and do it every one of the time. Sitting down and paddling is far simplier and easier then standing on them. Several of the boards have grips that let you stand or sit easily. Some boards are created not having assistance to the ft. It could be excellent for consultants to make use of these types of boards without any guidance. Many people choose to lie over a paddleboard while paddling. People today love this sport because it will provide wonderful and it's simple. This is certainly not a risky sport. There can be unique paddleboards made from fine quality fiberglass. Carbon fiber paddleboards may perhaps be highly-priced nevertheless they are lightweight. These paddleboards created from carbon fiber are light but pricey. A paddleboard needs to be properly designed to be capable of do nicely to the drinking water. It's not necessarily straightforward to create an ideal paddleboard.

The usage of these types of boards is now very well known. Young children have got a ton of fun over a paddleboard. You can actually actually generate a paddleboard at home. There exists a good deal of information online about making paddleboards. There exists a good deal of free info on blogs about paddleboards. You should purchase distinctive kits online and then make your very own paddleboard. Standing up while working with a paddleboard is extremely complicated for most many people. It really is vital to find out the right way to balance on this kind of boards. Paddling just isn't like every other sport but it really isn't an Olympic activity. Persons use these types of boards on seas and ocean beaches. Gurus use these types of boards for surfing the waves. The complete loved ones can love this activity. There are actually sites that present excellent strategies for implementing these boards. Have you at any time noticed most of the unique forms of paddle boards on the market at present? There are numerous methods for using the paddleboards. This is certainly not a sport that will cost you a good deal of cash.

That is nearly as good as browsing on the significant waves. You'll have lots of enjoyable if you master how to get up within the board. Water sports are becoming ever more poplar all over the planet. Paddling about the waves could be great fun. A great deal of recommendations go in the earning of a paddle board. It will take a professional to structure a paddleboard. In case the board is clearly intended it'll pass smoothly about the drinking water. A lot of people who use these paddleboards understand that it takes knowledge to produce a streamlined board. These boards usually are not just unexciting flat boards. For a few persons it is not only a sport. ~ Andy Cohen,
1092:Montreal
October 1704
Temperature 55 degrees

Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.”
Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl.
“I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.”
Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.”
“I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.”
They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission?
“My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.”
Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me.”
The Indians rather enjoyed being French allies one day and difficult neighbors the next. Lorette Indians might find this a fine way to stab a French soldier in the back without drawing blood.
They would need Father Meriel. He could arrange anything if he chose; he had power among all the peoples. But he might say no, and so might Eben’s Indian family.
Mercy translated what was going on for Nistenha and Snow Walker. “They want to get married,” she told them. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She couldn’t help laughing from the joy and the terror of it. Ransom would no longer be the first word in Sarah’s heart. Eben would be. Mercy said, “Eben asked her right here in the street, Snow Walker. He wants to save her from marriage to a French soldier she doesn’t want. He’s loved Sarah since the march.”
The two Indians had no reaction. For a moment Mercy thought she must have spoken to them in English. Nistenha turned to walk away and Snow Walker turned with her.
If Nistenha was not interested in Sarah and Eben’s plight, no Indian would be.
Mercy called on her memory of every speech in every ceremony, every dignified phrase and powerful word. “Honored mother,” she said softly. “Honored sister. We are in need and we beg you to hear our petition.”
Nistenha stopped walking, turned back and stared at her in amazement. Sarah and Eben and Snow Walker stared at her in amazement.
Sam can build canoes, thought Mercy. I can make a speech. “This woman my sister and this man my brother wish to spend their lives together. My brother will need the generous permission of his Indian father. Already we know that my sister will be refused the permission of her French owners. We will need an ally to support us in our request. We will need your strength and your wisdom. We beseech you, Mother, that you stand by us and help us.”
The city of Montreal swirled around them.
Eben, property of an Indian father in Lorette; Sarah, property of a French family in Montreal; and Mercy, property of Tannhahorens, awaited her answer.
“Your words fill me with pride, Munnunock,” said Nistenha softly. She reached into her shopping bundle. Slowly she drew out a fine French china cup, undoubtedly meant for the feast of Flying Legs. She held it for a moment, and then her stern face softened and she gave it to Eben.
Indians sealed a promise with a gift.
She would help them.
From her bundle, Snow Walker took dangling silver earrings she must have bought for Mercy and handed them to Sarah.
Because she knew that Sarah’s Mohawk was not good enough and that Eben was too stirred to speak, Mercy gave the flowery thanks required after such gifts.
“God bless us,” she said to Sarah and Eben, and Eben said, “He has. ~ Caroline B Cooney,
1093:Maybe tangled will be a spectacular rump. maybe i will adore it: it could happen. But one thing is for sure: tangled will not be rapunzel. And thats too bad , because rapunzel is an specially layered and relevant fairytale, less about the love between a man and a woman than the misguided attempts of a mother trying to protect her daughter from (what she perceives ) as the worlds evils. The tale, you may recall, begins with a mother-to-bes yearning for the taste of rapunzel, a salad green she spies growing in the garden of the sorceress who happens to live next door. The womans craving becomes so intense , she tells her husband that if he doesn't fetch her some, she and their unborn baby will die.
So he steals into the baby's yard, wraps his hands around a plant, and, just as he pulls... she appears in a fury. The two eventually strike a bargain: the mans wife can have as much of the plant as she wants- if she turns over her baby to the witch upon its birth. `i will take care for it like a mother,` the sorceress croons (as if that makes it all right).
Then again , who would you rather have as a mom: the woman who would do anything for you or the one who would swap you in a New York minute for a bowl of lettuce?
Rapunzel grows up, her hair grows down, and when she is twelve-note that age-Old Mother Gothel , as she calls the witch. leads her into the woods, locking her in a high tower which offers no escape and no entry except by scaling the girls flowing tresses. One day, a prince passes by and , on overhearing Rapunzel singing, falls immediately in love (that makes Rapunzel the inverse of Ariel- she is loved sight unseen because of her voice) . He shinnies up her hair to say hello and , depending on the version you read, they have a chaste little chat or get busy conceiving twins.
Either way, when their tryst is discovered, Old Mother Gothel cries, `you wicked child! i thought i had separated you from the world, and yet you deceived me!` There you have it : the Grimm`s warning to parents , centuries before psychologists would come along with their studies and measurements, against undue restriction . Interestingly the prince cant save Rapuzel from her foster mothers wrath. When he sees the witch at the top of the now-severed braids, he jumps back in surprise and is blinded by the bramble that breaks his fall.
He wanders the countryside for an unspecified time, living on roots and berries, until he accidentally stumbles upon his love. She weeps into his sightless eyes, restoring his vision , and - voila!- they rescue each other . `Rapunzel` then, wins the prize for the most egalitarian romance, but that its not its only distinction: it is the only well-known tale in which the villain is neither maimed nor killed. No red-hot shoes are welded to the witch`s feet . Her eyes are not pecked out. Her limbs are not lashed to four horses who speed off in different directions. She is not burned at the stake. Why such leniency? perhaps because she is not, in the end, really evil- she simply loves too much. What mother has not, from time to time, felt the urge to protect her daughter by locking her in a tower? Who among us doesn't have a tiny bit of trouble letting our children go? if the hazel branch is the mother i aspire to be, then Old Mother Gothel is my cautionary tale: she reminds us that our role is not to keep the world at bay but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it.
That involves staying close but not crowding them, standing firm in one`s values while remaining flexible. The path to womanhood is strewn with enchantment , but it also rifle with thickets and thorns and a big bad culture that threatens to consume them even as they consume it. The good news is the choices we make for our toodles can influence how they navigate it as teens. I`m not saying that we can, or will, do everything `right,` only that there is power-magic-in awareness. ~ Peggy Orenstein,
1094:I.
Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring,
And infant Winter laughed upon the land
All cloudlessly and cold;--when I, desiring
More in this world than any understand,
Wept oer the beauty, which, like sea retiring,
Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand
Of my lorn heart, and oer the grass and flowers
Pale for the falsehood of the flattering Hours.

II.
Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep
The instability of all but weeping;
And on the Earth lulled in her winter sleep
I woke, and envied her as she was sleeping.
Too happy Earth! over thy face shall creep
The wakening vernal airs, until thou, leaping
From unremembered dreams, shalt ... see
No death divide thy immortality.

III.
I loved--oh, no, I mean not one of ye,
Or any earthly one, though ye are dear
As human heart to human heart may be;--
I loved, I know not what--but this low sphere
And all that it contains, contains not thee,
Thou, whom, seen nowhere, I feel everywhere.
From Heaven and Earth, and all that in them are,
Veiled art thou, like a ... star.

IV.
By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou flowest,
Neither to be contained, delayed, nor hidden;
Making divine the loftiest and the lowest,
When for a moment thou art not forbidden
To live within the life which thou bestowest;
And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden,
Cold as a corpse after the spirits flight
Blank as the sun after the birth of night.

V.
In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common,
In music and the sweet unconscious tone
Of animals, and voices which are human,
Meant to express some feelings of their own;
In the soft motions and rare smile of woman,
In flowers and leaves, and in the grass fresh-shown,
Or dying in the autumn, I the most
Adore thee present or lament thee lost.

VI.
And thus I went lamenting, when I saw
A plant upon the rivers margin lie
Like one who loved beyond his natures law,
And in despair had cast him down to die;
Its leaves, which had outlived the frost, the thaw
Had blighted; like a heart which hatreds eye
Can blast not, but which pity kills; the dew
Lay on its spotted leaves like tears too true.

VII.
The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth
Had crushed it on her maternal breast

...

VIII.
I bore it to my chamber, and I planted
It in a vase full of the lightest mould;
The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted
Fell through the window-panes, disrobed of cold,
Upon its leaves and flowers; the stars which panted
In evening for the Day, whose car has rolled
Over the horizons wave, with looks of light
Smiled on it from the threshold of the night.

IX.
The mitigated influences of air
And light revived the plant, and from it grew
Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair,
Full as a cup with the vines burning dew,
Oerflowed with golden colours; an atmosphere
Of vital warmth enfolded it anew,
And every impulse sent to every part
The unbeheld pulsations of its heart.

X.
Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong,
Even if the air and sun had smiled not on it;
For one wept oer it all the winter long
Tears pure as Heavens rain, which fell upon it
Hour after hour; for sounds of softest song
Mixed with the stringed melodies that won it
To leave the gentle lips on which it slept,
Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept.

XI.
Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers 75
On which he wept, the while the savage storm
Waked by the darkest of Decembers hours
Was raving round the chamber hushed and warm;
The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers,
The fish were frozen in the pools, the form
Of every summer plant was dead
Whilst this....



~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Zucca
,
1095:Montreal
October 1704
Temperature 55 degrees

“Remember how in Deerfield there was nobody to marry? Remember how Eliza married an Indian? Remember how Abigail even had to go and marry a French fur trader without teeth?”
Mercy had to laugh again. It was such a treat to laugh with English friends. “Your man doesn’t have teeth?”
“Pierre has all his teeth. In fact, he’s handsome, rich and an army officer. But what am I to do about the marriage?” Sarah was not laughing. She was shivering. “I do not want that life or that language, Mercy, and above all, I do not want that man. If I repeat wedding vows, they will count. If I have a wedding night, it will be real. I will have French babies and they will be Catholic and I will live here all my life.” Sarah rearranged her French scarf in a very French way and Mercy thought how much clothing mattered; how changed they were by what they put on their bodies.
“The Catholic church won’t make you,” said Mercy. “You can refuse.”
“How? Pierre has brought his fellow officers to see me. His family has met me and they like me. They know I have no dowry, but they are being very generous about their son’s choice. If I refuse to marry Pierre, he and the French family with whom I live will be publicly humiliated. I won’t get a second offer of marriage after mistreating this one. The French family will make me a servant. I will spend my life waiting on them, curtseying to them, and saying ‘Oui, madame.’”
“But surely ransom will come,” said Mercy.
“Maybe it will. But what if it does not?”
Mercy stared at her feet. Her leggings. Her moccasins. What if it does not? she thought. What if I spend my life in Kahnawake?
“What if I stay in Montreal all my life?” demanded Sarah. “A servant girl to enemies of England.”
The world asks too much of us, thought Mercy. But because she was practical and because there seemed no way out, she said, “Would this Frenchman treat you well?”
Sarah shrugged as Eben had over the gauntlet, except that when Eben shrugged, he looked Indian, and when Sarah shrugged, she looked French. “He thinks I am beautiful.”
“You are beautiful,” said Eben. He drew a deep breath to say something else, but Nistenha and Snow Walker arrived beside them. How reproachfully they looked at the captives. “The language of the people,” said Nistenha in Mohawk, “is sweeter to the ear when it does not mix with the language of the English.”
Mercy flushed. This was why she had not been taken to Montreal before. She would flee to the English and be homesick again. And it was so. How she wanted to stay with Eben and Sarah! They were older and would take care of her…but no. None of the captives possessed the freedom to choose anything or take care of anyone.
It turned out that Eben Nims believed otherwise.
Eben was looking at Sarah in the way every girl prays some boy will one day look at her. “I will marry you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I will be a good husband. A Puritan husband. Who will one day take us both back home.”
Wind shifted the lace of Sarah’s gown and the auburn of one loose curl.
“I love you, Sarah,” said Eben. “I’ve always loved you.”
Tears came to Sarah’s eyes: she who had not wept over her own family. She stood as if it had not occurred to her that she could be loved; that an English boy could adore her. “Oh, Eben!” she whispered. “Oh, yes, oh, thank you, I will marry you. But will they let us, Eben? We will need permission.”
“I’ll ask my father,” said Eben. “I’ll ask Father Meriel.”
They were not touching. They were yearning to touch, they were leaning forward, but they were holding back. Because it is wrong? wondered Mercy. Or because they know they will never get permission?
“My French family will put up a terrible fuss,” said Sarah anxiously. “Pierre might even summon his fellow officers and do something violent.”
Eben grinned. “Not if I have Huron warriors behind me. ~ Caroline B Cooney,
1096:The Epiphany
Deep in Sabea's fragrant groves retired,
Long had the Eastern Sages studious dwelt,
By love sublime of sacred science fired:
Long had they trained the' inquiring youth,
With liberal hand the bread of wisdom dealt,
And sung in solemn verse mysterious truth.
The sacred characters they knew to trace
Derived from Egypt's elder race;
And all that Greece, with copious learning fraught,
Thro' different schools by various masters taught;
And all Arabia's glowing store
Of fabled truths and rich poetic lore:
Stars, plants and gems, and talismans they knew,
And far was spread their fame and wide their praises grew.
The' admiring East their praises spread:
But with uncheated eyes themselves they viewed;
Mourning they sat with dust upon their head,
And oft in melancholy strain
The fond complaint renewed,
How little yet they knew, how much was learned in vain.
For human guilt and mortal woe
Their sympathizing sorrows flow;
Their hallowed prayers ascend in incense pure;
They mourned the narrow bounds assigned
To the keen glances of the searching mind,
They mourned the ills they could not cure,
They mourned the doubts they could not clear,
They mourned that prophet yet, nor seer,
The great Eternal had made known,
Or reached the lowest step of that immortal throne.
And oft the starry cope of heaven beneath,
When day's tumultuous sounds had ceased to breathe,
With fixed feet, as rooted there,
Through the long night they drew the chilly air;
While sliding o'er their head,
In solemn silence dread,
The' ethereal orbs their shining course pursued,
128
In holy trance enwrapt the sages stood,
With folded arms laid on their reverend breast,
And to that Heaven they knew, their orisons addresst.
A Star appears; they marked its kindling beam
O'er night's dark breast unusual splendours stream:
The lesser lights that deck the sky,
In wondering silence softly gliding by,
At the fair stranger seemed to gaze,
Or veiled their trembling fires and half withdrew their rays.
The blameless men the wonder saw,
And hailed the joyful sign with pious awe;
They knew 'twas none of all the train
With which in shadowy forms and shapes uncouth,
Monsters of earth and of the main,
Remote from nature as from truth,
Their learned pens the sky had figured o'er:
No star with such kind aspect shone before;
Nor e'er did wandering planet stoop so low
To guide benighted pilgrims through this vale of woe.
The heavenly impulse they obey,
The new-born light directs their way;
Through deserts never marked by human tread,
And billowy waves of loose, unfaithful sand,
O'er many an unknown hill and foreign strand
The silver clue unerring led,
And peopled towns they pass, and glittering spires;
No cloud could veil its light, no sun could quench its fires.
Thus passed the venerable pilgrims on,
Till Salem's stately towers before them shone,
And soon their feet her hallowed pavements presst;
Not in her marble courts to rest,—
From pomp and royal state aloof,
Their shining guide its beams withdrew;
And points their path, and points their view,
To Bethlehem's rustic cots, to Mary's lowly roof.
There the bright sentinel kept watch,
While other stars arose and set;
For there, within its humble thatch,
129
Weakness and power, and heaven and earth were met.
Now, sages, now your search give o'er,
Believe, fall prostrate, and adore!
Here spread your spicy gifts, your golden offerings here;
No more the fond complaint renew,
Of human guilt and mortal woe,
Of knowledge checked by doubt, and hope with fear:
What angels wished to see, ye view;
What angels wished to learn, ye know;—
Peace is proclaimed to man, and heaven begun below.
~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
1097:We were keeping our eye on 1984. When the year came and the prophecy didn't, thoughtful Americans sang softly in praise of themselves. The roots of liberal democracy had held. Wherever else the terror had happened, we, at least, had not been visited by Orwellian nightmares.

But we had forgotten that alongside Orwell's dark vision, there was another - slightly older, slightly less well known, equally chilling: Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. Contrary to common belief even among the educated, Huxley and Orwell did not prophesy the same thing. Orwell warns that we will be overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley's vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their autonomy, maturity and history. As he saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think.

What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny "failed to take into account man's almost infinite appetite for distractions." In 1984, Orwell added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we desire will ruin us.

This book is about the possibility that Huxley, not Orwell, was right. ~ Neil Postman,
1098:Invocation
Goddess of Liberty! O thou
Whose tearless eyes behold the chain,
And look unmoved upon the slain,
Eternal peace upon thy brow,-
Before thy shrine the races press,
Thy perfect favor to imploreThe proudest tyrant asks no more,
The ironed anarchist no less.
Thine altar-coals that touch the lips
Of prophets kindle, too, the brand
By Discord flung with wanton hand
Among the houses and the ships.
Upon thy tranquil front the star
Burns bleak and passionless and white,
Its cold inclemency of light
More dreadful than the shadows are.
Thy name we do not here invoke
Our civic rites to sanctify:
Enthroned in thy remoter sky,
Thou heedest not our broken yoke.
Thou carest not for such as we:
Our millions die to serve the still
And secret purpose of thy will.
They perish-what is that to thee?
The light that fills the patriot's tomb
Is not of thee. The shining crown
Compassionately offered down
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To those who falter in the gloom,
And fall, and call upon thy name,
And die desiring-'tis the sign
Of a diviner love than thine,
Rewarding with a richer fame.
To him alone let freemen cry
Who hears alike the victor's shout,
The song of faith, the moan of doubt,
And bends him from his nearer sky.
God of my country and my race!
So greater than the gods of oldSo fairer than the prophets told
Who dimly saw and feared thy face,-
Who didst but half reveal thy will
And gracious ends to their desire,
Behind the dawn's advancing fire
Thy tender day-beam veiling still,-
To whom the unceasing suns belong,
And cause is one with consequence,To whose divine, inclusive sense
The moan is blended with the song,-
Whose laws, imperfect and unjust,
Thy just and perfect purpose serve:
The needle, howsoe'er it swerve,
Still warranting the sailor's trust,-
God, lift thy hand and make us free
To crown the work thou hast designed.
O, strike away the chains that bind
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Our souls to one idolatry!
The liberty thy love hath given
We thank thee for. We thank thee for
Our great dead fathers' holy war
Wherein our manacles were riven.
We thank thee for the stronger stroke
Ourselves delivered and incurred
When-thine incitement half unheardThe chains we riveted we broke.
We thank thee that beyond the sea
Thy people, growing ever wise,
Turn to the west their serious eyes
And dumbly strive to be as we.
As when the sun's returning flame
Upon the Nileside statue shone,
And struck from the enchanted stone
The music of a mighty fame,
Let Man salute the rising day
Of Liberty, but not adore.
'Tis Opportunity-no moreA useful, not a sacred, ray.
It bringeth good, it bringeth ill,
As he possessing shall elect.
He maketh it of none effect
Who walketh not within thy will.
Give thou more or less, as we
Shall serve the right or serve the wrong.
Confirm our freedom but so long
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As we are worthy to be free.
But when (O, distant be the time!)
Majorities in passion draw
Insurgent swords to murder Law,
And all the land is red with crime;
Or-nearer menace!-when the band
Of feeble spirits cringe and plead
To the gigantic strength of Greed,
And fawn upon his iron hand;-
Nay, when the steps to state are worn
In hollows by the feet of thieves,
And Mammon sits among the sheaves
And chuckles while the reapers mourn:
Then stay thy miracle!-replace
The broken throne, repair the chain,
Restore the interrupted reign
And veil again thy patient face.
Lo! here upon the world's extreme
We stand with lifted arms and dare
By thine eternal name to swear
Our country, which so fair we deem-
Upon whose hills, a bannered throng,
The spirits of the sun display
Their flashing lances day by day
And hear the sea's pacific song-
Shall be so ruled in right and grace
That men shall say: 'O, drive afield
The lawless eagle from the shield,
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And call an angel to the place!'
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1099:Reste, Reste Avec Nous
Reste, reste avec nous, ô père des bons vins!
Dieu propice, ô Bacchus! toi dont les flots divins
Versent le doux oubli de ces maux qu'on adore;
Toi, devant qui I'amour s'enfuit et s'évapore,
Comme de ce cristal aux mobiles éclairs
Tes esprits odorants s'exhalent dans les airs.
Eh bien! mes pas ont-ils refusé de vous suivre?
'Nous venons, disiez-vous, te conseiller de vivre.
Au lieu d'aller gémir, mendier des dédains,
Suis-nous, si tu le peux. La joie à nos festins
T'appelle. Viens, les fleurs ont couronné la table:
Viens, viens y consoler ton âme inconsolable.'
Vous voyez, mes amis, si de ce noble soin
Mon coeur tranquille et libre avait aucun besoin.
Camille dans mon coeur ne trouve plus des armes,
Et je l'entends nommer sans trouble, sans alarmes;
Ma pensée est loin d'elle, et je n'en parle plus;
Je crois la voir muette et le regard confus,
Pleurante. Sa beauté présomptueuse et vaine
Lui disait qu'un captif, une fois dans sa chaîne,
Ne pouvait songer... Mais, que nous font ses ennuis?
Jeune homme, apporte-nous d'autres fleurs et des fruits.
Qu'est-ce, amis? nos éclats, nos jeux se ralentissent?
Que des verres plus grands dans nos mains se remplissent!
Pourquoi vois-je languir ces vins abandonnés,
Sous le liège tenace encore emprisonnés?
Voyons si ce premier, fils de l'Andalousie,
Vaudra ceux dont Madère a formé l'ambroisie,
Ou ceux dont la Garonne enrichit ses coteaux,
Ou la vigne foulée aux pressoirs de Cîteaux.
Non, rien n'est plus heureux que le mortel tranquille
Qui, cher à ses amis, à l'amour indocile,
Parmi les entretiens, les jeux et les banquets,
Laisse couler la vie et n'y pense jamais.
Ah! qu'un front et qu'une âme à la tristesse en proie
Feignent malaisément et le rire et la joie!
Je ne sais, mais partout je l'entends, je la voi;
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Son fantôme attrayant est partout devant moi;
Son nom, sa voix absente errent dans mon oreille.
Peut-être aux feux du vin que l'amour se réveille:
Sous les bosquets de Chypre, à Vénus consacrés,
Bacchus mûrit l'azur de ses pampres dorés.
J'ai peur que, pour tromper ma haine et ma vengeance,
Tous ces dieux malfaisants ne soient d'intelligence.
Du moins il m'en souvient, quand autrefois, auprès
De cette ingrate aimée, en nos festins secrets,
Je portais à la hâte à ma bouche ravie
La coupe demi-pleine à ses lèvres saisie,
Ce nectar, de l'amour ministre insidieux,
Bien loin de les éteindre, aiguillonnait mes feux.
Ma main courait saisir, de transports chatouillée,
Sa tête noblement folâtre, échevelée.
Elle riait; et moi, malgré ses bras jaloux,
J'arrivais à sa bouche, à ses baisers si doux;
J'avais soin de reprendre, utile stratagème!
Les fleurs que sur son sein j'avais mises moi-même;
Et sur ce sein, mes doigts égarés, palpitants,
Les cherchaient, les suivaient, et les ôtaient longtemps.
Ah! je l'aimais alors! Je l'aimerais encore,
Si de tout conquérir la soif qui la dévore
Eût flatté mon orgueil au lieu de l'outrager,
Si mon amour n'avait qu'un outrage à venger,
Si vingt crimes nouveaux n'avaient trop su l'éteindre,
Si je ne l'abhorrais! Ah! qu'un coeur est à plaindre
De s'être à son amour longtemps accoutumé,
Quand il faut n'aimer plus ce qu'on a tant aimé!
Pourquoi, grands dieux! pourquoi la fîtes-vous si belle?
Mais ne me parlez plus, amis, de l'infidèle:
Que m'importe qu'un autre adore ses attraits,
Qu'un autre soit le roi de ses festins secrets;
Que tous deux en riant ils me nomment peut-être;
De ses cheveux épars qu'un autre soit le maître;
Qu'un autre ait ses baisers, son coeur; qu'une autre main
Poursuive lentement des bouquets sur son sein?
Un autre! Ah! je ne puis en souffrir la pensée!
Riez, amis; nommez ma fureur insensée.
Vous n'aimez pas, et j'aime, et je brûle, et je pars
Me coucher sur sa porte, implorer ses regards;
Elle entendra mes pleurs, elle verra mes larmes;
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Et dans ses yeux divins, pleins de grâces, de charmes,
Le sourire ou la haine, arbitres de mon sort,
Vont ou me pardonner, ou prononcer ma mort.
~ Andre Marie de Chenier,
1100:An Epistle From Alexander To Hephaestion In His
Sickness
WITH such a Pulse, with such disorder'd Veins,
Such lab'ring Breath, as thy Disease constrains;
With failing Eyes, that scarce the Light endure,
(So long unclos'd, they've watch'd thy doubtful Cure)
To his Hephaestion Alexander writes,
To soothe thy Days, and wing thy sleepless Nights,
I send thee Love: Oh! that I could impart,
As well my vital Spirits to thy Heart!
That, when the fierce Distemper thine wou'd quell,
They might renew the Fight, and the cold Foe repel.
As on Arbela's Plains we turn'd the Day,
When Persians through our Troops had mow'd their way,
When the rough Scythians on the Plunder run,
And barb'rous Shouts proclaim'd the Conquest won,
'Till o'er my Head (to stop the swift Despair)
The Bird of Jove fans the supporting Air,
Above my Plume does his broad Wings display,
And follows wheresoe'er I force my way:
Whilst Aristander, in his Robe of White,
Shews to the wav'ring Host th' auspicious Sight;
New Courage it inspires in ev'ry Breast,
And wins at once the Empire of the East.
Cou'd He, but now, some kind Presage afford,
That Health might be again to Thee restor'd;
Thou to my Wishes, to my fond Embrace;
Thy Looks the same, the same Majestick Grace,
That round thee shone, when we together went
To chear the Royal Captives in their Tent,
Where Sysigambis, prostrate on the Floor,
Did Alexander in thy Form adore;
Above great Æsculapius shou'd he stand,
Or made immortal by Apelles Hand.
But no reviving Hope his Art allows,
And such cold Damps invade my anxious Brows,
As, when in Cydnus plung'd, I dar'd the Flood
T' o'er-match the Boilings of my youthful Blood.
But Philip to my Aid repair'd in haste;
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And whilst the proffer'd Draught I boldly taste,
As boldly He the dangerous Paper views,
Which of hid Treasons does his Fame accuse.
More thy Physician's Life on Thine depends,
And what he gives, his Own preserves, or ends.
If thou expir'st beneath his fruitless Care,
To Rhadamanthus shall the Wretch repair,
And give strict Answer for his Errors there.
Near thy Pavilion list'ning Princes wait,
Seeking from thine to learn their Monarch's State.
Submitting Kings, that post from Day to Day,
To keep those Crowns, which at my Feet they lay,
Forget th' ambitious Subject of their Speed,
And here arriv'd, only Thy Dangers heed.
The Beauties of the Clime, now Thou'rt away,
Droop, and retire, as if their God of Day
No more upon their early Pray'rs would shine,
Or take their Incense, at his late Decline.
Thy Parisatis whom I fear to name,
Lest to thy Heat it add redoubl'd Flame;
Thy lovely Wife, thy Parisatis weeps,
And in her Grief a solemn Silence keeps.
Stretch'd in her Tent, upon the Floor she lies,
So pale her Looks, so motionless her Eyes,
As when they gave thee leave at first to gaze
Upon the Charms of her unguarded Face;
When the beauteous Sisters lowly knelt,
And su'd to those, who more than Pity felt.
To chear her now Statira vainly proves,
And at thy Name alone she sighs, and moves.
But why these single Griefs shou'd I expose?
The World no Mirth, no War, no Bus'ness knows,
But, hush'd with Sorrow stands, to favour thy Repose.
Ev'n I my boasted Title now resign,
Not Ammon's Son, nor born of Race Divine,
But Mortal all, oppress'd with restless Fears,
Wild with my Cares, and Womanish in Tears.
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Tho' Tears, before, I for lost Clytus shed,
And wept more Drops, than the old Hero bled;
Ev'n now, methinks, I see him on the Ground,
Now my dire Arms the wretched Corpse surround,
Now the fled Soul I wooe, now rave upon the Wound.
Yet He, for whom this mighty Grief did spring,
Not Alexander valu'd, but the King.
Then think, how much that Passion must transcend,
Which not a Subject raises but a Friend:
An equal Partner in the vanquished Earth,
A Brother, not impos'd upon my Birth,
Too weak a Tye unequal Thoughts to bind,
But by the gen'rous Motions of the Mind.
My Love to thee for Empire was the Test,
Since him, who from Mankind cou'd chuse the best,
The Gods thought only fit for Monarch o'er the rest.
Live then, my Friend; but if that must not be,
Nor Fate will with my boundless Mind agree,
Affording, at one time, the World and Thee;
To the most Worthy I'll that Sway resign,
And in Elysium keep Hyphaestion mine.
~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,
1101: ON

THE

NEW IDOL

Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but not
where we live, my brothers: here there are states.
State? What is that? Well then, open your ears to me,
for now I shall speak to you about the death of peoples.
State is the name of the coldest of all cold monsters.
Coldly it tells lies too; and this lie crawls out of its
mouth: "I, the state, am the people." That is a lie! It
was creators who created peoples and hung a faith and
a love over them: thus they served life.
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It is annihilators who set traps for the many and
call them "state": they hang a sword and a hundred
appetites over them.
Where there is still a people, it does not understand
the state and hates it as the evil eye and the sin
against customs and rights.
This sign I give you: every people speaks its tongue
of good and evil, which the neighbor does not understand. It has invented its own language of customs and
rights. But the state tells lies in all the tongues of
good and evil; and whatever it says it lies-and whatever it has it has stolen. Everything about it is false;
it bites with stolen teeth, and bites easily. Even its
entrails are false. Confusion of tongues of good and
evil: this sign I give you as the sign of the state. Verily,
this sign signifies the will to death. Verily, it beckons
to the preachers of death.
All-too-many are born: for the superfluous the state
was invented.
Behold, how it lures them, the all-too-many-and
how it devours them, chews them, and ruminatesl
"On earth there is nothing greater than I: the ordering finger of God am I"-thus roars the monster. And
it is not only the long-eared and shortsighted who sink
to their knees. Alas, to you too, you great souls, it
whispers its dark lies. Alas, it detects the rich hearts
which like to squander themselves. Indeed, it detects
you too, you vanquishers of the old god. You have
grown weary with fighting, and now your weariness
still serves the new idol. With heroes and honorable
men it would surround itself, the new idol! It likes to
bask in the sunshine of good consciences-the cold
monster
It will give you everything if you will adore it, this
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new idol: thus it buys the splendor of your virtues
and the look of your proud eyes. It would use you as
bait for the all-too-many.
Indeed, a hellish artifice was invented there, a horse
of death, clattering in the finery of divine honors. Indeed, a dying for many was invented there, which
praises itself as life: verily, a great service to all preachers of death!
State I call it where all drink poison, the good and
the wicked; state, where all lose themselves, the good
and the wicked; state, where the slow suicide of all is
called "life."
Behold the superfluous They steal the works of the
inventors and the treasures of the sages for themselves;
"education" they call their theft-and everything turns
to sickness and misfortune for them.
Behold the superfluous They are always sick; they
vomit their gall and call it a newspaper. They devour
each other and cannot even digest themselves.
Behold the superfluous! They gather riches and become poorer with them. They want power and first
the lever of power, much money-the impotent paupersl
Watch them clamber, these swift monkeys They
clamber over one another and thus drag one another
into the mud and the depth. They all want to get to
the throne: that is their madness-as if happiness sat
on the throne. Often mud sits on the throne-and often
also the throne on mud. Mad they all appear to me,
clambering monkeys and overardent. Foul smells their
idol, the cold monster: foul they smell to me altoge ther,
these idolators.
My brothers, do you want to suffocate in the fumes
of their snouts and appetites? Rather break the windows and leap to freedom.
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Escape from the bad smell Escape from the idolatry
of the superfluous!
Escape from the bad smell Escape from the steam
of these human sacrifices!
The earth is free even now for great souls. There
are still many empty seats for the lonesome and the
twosome, fanned by the fragrance of silent seas.
A free life is still free for great souls. Verily, whoever possesses little is possessed that much less: praised
be a little poverty
Only where the state ends, there begins the human
being who is not superfluous: there begins the song
of necessity, the unique and inimitable tune.
Where the state ends-look there, my brothers Do
you not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the overman?
Thus spoke Zarathustra.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON THE NEW IDOL
,
1102:The Sultan's Palace
My spirit only lived to look on Beauty's face,
As only when they clasp the arms seem served aright;
As in their flesh inheres the impulse to embrace,
To gaze on Loveliness was my soul's appetite.
I have roamed far in search; white road and plunging bow
Were keys in the blue doors where my desire was set;
Obedient to their lure, my lips and laughing brow
The hill-showers and the spray of many seas have wet.
Hot are enamored hands, the fragrant zone unbound,
To leave no dear delight unfelt, unfondled o'er,
The will possessed my heart to girdle Earth around
With their insatiate need to wonder and adore.
The flowers in the fields, the surf upon the sands,
The sunset and the clouds it turned to blood and wine,
Were shreds of the thin veil behind whose beaded strands
A radiant visage rose, serene, august, divine.
A noise of summer wind astir in starlit trees,
A song where sensual love's delirium rose and fell,
Were rites that moved my soul more than the devotee's
When from the blazing choir rings out the altar bell.
I woke amid the pomp of a proud palace; writ
In tinted arabesque on walls that gems o'erlay,
The names of caliphs were who once held court in it,
Their baths and bowers were mine to dwell in for a day.
Their robes and rings were mine to draw from shimmering trays--Brocades and broidered silks, topaz and tourmaline-Their turban-cloths to wind in proud capricious ways,
And fasten plumes and pearls and pendent sapphires in.
I rose; far music drew my steps in fond pursuit
Down tessellated floors and towering peristyles:
Through groves of colonnades fair lamps were blushing fruit,
On seas of green mosaic soft rugs were flowery isles.
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And there were verdurous courts that scalloped arches wreathed,
Where fountains plashed in bowls of lapis lazuli.
Through enigmatic doors voluptuous accents breathed,
And having Youth I had their Open Sesame.
I paused where shadowy walls were hung with cloths of gold,
And tinted twilight streamed through storied panes above.
In lamplit alcoves deep as flowers when they unfold
Soft cushions called to rest and fragrant fumes to love.
I hungered; at my hand delicious dainties teemed--Fair pyramids of fruit; pastry in sugared piles.
I thirsted; in cool cups inviting vintage beamed--Sweet syrups from the South; brown muscat from the isles.
I yearned for passionate Love; faint gauzes fell away.
Pillowed in rosy light I found my heart's desire.
Over the silks and down her florid beauty lay,
As over orient clouds the sunset's coral fire.
Joys that had smiled afar, a visionary form,
Behind the ranges hid, remote and rainbow-dyed,
Drew near unto my heart, a wonder soft and warm,
To touch, to stroke, to clasp, to sleep and wake beside.
Joy, that where summer seas and hot horizons shone
Had been the outspread arms I gave my youth to seek,
Drew near; awhile its pulse strove sweetly with my own,
Awhile I felt its breath astir upon my cheek.
I was so happy there; so fleeting was my stay,
What wonder if, assailed with vistas so divine,
I only lived to search and sample them the day
When between dawn and dusk the sultan's courts were mine !
Speak not of other worlds of happiness to be,
As though in any fond imaginary sphere
Lay more to tempt man's soul to immortality
Than ripens for his bliss abundant now and here!
Flowerlike I hope to die as flowerlike was my birth.
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Rooted in Nature's just benignant law like them,
I want no better joys than those that from green Earth
My spirit's blossom drew through the sweet body's stem.
I see no dread in death, no horror to abhor.
I never thought it else than but to cease to dwell
Spectator, and resolve most naturally once more
Into the dearly loved eternal spectacle.
Unto the fields and flowers this flesh I found so fair
I yield; do you, dear friend, over your rose-crowned wine,
Murmur my name some day as though my lips were there,
And frame your mouth as though its blushing kiss were mine.
Yea, where the banquet-hall is brilliant with young men,
You whose bright youth it might have thrilled my breast to know,
Drink . . . and perhaps my lips, insatiate even then
Of lips to hang upon, may find their loved ones so.
Unto the flush of dawn and evening I commend
This immaterial self and flamelike part of me,--Unto the azure haze that hangs at the world's end,
The sunshine on the hills, the starlight on the sea,--Unto angelic Earth, whereof the lives of those
Who love and dream great dreams and deeply feel may be
The elemental cells and nervules that compose
Its divine consciousness and joy and harmony.
~ Alan Seeger,
1103: ON THE VIRTUOUS

Slack and sleeping senses must be addressed with
thunder and heavenly fireworks. But the voice of beauty
speaks gently: it creeps only into the most awakened
souls. Gently trembled and laughed my shield today;
that is the holy laughter and tremor of beauty. About
you, the virtuous, my beauty laughed today. And thus
its voice came to me: "They still want to be paid."
You who are virtuous still want to be paid Do you
want rewards for virtue, and heaven for earth, and the
eternal for your today?
And now are you angry with me because I teach that
there is no reward and paymaster? And verily, I do not
even teach that virtue is its own reward.
Alas, that is my sorrow: they have lied reward and
punishment into the foundation of things, and now also
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into the foundation of your souls, you who are virtuous.
But like the boar's snout, my words shall tear open the
foundation of your souls: a plowshare will I be to you.
All the secrets of your foundation shall come to light;
and when you lie uprooted and broken in the sun, then
will your lies also be separated from your truths.
For this is your truth: you are too pure for the filth
of the words: revenge, punishment, reward, retri bution.
You love your virtue as a mother her child; but when
has a mother ever wished to be paid for her love? Your
virtue is what is dearest to you. The thirst of the ring
lives in you: every ring strives and turns to reach itself
again. And like a dying star is every work of your virtue: its light is always still on its way and it wandersand when will it no longer be on its way? Thus the
light of your virtue is still on its way even when the
work has been done. Though it be forgotten and dead,
the ray of its light still lives and wanders. That your
virtue is your self and not something foreign, a skin, a
cloak, that is the truth from the foundation of your souls,
you who are virtuous.
Yet there are those for whom virtue is the spasm under the scourge, and you have listened to their clamor
too much.
And there are others who call it virtue when their
vices grow lazy; and when their hatred and jealousy
stretch their limbs for once, then their "justice" comes
to life and rubs its sleepy eyes.
And there are others who are drawn downward: their
devils draw them. But the more they sink, the more
fervently glow their eyes and their lust for their god.
Alas, their clamor too has reached your ears, you who
are virtuous: "What I am not, that, that to me are God
and virtue"
And there are others who come along, heavy and
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creaking like carts carrying stones downhill: they talk
much of dignity and virtue-they call their brake virtue.
And there are others who are like cheap clocks that
must be wound: they tick and they want the tick-tock
to be called virtue. Verily, I have my pleasure in these:
wherever I find such clocks, I shall wind and wound
them with my mockery, and they shall whir for me.
And others are proud of their handful of justice and
commit outrages against all things for its sake, till the
world is drowned in their injustice. Oh, how ill the word
virtue comes out of their mouths And when they say,
"I am just," it always sounds like "I am just-revenged."
With their virtue they want to scratch out the eyes of
their enemies, and they exalt themselves only to humble
others.
And then again there are such as sit in their swamp
and speak thus out of the reeds: "Virtue-that is sitting
still in a swamp. We bite no one and avoid those who
want to bite; and in all things we hold the opinion that
is given to us."
And then again there are such as love gestures and
think that virtue is some kind of gesture. Their knees
always adore, and their hands are hymns to virtue, but
their heart knows nothing about it.
And then again there are such as consider it virtue
to say, "Virtue is necessary"; but at bottom they believe
only that the police is necessary.
And some who cannot see what is high in man call it
virtue that they see all-too-closely what is low in man:
thus they call their evil eye virtue.
And some want to be edified and elevated, and they
call that virtue, while others want to be bowled over,
and they call that virtue too.
And thus almost all believe that they have a share in
96
virtue; and at the very least everyone wants to be an
expert on good and evil.
Yet Zarathustra did not come to say to all these liars
and fools: "What do you know of virtue? What could
you know of virtue?"
Rather, that you, my friends, might grow weary of
the old words you have learned from the fools and liars.
Weary of the words: reward, retri bution, punishment,
and revenge in justice.
Weary of saying: what makes an act good is that it
is unselfish.
Oh, my friends, that your self be in your deed as the
mother is in her child-let that be your word concerning virtue
Verily, I may have taken a hundred words from you
and the dearest toys of your virtue, and now you are
angry with me, as children are angry. They played by
the sea, and a wave came and carried off their toy to the
depths: now they are crying. But the same wave shall
bring them new toys and shower new colorful shells before them. Thus they will be comforted; and like them,
you too, my friends, shall have your comfortings-and
new colorful shells.
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON THE VIRTUOUS
,
1104:Upon A Little Lady
Under the Discipline of an Excellent Person.
I.
How comes the Day orecast? the Flaming Sun
Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run?
He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay,
Ne're courted Daphne with a brighter Ray!
And now in Clouds he wraps his Head,
As if not Daphne, but himself were dead!
And all the little Winged Troop
Forbear to sing, and sit and droop;
The Flowers do languish on their Beds,
And fading hang their Mourning Heads;
The little Cupids discontented, shew,
In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow,
An other tares his Cheeks and Haire,
A third sits blubring in Despaire,
Confessing though, in Love, he be,
A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie,
A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he!
Whence is this Evil hurl'd,
On all the sweetness of the World?
Among those Things with Beauty shine,
(Both Humane natures, and Divine)
There was not so much sorrow spi'd,
No, not that Day the sweet Adonis died!
II.
Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake,
The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake.
Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above,
Govern us Men, but govern still with Love,
Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be,
Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie.
My Prayer not spoken out,
One of the Winged Rout,
With Indignation great,
Sprung from his Airie-Seat,
And mounting to a Higher Cloud,
63
With Thunder, or a Voice as loud
Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th' Gods,
Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods!
And in the Instant that the Thing was meant,
He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent!
I follow'd with my watchful Eye,
To the Place where the Shaft did flie,
But O unheard-of Prodigy.
It was retorted back again,
And he that sent it, felt the pain,
Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain!
But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found,
And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound.
III.
The Place from which the Arrow did return,
Swifter then sent, and with the speed did burn,
Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare,
Tarrast beneath, and open to the Aire,
On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tie
A purfl'd Curtain, hanging from on high,
To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower,
And boast the Owners Dignity and Power!
This shew'd the Scene from whence Loves grief arose,
And Heaven and Nature both did discompose,
A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright,
Lay like a Body of Collected Light,
But not to Love and Courtship so disclos'd,
But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos'd,
Who instant on the Faire with Words and Blows,
Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shews.
IV.
But O thou no less Blind,
Than Wild and Savage Mind,
Who Discipline dar'st name,
Thy Outrage and thy shame,
And hop'st a Radiant Crown to get
All Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit,
Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like incircle it!
64
May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand,
Grasping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand,
Thy Hand, that Furie like—But see!
By Apollos Sacred Tree,
By his ever Tuneful Lyre,
And his bright Image the Eternal Fire,
Eudoras she has done this Deed
And made the World thus in its Darling bleed!
I know the Cruel Dame,
Too well instructed by my Flame!
But see her shape! But see her Face!
In her Temple such is Diana's Grace!
Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies,
When Beautie's wrong'd, no wonder Musick dies!
V.
What blood of Centaurs did thy Bosom warme,
And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme?
Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud,
As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good!
How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand,
That Rage of Seas, and People could command,
And calme Diseases with the Charming strings,
Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things?
But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride,
Because thou didst Excel the World beside,
And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine,
Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine!
And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see,
Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee,
And punisht in the Lady as unfit,
What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit.
Divine she is, or else Divine must be,
A Borne or else a Growing Deitie!
VI.
While thus I did exclaime,
And wildly rage and blame,
Behold the Sylvan-Quire
Did all at one conspire,
With shrill and cheerful Throats,
65
T'assume their chirping Notes;
The Heav'ns refulgent Eye
Dance't in the clear'd-up Skie,
And so triumphant shon,
As seven-days Beams he had on!
The little Loves burn'd with nobler fier
Each chang'd his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre,
Singing chast Aires unto the tuneful strings,
And time'd soft Musick with their downy Wings.
I turn'd the little Nymph to view,
She singing and did smiling shew;
Eudora led a heav'nly strain,
Her Angels Voice did eccho it again!
I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought,
But neerer Heav'n this Piece of Heaven was brought.
She also brighter seem'd, than she had been,
Vertue darts forth a Light'ning 'bove the Skin.
Eudora also shew'd as heretofore,
When her soft Graces I did first adore.
I saw, what one did Nobly Will,
The other sweetly did fulfil;
Their Actions all harmoniously did sute,
And she had only tun'd the Lady like her Lute.
~ Anne Killigrew,
1105:A Summer Evening's Meditation
'TIS past! The sultry tyrant of the south
Has spent his short-liv'd rage; more grateful hours
Move silent on; the skies no more repel
The dazzled sight, but with mild maiden beams
Of temper'd light, invite the cherish'd eye
To wander o'er their sphere; where hung aloft
DIAN's bright crescent, like a silver bow
New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns
Impatient for the night, and seems to push
Her brother down the sky. Fair VENUS shines
Even in the eye of day; with sweetest beam
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood
Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks.
The shadows spread apace; while meeken'd Eve
Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires
Thro' the Hesperian gardens of the west,
And shuts the gates of day. 'Tis now the hour
When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts,
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth
Of unpierc'd woods, where wrapt in solid shade
She mused away the gaudy hours of noon,
And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun,
Moves forward; and with radiant finger points
To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine,
Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether
One boundless blaze; ten thousand trembling fires,
And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye
Restless, and dazzled wanders unconfin'd
O'er all this field of glories: spacious field!
And worthy of the master: he, whose hand
With hieroglyphics older than the Nile,
Inscrib'd the mystic tablet; hung on high
To public gaze, and said, adore, O man!
The finger of thy GOD. From what pure wells
Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn,
Are all these lamps so fill'd? these friendly lamps,
18
For ever streaming o'er the azure deep
To point our path, and light us to our home.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres!
And silent as the foot of time, fulfil
Their destin'd courses: Nature's self is hush'd,
And, but a scatter'd leaf, which rustles thro'
The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard
To break the midnight air; tho' the rais'd ear,
Intensely listening, drinks in every breath.
How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise!
But are they silent all? or is there not
A tongue in every star that talks with man,
And wooes him to be wise; nor wooes in vain:
This dead of midnight is the noon of thought,
And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.
At this still hour the self-collected soul
Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there
Of high descent, and more than mortal rank;
An embryo GOD; a spark of fire divine,
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun,
(Fair transitory creature of a day!)
Has clos'd his golden eye, and wrapt in shades
Forgets his wonted journey thro' the east.
Ye citadels of light, and seats of GODS!
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul
Revolving periods past, may oft look back
With recollected tenderness, on all
The various busy scenes she left below,
Its deep laid projects and its strange events,
As on some fond and doating tale that sooth'd
Her infant hours; O be it lawful now
To tread the hallow'd circles of your courts,
And with mute wonder and delighted awe
Approach your burning confines. Seiz'd in thought
On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail,
From the green borders of the peopled earth,
And the pale moon, her duteous fair attendant;
From solitary Mars; from the vast orb
Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk
19
Dances in ether like the lightest leaf;
To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system,
Where chearless Saturn 'midst her watry moons
Girt with a lucid zone, majestic sits
In gloomy grandeur; like an exil'd queen
Amongst her weeping handmaids: fearless thence
I launch into the trackless deeps of space,
Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear,
Of elder beam; which ask no leave to shine
Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light
From the proud regent of our scanty day;
Sons of the morning, first born of creation,
And only less than him who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop,
Or is there aught beyond? What hand unseen
Impels me onward thro' the glowing orbs
Of inhabitable nature; far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,
The desarts of creation, wide and wild;
Where embryo systems and unkindled suns
Sleep in the womb of chaos; fancy droops,
And thought astonish'd stops her bold career.
But oh thou mighty mind! whose powerful word
Said, thus let all things be, and thus they were,
Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblam'd
Invoke thy dread perfection?
Have the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee?
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion
Support thy throne? O look with pity down
On erring guilty man; not in thy names
Of terrour clad; not with those thunders arm'd
That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd
The scatter'd tribes; thou hast a gentler voice,
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,
Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.
But now my soul unus'd tostretch her powers
In flight so daring, drops her weary wing,
And seeks again the known accustom'd spot,
20
Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams,
A mansion fair and spacious for its guest,
And full replete with wonders. Let me here
Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time
And ripen for the skies: the hour will come
When all these splendours bursting on my sight
Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravished sense
Unlock the glories of the world unknown.
~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
1106:Hymne À La Beauté (Hymn To Beauty)
Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l'abîme,
O Beauté? ton regard, infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l'on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.
Tu contiens dans ton oeil le couchant et l'aurore;
Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore
Qui font le héros lâche et l'enfant courageux.
Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
Le Destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien;
Tu sèmes au hasard la joie et les désastres,
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien.
Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques;
De tes bijoux l'Horreur n'est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.
L'éphémère ébloui vole vers toi, chandelle,
Crépite, flambe et dit: Bénissons ce flambeau!
L'amoureux pantelant incliné sur sa belle
A l'air d'un moribond caressant son tombeau.
Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l'enfer, qu'importe,
Ô Beauté! monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu!
Si ton oeil, ton souris, ton pied, m'ouvrent la porte
D'un Infini que j'aime et n'ai jamais connu?
De Satan ou de Dieu, qu'importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu'importe, si tu rends, — fée aux yeux de velours,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine! —
L'univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?
Hymn to Beauty
Do you come from Heaven or rise from the abyss,
Beauty? Your gaze, divine and infernal,
193
Pours out confusedly benevolence and crime,
And one may for that, compare you to wine.
You contain in your eyes the sunset and the dawn;
You scatter perfumes like a stormy night;
Your kisses are a philtre, your mouth an amphora,
Which make the hero weak and the child courageous.
Do you come from the stars or rise from the black pit?
Destiny, bewitched, follows your skirts like a dog;
You sow at random joy and disaster,
And you govern all things but answer for nothing.
You walk upon corpses which you mock, O Beauty!
Of your jewels Horror is not the least charming,
And Murder, among your dearest trinkets,
Dances amorously upon your proud belly.
The dazzled moth flies toward you, O candle!
Crepitates, flames and says: 'Blessed be this flambeau!'
The panting lover bending o'er his fair one
Looks like a dying man caressing his own tomb,
Whether you come from heaven or from hell, who cares,
O Beauty! Huge, fearful, ingenuous monster!
If your regard, your smile, your foot, open for me
An Infinite I love but have not ever known?
From God or Satan, who cares? Angel or Siren,
Who cares, if you make, — fay with the velvet eyes,
Rhythm, perfume, glimmer; my one and only queen!
The world less hideous, the minutes less leaden?
— Translated by William Aggeler
Hymn to Beauty
Did you spring out of heaven or the abyss,
Beauty? Your gaze infernal, yet divine,
Spreads infamy and glory, grief and bliss,
And therefore you can be compared to wine.
194
Your eyes contain both sunset and aurora:
You give off scents, like evenings storm-deflowered:
Your kisses are a philtre: an amphora
Your mouth, that cows the brave, and spurs the coward.
Climb you from gulfs, or from the stars descend?
Fate, like a fawning hound, to heel you've brought;
You scatter joy and ruin without end,
Ruling all things, yet answering for naught.
You trample men to death, and mock their clamour.
Amongst your gauds pale Horror gleams and glances,
And Murder, not the least of them in glamour,
On your proud belly amorously dances.
The dazzled insect seeks your candle-rays,
Crackles, and burns, and seems to bless his doom.
The groom bent o'er his bride as in a daze,
Seems, like a dying man, to stroke his tomb.
What matter if from hell or heaven born,
Tremendous monster, terrible to view?
Your eyes and smile reveal to me, like morn,
The Infinite I love but never knew.
From God or Fiend? Siren or Sylph ? Invidious
The answer — Fay with eyes of velvet, ray,
Rhythm, and perfume! — if you make less hideous
Our universe, less tedious leave our day.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Hymn to Beauty
Did you fall from high heaven or surge from the abyss,
O Beauty? Your bright gaze, infernal and divine,
Confusedly pours out courage and cowardice,
Or love and crime. Therefore men liken you to wine.
Your eyes hold all the sunset and the dawn, you are
195
As rich in fragrances as a tempestuous night,
Your kisses are a philtre and your mouth a jar
Filling the child with valor and the man with fright.
Did the stars mould you or the pit's obscurity?
You bring at random Paradise or Juggernaut.
Fate sniffs your skirts with a charmed dog's servility,
You govern all and yet are answerable for naught.
Beauty, you walk on corpses of dead men you mock.
Among your store of gems, Horror is not the least;
Murder, amid the dearest trinkets of your stock,
Dances on your proud belly like a ruttish beast.
Candle, the transient moth flies dazzled to your light,
Crackles and flames and says: 'Blessèd this fiery doom!'
The panting lover with his mistress in the night
Looks like a dying man caressing his own tomb.
Are you from heaven or hell, Beauty that we adore?
Who cares? A dreadful, huge, ingenuous monster, you!
So but your glance, your smile, your foot open a door
Upon an Infinite I love but never knew.
From Satan or from God? Who cares? Fierce or serene,
Who cares? Sister to sirens or to seraphim?
So but, dark fey, you shed your perfume, rhythm and sheen
To make the world less hideous and Time less grim.
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1107:THE

ASS FESTIVAL
1

At this point of the litany Zarathustra could no longer
control himself and himself shouted Yea-Yuh, even
louder than the ass, and he jumped right into the middle
of his guests, who had gone mad. "But what are you
doing there, children of men?" he cried as he pulled the
praying men up from the floor. "Alas, if someone other
than Zarathustra had watched youth Everyone would
judge that with your new faith you were the worst
blasphemers or the most foolish of all little old women.
"And you too, old pope, how do you reconcile this
with yourself that you adore an ass in this way as a
god?"
"O Zarathustra," replied the pope, "forgive me, but
314
in what pertains to God I am even more enlightened
than you. And that is proper. Better to adore God in
this form than in no form at all! Think about this maxim,
my noble friend: you will quickly see that there is
wisdom in such a maxim.
"He who said, 'God is a spirit,' took the biggest step
and leap to disbelief that anybody has yet taken on
earth: such a saying can hardly be redressed on earth.
My old heart leaps and jumps that there is still something on earth to adore. Forgive, 0 Zarathustra, an old
pious pope's heart!"
"And you," Zarathustra said to the wanderer and
shadow, "you call and consider yourself a free spirit?
And you go in for such idolatry and popery? You are
behaving even more wickedly, verily, than with your
wicked brown girls, you wicked new believer."
"Wickedly enough," replied the wanderer and
shadow; "you are right: but is it my fault? The old god
lives again, Zarathustra, you may say what you will. It
is all the fault of the ugliest man: he has awakened him
again. And when he says that he once killed him-in
the case of gods death is always a mere prejudice."
"And you," said Zarathustra, "you wicked old magician, what have you done? Who should henceforth believe in you in this free age, if you believe in such theoasininities? It was a stupidity that you committed; how
could you, you clever one, commit such a stupidity?"
"O Zarathustra," replied the clever magician, "you are
right, it was a stupidity; and it was hard enough for me
too."
"And you of all people," said Zarathustra to the conscientious in spirit, "consider with a finger alongside
your nose: doesn't anything here go against your con-

science? Is your spirit not too clean for such praying
and the haze of these canters?"
315
"There is something in this," replied the conscientious
man, placing a finger alongside his nose; "there is something in this spectacle that even pleases my conscience.
Perhaps I may not believe in God; but it is certain
that God seems relatively most credible to me in this
form. God is supposed to be eternal, according to the
witness of the most pious: whoever has that much time,
takes his time. As slowly and as stupidly as possible:
in this way, one like that can still get very far.
"And whoever has too much spirit might well grow
foolishly fond of stupidity and folly itself. Think about
yourself, 0 Zarathustral You yourself-verily, overabundance and wisdom could easily turn you too into
an ass. Is not the perfect sage fond of walking on the
most crooked ways? The evidence shows this, 0 Zarathustra-and you are the evidence."
"And you yourself, finally," said Zarathustra, turning to the ugliest man, who still lay on the ground, and
raising his arm toward the ass (for he was offering him
wine to drink). "Speak, you inexpressible one, what
have you done? You seem changed to me, your eyes are
glowing, the cloak of the sublime lies over your ugliness: what have you done? Is it true what they say, that
you have wakened him again? And why? Had he not
been killed and finished for a reason? You yourself seem
awakened to me: what have you done? Why did you
revert? Why did you convert yourself? Speak, you inexpressible onel"
"O Zarathustra," replied the ugliest man, "you are a
roguel Whether that one still lives or lives again or is
thoroughly dead-which of the two of us knows that
best? I ask you. But one thing I do know; it was from
you yourself that I learned it once, 0 Zarathustra: whoever would kill most thoroughly, laughs.
"'Not by wrath does one kill, but by laughter'-thus
you once spoke. 0 Zarathustra, you hidden one, you
annihilator without wrath, you dangerous saint-you
are a rogue!"
2

But then it happened that Zarathustra, amazed at all
these roguish answers, jumped back toward the door of
his cave and, turning against all his guests, cried out
with a strong voice:
"O you roguish fools, all of you, you jestersl Why do
you dissemble and hide before me? How all your hearts
wriggled with pleasure and malice that at last you had
become again as little children, that is, pious; that at
last you did again what children do, namely, prayed,
folded your hands, and said, 'Dear God!' But now leave
this nursery, my own cave, where all childishness is at
home today! Cool your hot children's prankishness and
the noise of your hearts out there!
"To be sure: except ye become as little children, ye
shall not enter into that kingdom of heaven. (And Zarathustra pointed upward with his hands.) But we have
no wish whatever to enter into the kingdom of heaven:
we have become men-so we want the earth."
3
And yet once more Zarathustra began to speak. "O
my new friends," he said, "you strange higher men, how
well I like you now since you have become gay again.
Verily, you have all blossomed; it seems to me such
flowers as you are require new festivals, a little brave
nonsense, some divine service and ass festival, some old
gay fool of a Zarathustra, a roaring wind that blows your
souls bright.
"Do not forget this night and this ass festival, you
higher men. This you invented when you were with me
317

and I take that for a good sign: such things are invented only by convalescents.
"And when you celebrate it again, this ass festival,
do it for your own sakes, and also do it for my sake. And
in remembrance of me."
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE ASS FESTIVAL
,
1108:Look! What wonders the spring has wrought! The river bank is a paradise! Rose-embowered glades, Blossoming jasmine and hyacinth, And violets, the envy of the skies!. Rainbow colours transformed Into a chorus of rapturous sounds, And the harmony of flowers The hillside is carnation-red; In the languid haze, the air Seems drunk with the beauty of life! The brook, on the heights of the hill, Dances to its own music. The world is dizzy in a pageant of colour! My rosy-cheeked Cup-bearer! The voice of spring is the voice of life! But the spring lasts not for ever; So bring me the cup that tears all veils -- The wine that brightens life -- The wine that intoxicates the world -- The wine in which flows The music of everlasting life, The wine that reveals eternity's secret. Unveil the secrets, O Saqi. Look! The world has changed apace! New are the songs, and new is the music; The West's magic has dissolved; The West's magicians are bewildered; Old politics has lost its game; The world is tired of kings; Gone are the days of the rich; Gone is the jugglery of old; Awake is China's sleeping giant; The Himalayas' torrents are unleashed; Sinai is riven; Moses awaits the light divine. The Muslim says that God is One But his heart is Still a heathen: Culture, sufism, rites and rthetoric, All adore non- Arab idols; The truth was lost in trifles, And the nation was lost in conventions. The speaker's rhetoric is enchanting, But is devoid of passion; It is clothed in logic neat, But lost in a maze of words; The sufi, unique in the love of truth, Unique in the love of God, Was lost in un-Islamic thought; Was lost in the hierarchic quest; The fire of love is extinguished, And a Muslim is a heap of ashes, O Saqi! Give me the old wine again! Let the potent cup go round! Let me soar on the wings of love; Make my dust bright-pinioned; Make wisdom free; And make the young guide the old; Thou it is that nourishest. this nation; Thou it is that canst sustain it; Urge them to move, to stir; Give them Ali's heart; give them Siddiq's passion; Let the same old love pierce their hearts; Awaken in them a burning zeal; Let the stars throw down their spears, And let the earth's dwellers tremble Give the young a passion that consumes; Give them my vision, my love of God; Free my boat from the whirlpool's grip, And make it move forward-, Reveal to me the secrets of life, For thou knowest them all; The treasures of a fakir like me Are suffused, unsleeping eyes, And secret yearnings of the heart-, My anguished sighs at night, My solitude in the world of men, My hopes and my fears, My quest untiring, My nature an arena of thought A mirror of the world. My heart a battlefield of life, With armies of suspicion, And bastions of certitude; With these treasures I am More rich than the richest of all. Let the young join my throng, And let them find an anchor of hope. The sea of life has its ebb and flow-, In every atom's heart is the pulse of life; It manifests itself in the body, As a flame conceals a wave of smoke; Contact with the earth was harsh for it, But it liked the labour; It is in motion, and not in motion; Tired of the elements' shackles; A unity, imprisoned by plurality; But always unique, unequalled. It has made this dome of myriad glass; It has carved this pantheon. It does not repeat its craft For thou art not me, and I am not thou; It has created the world of men, And remains in solitude, Its brightness is seen in the stars, And in the lustre of pearls-, To it belong the wildernesses, The flowers and the thorns; Mountains sometimes are shaken by its might; It captures angels and nymphs; It makes the eagle pounce on a prey, And leave a blood-stained body. Every atom throbs with life; Rest is an illusion; Life's journey pauses not, For every moment is a new glory; Life, thou thinkest, is a mystery; Life is a delight in eternal flight; Life has seen many ups and downs; It loves a journey, not a goal. Movement is life's being; Movement is truth, pause is a mirage. Life's enjoyment is in perils, In facing ups and downs; In the world beyond Life stalked for death, But the impulse to procreate Peopled the world of man and beast. Flowers blossomed and dropped From this tree of life. Fools think life is ephemeral; Life renews itself for ever -- Moving fast as a flash, Moving to eternity in a breath; Time, a chain of days and nights, Is the ebb and flow of breath. This flow of breath is like a sword, Selfhood is its sharpness; Selfhood is the secret of life; It is the world's awakening, Selfhood is solitary, absorbed, An ocean enclosed in a drop; It shines in light and in darkness, Existent in, but away from, thee and me. The dawn of life behind it, eternity before, It has no frontiers before, no frontiers behind. Afloat on the river of time, Bearing the buffets of the waves, Changing the course of its quest, Shifting its glance from time to time; For it a hill is a grain of sand, Mountains are shattered by its blows; A journey is its beginning and end, And this is the secret of its being. It is the moon's beam, the spark in the flint, Colourless itself, though infused with colours, No concern has it with the calculus of space, With linear time's limits, with the finitude of life. It manifested itself in man's essence of dust, After an eternity of a strife to be born. It is in thy heart that Selfhood has an abode, As heaven has its abode in the cornea of thy eye. To one who guards his Selfhood, The living that demeans it, is poison; He accepts only a living, That keeps his self- esteem; Keep away from royal pomp, Keep thy Selfhood free; Thou shouldst bow in prayer, Not bow to a human being. This myriad-coloured world, Under the sentence of death, This world of sight and sound, I Where life means eating and drinking, Is Selfhood's initial stage; It is not thy abode, O traveller! This dust-bowl is not the source of thy fire; The world is for thee, not thou for the world. Demolish this illusion of' time and space; Selfhood is the Tiger of God, the world is its prey; The earth is its prey, the heavens are its prey; Other worlds there are, still awaiting birth, The earth-born are not the centre of all life; They all await thy assault, Thy cataclysmic thought and deed; Days and nights revolve, To reveal thy Selfhood to thee; Thou art the architect of the world. Words fail to convey the truth; Truth is the mirror, words its shade; Though the breath is a burning flame, The flame has limited bounds. 'If now I soar any farther, The vision will sear my wings.'

~ Allama Muhammad Iqbal, To the Saqi (from Baal-i-Jibreel)
,
1109:L'Héautontimorouménos (The Man Who Tortures
Himself)
L'Héautontimorouménos
Je te frapperai sans colère
Et sans haine, comme un boucher,
Comme Moïse le rocher
Et je ferai de ta paupière,
Pour abreuver mon Saharah
Jaillir les eaux de la souffrance.
Mon désir gonflé d'espérance
Sur tes pleurs salés nagera
Comme un vaisseau qui prend le large,
Et dans mon coeur qu'ils soûleront
Tes chers sanglots retentiront
Comme un tambour qui bat la charge!
Ne suis-je pas un faux accord
Dans la divine symphonie,
Grâce à la vorace Ironie
Qui me secoue et qui me mord
Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde!
C'est tout mon sang ce poison noir!
Je suis le sinistre miroir
Où la mégère se regarde.
Je
Je
Je
Et
suis la plaie et le couteau!
suis le soufflet et la joue!
suis les membres et la roue,
la victime et le bourreau!
Je suis de mon coeur le vampire,
— Un de ces grands abandonnés
Au rire éternel condamnés
Et qui ne peuvent plus sourire!
The Man Who Tortures Himself
I shall strike you without anger
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And without hate, like a butcher,
As Moses struck the rock!
And from your eyelids I shall make
The waters of suffering gush forth
To inundate my Sahara.
My desire swollen with hope
Will float upon your salty tears
Like a vessel which puts to sea,
And in my heart that they'll make drunk
Your beloved sobs will resound
Like a drum beating the charge!
Am I not a discord
In the heavenly symphony,
Thanks to voracious Irony
Who shakes me and who bites me?
She's in my voice, the termagant!
All my blood is her black poison!
I am the sinister mirror
In which the vixen looks.
I am the wound and the dagger!
I am the blow and the cheek!
I am the members and the wheel,
Victim and executioner!
I'm the vampire of my own heart
— One of those utter derelicts
Condemned to eternal laughter,
But who can no longer smile!
— Translated by William Aggeler
Heautontimoroumenos
I'll strike you, but without the least
Anger — as butchers poll an ox,
Or Moses, when he struck the rocks —
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That from your eyelid thus released,
The lymph of suffering may brim
To slake my desert of its drought.
So my desire, by hope made stout,
Upon your salty tears may swim,
Like a proud ship, far out from shore.
Within my heart, which they'll confound
With drunken joy, your sobs will sound
Like drums that beat a charge in war.
I am I not a faulty chord
In all this symphony divine,
Thanks to the irony malign
That shakes and cuts me like a sword?
It's in my voice, the raucous jade!
It's in my blood's black venom too!
I am the looking-glass, wherethrough
Megera sees herself portrayed!
I am the wound, and yet the blade!
The smack, and yet the cheek that takes it!
The limb, and yet the wheel that breaks it,
The torturer, and he who's flayed!
One of the sort whom all revile,
A Vampire, my own blood I quaff,
Condemned to an eternal laugh
Because I know not how to smile.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Heauton Timoroumenos
I mean to strike you without hate,
As butchers do; as Moses did
The rock. From under either lid
Your tears will flow to inundate
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This huge Sahara which is I.
My heart, insensible with pain,
Caught in that flood will live again:
Will care whether it live or die —
Will strive as in the salty sea,
Drunken with brine and all but drowned,
Yet driven onward by the sound
Of your wild sobbing endlessly!
For look — I am at war, my dear,
With the whole universe. I know
There is no medicine for my woe.
Believe me, it is called Despair.
It runs in all my veins. I pray:
It cries in all my words. I am
The very glass where what I damn
Leers and admires itself all day.
I am the wound — I am the knife
The deep wound scabbards; the outdrawn
Rack, and the writhing thereupon;
The lifeless, and the taker of life.
I murder what I most adore,
Laughing: I am indeed of those
Condemned for ever without repose
To laugh — but who can smile no more.
— Translated by George Dillon
Heautontimoroumenos
The Man Who Tortures Himself
I shall cleave without scrape or shock,
And, like a butcher, without hate,
Like Moses, when he struck the rock.
From your eyes I shall generate
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Waters of woe throughout the years
To quench my fierce Sahara fires,
Swollen with vast hope, my desires
Shall float upon your bitter tears
Like a proud vessel, sailing large;
And in my heart, drunk at the sound,
Your cherished sobbing shall resound
Like drums beating the long lost charge.
Am I not a discordant note
In the celestial symphony,
Thanks to voracious Irony
Who shakes and bites me at the throat?
She's in my voice, the scold; her black
Poison is all my blood, alas!
I am the direful looking glass
Which flashes her reflection back.
I am the wound, the knives that strike,
The blows that crush, the head that reels,
I am wrenched limbs and grinding wheels,
Victim and hangman, as you like!
Vampire of my own heart, meanwhile,
A derelict, I am of those
Doomed to eternal laughter's throes,
Yet powerless to frame a smile!
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
L'Héautontimouroménos
I'll strike thee without enmity
nor wrath, like butchers at the block,
like Moses when he smote the rock!
I'll make those eyelids gush for me
with springs of suffering, whose flow
shall slake the desert of my thirst;
— a salt flood, where my lust accurst,
with Hope to plump her sail, shall go
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as from the port a pitching barge,
and in my heart they satiate
thy sobs I love shall fulminate
loud as a drum that beats a charge!
for am I not a clashing chord
in all Thy heavenly symphony,
thanks to this vulture Irony
that shakes and bites me always, Lord?
she's in my voice, the screaming elf!
my poisoned blood came all from her!
I am the mirror sinister
in which the vixen sees herself!
I am the wound and I the knife!
I am the blow I give, and feel!
I am the broken limbs, the wheel,
the hangman and the strangled life!
I am my heart's own vampire, for
God has forsaken me, and men,
these lips can never smile again,
but laugh they must, and evermore!
— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1110:The Rape Of The Lock: Canto 2
Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain,
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main,
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams
Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames.
Fair nymphs, and well-dress'd youths around her shone,
But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone.
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide:
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.
This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,
Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind
In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck
With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck.
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.
With hairy springes we the birds betray,
Slight lines of hair surprise the finney prey,
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.
Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admir'd;
He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd.
Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way,
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;
For when success a lover's toil attends,
Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends.
For this, ere Phœbus rose, he had implor'd
Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd,
But chiefly love--to love an altar built,
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt.
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves;
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And all the trophies of his former loves;
With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,
And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire.
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize:
The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r,
The rest, the winds dispers'd in empty air.
But now secure the painted vessel glides,
The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides,
While melting music steals upon the sky,
And soften'd sounds along the waters die.
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play,
Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay.
All but the Sylph--with careful thoughts opprest,
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.
He summons strait his denizens of air;
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe,
That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath.
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold,
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold.
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight,
Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light,
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,
Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew;
Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies,
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes,
While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings,
Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings.
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast,
Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd;
His purple pinions op'ning to the sun,
He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun.
"Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear!
Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear!
Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd
By laws eternal to th' aerial kind.
Some in the fields of purest æther play,
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.
Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high,
226
Or roll the planets through the boundless sky.
Some less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night,
Or suck the mists in grosser air below,
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main,
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain.
Others on earth o'er human race preside,
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:
Of these the chief the care of nations own,
And guard with arms divine the British throne.
"Our humbler province is to tend the fair,
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care.
To save the powder from too rude a gale,
Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale,
To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs,
To steal from rainbows e'er they drop in show'rs
A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;
Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow.
"This day, black omens threat the brightest fair
That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care;
Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight,
But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night.
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,
Or some frail china jar receive a flaw;
Or stain her honour, or her new brocade,
Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade;
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;
Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall.
Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:
The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care;
The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign;
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock;
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.
"To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note,
We trust th' important charge, the petticoat:
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Oft have we known that sev'n-fold fence to fail,
Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale.
Form a strong line about the silver bound,
And guard the wide circumference around.
"Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins,
Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins;
Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie,
Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye:
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,
While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain;
Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r
Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flow'r.
Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel
The giddy motion of the whirling mill,
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow,
And tremble at the sea that froths below!"
He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend,
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair,
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear;
With beating hearts the dire event they wait,
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate.
~ Alexander Pope,
1111:Chanson D'Après-Midi (Afternoon Song)
Quoique tes sourcils méchants
Te donnent un air étrange
Qui n'est pas celui d'un ange,
Sorcière aux yeux alléchants,
Je t'adore, ô ma frivole,
Ma terrible passion!
Avec la dévotion
Du prêtre pour son idole.
Le désert et la forêt
Embaument tes tresses rudes,
Ta tête a les attitudes
De l'énigme et du secret.
Sur ta chair le parfum rôde
Comme autour d'un encensoir;
Tu charmes comme le soir
Nymphe ténébreuse et chaude.
Ah! les philtres les plus forts
Ne valent pas ta paresse,
Et tu connais la caresse
Ou fait revivre les morts!
Tes hanches sont amoureuses
De ton dos et de tes seins,
Et tu ravis les coussins
Par tes poses langoureuses.
Quelquefois, pour apaiser
Ta rage mystérieuse,
Tu prodigues, sérieuse,
La morsure et le baiser;
Tu me déchires, ma brune,
Avec un rire moqueur,
Et puis tu mets sur mon coeur
Ton oeil doux comme la lune.
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Sous tes souliers de satin,
Sous tes charmants pieds de soie
Moi, je mets ma grande joie,
Mon génie et mon destin,
Mon âme par toi guérie,
Par toi, lumière et couleur!
Explosion de chaleur
Dans ma noire Sibérie!
Afternoon Song
Though your mischievous eyebrows
Give you a singular air,
Not that of an angel,
Sorceress with Siren's eyes,
I adore you, my madcap,
My ineffable passion!
With the pious devotion
Of a priest for his idol.
Your stiff tresses are scented
With the desert and forest,
Your head assumes the poses
Of the enigma and key.
Perfume lingers about your flesh
Like incense about a censer;
You charm like the evening,
Tenebrous, passionate nymph.
Ah! the most potent philtres
Are weaker than your languor,
And you know the caresses
That make the dead live again!
Your haunches are enamored
Of your back and your bosom
And you delight the cushions
With your languorous poses.
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Sometimes, to alleviate
Your mysterious passion,
You lavish, resolutely,
Your bites and your kisses;
You tear me open, dark beauty,
With derisive laughter,
And then look at my heart
With eyes as soft as moonlight
Under your satin slippers,
Under your dear silken feet,
I place all my happiness,
My genius and destiny,
My soul brought to life by you
By your clear light and color,
Explosion of heat
In my dark Siberia!
— Translated by William Aggeler
Song of Afternoon
Though your eyebrows' wicked slant
Give you an intriguing air
Which the angels do not share
Sorceress, whose eyes enchant —
My passion, terrible yet gay,
With all my heart I bow before you,
With that devotion to adore you
That priests to sacred idols pay.
Deserts and woods embalmed your hair,
Its movements give your head the stigma
Of sphinx-like secret and enigma,
Both in its attitude and air.
As round a censer vapours form,
137
About your flesh the perfumes wander.
The selfsame charms you seem to squander
As does an evening, dark yet warm,
The strongest philtres cannot craze
As does your indolent address
And you have mastered a caress
Dead corpses from their tombs to raise.
Your hips are amorous of your breast
And of your back: your languorous pose
Enchants the cushions where you doze
When in their depths you make your nest.
Sometimes in order to appease
Mysterious rages in your soul,
You bite and kiss without control.
Then with a mocking laugh you tease
My heart, brown beauty, tearing it:
Then over it the light is strewn
Of your eye, softer than the moon,
Till with its glance my soul is lit.
Underneath your satin shoes,
And underneath your silken feet,
My joy, my fate, my genius meet
To strew the pathway of my muse.
My soul is healed, restored and made complete
By you, all colour, warmth, and light,
In my Siberia a bright
Explosion as of tropic heat.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Afternoon Song
O witch with sharp alluring eyes,
Although your evil eyebrows lend
Your strange ways little of the friend
138
And even less of angel skies,
How I adore your madcap verve,
How deeply rooted, my fell passion!
I worship you in the rapt fashion
Of priests for idols that they serve.
Your stiff dense tresses fragrantly
Conjure up wilderness and wood,
Your head assumes each attitude
Of the enigma and its key.
Perfumes cling closely to your flesh
As incense to a censer; bright
And dusky nymph, you are all Night,
Secret and passionate and fresh!
The strongest philter vies in vain
Power against your languidness,
Too well you know the sweet caress
That brings the dead to life again.
Your haunches are enamored of
Your supple back and surging breast,
And when, posed torpidly, you rest,
Your cushions taste the charms of love.
Sometimes to quell the rageful fire
Of your mysterious lust, you lavish
Obstinate kiss and bite to ravish
The throbbing prey of your desire.
You rend my body to its seams,
Dark beauty, with your mocking laughter,
Then fill my heart a moment after
With glances soft as the moon's beams.
Under your satin slippers, see,
Under your blest silk feet, I lay
The vast sum of my joys today,
My genius, my destiny,
139
My soul, enlivened by your spark
Your radiance and color, sweet
Explosion of fierce tropic heat
Across my chill Siberian dark!
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
Afternoon Song
Though your wicked eyebrows call
Your nature into question
(Unangelic's their suggestion,
Witch whose eyes enthrall)
I adore you still
O foolish terrible emotion
Kneeling in devotion
As a priest to his idol will.
Your undone braids conceal
Desert, forest scents,
In your exotic countenance
Lie secrets unrevealed.
Over your flesh perfume drifts
Like incense 'round a censor,
Tantalizing dispenser
Of evening's ardent gifts.
No Philtres could compete
With your potent idleness:
You've mastered the caress
That raises dead me to their feet.
Your hips themselves are romanced
By your back and by your breasts:
By your languid dalliance.
Now and then, your appetite's
Uncontrolled, unassuaged:
Mysteriously enraged,
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You kiss me and you bite.
Dark one, I am torn
By your savage ways,
Then, soft as the moon, your gaze
Sees my tortured heart reborn.
Beneath your satin shoe,
Beneath your charming silken foot.
My greatest joy I put
My genius and destiny, too.
You bring my spirit back,
Bringer of the light.
Exploding color in the night
Of my Siberia so black.
By Anonymous
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1112:To Joy
Joy, beautiful spark of the gods,
Daughter from Elysium,
We enter, drunk with fire,
Heavenly, your sanctuary.
Your spells bind again
What the fashion sword shared
Beggars become prince brothers
Where your gentle wing rests.
Choir us

Be embraced, millions!
This kiss for the whole world!
Brothers - over the stars
Must a dear father live.
Who succeeded the big hit,
To be a friend's friend
Whoever has won a devoted wife,
Mix in his cheers!
Yes - whoever even has a soul
His names on the earth!
And if you never could, steal
Weeping from this covenant
Choir us

What inhabits the great ring,
Pay homage to sympathy!
She leads to the stars
Where the unknown is enthroned.

All beings drink joy
On the breasts of nature
All good, all bad,
Follow their rose trail.
She gave us kisses and vines
A friend tested in death
Pleasure was given to the worm,
And the cherub stands before God.
Choir us

Are you falling, millions?
Do you suspect the Creator, world?
Find him over the canopy of stars.
He must live above the stars.
The strong pen is called joy
In eternal nature.
Joy, joy, drives the wheels
In the great world clock.
She lures flowers from the bud,
Suns from the firmament,
She rolls spheres in the rooms,
Which the seer pipe does not know.
Choir us

Glad how its suns fly
By heaven's glorious plan
Run, brothers, your path,
Happy as a hero to victory.
From the truth, the mirror of fire
She smiles at the researcher.
To the virtue of a steep hill
Guide the path of the sufferer.
On the mountains of the sun of faith
If you see their flags waving
Through the crack of blasted saerge
You stand in the choir of angels.
Chorus

Endure courageously, millions!
Tolerate for the better world!
Up above the starry canopy
Will a great god reward.
Gods cannot be repaid
It's nice to be like them.
Sorrow and poverty should report,
Rejoice with the happy.
Resentment and vengeance be forgotten,
Pardon our mortal enemy,
No tear shall press him,
No regrets gnaw him.
Choir us

Our debt register be destroyed!
The whole world is paved!
Brothers, over the stars
Judge God as we judged.
Joy gushes in cups,
In the cluster of golden blood
Drink gentleness cannibals,
Despair heroism
Brothers, fly from your seats
When the full Roman circles
Let the foam rise to the sky:
This glass to the good spirit.
Choir us

Praise the vortex of the stars
Who praises the seraph's hymn,
This glass to the good spirit
Above the starry tent up there!
Strong courage in grave suffering
Help where innocence weeps
Eternal sworn oaths,
Truth against friend and foe,
Male pride in front of royal thrones
Brothers, there is good and blood. -
His crowns to merit,
Downfall of the brood of lies!
Choir us

Closes the sacred circle more closely
Swear by this golden wine:
To be faithful to the vow
Swear it to the judge of the stars!
Rescue from chains of tyrants,
Generosity even to the villain,
Hope in the deathbeds
Mercy on the high court!
Let the dead live too!
Brothers, drink and join in
Let all sinners forgive
And no longer be hell.
Choir us

A cheerful farewell hour!
Sweet sleep in the shroud!
Brothers - a gentle saying
From the mouth of the judge of the dead.

To Joy
Joy, beautiful spark of Gods,
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, fire-imbibed,
Heavenly, thy sanctuary.
Thy magic powers re-unite
What custom's sword has divided
Beggars become Princes' brothers
Where thy gentle wing abides.
Chorus

Be embraced, millions!
This kiss to the entire world!
Brothers - above the starry canopy
A loving father must dwell.
Whoever has had the great fortune,
To be a friend's friend,
Whoever has won the love of a devoted wife,
Add his to our jubilation!
Indeed, whoever can call even one soul
His own on this earth!
And whoever was never able to must creep
Tearfully away from this circle.
Chorus

Those who dwell in the great circle,
Pay homage to sympathy!
It leads to the stars,
Where the Unknown reigns.

Joy all creatures drink
At nature's bosoms;
All, Just and Unjust,
Follow her rose-petalled path.
Kisses she gave us, and Wine,
A friend, proven in death,
Pleasure was given (even) to the worm,
And the Cherub stands before God.
Chorus

You bow down, millions?
Can you sense the Creator, world?
Seek him above the starry canopy.
Above the stars He must dwell.
Joy is called the strong motivation
In eternal nature.
Joy, joy moves the wheels
In the universal time machine.
Flowers it calls forth from their buds,
Suns from the Firmament,
Spheres it moves far out in Space,
Where our telescopes cannot reach.
Chorus

Joyful, as His suns are flying,
Across the Firmament's splendid design,
Run, brothers, run your race,
Joyful, as a hero going to conquest.
As truth's fiery reflection
It smiles at the scientist.
To virtue's steep hill
It leads the sufferer on.
Atop faith's lofty summit
One sees its flags in the wind,
Through the cracks of burst-open coffins,
One sees it stand in the angels' chorus.
Chorus

Endure courageously, millions!
Endure for the better world!
Above the starry canopy
A great God will reward you.
Gods one cannot ever repay,
It is beautiful, though, to be like them.
Sorrow and Poverty, come forth
And rejoice with the joyful ones.
Anger and revenge be forgotten,
Our deadly enemy be forgiven,
Not one tear shall he shed anymore,
No feeling of remorse shall pain him.
Chorus

The account of our misdeeds be destroyed!
Reconciled the entire world!
Brothers, above the starry canopy
God judges as we judged.
Joy is bubbling in the glasses,
Through the grapes' golden blood
Cannibals drink gentleness,
And despair drinks courage
Brothers, fly from your seats,
When the full rummer is going around,
Let the foam gush up to heaven *:
This glass to the good spirit.
Chorus

He whom star clusters adore,
He whom the Seraphs' hymn praises,
This glass to him, the good spirit,
Above the starry canopy!
Resolve and courage for great suffering,
Help there, where innocence weeps,
Eternally may last all sworn Oaths,
Truth towards friend and enemy,
Men's pride before Kings' thrones
Brothers, even it if meant our Life and blood,
Give the crowns to those who earn them,
Defeat to the pack of liars!
Chorus

Close the holy circle tighter,
Swear by this golden wine:
To remain true to the Oath,
Swear it by the Judge above the stars!
Delivery from tyrants' chains,
Generosity also towards the villain,
Hope on the deathbeds,
Mercy from the final judge!
Also the dead shall live!
Brothers, drink and chime in,
All sinners shall be forgiven,
And hell shall be no more.
Chorus

A serene hour of farewell!
Sweet rest in the shroud!
Brothers a mild sentence
From the mouth of the final judge!

Many thanks to Oldpoetry reader Vladimir for locating the original version. http://www.raptusassociation.org/
~ Friedrich Schiller, Ode To Joy - With Translation
,
1113:Songs
COME here fond youth, whoe'er thou be,
That boasts to love as well as me;
And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love,
And by what marks true passion may be found.
It is to be all bath'd in tears;
To live upon a smile for years;
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet:
To kneel, to languish and implore;
And still tho' she disdain, adore:
It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet.
It is to gaze upon her eyes
With eager joy and fond surprise;
Yet temper'd with such chaste and awful fear
As wretches feel who wait their doom;
Nor must one ruder thought presume
Tho' but in whispers breath'd, to meet her ear.
It is to hope, tho' hope were loft;
Tho' heaven and earth thy passion crost;
Tho' she were bright as sainted queens above,
And thou the least and meanest swain
That folds his flock upon the plain,
Yet if thou dar'st not hope, thou dost not love.
It is to quench thy joy in tears:
To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears:
If pangs of jealousy thou hast not prov'd,
Tho' she were fonder and more true
Than any nymph old poets drew,
Oh never dream again that thou hast lov'd.
If when the darling maid is gone,
Thou dost not seek to be alone,
Wrapt in a pleasing trance of tender woe;
116
And muse, and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou dost not love, for love is nourish'd so.
If any hopes thy bosom share
But those which love has planted there,
Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall,
Thou never yet his power hast known;
Love sits on a despotic throne,
And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.
Now if thou art so lost a thing,
Here all thy tender sorrows bring,
And prove whose patience longest can endure:
We'll strive whose fancy shall be lost
In dreams of fondest passion most;
For if thou thus hast lov'd, oh! never hope a cure.
S O N G II
IF ever thou dist joy to bind
Two hearts in equal passion join'd,
O son of VENUS! hear me now,
And bid FLORELLA bless my vow.
If any bliss reserv'd for me
Thou in the leaves of fate should'st see;
If any white propitious hour,
Pregnant with hoarded joys in store;
Now, now the mighty treasure give,
In her for whom alone I live:
In sterling love pay all the sum,
And I'll absolve the fates to come.
In all the pride of full-blown charms
Yield her, relenting, to my arms:
Her bosom touch with soft desires,
And let her feel what she inspires.
117
But, CUPID, if thine aid be vain
The dear reluctant maid to gain;
If still with cold averted eyes
She dash my hopes, and scorn my sighs;
O! grant ('tis all I ask of thee)
That I no more may change than she;
But still with duteous zeal love on,
When every gleam of hope is gone.
Leave me then alone to languish,
Think not time can heal my anguish;
Pity the woes which I endure;
But never, never grant a cure.
S O N G III
SYLVIA
Leave me, simple shepherd, leave me;
Drag no more a hopeless chain:
I cannot like, nor would deceive thee;
Love the maid that loves again.
CORIN
Tho' more gentle nymphs surround me,
Kindly pitying what I feel,
Only you have power to wound me;
SYLVIA, only you can heal.
SYLVIA
Corin, cease this idle teazing;
Love that's forc'd is harsh and sour:
If the lover be displeasing,
To persist disgusts the more.
CORIN
'Tis in vain, in vain to fly me,
Sylvia, I will still pursue;
118
Twenty thousand times deny me,
I will kneel and weep anew.
SYLVIA
Cupid ne'er shall make me languish,
I was born averse to love;
Lovers' sighs, and tears, and anguish,
Mirth and pastime to me prove.
CORIN
Still I vow with patient duty
Thus to meet your proudest scorn;
You for unrelenting beauty,
I for constant love was born.
But the fates had not consented,
Since they both did fickle prove;
Of her scorn the maid repented,
And the shepherd of his love.
S O N G IV
WHEN gentle CELIA first I knew,
A breast so good, so kind, so true,
Reason and taste approv'd;
Pleas'd to indulge so pure a flame,
I call'd it by too soft a name,
And fondly thought I lov'd.
Till CHLORIS came, with sad surprise
I felt the light'ning of her eyes
Thro' all my senses run;
All glowing with resistless charms,
She fill'd my breast with new alarms,
I saw, and was undone.
O CELIA! dear unhappy maid,
Forbear the weakness to upbraid
Which ought your scorn to move;
I know this beauty false and vain,
119
I know she triumphs in my pain,
Yet still I feel I love.
Thy gentle smiles no more can please,
Nor can thy softest friendship ease
The torments I endure;
Think what that wounded breast must feel
Which truth and kindness cannot heal,
Nor even thy pity cure.
Oft shall I curse my iron chain,
And wish again thy milder reign
With long and vain regret ;
All that I can, to thee I give,
And could I still to reason live
I were thy captain yet.
But passion's wild impetuous sea
Hurries me far from peace and thee ;
'Twere vain to struggle more:
Thus the poor sailor slumbering lies,
While swelling tides around him rise,
And push his bark from shore.
In vain he spreads his helpless arms,
His pitying friends with fond alarms
In vain deplore his state;
Still far and farther from the coast,
On the high surge his bark is tost,
And foundering yields to fate.
SONGV
AS near a weeping spring reclin'd
The beauteous ARAMINTA pin'd,
And mourn'd a false ungrateful youth;
While dying echoes caught the sound,
And spread the soft complaints around
Of broken vows and alter'd truth;
An aged shepherd heard her moan,
120
And thus in pity's kindest tone
Address'd the lost despairing maid:
Cease, cease unhappy fair to grieve,
For sounds, tho' sweet, can ne'er relieve
A breaking heart by love betray'd.
Why shouldst thou waste such precious showers,
That fall like dew on wither'd flowers,
But dying passion ne'er restor'd?
In beauty's empire is no mean,
And woman, either slave or queen,
Is quickly scorn'd when not ador'd.
Those liquid pearls from either eye,
Which might an eastern empire buy,
Unvalued here and fruitless fall;
No art the season can renew
When love was young, and DAMON true;
No tears a wandering heart recall.
Cease, cease to grieve, thy tears are vain,
Should those fair orbs in drops of rain
Vie with a weeping southern sky:
For hearts o'ercome with love and grief
All nature yields but one relief;
Die, hapless ARAMINTA, die.
S O N G VI
WHEN first upon your tender cheek
I saw the morn of beauty break
With mild and chearing beam,
I bow'd before your infant shrine,
The earliest sighs you had were mine,
And you my darling heme.
I saw you in that opening morn
For beauty's boundless empire born,
And first confess'd your sway;
And e'er your thoughts, devoid of art,
121
Could learn the value of a heart,
I gave my heart away.
I watch'd the dawn of every grace,
And gaz'd upon that angel face,
While yet 'twas safe to gaze;
And fondly blest each rising charm,
Nor thought such innocence could harm
The peace of future days.
But now despotic o'er the plains
The awful noon of beauty reigns,
And kneeling crowds adore;
These charms arise too fiercely bright,
Danger and death attend the fight,
And I must hope no more.
Thus to the rising God of day
Their early vows the Persians pay,
And bless the spreading fire;
Whose glowing chariot mounting soon
Pours on their heads the burning noon;
They sicken, and expire.
~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,
1114:(PETER RONSARD loquitur.)

``Heigho!'' yawned one day King Francis,
``Distance all value enhances!
``When a man's busy, why, leisure
``Strikes him as wonderful pleasure:
`` 'Faith, and at leisure once is he?
``Straightway he wants to be busy.
``Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm
``Caught thinking war the true pastime.
``Is there a reason in metre?
``Give us your speech, master Peter!''
I who, if mortal dare say so,
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,
``Sire,'' I replied, ``joys prove cloudlets:
``Men are the merest Ixions''-
Here the King whistled aloud, ``Let's
``-Heigho-go look at our lions!''
Such are the sorrowful chances
If you talk fine to King Francis.

And so, to the courtyard proceeding,
Our company, Francis was leading,
Increased by new followers tenfold
Before be arrived at the penfold;
Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen
At sunset the western horizon.
And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost
With the dame he professed to adore most.
Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed
Her, and the horrible pitside;
For the penfold surrounded a hollow
Which led where the eye scarce dared follow,
And shelved to the chamber secluded
Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.
The King bailed his keeper, an Arab
As glossy and black as a scarab,

And bade him make sport and at once stir
Up and out of his den the old monster.
They opened a hole in the wire-work
Across it, and dropped there a firework,
And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;
A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,
The blackness and silence so utter,
By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;
Then earth in a sudden contortion
Gave out to our gaze her abortion.
Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot
(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,
And whose faculties move in no small mist
When he versifies David the Psalmist)
I should study that brute to describe you
Illim Juda Leonem de Tribu.
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
The tail in the air stiff and straining,
The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,
As over the barrier which bounded
His platform, and us who surrounded
The barrier, they reached and they rested
On space that might stand him in best stead:
For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,
And if, in this minute of wonder,
No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,
The lion at last was delivered?
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!
And you saw by the flash on his forehead,
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,
He was leagues in the desert already,
Driving the flocks up the mountain,
Or catlike couched hard by the fountain
To waylay the date-gathering negress:
So guarded he entrance or egress.
``How he stands!'' quoth the King: ``we may well swear,
(``No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere
``And so can afford the confession,)
``We exercise wholesome discretion
``In keeping aloof from his threshold;
``Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,
``Their first would too pleasantly purloin
``The visitor's brisket or surloin:
``But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?
``Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!''

The sentence no sooner was uttered,
Than over the rails a glove flattered,
Fell close to the lion, and rested:
The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing
For months past; he sat there pursuing
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
Fine speeches like gold from a balance.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
Walked straight to the glove,-while the lion
Neer moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,-
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
Leaped back where the lady was seated,
And full in the face of its owner
Flung the glove.

``Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?
``So should I!''-cried the King-``'twas mere vanity,
``Not love, set that task to humanity!''
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

Not so, I; for I caught an expression
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession
Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,-
As if from no pleasing experiment
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful
So long as the process was needful,-
As if she had tried in a crucible,
To what ``speeches like gold'' were reducible,
And, finding the finest prove copper,
Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;
To know what she had not to trust to,
Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;
Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?
If she wished not the rash deed's recalment?
``For I''-so I spoke-``am a poet:
``Human nature,-behoves that I know it!''

She told me, ``Too long had I heard
``Of the deed proved alone by the word:
``For my love-what De Lorge would not dare!
``With my scorn-what De Lorge could compare!
``And the endless descriptions of death
``He would brave when my lip formed a breath,
``I must reckon as braved, or, of course,
``Doubt his word-and moreover, perforce,
``For such gifts as no lady could spurn,
``Must offer my love in return.
``When I looked on your lion, it brought
``All the dangers at once to my thought,
``Encountered by all sorts of men,
``Before he was lodged in his den,-
``From the poor slave whose club or bare hands
``Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,
``With no King and no Court to applaud,
``By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,
``Yet to capture the creature made shift,
``That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,
``-To the page who last leaped o'er the fence
``Of the pit, on no greater pretence
``Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,
``Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.
``So, wiser I judged it to make
``One trial what `death for my sake'
``Really meant, while the power was yet mine,
``Than to wait until time should define
``Such a phrase not so simply as I,
``Who took it to mean just `to die.'
``The blow a glove gives is but weak:
``Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?
``But when the heart suffers a blow,
``Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?''

I looked, as away she was sweeping,
And saw a youth eagerly keeping
As close as he dared to the doorway.
No doubt that a noble should more weigh
His life than befits a plebeian;
And yet, had our brute been Nemean-
(I judge by a certain calm fervour
The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)
-He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn
If you whispered ``Friend, what you'd get, first earn!''
And when, shortly after, she carried
Her shame from the Court, and they married,
To that marriage some happiness, maugre
The voice of the Court, I dared augur.

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,
Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;
And in short stood so plain a head taller
That he wooed and won how do you call her?
The beauty, that rose in the sequel
To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
And 'twas noticed he never would honour
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)
With the easy commission of stretching
His legs in the service, and fetching
His wife, from her chamber, those straying
Sad gloves she was always mislaying,
While the King took the closet to chat in,-
But of course this adventure came pat in.
And never the King told the story,
How bringing a glove brought such glory,
But the wife smiled-``His nerves are grown firmer:
``Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.''

Venienti occurrite morbo!
With which moral I drop my theorbo.
A beetle.


~ Robert Browning, The Glove
,
1115:The Shepheardes Calender: July
July: Ægloga Septima. Thomalin & Morrell.
Thomalin.
IS not thilke same a goteheard prowde,
that sittes on yonder bancke,
Whose straying heard them selfe doth shrowde
emong the bushes rancke?
Morrell.
What ho, thou iollye shepheards swayne,
come vp the hill to me:
Better is, then the lowly playne,
als for thy flocke, and thee.
Thomalin.
Ah God shield, man, that I should clime,
and learne to looke alofte,
This reede is ryfe, that oftentime
great clymbers fall vnsoft.
In humble dales is footing fast,
the trode is not so tickle:
And though one fall through heedlesse hast,
yet is his misse not mickle.
And now the Sonne hath reared vp
his fyriefooted teme,
Making his way betweene the Cuppe,
and golden Diademe:
The rampant Lyon hunts he fast,
with Dogge of noysome breath,
Whose balefull barking bringes in hast
pyne, plagues, and dreery death.
Agaynst his cruell scortching heate
where hast thou couerture?
The wastefull hylls vnto his threate
is a playne ouerture.
But if thee lust, to holden chat
with seely shepherds swayne,
Come downe, and learne the little what,
that Thomalin can sayne.
369
Morrell.
Syker, thous but a laesie loord,
and rekes much of thy swinck,
That with fond termes, and weetlesse words
to blere myne eyes doest thinke.
In euill houre thou hentest in hond
thus holy hylles to blame,
For sacred vnto saints they stond,
and of them han theyr name.
S. Michels mount who does not know,
that wardes the Westerne coste?
And of S. Brigets bowre I trow,
all Kent can rightly boaste:
And they that con of Muses skill,
sayne most what, that they dwell
(As goteheards wont) vpon a hill,
beside a learned well.
And wonned not the great god Pan,
vpon mount Oliuet:
Feeding the blessed flocke of Dan,
which dyd himselfe beget?
Thomalin.
O blessed sheepe, O shepheard great,
that bought his flocke so deare,
And them did saue with bloudy sweat
from Wolues, that would them teare.
Morrel.
Besyde, as holy fathers sayne,
there is a hyllye place,
Where Titan ryseth from the mayne,
to renne hys dayly race.
Vpon whose toppe the starres bene stayed,
and all the skie doth leane,
There is the caue, where Phebe layed,
The shepheard long to dreame.
Whilome there vsed shepheards all
to feede theyr flocks at will,
Till by his foly one did fall,
that all the rest did spill.
370
And sithens shepheardes bene foresayd
from places of delight:
For thy I weene thou be affrayed,
to clime this hilles height.
Of Synah can I tell thee more,
and of our Ladyes bowre:
But little needes to strow my store,
suffice this hill of our.
Here han the holy Faunes resourse,
and Syluanes haunten rathe.
Here has the salt Medway his sourse,
wherein the Nymphes doe bathe.
The salt Medway, that trickling stremis
adowne the dales of Kent:
Till with his elder brother Themis
his brackish waues be meynt.
Here growes Melampode euery where,
and Terebinth good for Gotes:
The one, my madding kiddes to smere,
the next, to heale theyr throtes.
Hereto, the hills bene nigher heuen,
and thence the passage ethe.
As well can proue the piercing levin,
that seeldome falls bynethe.
Thomalin.
Syker thou speakes lyke a lewde lorrell,
of Heauen to demen so:
How be I am but rude and borrell,
yet nearer wayes I knowe.
To Kerke the narre, from God more farre,
has bene an old sayd sawe.
And he that striues to touch the starres,
oft stombles at a strawe.
Alsoone may shepheard clymbe to skye,
that leades in lowly dales,
As Goteherd prowd that sitting hye,
vpon the Mountaine sayles.
My seely sheepe like well belowe,
they neede not Melampode:
For they bene hale enough, I trowe,
and liken theyr abode.
371
But if they with thy Gotes should yede,
they soone myght be corrupted:
Or like not of the frowie fede,
or with the weedes be glutted.
The hylls, where dwelled holy saints,
I reuerence and adore:
Not for themselfe, but for the sayncts,
which han be dead of yore.
And nowe they bene to heauen forewent,
theyr good is with them goe:
Theyr sample onely to vs lent,
that als we mought doe soe.
Shepheards they weren of the best,
and liued in lowly leas:
And sith theyr soules bene now at rest,
why done we them disease?
Such one he was, (as I haue heard
old Algrind often sayne)
That whilome was the first shepheard,
and liued with little gayne:
As meeke he was, as meeke mought be,
simple, as simple sheepe,
Humble, and like in eche degree
the flocke, which he did keepe.
Often he vsed of hys keepe
a sacrifice to bring,
Nowe with a Kidde, now with a sheepe
The Altars hallowing.
So lowted he vnto hys Lord,
such fauour couth he fynd,
That sithens neuer was abhord,
the simple shepheards kynd.
And such I weene the brethren were,
that came from Canaan:
The brethren twelue, that kept yfere
The flockes of mighty Pan.
But nothing such thilke shephearde was,
whom Ida hyll dyd beare,
That left hys flocke, to fetch a lasse,
whose loue he bought to deare:
For he was proude, that ill was payd,
(no such mought shepheards bee)
372
And with lewde lust was ouerlayd:
tway things doen ill agree:
But shepheard mought be meeke and mylde,
well eyed, as Argus was,
With fleshly follyes vndefyled,
and stoute as steede of brasse.
Sike one (sayd Algrin) Moses was,
that sawe hys makers face,
His face more cleare, then Christall glasse,
and spake to him in place.
This had a brother, (his name I knewe)
the first of all his cote,
A shepheard trewe, yet not so true,
as he that earst I hote.
Whilome all these were lowe, and lief,
and loued their flocks to feede,
They neuer strouen to be chiefe,
and simple was theyr weede.
But now (thanked be God therefore)
the world is well amend,
Their weedes bene not so nighly wore,
such simplesse mought them shend:
They bene yclad in purple and pall,
so hath theyr god them blist,
They reigne and rulen ouer all,
and lord it, as they list:
Ygyrt with belts of glitterand gold,
(mought they good sheepeheards bene)
Theyr Pan theyr sheepe to them has sold,
I saye as some haue seene.
For Palinode (if thou him ken)
yode late on Pilgrimage
To Rome, (if such be Rome) and then
he sawe thilke misusage.
For shepeheards (sayd he) there doen leade,
As Lordes done other where,
Theyr sheepe han crustes, and they the bread:
the chippes, and they the chere:
They han the fleece, and eke the flesh,
(O seely sheepe the while)
The corn is theyrs, let other thresh,
their hands they may not file.
373
They han great stores, and thriftye stockes,
great freendes and feeble foes:
What neede hem caren for their flocks?
theyr boyes can looke to those.
These wisardsweltre in welths waues,
pampred in pleasures deepe,
They han fatte kernes, and leany knaues,
their fasting flockes to keepe.
Sike mister men bene all misgone,
they heapen hylles of wrath:
Sike syrly shepheards han we none,
they keepen all the path.
Morell.
Here is a great deale of good matter,
lost for lacke of telling,
Now sicker I see, thou doest but clatter:
harme may come of melling.
Thou medlest more, then shall haue thanke,
to wyten shepheards welth:
When folke bene fat, and riches rancke,
it is a signe of helth.
But say to me, what is Algrin he,
that is so oft bynempt.
Thomalin.
He is a shepheard great in gree,
but hath bene long ypent.
One daye he sat vpon a hyll,
(as now thou wouldest me:
But I am tought by Algrins ill,
To loue the lowe degree.)
For sitting so with bared scalpe,
an Eagle sored hye,
That weening hys whyte head was chalke,
A shell fish downe let flye:
Shee weend the shell fish to haue broake,
but therewith bruzd his brayne,
So now astonied with the stroke,
he lyes in lingring payne.
Morrell.
374
Ah good Algrin, his hap was ill,
But shall be bett in time.
Now farwell shepheard, sith thys hyll
thou hast such doubt to climbe.
Thomalins Embleme.
In medio virtus.
Morrells Embleme.
In summo foelicitas
~ Edmund Spenser,
1116:A Une Madone (To A Madonna)
Ex-voto dans le goût espagnol
Je veux bâtir pour toi, Madone, ma maîtresse,
Un autel souterrain au fond de ma détresse,
Et creuser dans le coin le plus noir de mon coeur,
Loin du désir mondain et du regard moqueur,
Une niche, d'azur et d'or tout émaillée,
Où tu te dresseras, Statue émerveillée.
Avec mes Vers polis, treillis d'un pur métal
Savamment constellé de rimes de cristal
Je ferai pour ta tête une énorme Couronne;
Et dans ma Jalousie, ô mortelle Madone
Je saurai te tailler un Manteau, de façon
Barbare, roide et lourd, et doublé de soupçon,
Qui, comme une guérite, enfermera tes charmes,
Non de Perles brodé, mais de toutes mes Larmes!
Ta Robe, ce sera mon Désir, frémissant,
Onduleux, mon Désir qui monte et qui descend,
Aux pointes se balance, aux vallons se repose,
Et revêt d'un baiser tout ton corps blanc et rose.
Je te ferai de mon Respect de beaux Souliers
De satin, par tes pieds divins humiliés,
Qui, les emprisonnant dans une molle étreinte
Comme un moule fidèle en garderont l'empreinte.
Si je ne puis, malgré tout mon art diligent
Pour Marchepied tailler une Lune d'argent
Je mettrai le Serpent qui me mord les entrailles
Sous tes talons, afin que tu foules et railles
Reine victorieuse et féconde en rachats
Ce monstre tout gonflé de haine et de crachats.
Tu verras mes Pensers, rangés comme les Cierges
Devant l'autel fleuri de la Reine des Vierges
Etoilant de reflets le plafond peint en bleu,
Te regarder toujours avec des yeux de feu;
Et comme tout en moi te chérit et t'admire,
Tout se fera Benjoin, Encens, Oliban, Myrrhe,
Et sans cesse vers toi, sommet blanc et neigeux,
En Vapeurs montera mon Esprit orageux.
14
Enfin, pour compléter ton rôle de Marie,
Et pour mêler l'amour avec la barbarie,
Volupté noire! des sept Péchés capitaux,
Bourreau plein de remords, je ferai sept Couteaux
Bien affilés, et comme un jongleur insensible,
Prenant le plus profond de ton amour pour cible,
Je les planterai tous dans ton Coeur pantelant,
Dans ton Coeur sanglotant, dans ton Coeur ruisselant!
To a Madonna
Votive Offering in the Spanish Style
I want to build for you, Madonna, my mistress,
An underground altar in the depths of my grief
And carve out in the darkest corner of my heart,
Far from worldly desires and mocking looks,
A niche, all enameled with azure and with gold,
Where you shall stand, amazed Statue;
With my polished Verses as a trellis of pure metal
Studded cunningly with rhymes of crystal,
I shall make for your head an immense Crown,
And from my Jealousy, O mortal Madonna,
I shall know how to cut a cloak in a fashion,
Barbaric, heavy, and stiff, lined with suspicion,
Which, like a sentry-box, will enclose your charms;
Embroidered not with Pearls, but with all of my Tears!
Your Gown will be my Desire, quivering,
Undulant, my Desire which rises and which falls,
Balances on the crests, reposes in the troughs,
And clothes with a kiss your white and rose body.
Of my Self-respect I shall make you Slippers
Of satin which, humbled by your divine feet,
Will imprison them in a gentle embrace,
And assume their form like a faithful mold;
If I can't, in spite of all my painstaking art,
Carve a Moon of silver for your Pedestal,
I shall put the Serpent which is eating my heart
Under your heels, so that you may trample and mock,
15
Triumphant queen, fecund in redemptions,
That monster all swollen with hatred and spittle.
You will see my Thoughts like Candles in rows
Before the flower-decked altar of the Queen of Virgins,
Starring with their reflections the azure ceiling,
And watching you always with eyes of fire.
And since my whole being admires and loves you,
All will become Storax, Benzoin, Frankincense, Myrrh,
And ceaselessly toward you, white, snowy pinnacle,
My turbulent spirit will rise like a vapor.
Finally, to complete your role of Mary,
And to mix love with inhumanity,
Infamous pleasure! of the seven deadly sins,
I, torturer full of remorse, shall make seven
Well sharpened Daggers and, like a callous juggler,
Taking your deepest love for a target,
I shall plant them all in your panting Heart,
In your sobbing Heart, in your bleeding Heart!
— Translated by William Aggeler
To a Madonna
(Ex Voto in Spanish Style)
I'd build, Madonna, love, for my belief,
An altar in the dim crypt of my grief,
And in the darkest comer of my heart,
From mortal lust and mockery far apart,
Scoop you a niche, with gold and azure glaze,
Where you would stand in wonderment and gaze,
With my pure verses trellised, and all round
In constellated rhymes of crystal bound:
And with a huge tiara richly crowned.
Out of the Jealousy which rules my passion,
Mortal Madonna, I a cloak would fashion,
Barbarous, stiff, and heavy with my doubt,
Whereon as in a fourm you would fill out
And mould your lair. Of tears, not pearls, would be
16
The sparkle of its rich embroidery:
Your robe would be my lust, with waving flow,
Poising on tips, in valleys lying low,
And clothing, in one kiss, coral and snow.
In my Respect (for satin) you'll be shod
Which your white feet would humble to the clod,
While prisoning their flesh with tender hold
It kept their shape imprinted like a mould.
If for a footstool to support your shoon,
For all my art, I could not get the moon,
I'd throw the serpent, that devours my vitals
Under your trampling heels for his requitals,
Victorious queen, to spurn, bruise, and belittle
That monstrous worm blown-up with hate and spittle.
Round you my thoughts like candles should be seen
Around the flowered shrine of the virgins' Queen,
Reflected on a roof that's painted blue,
And aiming all their golden eyes at you.
Since nought is in me that you do not stir,
All will be incense, benjamin, and myrrh,
And up to you, white peak, in clouds will soar
My stormy soul, in rapture, to adore.
In fine, your role of Mary to perfect
And mingle barbarism with respect —
Of seven deadly sins, O black delight!
Remorseful torturer, to show my sleight,
I'll forge and sharpen seven deadly swords
And like a callous juggler on the boards,
Taking it for my target, I would dart
Them deep into your streaming, sobbing heart.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
À une Madone
I'll build for thee, Madonna, mistress mine,
deep in my crypt of woe a secret shrine;
— carve in the blackest corner of my heart,
from worldly lust and mocking eyes apart,
a niche, with gold and blue enamel blent,
17
to hold thy statue filled with wonderment.
my polished verse, of virgin metal hard
with crystal rhymes artistically starred,
shall raise for thee a towering diadem;
and from my jealousy I'll cut and hem
a mangle, mortal Lady mine, designed
as 'twere a sentry-box, stiff, heavy, lined
with barbs of keen suspicion and with fears,
embroidered, not with pearls, but all my tears!
to make thy robe I'll give thee my desire
that rises, falls and quivers like a fire,
clings to each summit, rests in each abyss,
and clothes thy rosy body with a kiss.
of my respect I'll make thee buskins fine
of satin, humbled by thy feet divine,
to prison them in soft embraces warm
and like a faithful mould to preserve their form.
then if my art is powerless to cut
thy pedestal, a silver moon, I'll put
beneath thy heel the serpent in my heart
for thee to bruise and mock, because thou art
the queen of my redemption, conquering all,
even that monster spewing hate and gall.
thine altar, like the Virgin's, shall be twined
with flowers, and like tapers all aligned,
my thoughts shall light the niche: from those blue skies,
watching thee always with their fiery eyes;
and since thou holdest all the love within
my heart, as incense, myrrh and benjamin,
in clouds forevermore to thee, its goal,
o snowy peak, shall rise my stormy soul.
and last, to make thee Mary utterly,
commingling love with savage cruelty,
— black joy! — with all the seven capital sins
I'll forge, remorsefully, seven javelins
knife-sharp, and like a juggler nonchalant,
taking thy love as target, I shall plant
deep in thy heart convulsed each deadly dart
18
— thy panting heart, thy sobbing, streaming heart!
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1117:The Singing Of The Magnificat
A LEGEND
IN midst of wide green pasture-lands, cut through
By lines of alders bordering deep-banked streams,
Where bulrushes and yellow iris grew,
And rest and peace, and all the flowers of dreams,
The Abbey stood--so still, it seemed a part
Of the marsh-country's almost pulseless heart.
Where grey-green willows fringed the stream and pool,
The lazy meek-faced cattle strayed to graze,
Sheep in the meadows cropped the grasses cool,
And silver fish shone through the watery ways,
And many a load of fruit and load of corn
Into the Abbey storehouses was borne.
Yet though so much they had of life's good things,
The monks but held them as a sacred trust,
Lent from the storehouse of the King of kings
Till they, His stewards, should crumble back to dust.
'Not as our own,' they said, 'but as the Lord's,
All that the stream yields, or the land affords.'
And all the villages and hamlets near
Knew the monks' wealth, and how their wealth was spent.
In tribulation, sickness, want, or fear,
First to the Abbey all the peasants went,
Certain to find a welcome, and to be
Helped in the hour of their extremity.
When plague or sickness smote the people sore,
The Brothers prayed beside the dying bed,
And nursed the sick back into health once more,
And through the horror and the danger said:
'How good is God, Who has such love for us,
379
He lets us tend His suffering children thus!'
They in their simple ways and works were glad:
Yet all men must have sorrows of their own.
And so a bitter grief the Brothers had,
Nor mourned for others' heaviness alone.
This was the secret of their sorrowing,
That not a monk in all the house could sing!
Was it the damp air from the lovely marsh,
Or strain of scarcely intermitted prayer,
That made their voices, when they sang, as harsh
As any frog's that croaks in evening air-That made less music in their hymns to lie
Than in the hoarsest wild-fowl's hoarsest cry?
If love could sweeten voice to sing a song,
Theirs had been sweetest song was ever sung:
But their hearts' music reached their lips all wrong,
The soul's intent foiled by the traitorous tongue
That marred the chapel's peace, and seemed to scare
The rapt devotion lingering in the air.
The birds that in the chapel built their nests,
And in the stone-work found their small lives fair,
Flew thence with hurled wings and fluttering breasts
When rang the bell to call the monks to prayer.
'Why will they sing,' they twittered, 'why at all?
In heaven their silence must be festival!'
The brothers prayed with penance and with tears
That God would let them give some little part
Out for the solace of their own sad ears
Of all the music crowded in their heart.
Their nature and the marsh-air had their way,
And still they sang more vilely every day.
380
And all their prayers and fasts availing not
To give them voices sweet, their souls' desire,
The Abbot said, 'Gifts He did not allot
God at our hands will not again require;
The love He gives us He will ask again
In love to Him and to our fellow-men.
'Praise Him we must, and since we cannot praise
As we would choose, we praise Him as we can.
In heaven we shall be taught the angels' ways
Of singing--we afford to wait a span.
In singing, as in toil, do ye your best;
God will adjust the balance--do the rest!'
But one good Brother, anxious to remove
This, the reproach now laid on them so long,
Rejected counsel, and for very love
Besought a Brother, skilled in art of song,
To come to them--his cloister far to leave-And sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve.
So when each brown monk duly sought his place,
By two and two, slow pacing to the choir,
Shrined in his dark oak stall, the strange monk's face
Shone with a light as of devotion's fire,
Good, young and fair, his seemed a form wherein
Pure beauty left no room at all for sin.
And when the time for singing it had come,
'Magnificat,' face raised, and voice, he sang:
Each in his stall the monks stood glad and dumb,
As through the chancel's dusk his voice outrang,
Pure, clear, and perfect--as the thrushes sing
Their first impulsive welcome of the spring.
At the first notes the Abbot's heart spoke low:
381
'Oh God, accept this singing, seeing we,
Had we the power, would ever praise Thee so-Would ever, Lord, Thou know'st, sing thus for Thee;
Thus in our hearts Thy hymns are ever sung,
As he Thou blessest sings them with his tongue.'
But as the voice rose higher, and more sweet,
The Abbot's heart said, 'Thou hast heard us grieve,
And sent an angel from beside Thy feet,
To sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve;
To ease our ache of soul, and let us see
How we some day in heaven shall sing to Thee.'
Through the cold Christmas night the hymn rang out,
In perfect cadence, clear as sunlit rain-Such heavenly music that the birds without
Beat their warm wings against the window pane,
Scattering the frosted crystal snow outspread
Upon the stone-lace and the window-lead.
The white moon through the window seemed to gaze
On the pure face and eyes the singer raised;
The storm-wind hushed the clamour of its ways,
God seemed to stoop to hear Himself thus praised,
And breathless all the Brothers stood, and still
Reached longing souls out to the music's thrill.
Old years came back, and half-remembered hours,
Dreams of delight that never was to be,
Mothers' remembered kiss, the funeral flowers
Laid on the grave of life's felicity;
An infinite dear passion of regret
Swept through their hearts, and left their eyelids wet.
The birds beat ever at the window, till
They broke the pane, and so could entrance win;
Their slender feet clung to the window-sill,
382
And though with them the bitter air came in,
The monks were glad that the birds too should hear,
Since to God's creatures all, His praise is dear.
The lovely music waxed and waned, and sank,
And brought less conscious sadness in its train,
Unrecognised despair that thinks to thank
God for a joy renounced, a chosen pain-And deems that peace which is but stifled life
Dulled by a too-prolonged unfruitful strife.
When, service done, the Brothers gathered round
To thank the singer--modest-eyed, said he:
'Not mine the grace, if grace indeed abound;
God gave the power, if any power there be;
If I in hymn or psalm clear voice can raise,
As His the gift, so His be all the praise!'
That night--the Abbot lying on his bed-A sudden flood of radiance on him fell,
Poured from the crucifix above his head,
And cast a stream of light across his cell-And in the fullest fervour of the light
An Angel stood, glittering, and great, and white.
His wings of thousand rainbow clouds seemed made,
A thousand lamps of love shone in his eyes,
The light of dawn upon his brows was laid,
Odours of thousand flowers of Paradise
Filled all the cell, and through the heart there stirred
A sense of music that could not be heard.
The Angel spoke--his voice was low and sweet
As the sea's murmur on low-lying shore-Or whisper of the wind in ripened wheat:
'Brother,' he said, 'the God we both adore
Has sent me down to ask, is all not right?--
383
Why was Magnificat not sung to-night?'
Tranced in the joy the Angel's presence brought,
The Abbot answered: 'All these weary years
We have sung our best--but always have we thought
Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears;
And so to-night we found a clearer tongue,
And by it the Magnificat was sung.'
The Angel answered, 'All these happy years
In heaven has your Magnificat been heard;
This night alone, the angels' listening ears
Of all its music caught no single word.
Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong
Enough to bear the burden of his song?'
The Abbot named his name. 'Ah, why,' he cried,
'Have angels heard not what we found so dear?'
'Only pure hearts,' the Angel's voice replied,
'Can carry human songs up to God's ear;
To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise
That ever rises from earth's mud-stained maze.
'The monk who sang Magnificat is filled
With lust of praise, and with hypocrisy;
He sings for earth--in heaven his notes are stilled
By muffling weight of deadening vanity;
His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear
His singing higher than the listening air!
'From purest hearts most perfect music springs,
And while you mourned your voices were not sweet,
Marred by the accident of earthly things,-In heaven, God, listening, judged your song complete.
The sweetest of earth's music came from you,
The music of a noble life and true!'
384
~ Edith Nesbit,
1118:Forsaking All Others Part 3
THERE was an instant when he might have said
He could not see the lady; but instead
He nodded with a blank, impassive face,
And waited, never moving from his place
Beside the window, till a moment more
And she was there, leaning against the door
Which she had closed. She stood there, silent, staring,
Trembling with fear at her own act of daring,
But not with fear of him. Erect and slim,
White as the daytime moon, she spoke to him.
'I know,' she said, 'that it was not your plan
That we should ever meet: I know a man
Assumes despotic power, assumes his voice
In cases such as ours shall have the choice...
'But is that just, I ask... is that fair play
That you should have the right to throw away,
Crush and destroy and utterly deny
Our joint possession... or rather mine, for I
Value our friendship so much more than you
Appear to...' 'No,' he said, 'That is not true.'
She shook her head. 'Ah, if you thought it rare,
Precious and wonderful, you would not dare
Destroy it by yourself... not even you.'
He answered: 'I not only would. I do.
You speak of friendship. What a silly word,
And as dishonest as I ever heard.
Let us at least be candid, for God's sake,
And speak the truth... what difference does it make?
It is not friendship we are speaking of,
But the first moments of a passionate love....'
'You're wrong,' she cried, 'you're absolutely wrong.
Not everything emotional and strong
27
Between a man and woman needs must be
Physical love... People like you and me
Are wise enough and old enough to take
This fiery elemental thing and make
Something for every day, serene and cool...
I am not of the all-or-nothing school.'
He smiled. 'We light hell-fires, and you engage
They'll warm our palsied hands in our old age,'
At this she paused, and then she said:'Your tone
Wounds me. I live so terribly alone,
I am perhaps too eager for a friend...
But not a lover. Oh, please comprehend
I want no lovers. Think me vain or not
But I assure you I might have a lot
Of them. But friendship such as you could give Wisdom and strength and knowledge how to live
In this harsh world in which I draw my breath
With so much pain... it seems a sort of death
To yield so rich a promise... to forego
Such happiness..,' She heard him laugh. 'You know
All that is nonsense,' 'Nonsense? ' 'All but this.'
And on her willing lips she felt his kiss.
II
'I HAVE a new friend,' thought Lee, 'I have a lover,
Made of steel and fire as a lover ought to be,
And I do not much care if all the world discover
That I adore him madly and that he loves me.
'Everything I do nowadays is pleasant,­
Talking, walking, brushing out my hair­
Oh, isn't it fine a friend, not being even present,
Can give the world a meaning, and common things an air! '
III
O, AGONY infernal
That lovers undergo!
O, secret trysts diurnal
That nobody must know.
28
O, vigilance eternal
The whole world for a foe.
But Lee and Wayne were clever
And all that springtime through
They met and met, and never
Were noticed so to do.
And no one whatsoever
Suspected them - or knew.
IV
LOVE in a city in spring,
Not so divine a thing
As love the poet dreams­
Meadows and brimming streams,
Yet there is much to say
For love in New York in May­
Parks set in tulip beds,
Yellows and whites and reds,
Japanese plums in flower
And that wisteria bower
Dripping its blossoms sweet
Over a rustic seat
Where tramps and nursemaids meet...
New York in early May
Breaks out in awnings gay;
Daisies and ivy trailing
From every window railing.
And at this time of year
Strange open hacks appear,
Shabby and old and low
Wherein strange couples go
Generally after dark,
Clop-clopping round the park.
And with it all, the loud,
Noisy, indifferent crowd
Offers to lovers shrewd
Infinite solitude.
29
V
FOUR thousand years ago a great king died,
And there were rites and hymns and long processions,
And he was buried in his pomp and pride,
With all his vast possessions.
Gold beds with lapis-lazuli inlay,
And chairs, and perfume jars of alabaster,
And many slaves were slain, lest they betray
The tomb that held their master.
Lee leant her hand upon his mummy case,
(Opened to show the gold and silver plating) ,
And as Wayne came her look was an embrace:
'Darling, I don't mind waiting.
'I like,' she said, 'to settle in my seat
A moment ere the rising of the curtain,
Waiting for something certain can be sweet...
For something almost certain.'
VI
THEY would meet for luncheon every day
At a small unknown French cafe
Half-way up town and half-way down
With a chef deserving great renown.
And Pierre the waiter would smile and say:
'Bonjour, Monsieur, dame,' and they
Would see by his smile discreet and sly
That he knew exactly the reason why
A couple so proud and rich should come
To eat each day in a squalid slum.
And nothing delighted his Gallic heart
More than to find he could play a part
And protect 'ces amoureux foux d' amour'
And guide their choice through the carte du jour.
VII
BUT most of all Lee loved the hours
30
When streets filled full of violet mists
And after-glows on taller towers
Prove that the sunset still exists:
And in Wayne's long dark car reclining
They'd cross a bridge, and bye and bye
Turn back to see the city shining
Against a pale blue, star-sewn sky.
VIII
'I KNOW,' she said, 'I am a fool to weep,
I know the time will pass, however black.
Oh, Jim, if I could take a drug, and sleep
And sleep till you come back.
'Do you remember how poor Juliet said:
'Think you that we shall ever meet again? '
And what was poor weak Romeo instead
Of you... a king of men!
'Don't be surprised to find me at the train
With pipes and garlands and a choric dance,
Telling the porters: 'That is J. H. Wayne,
My one supreme romance.' '
So it seemed natural to Lee to speak,
If Wayne were going away for a week.
IX
HE had been gone three days, when wearily strolling about
She stopped and sent him a wire, writing it out
With a pencil chained to a desk: 'This is to say
There are over eighty thousand seconds a day,
Each one of them longer than seconds ought to be
And a personal foe of yours devotedly Lee.'
A letter from Ruth - a letter from Lee.
Wayne took them both with his bedroom key.
Every day since he went away
31
Lee had written him - every day How kind, how tender! And yet his wife
Had always written him, all his life,
Since that first Fall day, since that first fond year
When to part was really 'un peu mourir.'
Ruth's letters had come in her small, black writing,
So faithful - and now so unexciting­
A long unbreakable chain whose fetters
Were formed of those little daily letters,
Leading him back to his alien youth,
And his love - his first deep love of Ruth.
Once he had waited, young and lonely,
For those daily letters to come, the only
Solace in absence, terror-smitten,
Thinking, Dear God, if she hasn't written!
When did they change? what day, what hour
Did her letters lose their magical power?
He was the same man, and she the same
Woman - and still her letters came...
A letter from Ruth - a letter from Lee.
Wayne took them both with his bedroom key.
Was it a habit - a memory
Of that deep old love that his heart once nursed?
Who knows?
He opened Ruth's letter first
XI
THE day that Wayne was coming home,
Lee flitted fleet-footed among the throng
Of suburbanites shuffling their feet along
Under the turquoise dome
With the signs of the zodiac all turned wrong.
A blue-capped official, proud and remote,
Was writing unmoved as the crowd increased
Messages brief as those fingers wrote
On the wall at Belshazzar's dreadful feast:
'Train Fifty-One is on time. Train Eleven
On time. Train Nineteen an hour late.'
32
And then the announcement, big with fate:
'Train Fifteen on Track Forty-Seven.'
And Lee's heart beat with a wild elation,
And she ran like a child in a childish game,
Pushed without pity or grace or shame
Past women and children to take her station
Where she could perfectly see
Down the dark hole where the train would be See Wayne as soon as he came.
The passengers came streaming out,
Some with bags and some without,
Some with babies, some with pets,
All about her was greeting,
Kissing and meeting,
Talking and lighting cigarettes.
And when she saw him coming,
His head above the stream,
No miracle so startling,
So magical could seem,
As this - that he was coming ­
A real man, not a dream!
~ Alice Duer Miller,
1119:Kaddish, Part I
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after-And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer-And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn-Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse,
the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed-like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion-No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it
lasts, a Vision--anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and
the sky above--an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side
--where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the
first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward
Newark-toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards-Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
46
sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
the street, firs escapes old as you
--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me-Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with
us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever
every time-That's good!That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,
torture even toothache in the end-Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,
in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair
and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
braintricked Implacability.
Ai! ai!we do worse! We are in a fix!And you're out, Death let you out,
Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with
God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure
--Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the
world-There, more suffering for you.I know where you've gone, it's good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more
fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,
loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands-No more of sister Elanor,--she gone before you--we kept it secret you
killed her--or she killed herself to bear with you--an arthritic heart
--But Death's killed you both--No matter-Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and
weeks--forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin's at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar
--by standing room with Elanor & Max--watching also the Capital
ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL's hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts
pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and
laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave--lucky to
have husbands later-You made it--I came too--Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and
will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer--or kill
47
--later perhaps--soon he will think--)
And it's the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now
--tho not you
I didn't foresee what you felt--what more hideous gape of bad mouth came
first--to you--and were you prepared?
To go where?In that Dark--that--in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the
Void?Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream?Adonoi at last, with
you?
Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull
in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon--Deathshead with Halo?can you believe it?
Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence,
than none ever was?
Nothing beyond what we have--what you had--that so pitiful--yet Triumph,
to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower--fed to the
ground--but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe,
shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth
wrapped, sore--freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the
knife--lost
Cut down by an idiot Snowman's icy--even in the Spring--strange ghost
thought some--Death--Sharp icicle in his hand--crowned with old
roses--a dog for his eyes--cock of a sweatshop--heart of electric
irons.
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out--clocks, bodies, consciousness,
shoes, breasts--begotten sons--your Communism--'Paranoia' into
hospitals.
You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure of
p?within a year, the two of you, sisters in death.Is
Elanor happy?
Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over
midnight Accountings, not life passes--as he sees--and
what does he doubt now?Still dream of making money, or that might
have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi?
I'll see him I've got to cut through to talk to you as I didn't
when you had a mouth.
we're bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson's horses
--headed to the End.
They know the way--These Steeds--run faster than we think--it's our own
life they cross--and take with them.
48
Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed--Ass and face done with murder.
In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under
pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless,
Father in I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I'm
hymnless, I'm Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not
light or darkness, Dayless Eternity-Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some
of my Time, now given to Nothing--to praise Thee--But Death
This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping
--page beyond Psalm--Last change of mine and Naomi--to God's perfect
Darkness--Death, stay thy phantoms!
II
Over and over--refrain--of the Hospitals--still haven't written your
history--leave it abstract--a few images
run thru the mind--like the saxophone chorus of houses and years-remembrance of electrical shocks.
By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your
nervousness--you were fat--your next move-By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you-once and for all--when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my
opinion of the cosmos, I was lost-By my later burden--vow to illuminate mankind--this is release of
particulars--(mad as you)--(sanity a trick of agreement)-But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and
spied a mystical assassin from Newark,
So phoned the Doctor--'OK go way for a rest'--so I put on my coat
and walked you downstreet--On the way a grammarschool boy screamed,
unaccountably--'Where you goin Lady to Death'? I shuddered-and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask
against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma-And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of
the gang?You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on--to New
York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound-~ Allen Ginsberg,
1120:A Le Brun Et Au Marquis De Brazais
Le Brun, qui nous attends aux rives de la Seine,
Quand un destin jaloux loin de toi nous enchaîne;
Toi, Brazais, comme moi sur ces bords appelé,
Sans qui de l'univers je vivrais exilé;
Depuis que de Pandore un regard téméraire
Versa sur les humains un trésor de misère,
Pensez-vous que du ciel l'indulgente pitié
Leur ait fait un présent plus beau que l'amitié?
Ah! si quelque mortel est né pour la connaître.
C'est nous, âmes de feu, dont l'Amour est le maître.
Le cruel trop souvent empoisonne ses coups;
Elle garde à nos coeurs ses baumes les plus doux.
Malheur au jeune enfant seul, sans ami, sans guide,
Qui près de la beauté rougit et s'intimide,
Et, d'un pouvoir nouveau lentement dominé,
Par l'appât du plaisir doucement entraîné,
Crédule, et sur la foi d'un sourire volage,
A cette mer trompeuse et se livre et s'engage!
Combien de fois, tremblant et les larmes aux yeux,
Ses cris accuseront l'inconstance des dieux!
Combien il frémira d'entendre sur sa tête
Gronder les aquilons et la noire tempête,
Et d'écueils en écueils portera ses douleurs
Sans trouver une main pour essuyer ses pleurs!
Mais heureux dont le zèle, au milieu du naufrage,
Viendra le recueillir, le pousser au rivage;
Endormir dans ses flancs le poison ennemi;
Réchauffer dans son sein le sein de son ami,
Et de son fol amour étouffer la semence,
Ou du moins dans son coeur ranimer l'espérance!
Qu'il est beau de savoir, digne d'un tel lien,
Au repos d'un ami sacrifier le sien!
Plaindre de s'immoler l'occasion ravie,
Être heureux de sa joie et vivre de sa vie!
Si le ciel a daigné d'un regard amoureux
Accueillir ma prière et sourire à mes voeux,
Je ne demande point que mes sillons avides
Boivent l'or du Pactole et ses trésors liquides;
Ni que le diamant, sur la pourpre enchaîné,
Pare mon coeur esclave au Louvre prosterné;
Ni même, voeu plus doux! que la main d'Uranie
Embellisse mon front des palmes du génie;
Mais que beaucoup d'amis, accueillis dans mes bras,
Se partagent ma vie et pleurent mon trépas;
Que ces doctes héros, dont la main de la Gloire
A consacré les noms au temple de Mémoire,
Plutôt que leurs talents, inspirent à mon coeur
Les aimables vertus qui firent leur bonheur;
Et que de l'amitié ces antiques modèles
Reconnaissent mes pas sur leurs traces fidèles.
Si le feu qui respire en leurs divins écrits
D'une vive étincelle échauffa nos esprits;
Si leur gloire en nos coeurs souffle une noble envie,
Oh! suivons donc aussi l'exemple de leur vie:
Gardons d'en négliger la plus belle moitié;
Soyons heureux comme eux au sein de l'amitié.
Horace, loin des flots qui tourmentent Cythère,
Y retrouvait d'un port l'asile salutaire;
Lui-même au doux Tibulle, à ses tristes amours,
Prêta de l'amitié les utiles secours.
L'amitié rendit vains tous les traits de Lesbie;
Elle essuya les yeux que fit pleurer Cynthie.
Virgile n'a-t-il pas, d'un vers doux et flatteur,
De Gallus expirant consolé le malheur?
Voilà l'exemple saint que mon coeur leur demande.
Ovide, ah! qu'à mes yeux ton infortune est grande!
Non pour n'avoir pu faire aux tyrans irrités
Agréer de tes vers les lâches faussetés;
Je plains ton abandon, ta douleur solitaire.
Pas un coeur qui, du tien zélé dépositaire,
Vienne adoucir ta plaie, apaiser ton effroi,
Et consoler tes pleurs, et pleurer avec toi!
Ce n'est pas nous, amis, qu'un tel foudre menace.
Que des dieux et des rois l'éclatante disgrâce
Nous frappe: leur tonnerre aura trompé leurs mains;
Nous resterons unis en dépit des destins.
Qu'ils excitent sur nous la fortune cruelle;
Qu'elle arme tous ses traits: nous sommes trois contre elle.
Nos coeurs peuvent l'attendre, et, dans tous ses combats,
L'un sur l'autre appuyés, ne chancelleront pas.
Oui, mes amis, voilà le bonheur, la sagesse.
Que nous importe alors si le dieu du Permesse
Dédaigne de nous voir, entre ses favoris,
Charmer de l'Hélicon les bocages fleuris?
Aux sentiers où leur vie offre un plus doux exemple,
Où la félicité les reçut dans son temple,
Nous les aurons suivis, et, jusques au tombeau,
De leur double laurier su ravir le plus beau.
Mais nous pouvons, comme eux, les cueillir l'un et l'autre.
Ils reçurent du ciel un coeur tel que le nôtre;
Ce coeur fut leur génie; il fut leur Apollon,
Et leur docte fontaine, et leur sacré vallon.
Castor charme les dieux, et son frère l'inspire.
Loin de Patrocle, Achille aurait brisé sa lyre.
C'est près de Pollion, dans les bras de Varus,
Que Virgile envia le destin de Nisus.
Que dis-je? ils t'ont transmis ce feu qui les domine.
N'ai-je pas vu ta muse au tombeau de Racine,
Le Brun, faire gémir la lyre de douleurs
Que jadis Simonide anima de ses pleurs?
Et toi, dont le génie, amant de la retraite,
Et des leçons d'Ascra studieux interprète,
Accompagnant l'année en ses douze palais,
Étale sa richesse et ses vastes bienfaits;
Brazais, que de tes chants mon âme est pénétrée,
Quand ils vont couronner cette vierge adorée
Dont par la main du temps l'empire est respecté,
Et de qui la vieillesse augmente la beauté!
L'homme insensible et froid en vain s'attache à peindre
Ces sentiments du coeur que l'esprit ne peut feindre;
De ses tableaux fardés les frivoles appas
N'iront jamais au coeur dont ils ne viennent pas.
Eh! comment me tracer une image fidèle
Des traits dont votre main ignore le modèle?
Mais celui qui, dans soi descendant en secret,
Le contemple vivant, ce modèle parfait,
C'est lui qui nous enflamme au feu qui le dévore;
Lui qui fait adorer la vertu qu'il adore;
Lui qui trace, en un vers des Muses agréé,
Un sentiment profond que son coeur a créé.
Aimer, sentir, c'est là cette ivresse vantée
Qu'aux célestes foyers déroba Prométhée.
Calliope jamais daigna-t-elle enflammer
Un coeur inaccessible à la douceur d'aimer?
Non: l'amour, l'amitié, la sublime harmonie,
Tous ces dons précieux n'ont qu'un même génie;
Même souffle anima le poète charmant,
L'ami religieux et le parfait amant;
Ce sont toutes vertus d'une âme grande et fière.
Bavius et Zoïle, et Gacon et Linière,
Aux concerts d'Apollon ne furent point admis,
Vécurent sans maîtresse, et n'eurent point d'amis.
Et ceux qui, par leurs moeurs dignes de plus d'estime,
Ne sont point nés pourtant sous cet astre sublime,
Voyez-les, dans des vers divins, délicieux,
Vous habiller l'amour d'un clinquant précieux;
Badinage insipide où leur ennui se joue,
Et qu'autant que l'amour le bon sens désavoue.
Voyez si d'une belle un jeune amant épris
A tressailli jamais en lisant leurs écrits;
Si leurs lyres jamais, froides comme leurs âmes,
De la sainte amitié respirèrent les flammes.
O peuples de héros, exemples des mortels!
C'est chez vous que l'encens fuma sur ses autels;
C'est aux temps glorieux des triomphes d'Athène,
Aux temps sanctifiés par la vertu romaine;
Quand l'âme de Lélie animait Scipion,
Quand Nicoclès mourait au sein de Phocion;
C'est aux murs où Lycurgue a consacré sa vie,
Où les vertus étaient les lois de la patrie.
O demi-dieux amis! Atticus, Cicéron,
Caton, Brutus, Pompée, et Sulpice, et Varron!
Ces héros, dans le sein de leur ville perdue,
S'assemblaient pour pleurer la liberté vaincue.
Unis par la vertu, la gloire, le malheur,
Les arts et l'amitié consolaient leur douleur.
Sans l'amitié, quel antre ou quel sable infertile
N'eût été pour le sage un désirable asile,
Quand du Tibre avili le spectre ensanglanté
Armait la main du vice et la férocité;
Quand d'un vrai citoyen l'éclat et le courage
10
Réveillaient du tyran la soupçonneuse rage;
Quand l'exil, la prison, le vol, l'assassinat,
Étaient pour l'apaiser l'offrande du Sénat!
Thraséas, Soranus, Sénécion, Rustique,
Vous tous, dignes enfants de la patrie antique,
Je vous vois tous amis, entourés de bourreaux,
Braver du scélérat les indignes faisceaux,
Du lâche délateur l'impudente richesse,
Et du vil affranchi l'orgueilleuse bassesse.
Je vous vois, au milieu des crimes, des noirceurs,
Garder une patrie, et des lois, et des moeurs;
Traverser d'un pied sûr, sans tache, sans souillure,
Les flots contagieux de cette mer impure;
Vous créer, au flambeau de vos mâles aïeux,
Sur ce monde profane un monde vertueux.
Oh! viens rendre à leurs noms nos âmes attentives,
Amitié! de leur gloire ennoblis nos archives.
Viens, viens: que nos climats, par ton souffle épurés,
Enfantent des rivaux à ces hommes sacrés.
Rends-nous hommes comme eux. Fais sur la France heureuse
Descendre des Vertus la troupe radieuse,
De ces filles du ciel qui naissent dans ton sein,
Et toutes sur tes pas se tiennent par la main.
Ranime les beaux-arts, éveille leur génie,
Chasse de leur empire et la haine et l'envie:
Loin de toi dans l'opprobre ils meurent avilis;
Pour conserver leur trône ils doivent être unis.
Alors de l'univers ils forcent les hommages:
Tout, jusqu'à Plutus même, encense leurs images;
Tout devient juste alors; et le peuple et les grands,
Quand l'homme est respectable, honorent les talents.
Ainsi l'on vit les Grecs prôner d'un même zèle
La gloire d'Alexandre et la gloire d'Apelle;
La main de Phidias créa des immortels,
Et Smyrne à son Homère éleva des autels.
Nous, amis, cependant, de qui la noble audace
Veut atteindre aux lauriers de l'antique Parnasse,
Au rang de ces grands noms nous pouvons être admis;
Soyons cités comme eux entre les vrais amis.
Qu'au-delà du trépas notre âme mutuelle
Vive et respire encor sur la lyre immortelle.
11
Que nos noms soient sacrés, que nos chants glorieux
Soient pour tous les amis un code précieux.
Qu'ils trouvent dans nos vers leur âme et leurs pensées;
Qu'ils raniment encor nos muses éclipsées,
Et qu'en nous imitant ils s'attendent un jour
D'être chez leurs neveux imités à leur tour.
~ Andre Marie de Chenier,
1121:Ocean: An Ode. Concluding With A Wish.*
I.
Sweet rural scene!
Of flocks and green!
At careless ease my limbs are spread;
All nature still
But yonder rill;
And listening pines not o'er my head:
II
In prospect wide,
The boundless tide!
Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;
Without a breeze,
The curling seas
Dance on, in measure, to the shore.
III
Who sings the source
Of wealth and force?
Vast field of commerce and big war:
Where wonders dwell!
Where terrors swell!
And Neptune thunders from his car?
IV
Where? where are they,
Whom Pean's ray
Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?
What, none aspire?
I snatch the lyre,
And plunge into the foaming wave.
The wave resounds!
The rock rebounds!
The Nereids to my song reply!
I lead the choir,
And they conspire
With voice and shell to lift it high;
VI
They spread in air
Their bosoms fair;
Their verdant tresses pour behind.
36
The billows beat
With nimble feet,
With notes triumphant swell the wind.
VII
Who love the shore,
And they conspire
With voice and shell to lift it high;
Let those adore
The God Apollo, and his Nine,
Parnassus' hill,
And Orpheus' skill;
But let Arion's harp be mine.
VIII
The main! the main!
Is Britain's reign;
Her strength, her glory, is her fleet;
The main! the main!
Be Briton's strain;
As Triton's strong, as Syren's sweet.
IX
Through nature wide,
Is nought descry'd
So rich in pleasure, or surprize;
When all-serene
How sweet the scene!
How dreadful, when the billows rise.
And storms deface
The fluid glass
In which ere-while Britannia fair
Look'd down with pride,
Like Ocean's bride,
Adjusting her majestic air.
XI
When tempests cease,
And hush'd in peace
The flatten'd surges smoothly spread
Deep silence keep,
And seem to sleep
Recumbent on their oozy bed;
XII
With what a trance
37
The level glance,
Unbroken, shoots along the seas!
Whichtempt from shore
the painted oar;
And every canvas courts the breeze!
XIII
When rushes forth
The frowning North
On blackening billows, with what dread
My shuddering soul
Beholds them roll,
And hears their roarings o'er my head!
XIV
With terror mark
Yon flying bark!
Now, center-deep descend the brave;
Now, toss'd on high
It takes the sky,
A feather on the towering wave!
XV
Now, spins around
In whirls profound;
Now, whelm'd; now, pendant near the clouds;
Now, stunn'd, it reels
Midst thunder's peals;
And, now, fierce lightening fires the shrouds.
XVI
All aether burns!
Chaos returns!
And blends once more the seas and skies;
No space between
Thy bosom green,
O Deep! and the blue concave, lies.
XVII
The northern blast,
The shatter'd mast,
The fyrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,
The breaking spout,
the stars gone out,
The boiling sreight, the monsters shock.
XVIII
Let others fear;
38
To Britain dear
What'er promotes her daring claim;
Those terrors charm,
Which keep her warm
In chace of honest gain or fame.
XIX
The stars are bright
To chear the night,
And shed, through shadows, temper'd fire;
And Phoebus flames
With burnish'd beams,
Which some adore, and all admire.
XX
Are then the seas
Outshone by these?
Bright Thetys! thou art not outshone;
With kinder beams
And softer gleams,
Thy bosom wears them as thy own
XXI
There, set in green,
Gold-stars are seen,
A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap;
And when the sun
His race has run
He falls enamour'd in thy lap.
XXII
Those clouds, whose dyes
Adorn the skies,
That silver snow, that pearly rain;
Has Phoebus stole
To grace the pole,
The plunder of th' invaded main!
XXIII
The gaudy bow,
Whose colours glow,
Whose arch with so much skill is bent,
To Phoebus' ray
Which paints so gay,
By thee the watery woof was lent.
XXIV
In chambers deep,
39
Where waters sleep,
What unknown treasures pave the floor!
The pearl in rows
Pale lustre throws;
The wealth immense, which storms devour.
XXV
From Indian mines,
With proud designs,
the merchant, swoin, digs golden ore.
The tempests rise,
And seize the prize,
And toss him breathless on the shore.
XXVI
His son complains
In pious strains
"Ah! cruel thirst of gold!" he cries;
Then ploughs the main,
In zeal for gain,
The tears yet swelling in his eyes.
XXVII
Thou watery vast!
What mounds are cast
To bar thy dreadful flowings-o'er?
Thy proudest foam
Must know its home;
But rage of gold disdains a shore.
XXVIII
Gold Pleasure buys;
But Pleasure dies,
Too soon the tross fruition cloys:
Though raptures court,
The sense is short;
But Virtue kindles living joys;
XXIX
Joys felt alone!
Joys ask'd of none!
Which Time's and Fortune's arrows miss;
Joys that subsist,
Though Fates resist,
And unprecarious endless bliss!
XXX
The soul refin'd
40
Is most inclin'd
To every moral excellence;
All Vice is dull,
A knave's a fool;
And Virtue is the child of Sense
XXXI
The virtuous mind
Nor wave, nor wind,
Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,
The shaken ball
Nor planets fall,
From its firm basis can dethrone.
XXXII
This Britain knows,
And therefore glows
With generous passions, and expends
Her wealth and zeal
On public weal,
And brightens both by godlike ends.
XXXIII
What end so great,
As that which late
Awoke the Genius of the main,
Which towering rose
With George to close,
And rival great Eliza's reign?
XXXIV
A voice has flown
From Britain's throne
To reinflame a grand design;
That voice shall rear
Yon fabrick fair,1
As Nature's rose at the divine.
XXXV
When nature sprung,
Blest angels sung,
And shouted o'er the rising balll;
For strains as high
As main's can fly,
These sea-devoted honours call.
XXXVI
From boisterous seas,
41
The lap of ease
Receives our wounded and our old;
High domes ascend!
Stretc'd arches bend!
Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold!
XXXVII
So sleeps the grain,
In fostering rain,
And vital beams, till Jove descend;
Then bursts the root!
the verdures shoot!
And earth enrich, adorn, defend!
XXXVIII
Here, soft-reclin'd
From wave, from wind,
And Fortune's tempest safe ashore,
To cheat their care,
Of former war
They talk the pleasing shadows o'er.
XXXIX
In lengthen'd tales,
Our fleet prevails;
In tales the lenitives of age!
And, o'er the bowl,
They fire the soul
Of listening youth, to martial rage.
XL
The story done,
Their setting sun,
Serenely smiling down the West,
In soft decay,
They drop away;
And Honour leads them to their rest.
XLI
Unhappy they!
And falsely gay!
Who bask for ever in success;
A constant feast
Quite palls the taste,
And long enjoyment is distress.
XLII
What charms us most,
42
Our joy, our boast,
Familiar, loses all its bloss;
And gold refin'd
The fated mind
Fastidious turns to perfect dross.
XLIII
When, after toil,
His native soil
The panting mariner regains
What transport flows
From bare repose!
We reap our pleasure from our pains.
XLIV
Ye warlike slain!
Beneath the main,
Wrapt in a watery winding sheet;
Who bought with blood
Your country's good,
Your country's full-blown glorys greet.
XLV
What powerful charm
Can death disarm?
Your long, your iron slumbers break?
By Jove, by Fame,
By George's name,
Awake! awake! awake!
XLVI
Our joy so proud,
Our shout so loud,
Without a charm the dead might hear:
And see, they rouze!
Their awful brows,
Deep-scar'd, froomm oozy pillows rear!
XLVII
With spiral shell,
Full-blasted, tell
That all your watery realms should sing;
Your pearl-alcoves,
Your coral-groves,
Should echo theirs, and Britain's king.
XLVIII
As long as stars
43
Guide mariners,
As Carolina's virtues please,
Or suns invite
The ravish'd sight,
The British flag shall sweep the seas.
XLIX
Pecular both!
Our soil's strong growth,
And our bold natives hardy mind;
Sure Heaven bespoke
Our hearts, and oak,
To give a master to minkind.
That noblest birth
Of teaming earth,
Of forests fair that daughter proud,
To foreign coasts
Our grandeur boasts
And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud.
LI
Now big with war
Sends Fate from far,
If rebel realms their Fate demand;
Now, sumptuous spoils
Of foreign soils
Pours in the bottom of our land.
LII
Hence, Britain lays
In scales, and weighs
The fates of kingdoms and of kings;
And as she frowns
Or smiles, on crown
A night or day of glory springs.
LIII
Thus Ocean swells
The streams and rills,
And to their borders lifts them high;
Or else withdraws
The mighty cause,
And leaves their famish'd channels dry.
LIV
How mixt, how frail,
44
How sure to fail,
Is every pleasure of mankind!
A damp destroys
My blooming joys,
While Britain's glory fires my mind.
LV
For who can gaze
On restless seas,
Unstruck with life's more restless state?
Where all are toss'd,
And most are lost
By tides of passion, blasts of fate?
LVI
The world's the main,
How vext! how vain!
Ambition swells, and Anger foams;
May good men find,
Beneath the wind,
A noiseless shore, unruffled homes!
LVII
The public scene
Of harden'd men
Teach me, O teach me to despise!
The world few know
But to their woe,
Our crimes with our experience rise;
LVIII
All tender sense
Is banish'd thence,.
All maiden nature's first alarms;
What shock'd before
Disgusts no more,
And what disgusted has its charms
LIX
In landskips green
True Bliss is seen,
With Innocence, in shades, the sports;
In wealthy towns
Proud labour frowns,
And painted Sorrow smiles in courts.
LX
These scenes untry'd
45
Seduc'd my pride,
To Fortune's arrows bar'd my breast;
Till Wisdom came,
A hoary dame!
And told me pleasure was in rest.
LXI
"O may I steal
"Along the vale
"Of humble life, secure from foes!
"My friend sincere!
"My judgment clear!
"And gentle business my repose!
~ Edward Young,
1122:Alma Venus! [excerpt]
Trembling Creation's omnipresent sun,
Immanent Harmonist, Whose rhythms run.
Alike where midge pursues his swift romance,
Or grave stars cluster for their midnight dance 1
Bringer of fire, from what far fane despoiled?
Potter of grace, by what fell finger soiled?
In temple throned of old, or here in shame
Lurking, to Deathless YOU, of many a namePaphia, Freya, Aphrodite, Fand,
Cabiri vague, or in the fairy band
Titania, Niamh, or that Morgan fay
Our simpler eyes in. Sicily to-day
Catch at her sorcery-to YOU, whose breath
To a rippling rapture stirs the pool of Death,
I bring this coronal of rose and rue,
With golden wattle twined-and she-oak too.
The living wheels we call Creation roll
Whither and while You lead. Who are their soul!
Wheels within wheels, and whose the whirl of eyes
But Love's, Who was. Who is. Who never dies?
Wheels within wheels, but ever at the nave
Venus Pandemos, She for Whom we crave!
Wheels within wheels, but glowing from the tires
Venus Immaculate's Uranian fires!
If lovelight played not round the misty bourn
Could Life her marshy perils thread unworn?
Were Heaven's many mansions built to hold
Women and men seraphically cold?
Or does annihilation mean but this'Tristram no more desires Isolda's kiss'?
Fountains of Art that keep this old Earth fresh
Ascend to God from cisterns of the flesh:
Angel and phoenix flowered from the fires
Of virgin Ishtar's ravenous desires:
In good Nile mud incestuous Isis set
Many a tree of knowledge bearing yet:
Austere Mohammed meets at Heaven's door
Fond phantoms of his desert dreams of yore:
The shrine, the song, the picture and the bust
Are diamonds doubles of the charcoal, lust. . .
Your ruby billows floated to our ken
Many a rite that soothes the souls of men;
Swastik of Ind as once Egyptian Tau
In shining symbol utters yet Your law:
And coldest fanes for eunuch gods designed
Reveal Your girdle with their chaplets twined.
Around the Maypole, aeon-old, they dance,
Maiden and youth of Britain and of France,
Obedient to the law, forgot to-day,
That fertile gods, unshackled by their play,
From winter death will duly be reborn
And with their foison fill the ears of corn:
Or where, horizonward, Australian sand
Billows monotonous, behold Your band
Of leaf-clad lubras, swaying to the hum
Of droning wizard and barbaric drum,
In strange Unthippa dance to conjure there,
With warm wild posturing and coy despair,
Some dream-time god of golden ages dim,
That with the drama of their love for him
The waste in sympathy will fertile grow,
Emu be plentiful, the dry creeks flow,
And all the wild be rich with nut and plant,
Witchetty grub and root and honey-ant:
Virgins and boys, who with the bridal pair
And hymeneal chant through Athens bear
That casket strange, unknowing that inside
The mysteries of Aphrodite hide,
Ye will acknowledge too, in turn, ere long,
Omnipotent the goddess of my song:
And, childless ones of Ind, with prayer ye pour
Oil on that shrine to-day, as wives of yore
On wayside Jahv or god of boundary,
For benison of grudged fertility. . . .
Let pale usurpers of Your old domain
In crumbling book and vapid hymn maintain
That You, great Queen, are dead, that nevermore
Shall devotee Your majesty adore,
Or sad Meander wail as long ago
For torn Adonis and Your helpless woe:
We hear in beating hearts another rune,
In hymn of man and maid another tune:
On every road Your living creatures draw,
Whither You list, the Tables of Your Law:
Wherever tree hath sap or being breath,
Ubiquitous, You bruise the head of Death:
Here, pallid cuckoo's great crescendos call
His coy companion to Your festival:
There, magpie warbles to the morning star
The advent of the rapture that You are:
And desolate the spirit unaware
Of quivering enchantment in the air
When August struggles from his gaoler's power,
And gleaming envoys from each wooing flower
Cajole the bees to waft his tender dues
To some dear tabernacle's secret cruse;
When listening almonds weary of the night
Hearing You coming blossom into white;
When wattle waking from her torpor cold
Knowing You near her trembles into gold;
When, ancient symbols realizing here,
Gabriel Spring announces every year
To expectant Nature's myriad maidenhood,
In rolling plain or solitary wood,
The miracle that maketh Life complete,
The brooding Presence of the Paraclete.
*
Magi profounder than the Eastern Three
Followed the Star of Your Epiphany:
Isis had hidden with a sullen pall
The secret of the Universe from all,
Until Lucretius wondering found a fold,
It swayed to Goethe's eyes, and, growing bold,
Darwin stooped down and groping patiently
Out of the dust lifted the hem, till we
Staggering saw against the eternal blue
The secret Builder of Creation-You I ...
'When Love was driven from the world by stark
And sexless mattoids of the Ages Dark,
Disgusted lore to Moorish havens fled,
The Muses nine with eunuch monks were wed:
Primordial terror to the day returned,
The witch in hordes and great Servetus burned:
Celibate piety with thumb uncouth
Plastered a fig-leaf over Plato's truth:
Aquinas thinned, to make a draught divine,
With holy water, Aristotle's wine;
Round every comer eft or devil stares,
And very Dante mumbles craven prayers;
The childish painter daubs his maudlin fears,
And song forgets to sing a thousand years.
Yet You had lingered cunningly concealed
Now in an altar-piece, now in a field
With shards of pillared grandeur buried deep,
Until the nightmare passed. Yea, did You peep
A moment now and then, ere rose the sun,
Under the hood of a rose-hearted nun
At Abelard, or told the tale so well
Of Launcelot that even glowering hell
Drove not Francesca from her lover's wraith;
Yea, visored chivalry unhorsed his faith,
And far Jerusalem and Paynim tryst
Forgot, for victory in a gender list
Where with the provocation of a smile
Your ambushed omnipresence would beguile
Crusader sullen to a softer creed,
Knight errant to an errant knight indeed....
As what strange god did You entice the King
Through brave Uriah's comely wife to fling
Harp and the psaltery aside to plan
As mean a deed as had polluted man
Till Sextus lusted, or her father's knife
Rescued Virginia from the hell of life?
Yea, there is that in You man dare not face:
A dark star dogs Your limpid planet's grace:
Jetsam from old pollution stales Your shore:
Lewd gargoyles grin above Your temple door. ...
Wormwood is waiter at Your choicest feast,
Your Beauty shadowed ever by the Beast.
Yon feudal lord of mediaeval France,
Your devotee of many a Rose Romance,
Hath on his peasants' daughters' bridal nights
Exacted to the full his shameful rights:
Your cuckoo calling Spring into the wood
Was stark nest-brother to a robin's brood:
And, tragi-comedy of humble life,
That doting husband of the buxom wife
Is fondling (while You laugh) the child she gave
At Your still altar to some passing knave. . ..
Was it a glimpse of phases fell that mar
The radiant round of Your auspicious star,
That drove the hermit to the wilderness
From demons lurking in Your least caress,
And bade the nun, as once the vestal too,
Renounce Your works and all Your pomps-and You?
Yea, those whose eyes can pierce the dazzling veil
Of Light that is Your mask have told a tale
Of how we in the world were once expelled
From Paradise, and now, in prison held,
On moaning treadmills of repeated lives
Work out our crimes, until the hour arrives
For life to cease on earth and You to fade
With all the woe Your temptress wiles have made.
You are the gaoler of that prison, Who
(For so they say) inveigle all to woo,
Be won, that so by our own ardours we
Keep lit Your hell, yea, for eternity,
Unless, until, ignoring all You say,
As monk, as nun, we dare to disobey.
If so it be, then were the barren one
Blest of all women underneath the sun,
An angel of the Lord sent here to ray
The midnight of the soul with coming day;
The tower impregnable that masters Fate
Is not the Caesar but the celibate;
And he at whom no woman ever smiled
Is everlasting Heaven's favoured child
Ordained (who knows?) in what benignant star
As Baptist of some glorious Avatar,
Whose Word shall cause all flesh to cease to be
And man be one again with Deity!. . .
Or when the veil we call Reality
Rifts, and the meaning of it all we see,
Will Good and Evil kiss and understand?
God walk with brother Satan hand in hand?
The cool-haired Night repose beside the Sun?
Pandemos prove with Love Uranian one?
The Tree of Life mature its golden fruits
From bark so sinister and those wan roots?
Slowly our interrogating eyes
Sobered with long deception recognize,
'Mid older clues dissolved to flecks, at last
One signal flashing from the Outer Vast,
Fell or benign (as falls or rises faith),
Comet or guiding star-Your rosy wraith!
Your rosy wraith that both in man and weed
'Writes deep and undeniable Your creed'Beget or hear, though ye to-morrow die,
Beget or bear, nor ask the reason why 1
Though sun and earth shall duly pass away,
Though all the gods shall ripen and decay,
It is Their Will Who bade the world exist:
And woe to him or her who doth not list
The sole clear mandate from the Otherwhere
Flushed through the Universe-Beget or bear 1'
Love we or dread we may not all ignore
The single beacon on the circling shore
Where Being laps upon the caverned steep
Wherefrom we drifted and whereto we creep.
Beacon 1 although You lead us but to gloom!
A guiding star, it may be, to the tomb!
Comet flung from the Void through trackless Light!
Yet is Your rosy flame in ion mite
And great pathetic man the only trace
Of something more than chance in Time and Space,
That purpose dimly threads the crazy web,
That tides of anguish ultimately ebb,
That green hope signals underground a Nile,
That faith is wiser than an ostrich wile,
That there is something in us will elude
The withering fingers of vicissitude,
And man's ripe earth by a guttering sun betrayed
Will not in cold and useless ruin fade.
Question the sibyl grottoes near or far
Whither or whence we sail or why we are!
Listen at Nature's beating heart for clue,
And every oracle we know or knew!
From Zodiac round of older destiny,
From tiny orbit of an atomy,
From Pythoness or oak or Magian fire,
Augur antique or wizard new inquire,
Austral churinga or the crystal ball,
'Wherefore does anything exist at all?'
Of star or fungus seek, of life or death,
Whence Being came and whither wandereth!
10
Ask of the gloom that locks the secret in,
Ask of the light that saw the world begin!
The day, the night, and death and life are dumb:
From fungus, star or ball no answers come:
Silent, churinga, table, passing bird:
From fire or Druid oak no guiding word:
The Pythoness ambiguously sighs:
Orbit minute nor Zodiac house replies:
But dim the beating heart amid its sobs
With 'Alma Venus!' 'Alma Venus!' throbs;
While on two sibyl leaves, by a world-wind strange
Blown to our shore across the gulf of Change,
'Increase and multiply' on one is scrolled
In ochre crude, on one, in glowing gold
Around the pearly nimbus of a dove,
The script imperishable-'God is Love.'
~ Bernard O'Dowd,
1123:Un Fantôme (A Phantom)
I Les Ténèbres
Dans les caveaux d'insondable tristesse
Où le Destin m'a déjà relégué;
Où jamais n'entre un rayon rose et gai;
Où, seul avec la Nuit, maussade hôtesse,
Je suis comme un peintre qu'un Dieu moqueur
Condamne à peindre, hélas! sur les ténèbres;
Où, cuisinier aux appétits funèbres,
Je fais bouillir et je mange mon coeur,
Par instants brille, et s'allonge, et s'étale
Un spectre fait de grâce et de splendeur.
À sa rêveuse allure orientale,
Quand il atteint sa totale grandeur,
Je reconnais ma belle visiteuse:
C'est Elle! noire et pourtant lumineuse.
II Le Parfum
Lecteur, as-tu quelquefois respiré
Avec ivresse et lente gourmandise
Ce grain d'encens qui remplit une église,
Ou d'un sachet le musc invétéré?
Charme profond, magique, dont nous grise
Dans le présent le passé restauré!
Ainsi l'amant sur un corps adoré
Du souvenir cueille la fleur exquise.
De ses cheveux élastiques et lourds,
Vivant sachet, encensoir de l'alcôve,
Une senteur montait, sauvage et fauve,
Et des habits, mousseline ou velours,
Tout imprégnés de sa jeunesse pure,
506
Se dégageait un parfum de fourrure.
III Le Cadre
Comme un beau cadre ajoute à la peinture,
Bien qu'elle soit d'un pinceau très-vanté,
Je ne sais quoi d'étrange et d'enchanté
En l'isolant de l'immense nature,
Ainsi bijoux, meubles, métaux, dorure,
S'adaptaient juste à sa rare beauté;
Rien n'offusquait sa parfaite clarté,
Et tout semblait lui servir de bordure.
Même on eût dit parfois qu'elle croyait
Que tout voulait l'aimer; elle noyait
Sa nudité voluptueusement
Dans les baisers du satin et du linge,
Et, lente ou brusque, à chaque mouvement
Montrait la grâce enfantine du singe.
IV Le Portrait
La Maladie et la Mort font des cendres
De tout le feu qui pour nous flamboya.
De ces grands yeux si fervents et si tendres,
De cette bouche où mon coeur se noya,
De ces baisers puissants comme un dictame,
De ces transports plus vifs que des rayons,
Que reste-t-il? C'est affreux, ô mon âme!
Rien qu'un dessin fort pâle, aux trois crayons,
Qui, comme moi, meurt dans la solitude,
Et que le Temps, injurieux vieillard,
Chaque jour frotte avec son aile rude...
Noir assassin de la Vie et de l'Art,
Tu ne tueras jamais dans ma mémoire
507
Celle qui fut mon plaisir et ma gloire!
A Phantom
I The Darkness
In the mournful vaults of fathomless gloom
To which Fate has already banished me,
Where a bright, rosy beam never enters;
Where, alone with Night, that sullen hostess,
I'm like a painter whom a mocking God
Condemns to paint, alas! upon darkness;
Where, a cook with a woeful appetite,
I boil and I eat my own heart;
At times there shines, and lengthens, and broadens
A specter made of grace and of splendor;
By its dreamy, oriental manner,
When it attains its full stature,
I recognize my lovely visitor;
It's She! dark and yet luminous.
II The Perfume
Reader, have you at times inhaled
With rapture and slow greediness
That grain of incense which pervades a church,
Or the inveterate musk of a sachet?
Profound, magical charm, with which the past,
Restored to life, makes us inebriate!
Thus the lover from an adored body
Plucks memory's exquisite flower.
From her tresses, heavy and elastic,
Living sachet, censer for the bedroom,
A wild and savage odor rose,
508
And from her clothes, of muslin or velvet,
All redolent of her youth's purity,
There emanated the odor of furs.
III The Frame
As a lovely frame adds to a painting,
Even though it's from a master's brush,
An indefinable strangeness and charm
By isolating it from vast nature,
Thus jewels, metals, gilding, furniture,
Suited her rare beauty to perfection;
Nothing dimmed its flawless splendor;
All seemed to form for her a frame.
One would even have said that she believed
That everything wished to love her; she drowned
Her nudity voluptuously
In the kisses of the satin and linen,
And, with each movement, slow or brusque,
She showed the child-like grace of a monkey.
IV The Portrait
Disease and Death make ashes
Of all the fire that flamed for us.
Of those wide eyes, so fervent and tender,
Of that mouth in which my heart was drowned,
Of those kisses potent as dittany,
Of those transports more vivid than sunbeams,
What remains? It is frightful, O my soul!
Nothing but a faint sketch, in three colors,
Which, like me, is dying in solitude,
And which Time, that contemptuous old man,
Grazes each day with his rough wing...
509
Black murderer of Life and Art,
You will never kill in my memory
The one who was my glory and my joy!
— Translated by William Aggeler
A Phantom
I The Shades
My fate confines me, dark and shady,
In vaults of lone unfathomed grief.
No rosy sunbeams bring relief.
Alone with Night, my grim landlady,
I'm like a painter whom God spites
To paint on shades, and cook and eat
My own poor heart, the only meat
Of my funereal appetites.
Sometimes a spectre dim, reclining
In grace and glory, can be seen.
With dreamy oriental mien.
When fully its own form defining,
I recognise who it must be,
Sombre yet luminous, it's She!
II The Perfume
Reader, say, have you ever breathed,
With lazy greed and joy, the dusk
Of an old church with incense wreathed,
Or smelt an ancient bag of musk?
It's by such charms the Nevermore
Intoxicates us in the Now —
As lovers to Remembrance bow
Over the bodies they adore.
510
From her thick tresses as they fume
(Scent-sack and censer of the room)
A feline, tawny perfume springs.
Her muslins and her velvets smooth
Give off, made pregnant with her youth,
Scents of the fur of prowling things.
III The Frame
As a fine frame improves a plate
Although the graver needs no vaunting —
I know not what of strange and haunting
(From nature vast to isolate
Her beauty) was conferred by gems,
Metals, and gear. She mingled with them,
And swirled them all into her rhythm
As in her skirts the flouncing herns.
They say she thought all things were stung
With love for her. Her naked flesh
She loved to drown in kisses fresh
Of flax or satin. To her clung,
In all the movements of her shape,
The childish graces of the ape.
IV The Portrait
Sickness and death will form the ash and dust
Of all the fire we blazed with in such splendour,
Of those great eyes so fervent and so tender,
The mouth wherein my heart would drown its lust,
The kisses strong as marum, the delightful,
Fierce transports livelier than the solar rays.
What can remain? My soul, the truth is frightful!
A fading sketch, a faint three-coloured haze,
511
Which (like myself unfriended) wanes away,
While Time, insulting dotard, every day,
Brushes it fainter with his heedless wing...
Killer of life and art! black, evil King!
You'll never kill, within my soul, the story
Of that which was my rapture and my glory.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Portrait
Disease and Death make ashes out of all
The fires that flamed for us, out of the round
Wide eyes, so fervent and so kind withal,
Out of the mouth wherein my heart was drowned,
Out of our kisses, strong as pepperwort,
Out of throes bright as patterns sunbeams etch.
What is left now? What dreadful last resort,
O Soul? Only a faint three-colored sketch
Which is, like me, a lonely dying thing,
And which that oldster Time with scornful heart
Bruises each day beneath his jagged wing.
Slayer of Life and murderer of Art,
Mine, still, one treasure you shall not destroy:
She who was all my glory and my joy!
[The original publication only includes this last section of the poem].
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
The Portrait
Disease and Death, these are the ashes of
All that was fire, and warmed us heretofore.
Of those big eyes, so full of faith and love,
That mouth which stopped my heart, that endless store
Of kisses strong as dittany — that whole
Transport, that passion hotter than the sun,
512
What now remains? A sorry thing, my soul!
A faded sketch, in three pale crayons done;
Which, like myself, in dusty solitude
Subsides, and which with his injurious wing
Time daily rubs against. O black and rude
Assassin of proud Life and powerful Art:
You cannot rob my memory of one thing, —
Her, that was all my triumph, all my heart.
[The original publication only includes this last section of the poem].
— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Un Fantôme
I Les Tenebres
down in the unplumbed crypt of blight
where Fate abandoned me to die,
where falls no cheering ray; where I,
sole lodger of the sulky Night,
like artists blind God sets apart
in mockery — I paint the murk;
where, like a ghoulish cook at work,
I boil and munch upon my heart,
momently gleams, and grows apace,
a phantom languorously bright,
and by its dreamy Orient grace,
when it attains its radiant height,
at last I know the lovely thing:
'tis She! girl black yet glimmering.
II Le Parfum
513
how long, in silken favours, last
their prisoned scents! how greedily
we breathe the incense-grain, a sea
of fragrance, in cathedrals vast!
o deep enchanting sorcery!
in present joys to find the past!
'tis thus on cherished flesh amassed
Love culls the flower of memory.
her thick curled hair, like bags of musk
or living censers, left the dusk
with strange wild odours all astir,
and, from her lace and velvet busk,
— candid and girlish, over her,
hovered a heavy scent of fur.
III Le Cadre
as framing to a portrait gives
— though from a famous brush it be —
a magic full of mystery
secluding it from all that lives,
so gems, divans, gold, steel became
her beauty's border and attire;
no pomp obscured its perfect fire,
all seemed to serve her as a frame.
one even might have said she found
all sought to love her, for she drowned
in kisses of her silks and laces,
her fair nude body, all a-quiver,
and swift or slow, each pose would give her
a host of girlish simian graces.
IV Le Portrait
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Death and Disease to ashes turn
all flames that wrapped our youth around.
of her soft eyes, so quick to burn,
her mouth, wherein my heart was drowned.
of her wild kisses' tyrannies,
her passion's blaze implacable —
drear heart! what now is left of these?
only a faded old pastel
dying, like me, in loneliness,
duller each day in every part,
stripped by Time's pinion merciless...
black murderer of life and art,
never shalt thou destroy in me
her, once my pride and ecstasy!
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
A Ghost
I Perfume
Reader, have you ever breathed in
With intoxication and slow gluttony,
That grain of incense which fills a church,
Or that embedded musk of a scent-bag?
Deep, magical charm, the past recalled
By you now makes us drunk.
Thus a lover plucks from an adored body
The exquisite flower of memory.
From her buoyant, heavy hair,
A living sachet, censer of recesses,
There climbs a fragrance, savage, wild,
And from her muslin or velvet dresses,
Permeated with her pure youth,
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Escapes a perfume of fur.
II The Frame
As a fine frame adds to its picture,
Though it may come from a well-known brush,
Thus jewels, furniture, metals or gilding
Adapted themselves quite to her unusual beauty;
it was some strange enchantment,
Parting her from enormous nature;
Nothing darkened her perfect pellucidity,
Everything seemed to serve her as frame.
At times one would even have said that she thought
That all things desired to love her; voluptuously
She drowned her nakedness
In kisses of satin and linen,
And, slow or sudden, in each movement
Showed the childlike grace of the monkey.
[The original publication only includes these two sections of the poem].
— Translated by Geoffrey Wagner
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1124:Jubilate Agno: Fragment A
Rejoice in God, O ye Tongues; give the glory to the Lord, and the Lamb.
Nations, and languages, and every Creature, in which is the breath of Life.
Let man and beast appear before him, and magnify his name together.
Let Noah and his company approach the throne of Grace, and do homage to the
Ark of their Salvation.
Let Abraham present a Ram, and worship the God of his Redemption.
Let Isaac, the Bridegroom, kneel with his Camels, and bless the hope of his
pilgrimage.
Let Jacob, and his speckled Drove adore the good Shepherd of Israel.
Let Esau offer a scape Goat for his seed, and rejoice in the blessing of God his
father.
Let Nimrod, the mighty hunter, bind a Leopard to the altar, and consecrate his
spear to the Lord.
Let Ishmael dedicate a Tyger, and give praise for the liberty, in which the Lord
has let him at large.
Let Balaam appear with an Ass, and bless the Lord his people and his creatures
for a reward eternal.
Let Anah, the son of Zibion, lead a Mule to the temple, and bless God, who
amerces the consolation of the creature for the service of Man.
Let Daniel come forth with a Lion, and praise God with all his might through faith
in Christ Jesus.
Let Naphthali with an Hind give glory in the goodly words of Thanksgiving.
Let Aaron, the high priest, sanctify a Bull, and let him go free to the Lord and
Giver of Life.
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Let the Levites of the Lord take the Beavers of the brook alive into the Ark of the
Testimony.
Let Eleazar with the Ermine serve the Lord decently and in purity.
Let Ithamar minister with a Chamois, and bless the name of Him, which
cloatheth the naked.
Let Gershom with an Pygarg Hart bless the name of Him, who feedeth the
hungry.
Let Merari praise the wisdom and power of God with the Coney, who scoopeth
the rock, and archeth in the sand.
Let Kohath serve with the Sable, and bless God in the ornaments of the Temple.
Let Jehoida bless God with an Hare, whose mazes are determined for the health
of the body and to parry the adversary.
Let Ahitub humble himself with an Ape before Almighty God, who is the maker of
variety and pleasantry.
Let Abiathar with a Fox praise the name of the Lord, who ballances craft against
strength and skill against number.
Let Moses, the Man of God, bless with a Lizard, in the sweet majesty of goodnature, and the magnanimity of meekness.
Let Joshua praise God with an Unicorn -- the swiftness of the Lord, and the
strength of the Lord, and the spear of the Lord mighty in battle.
Let Caleb with an Ounce praise the Lord of the Land of beauty and rejoice in the
blessing of his good Report.
Let Othniel praise God with the Rhinoceros, who put on his armour for the reward
of beauty in the Lord.
Let Tola bless with the Toad, which is the good creature of God, tho' his virtue is
in the secret, and his mention is not made.
Let Barak praise with the Pard -- and great is the might of the faithful and great
is the Lord in the nail of Jael and in the sword of the Son of Abinoam.
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Let Gideon bless with the Panther -- the Word of the Lord is invincible by him
that lappeth from the brook.
Let Jotham praise with the Urchin, who took up his parable and provided himself
for the adversary to kick against the pricks.
Let Boaz, the Builder of Judah, bless with the Rat, which dwelleth in hardship and
peril, that they may look to themselves and keep their houses in order.
Let Obed-Edom with a Dormouse praise the Name of the Lord God his Guest for
increase of his store and for peace.
Let Abishai bless with the Hyaena -- the terror of the Lord, and the fierceness, of
his wrath against the foes of the King and of Israel.
Let Ethan praise with the Flea, his coat of mail, his piercer, and his vigour, which
wisdom and providence have contrived to attract observation and to escape it.
Let Heman bless with the Spider, his warp and his woof, his subtlety and
industry, which are good.
Let Chalcol praise with the Beetle, whose life is precious in the sight of God, tho
his ap