closed door

1:
Sweet Mother, is the physical mind the same as the mechanical mind?

Almost. You see, there is just a little difference, but not much. The mechanical mind is still more stupid than the physical mind. The physical mind is what we spoke about one day, that which is never sure of anything.

I told you the story of the closed door, you remember. Well, that is the nature of the physical mind. The mechanical mind is at a lower level still, because it doesn't even listen to the possibility of a convincing reason, and this happens to everyone.

Usually we don't let it function, but it comes along repeating the same things, absolutely mechanically, without rhyme or reason, just like that. When some craze or other takes hold of it, it goes... For example, you see, if it fancies counting: "One, two, three, four", then it will go on: "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four." And you may think of all kinds of things, but it goes on: "One, two, three, four", like that... (Mother laughs.) Or it catches hold of three words, four words and repeats them and goes on repeating them; and unless one turns away with a certain violence and punches it soundly, telling it, "Keep quiet!", it continues in this way, indefinitely. ~ The Mother,

* WISDOM TROVE *

1:Behind every closed door might wait a thief of minds and a collector of souls. ~ dean-koontz, @wisdomtrove

2:Often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us. ~ hellen-keller, @wisdomtrove

3:When one door closes, another one opens, but sometimes we wait too long looking at the closed door, and never realize that another door has been opened. ~ hellen-keller, @wisdomtrove

4:Nothing in life has happened to you. It's happened for you. Every disappointment. Every wrong. Even every closed door has helped make you into who you are. ~ joel-osteen, @wisdomtrove

5:When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long in disappointment and bitterness at the closed door that we do not expectantly look for and therefore see with pleasure and gratitude the one which has been opened for us. ~ hellen-keller, @wisdomtrove

6:You have to come to your closed doors before you get to your open doors... What if you knew you had to go through 32 closed doors before you got to your open door? Well, then you'd come to closed door number eight and you'd think, &

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *

1:The past is a closed door. ~ Margaret Atwood,

2:interruption or a keep-behind-a-closed-door ~ Nancy Star,

3:I believe that behind every closed door there is an open space. ~ Ping Fu,

4:The basis of all human fears, he thought. A closed door, slightly ajar. ~ Stephen King,

5:Behind every closed door might wait a thief of minds and a collector of souls. ~ Dean Koontz,

6:behind every closed door might wait a thief of minds and a collector of souls. ~ Dean Koontz,

7:The closed door doesn’t bother me. But the sound of soft sobbing nearly kills me. ~ Lauren Layne,

8:The world is the closed door. It is a barrier. And at the same time it is the way through. ~ Simone Weil,

9:Ignorant mind is a tightly closed door! To open it, you must knock the door repeatedly! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

10:I really believe Nick will come after me. I turn toward the house and see only a closed door. ~ Gillian Flynn,

11:Often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us. ~ Helen Keller,

12:If you excessively concentrate on a closed door, you may miss the alternative easy entries! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

13:On Ernst Lubitsch: He could do more with a closed door than other directors could do with an open fly. ~ Billy Wilder,

14:Avarice is a closed door, you don't know what's happening behind it, & before knocking you feel anxious. ~ Rachilde,

15:A man at his desk in a room with a closed door is a man at work. A woman at a desk in any room is available. ~ Marya Mannes,

16:Let me tell you something, dearie: the world is a closed door to an unwed mother and her illegitimate child. If ~ Jennifer Egan,

17:As anybody with two older sisters can tell you, a closed door is like a red rag to a bull. It cannot go unchallenged. ~ Alan Bradley,

18:Waiting insistently in front of a tightly closed door is unfair to all of the open doors! Give a chance to the open doors! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

19:It is true that an open door sends an invitation; but for the curious person, a closed door sends even a stronger invitation! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

20:A horizontal band of amber sunlight smoldered beneath banks of gunmetal clouds, like lamplight leaking from beneath a closed door. ~ Sibella Giorello,

21:I…” Ryan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “It was a joke.” “A joke.” Cary stepped forward, backing him up against the closed door. ~ Keira Andrews,

22:I think we are, by our own closed-door admissions, a fractious untrusting tribe unified only because we are besieged by larger forces. ~ Andrew X Pham,

23:increasingly weak. Then, half a century after Lord Macartney’s failed mission, the closed door was pushed ajar by Britain through the Opium ~ Jung Chang,

24:That one,"-he nodded toward the closed door-" will rule more than just Attolia before he is done. He is an Annux, a king of kings. ~ Megan Whalen Turner,

25:They were outside. It was oddly quiet, with just a muffled roar from behind the closed door, as if the ocean were contained on that side. ~ Eloisa James,

26:I’ve never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door. ~ Marguerite Duras,

27:You’d better be upstairs already, Maxim. You’d better be out of sight, asleep, behind a closed door. I can’t fight myself anymore tonight. I ~ Melanie Harlow,

28:It is one of life's laws that as soon as one door closes another opens. But the tragedy is we look at the closed door and disregard the open one. ~ Andre Gide,

29:she slammed the door and
was gone.

I looked at the closed door
and at the doorknob
and strangely
I didn't feel
alone. ~ Charles Bukowski,

30:There’s a long pause filled with enough tension for me to perceive it through a mostly-closed door.
Back up, Nash! She’s about to blow! ~ Michelle Leighton,

31:when one door of happiness closes another opens but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us. ~ Helen Keller,

32:You should be writing for the love of the story, and when it comes time to return to the manuscript, everything else belongs behind a closed door. ~ Michael Koryta,

33:When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. ~ Helen Keller,

34:When one door closes, another one opens, but sometimes we wait too long looking at the closed door, and never realize that another door has been opened. ~ Helen Keller,

35:when one door of happiness closes another opens but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one the one which has opened for us. ~ Helen Keller,

36:Lexie glanced back at Alik's (her stepbrother's) closed door. "First things first, find him a girlfriend so he doesn't think of me in the shower. ~ Bonnie Erina Wheeler,

37:When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us. ~ James Van Praagh,

38:When one door of happiness closes, another opens: but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened before us. ~ Helen Keller,

39:When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us. ~ Alexander Graham Bell,

40:For the able, every hard thing is easy, every tough path is walkable, every closed door is openable, and every scary river is passable! Just improve your abilities! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

41:When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.” — HELEN KELLER (1880–1968) ~ Doreen Virtue,

42:I do not want to believe that death is the gateway to another life. For me, it is a closed door. I do not say it is a step we must all take, but that it is a horrible and dirty adventure. ~ Albert Camus,

43:The truth was, she couldn't stand to let such an opportunity pass; she wanted to see what was behind the closed door, because it was there. Because leaving it unopened would get under her skin. ~ S D Perry,

44:I knew I had to keep him to myself, as I'd slowly begun to keep everything. We had secrets now, truths and half-truths, that kept her always at arm's length, behind a closed door, miles away. ~ Sarah Dessen,

45:My mother's great. She has the major looks. She could stop you from doing anything, through a closed door even, with a single look. Without saying a word, she has that power to rip out your tonsils. ~ Whoopi Goldberg,

46:When your way doesn't work, don't be disheartened. You must be willing to try another way. A closed door doesn't mean you have been cut off permanently. It is a challenge, an obstacle, a tool to be used. ~ Iyanla Vanzant,

47:There is a certain type of person to whom a closed door is a challenge—a dare, a taunt, a glove thrown down—and I am one of them. A closed door is more than a mystery to be solved: It's an insult. A slap in the face. ~ Alan Bradley,

48:The second bathroom's downstairs - that's kind of the emergency backup bathroom when Shane's in there moussing his hair for like an hour or something...."
"Bite me!" Shane yelled from behind the closed door. ~ Rachel Caine,

49:The people want government that works for them at every level. They want good government that begins at their doorstep in the barangay, and does not end before the closed door of a bureaucrat in Metro Manila. ~ Gloria Macapagal Arroyo,

50:We live in a big world, and it is important for us to be aware of culture other than our own. Learn something new, whether you think you're interested in it or not. That's the opposite of having a closed mind or a closed door. ~ Donald Trump,

51:hell is a closed door when you’re starving for your goddamned art but sometimes you feel at least like having a peek through the keyhole. young or old, good or bad, I don’t think anything dies as slow and as hard as a writer. ~ Charles Bukowski,

52:Do you know I sometimes think that I’m a man of genius, half finished? The genius has been left out, the faculty of expression is wanting; but the need for expression remains, and I spend my days groping for the latch of a closed door. ~ Henry James,

53:I walk a loop around the neighborhood, waiting for Nick to appear, to guide me back to our house. The rain spackles me gently, dampening me. I really believe Nick will come after me. I turn toward the house and see only a closed door. ~ Gillian Flynn,

54:Adam's response was buried in the sound of the first-story door falling open. Noah slouched in. In a wounded tone, he said, "He threw me out the window!"

Ronan's voice sang out from behind his closed door: "You're already dead! ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

55:I'm still there, watching those possessed children, as far away from the mystery now as I was then. I've never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door. ~ Marguerite Duras,

56:Separation anxiety is assuaged by constant connection. Young people announce every detail of their lives on services like Twitter not to show off, but to avoid the closed door at bedtime, the empty room, the screaming vacuum of an isolated mind. ~ Jaron Lanier,

57:The author holds up for inspection the fallacy of The Closed-Door Method wherein Christ's followers assume that if a decision is difficult to make it is not His will for us to make it because He would obviously not want us to do anything difficult. ~ David Platt,

58:When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long in disappointment and bitterness at the closed door that we do not expectantly look for and therefore see with pleasure and gratitude the one which has been opened for us. ~ Helen Keller,

59:I take back everything I ever said about that boy being clever." He turned around to face the bar while leveling an accusatory finger at the closed door. "That," he said firmly to the room in general, "is what comes of working with iron every day. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

60:President Obama spent Election Day away from any press coverage, attending closed-door meetings inside the White House. But on the bright side, it is nice to see some doors actually closed at the White House. It's a whole new Secret Service security thing. ~ Jimmy Fallon,

61:When the cardinal came to a closed door he would flatter it--oh beautiful yielding door! Then he would try tricking it open. And you are just the same, just the same." He pours himself some of the duke's present. "But in the last resort, you just kick it in. ~ Hilary Mantel,

62:At home in Dellacrosse my place in the world of college and Troy and incipient adulthood dissolved and I became an unseemly collection of jostling former selves. Snarkiness streaked through my voice, or sullenness drove me behind a closed door for hours at a time. ~ Lorrie Moore,

63:When somebody reaches the archetype in a dream, he has, so to speak, found the treasure, the key with which the closed door can then be opened, or a magic with which the dangerous situation can be exorcized. This fact was already known to the ancients in prehistoric times ~ Jung,

64:we've produced a generation of spiritual panhandlers, begging for coins of wisdom, banging like bums on every closed door...if an old man moves into a shack or a cave and lets his beard grow, people will flock from miles around just to read his "no trespassing" sign ~ Tom Robbins,

65:We barely made it inside her room before I pressed her up against the closed door and kissed her until she couldn't breathe, until I couldn't breathe-but who needed air when you had a silken tongue and warm lips and a body that begged to be licked, pinched, stroked. ~ Karina Halle,

66:Jasper stops me from leaving the room by placing his hand flat against the closed door, his body firm against my back, his arm around my waist.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you everything you want to know. If I were going to tell anyone, I’d tell you, darling. I swear I would. ~ M S Force,

67:He marveled at the poetry of Emily Dickinson, sensing her kindred spirit. For the last seventeen years of her life, Dickinson rarely left her home in Massachusetts and spoke to visitors only through a partially closed door. "Saying nothing, " she wrote, "sometimes says the most. ~ Michael Finkel,

68:All is nothing, and in the entrance hall to the Invisible, whose open door reveals merely a closed door beyond, all things dance, servants of the wind that stirs them without hands – all things, big and small, which for us and in us formed the perceptible system of the universe. ~ Fernando Pessoa,

69:I know that when a door closes, it can feel like all doors are closing. A rejection letter can feel like everyone will reject us. But a closed door leads to clarity. It's really an arrow. Because we cannot go through that door, we will go somewhere else. That somewhere else is your true life. ~ Tama J Kieves,

70:People like Jim [a defender of punch-down rape jokes] desperately want to believe that the engines of injustice run on outsized hate—stranger rapes in dark alleys, burning crosses and white hoods—but the reality is that indifference, bureaucracy, and closed-door snickers are far more plentiful fuels. ~ Lindy West,

71:The world is the closed door. It is a barrier. And at the same time it is the way through.

Two prisoners whose cells adjoin communicate with each other by knocking on the wall. The wall is the thing which separates them but it is also their means of communication. … Every separation is a link. ~ Simone Weil,

72:White Apples
when my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door
white apples and the taste of stone
if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes
~ Donald Hall,

73:Our goal in the '70s was to end the closed door era. There were so many things that were off limits to women, policing, firefighting, mining, piloting planes. And the stereotypical view of people of a world divided between home and child caring women and men as breadwinners, men representing the family outside the home. ~ Ruth Bader Ginsburg,

74:As he got off the bus, the butler escorted him over to the reinforced steel door, their footfalls echoing throughout the multi-layered concrete parking area. And then they were inside, proceeding down the long, wide corridor. When Peyton stopped in front of the closed door to Novo’s hospital room, Fritz bowed low and kept on going to his next duty ~ J R Ward,

75:What's next?" Stacey glanced down the intersecting hall at the closed door to Juniper's room, from which more harsh, angry music leaked out. Our options were to go talk to the moody teenage girl or go set up in the creepy attic where Toolie had heard strange thumps, crashes, and footsteps.
"The attic," I said. "It sounds easier than talking to the girl. ~ J L Bryan,

76:Sher just laughed, shaking her head in genuine bemusement. “Just think it through Ace. I’m sure the answer will come to you… eventually.”
Jake sat there in silence, staring at the closed door to Sher’s bedroom. What had just happened here?
Well, he’d just knocked back Sher’s invitation to have sex for starters.
Oh my God, what had he just done? ~ Jane Cousins,

77:Confident I remain, however, and I find myself hopeful as well -- if the world is wide enough for me to find someone, who knows what miracles lurk behind each and every closed door? Charles Thornfield and I are far from perfect; but we are perfect for each other, and perhaps in the end, our chains bind us more closely than anyone who has never been a prisoner can imagine. ~ Lyndsay Faye,

78:Confident I remain, however, and I find myself hopeful as well -- if the world is wide enough for me to find someone, who knows what miracles lurk behind each and every closed door? Charles Thornefield and I are far from perfect; but we are perfect for each other, and perhaps in the end, our chains bind us more closely than anyone who has never been a prisoner can imagine. ~ Lyndsay Faye,

79:Gradually I began to understand that it does not matter very much what problem, whether big or small, is tormenting us; the only thing that matters it that we be tormented, that we find a ground for being tormented. In other words, that we exercise our minds in order to keep certainty from turning us into idiots, that we fight to open every closed door we find in front of us. ~ Nikos Kazantzakis,

80:The closed door to the left of the hallway hid whatever room lay beyond it, but instead of walking farther into the house to see what the second right revealed, she shouted, “Magician Thane! Your guests are here and would greatly appreciate a real person at the door!”
“Miss Twill!” Mg. Aviosky said in a suppressed sort of hiss as the paper skeleton shut the front door. “Manners! ~ Charlie N Holmberg,

81:Before she could even blink, he grabbed the alcohol from Syn’s grasp and was gone. “Hey! You crippin’ bastard asshole…” Syn glared at the closed door before he rebelliously pulled a small flask out of his pocket and took another nip. Something she admired since she was sure Nemesis would have killed him for it had he seen it. This man was either braver then any soul alive. Or dumber. * ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

82:When the brook dries up because there is no rain, but you say, “Praise the Lord,” you bring great honor to God. Trust Him to show you the next step forward. He will. He is never too early, never too late, but always just on time. When God closes a door, He opens a window. Learn to accept the closed door and be prepared for the surprising window that will open. It opened for Elijah and it will open for you. ~ R T Kendall,

83:Hell is to be contemplated strictly as a matter which concerns me alone. As part of the spiritual life it belongs behind the 'closed door' of my own room. From the standpoint of living faith, I cannot fundamentally believe in anyone's damnation but my own; as far as my neighbor is concerned, the light of resurrection can never be so obscured that I would be allowed or obliged to stop hoping for him. ~ Hans Urs von Balthasar,

84:When I asked my father whether he thought that it was possible that his mother was raped behind that closed door, he said, "She had washer-woman knees. No one could possibly think of her as a sexual object. Besides," he explained, "she would have told my sisters, and they would have told me." I am not so sure. Maybe someone needed to ask her. Someone needed to want to know, to be able to hear the answer. (77) ~ Jessica Stern,

85:Dear God, surely you aren't the chef Sam was talking about?"
"No," he said with a laugh, and gestured behind him with a thumb. "Cale here is."
"Kale?" Alex echoed blankly, her eyes sliding to the still half-closed door. She didn't see any evidence of a second man. Frowning, she set the phone back in its receiver and leaned to the side, trying to see out into the kitchen as she muttered, "Kale is a vegetable. ~ Lynsay Sands,

86:I respect the social graces enormously. How to pass the food. Don't yell from one room to another. Don't go through a closed door without a knock. Open the doors for the ladies. All these millions of simple household behaviors make for a better life. We can't live in constant rebellion against our parents - it's just silly. I'm very well mannered. It's not an abstract thing. It's a shared language of expectations. ~ Jack Nicholson,

87:I attended a breakfast meeting with Fielding...half way through...the cork of nausea abruptly popped in my throat. I only just made it to the adjacent can, which was large and acoustical; my imitation of an exploding hippopotamus came through the closed door in full quadraphonic. I got one or two funny glances on my return ..and if I were them, I'd enjoy the spectacle. It does my poor ticker good to see someone really totalled. ~ Martin Amis,

88:Is Noah out here?” “Hold on,” Gansey told Adam. Then, to Ronan: “Why would he be?” “No reason. Just no reason.” Ronan slammed his door. Gansey asked Adam, “Sorry. You still have that suit for the party?” Adam’s response was buried in the sound of the second-story door falling open. Noah slouched in. In a wounded tone, he said, “He threw me out the window!” Ronan’s voice sang out from behind his closed door: “You’re already dead! ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

89:The hardest lesson is Clare’s solitude. Sometimes I come home and Clare seems kind of irritated; I’ve interrupted some train of thought, broken into the dreary silence of her day. Sometimes I see an expression on Clare’s face that is like a closed door. She has gone inside the room of her mind and is sitting there knitting or something. I’ve discovered that Clare likes to be alone. But when I return from time traveling she is always relieved to see me. ~ Audrey Niffenegger,

90:Having been faced with a dried-up brook—a closed door if there ever was one—Elijah needed a window. He got it: The Lord told him to go to Zarephath of Sidon where a widow would look after him. The ravens and the brook, then, were to be succeeded by a Gentile widow about a hundred miles away. Zarephath was outside Israel in Gentile territory. It turns out that God had been at work behind the scenes: “I have commanded a widow in that place to supply you with food. ~ R T Kendall,

91:That’s how Ptolemy imagined the disposition of his memories, his thoughts: they were still his, still in the range of his thinking, but they were, many and most of them, locked on the other side a closed door that he’s lost the key for. So his memory became like secrets held away from his own mind. But these secrets were noisy things; they babbled and muttered behind the door, and so if he listened closely he might catch a snatch of something he once knew well. ~ Walter Mosley,

92:Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to interrupt whatever you guys have going on here.” As Cameron turned bright red at the implication, Will slugged his brother’s arm. “Way to be subtle, asshat. We’re talking business, and you’ve already interrupted us so you may as well stay put.” “Chloe and I like to talk business, too,” Max said, waggling his brows. “That’s what got us into the current predicament.” Will gave Max a shove toward a closed door off the living room. ~ Marie Force,

93:Forget it." She turned to the closed door of the bathroom. "Forget I said anything. I take it back." Just as she pulled the door open, he was behind her, slamming it shut.
With one hand planted in front of her face, Max said next to her ear, "You can't take it back now."
"Yes, I can."
"No." He leaned his big body into her and shoved her against the door. "I heard you." His hot breath brushed her temple. "You love me Lola. I won't let you take it back. You can't ever take it back. ~ Rachel Gibson,

94:He's not in a very good mood," said Luke, pausing in front of a closed door. "I shut him up in Freaky Pete's office after he nearly killed half my pack with his bare hands. He wouldn't talk to me, so"—Luke shrugged—"I thought of you." He looked from Clary's baffled face to Simon's. "What?" "I can't believe he came here," Clary said. "I can't believe you know someone named Freaky Pete," said Simon. "I know a lot of people," said Luke. "Not that Freaky Pete is strictly people, but I'm hardly one to talk. ~ Cassandra Clare,

95:Violet handed the phone to Jay, who seemed remarkably composed considering they’d almost lost their closed-door privileges.
They’d lost them before, once when they were eight and Violet’s mom had walked in to find them playing a game of “I’ll show you mind, if you show me yours,” which at that point consisted of Violet flashing her flat-as-a-pancake chest at Jay. Her moment had come in while the bottom of Violet’s shirt was pulled up in front of her face. They never got far enough for him to show his. ~ Kimberly Derting,

96:You turn your back on yourself when you allow every closed door to stop you from moving on to the next one. Sometimes we choose to stand at a closed door and hope that it will somehow open, although that may defy logic and although we may know deep down that no goodness will come from it. We wait. We choose to wait. We choose to have hope, and we're always scared that the door will open the second we walk away. We claim ownership over what we do not have and fear losing it, although it really never was ours. ~ Najwa Zebian,

97:I take the search systematically, starting with the picture gallery, covering the south wing first, where there are a lot of public rooms. I don’t want to run around calling his name; but as I find myself pushing open the double doors that obviously lead to the family’s private quarters, I decide that, if I won’t call out for him, I’ll knock on every closed door. The last thing I want is to barge in on Luca doing something private and start this massively important conversation on a completely wrong note. ~ Lauren Henderson,

98:He's not in a very good mood," said Luke, pausing in front of a closed door. "I shut him up in Freaky Pete's office after he nearly killed half my pack with his bare hands. He wouldn't talk to me, so"—Luke shrugged—"I thought of you." He looked from Clary's baffled face to Simon's. "What?"
"I can't believe he came here," Clary said.
"I can't believe you know someone named Freaky Pete," said Simon.
"I know a lot of people," said Luke. "Not that Freaky Pete is strictly people, but I'm hardly one to talk. ~ Cassandra Clare,

99:Down the hall came the wife. She was glorious, burning. She didn't know yet that her husband was dead. We knew. That's what gave her such power over us. The doctor took her into a room with a desk at the end of the hall, and from under the closed door a slab of brilliance radiated as if, by some stupendous process, diamonds were being incinerated in there. What a pair of lungs! She shrieked as I imagined an eagle would shriek. It felt wonderful to be alive to hear it! I've gone looking for that feeling everywhere. ~ Denis Johnson,

100:Without warning, Packard reaches out--I think he's going to touch my cheek, but he slides his hand around the nape of my neck and pulls me to him, kissing me warm and strong, lips soft, breath like coffee. The kiss takes me by surprise. My whole body wants to follow deeper into him, but he pulls away, and we're looking into each other's eyes, and the moment stops. And everything seems to fall out beneath me.
"Good luck," he whispers.
"Packard--"
He opens the door. "It's okay."
I stare at the open door. It feels like a closed door. And I leave. ~ Carolyn Crane,

101:Closed door means knock," Elena said to Clay, shooing him out.
You've been in here for two hours," he said. "She can't need that much work." He frowned as he examined my outfit. "What the hell is she? A tree?"
"A dryad," Elena said, cuffing him in the arm.
"Oh, my god," Jamie said, surveying my outfit. "We forgot the bag!"
"Bag?" Clay said. "What does a dryad need with-"
"An evening bag," Cassandra said. "A purse."
"She's got a purse. It's right there on the bed."
"That's a day purse," Cassandra snapped.
"What, do they expire when the sun goes down? ~ Kelley Armstrong,

102:POGUE AND I stood outside the closed door to the outbuilding. I observed him closely for the first time. The head beneath that sandy hair was long, a predator’s skull. His features were pinched—they’d circled in on themselves—and a scar curved forward from his chin, short and narrow, from a knife, not shrapnel. He didn’t smile or offer much expression and I doubted that he ever did. No wedding ring, no jewelry. I noted remnants of stitching where insignias had been removed from his green jacket. I supposed that it was a personal favorite and that he’d had the garment for years. His ~ Jeffery Deaver,

103:It was a noisy household, full of children. Kev could hear them beyond the closed door of the room he had been put in. But there was something else... a faint, sweet presence nearby. He felt it hovering, outside the room, just out of his reach. And he yearned for it, hungered for relief from the darkness and fever and pain.
Amid the clamor of children bickering, laughing, singing, he heard a murmur that raised every hair on his body. A girl's voice. Lovely, soothing. He wanted her to come to him. He willed it as he lay there, his wounds mending with torturous slowness. Come to me... ~ Lisa Kleypas,

104:The Closed Door
_The dew falls and the stars fall,
The sun falls in the west,
But never more
Through the closed door,
Shall the one that I loved best
Return to me:
A salt tear is the sea,
All earth's air is a sigh,
But they never can mourn for me
With my heart's cry,
For the one that I loved best
Who caressed me with her eyes,
And every morning came to me,
With the beauty of sunrise,
Who was health and wealth and all,
Who never shall answer my call,
While the sun falls in the west,
The dew falls and the stars fall._
~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

105:Whiling away time between JATO tests in Muroc, California, today Edwards Air Force base, Walter Powell was playing with a toy airplane. Frank was curt with him: “Put away the toy, Walt. It’s not a playground.” Walter was furious. For the first few years their work had always had an element of play. Now things were changing. When Frank went back to his office, Walter couldn’t stop thinking about his rebuke. If Frank didn’t take him seriously, he would make him listen. He grabbed a hatchet and stood outside Frank’s office, holding it over his head. Letting out a yell, he brought the blade against the closed door. Once, twice, three times. Through ~ Nathalia Holt,

106:What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air. Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape. “I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant,” Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand. “I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping.” Ronan shrugged. “Perhaps for you.” “Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound? ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

107:I see that the wardrobe looks penetrable because it has a door. But when I open it, I see that penetration has been put off: since inside is also a wooden surface, like a closed door. Function of the wardrobe: to keep drag and disguises hidden. Nature: that of the inviolability of things. Relation to people: we look at ourselves in the mirror on the inside of the door, we always look at ourselves in an inconvenient light because the wardrobe is never in the right place: awkward, it stands wherever it fits, always huge, hunchbacked, shy and clumsy, unaware how to be more discreet, for it has too much presence. A wardrobe is enormous, intrusive, sad, kind. ~ Clarice Lispector,

108:Planting Bamboos
Unrewarded, my will to serve the State;
At my closed door autumn grasses grow.
What could I do to ease a rustic heart?
I planted bamboo, more than a hundred shoots.
When I see their beauty, as they grow by the stream-side,
I feel again as though I lived in the hills,
And many a time on public holidays
Round their railing I walk till night comes.
Do not say that their roots are still weak,
Do not say that their shade is still small;
Already I feel that both in garden and house
Day by day a fresher air moves.
But most I love, lying near the window-side,
to hear in their branches the sound of the autumn-wind.
~ Bai Juyi,

109:For weeks, really, I could conjure him into being. I'd imagine him walking in, soaked in sweat, having finished mowing the lawn, and he'd try to hug me but i'd squirm out from his arms because even then sweat freaked me out.
Or I'd be in my room, lying on my stomach, reading a book, and I'd look over at the closed door and imagine him opening it, and then he would be in the room with me, and I'd be looking up at him as he knelt down to kiss the top of my head.
And then it became harder to summon him, to smell his smell, to feel him lifting me up.
My father died suddenly, but also across the years. He was still dying, really—which meant I guess that he was still living, too. ~ John Green,

110:Ronan's bedroom door burst open. Hanging on the door frame, Ronan leaned out to peer past Gansey. He was doing that thing where he looked like both the dangerous Ronan he was now and the cheerier Ronan he had been when Gansey first met him.

"Hold on," Gansey told Adam. Then, to Ronan: "Why would he be?"

"No reason. Just no reason." Ronan slammed his door.

Gansey asked Adam, "Sorry. You still have that suit for the party?"

Adam's response was buried in the sound of the second-story door falling open. Noah slouched in. In a wounded tone, he said, "He threw me out the window!"

Ronan's voice sang out from behind his closed door: "You're already dead! ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

111:She has never been a pretty crier. She sobbed the way she did everything else - with passion and excess. That she had managed to keep it inside her this long was astounding to James. He thought of pushing open the half-closed door and kneeling before his wife, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and helping her upstairs. He raised his hand, stroking the wood of the door, planning to say something to calm her. But what wisdom could he offer Gus, when he could not even heed it himself? James walked upstairs again, got into bed, covered his head with a pillow. And hours later, when Gus crept beneath the sheets, he tried to pretend that he did not feel the weight of her grief, lying between them like a fitful child, so solid that he could not reach past it to touch her. ~ Jodi Picoult,

112:If TV sitcoms idealized the American suburbs of the 1960s, the works of the artistic elite disparaged them ceaselessly, then and now. The songs of Pete Seeger, novels like Revolutionary Road, the stories of John Cheever, movies like Pleasantville and American Beauty, television series like Mad Men: in all of them, that long-ago land of lawns and houses is depicted as a country of stultifying conformity and cultural emptiness, sexual hypocrisy, alcoholism, and spiritual despair. Privilege murders the senses there, the creatives tell us. Gender roles strangle freedom. Family life turns the heart of adventure to ashes. There’s bigotry and gossip and dangerous liaisons behind every closed door. Oh, the soul, the human soul! In the suburbs of fiction, she is forever dying. But ~ Andrew Klavan,

113:The company’s other primary commitment—to radical transparency—goes much deeper than the glass office walls. Every meeting is recorded, and (unless proprietary client information is discussed) every recording is available to every member of the organization. Each office and meeting room is equipped with audio recording technology. For example, if your boss and your boss’s boss are discussing your performance and you weren’t invited to the meeting, the recording is available for you to review. And you don’t have to scour every audio file to find out whether you were the subject of a closed-door conversation. If your name came up, you’re likely to be given a heads-up, just so that you will review the file. In effect, there is no such thing as a closed-door conversation; everything is part of a “historical record of what is true. ~ Robert Kegan,

114:The bed sank as Amar sat beside me. Warm fingertips trailed across my cheek, brushing the hair from my forehead and sending sparks of light up my spine. His lips grazed my temples.
“Soon, jaani.”
I waited until his footsteps echoed outside before squinting around the room. Without him, it seemed colder. I retraced his touch lightly, careful to avoid smudging the imprint of his lips against my skin. He had called me jaani--“my life.” I stared at the closed door. Where his skin touched mine felt burnished, hallowed by the words he left hanging in the air. Jaani jaani jaani. I wanted him to say it again. I wanted him to say it closer to my ear, my neck…my lips.
But the surge of warmth faded as the memory of my dream prickled behind my eyes.
Magic was not the only coaxing, dangerous thing around me. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

115:A trickle of blood came out under the door, crossed the living room, went out into the street, continued on in a straight line across the uneven terraces, went down steps and climbed over curbs, passed along the Street of the Turks, turned a corner to the right and another to the left, made a right angle at the Buendía house, went in under the closed door, crossed through the parlor, hugging the walls so as not to stain the rugs, went on to the other living room, made a wide curve to avoid the dining-room table, went along the porch with the begonias, and passed without being seen under Amaranta's chair as she gave an arithmetic lesson to Aureliano José, and went through the pantry and came out in the kitchen, where Úrsula was getting ready to crack thirty-six eggs to make bread.

"Holy Mother of God!" Úrsula shouted. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,

116:Once upon a time, the great big world outside Bridgeton had seemed like Xanadu - miles of golden road lined with smiling people, waiting to usher me through hundreds of open doors. There was nothing out there but bright light and possibilities. There were big dreams of other places, other people, even other boys.
There had even, for two hours in April, been somebody else.
He was a glimpse of the future, where I would live and breath and love far, far away from this place. A future where behind a closed door, on Saturday mornings, a boy I hadn't met yet would wrap an arm around my waist and exhale damp heat into the curve of my neck. Where we would keep our eyes closed, pull the covers closer, burrow down and deeper to escape the nine-o'clock sunshine, and the sound of heavy breath echoing along the rusted steel confines of a pickup truck would be nothing but a memory. ~ Kat Rosenfield,

117:The door jerked open and he glowered at her. “What do you want?” “Hey! Why are you mad at me? I just want to talk to you.” “I don’t want to talk,” he said, pushing the door closed. With inexplicable courage, she put her booted foot in its path. “Then maybe you can listen.” “No!” he bellowed. “You’re not going to scare me!” she shouted at him. Then he roared like a wild animal. He bared his teeth, his eyes lit like there were gold flames in them, and the sound that came out of him was otherworldly. She jumped back, her eyes as wide as hubcaps. “Okay,” she said, putting up her hands, palms toward him. “Maybe you do scare me. A little.” His eyes narrowed to angry slits, and he slammed the door again. She yelled at the closed door. “But I’ve come too goddamn far and gone to too much goddamn trouble to be scared for long!” She kicked the closed door as hard as she could, then yelped and hopped around from the pain in her toes. It ~ Robyn Carr,

118:To-Morrow
The lighthouse shines across the sea;
The homing fieldfares sing for glee:
'Behold the shore!'
Alas for shattered wing and breast!
The lighthouse breakers make their nest,
And hedges bloom for them no more No more.
In their old church the lovers stand.
His wedding ring is on her hand,
All partings o'er.
Alas for mother still and cold
The babe her dead young arms enfold!
Her lover will know love no more No more.
What fate is this for birds and men?
The blue empyrean theirs - and then This fast-closed door.
One answers from his bended knee:
'Another morrow comes, saith he,
'A day that brings the night no more No more.'
Ah, happy one! Yet happier he
Who knows he knows not what will be;
Who has no lore
To read the runes of life and death,
But lives his best while he has breath,
And leaves with God the evermore The evermore.
~ Ada Cambridge,

119:Sometimes Valène dreamt of cataclysms and tempests, of whirlwinds that would carry the whole house off like a wisp of straw and display the infinite marvels of the solar system to its shipwrecked inhabitants; or that an unseen crack would run through the building from top to bottom, like a shiver, and with a long, deep, snapping sound it would open in two and be slowly swallowed up in an indescribable yawning chasm; then hordes would overrun it, bleary-eyed monsters, giant insects with steel mandibles, blind termites, great white worms with insatiable mouths: the wood would crumble, the stone would turn to sand, the cupboards would collapse under their own weight, all would return to dust. But no. Only these shabby squabbles over buckets and tubs, over matches and sinks. And behind that ever-closed door the morbid gloom of that slow revenge, that ponderous business of two senile monomaniacs churning over their feigned histories and their wretched traps and snares. ~ Georges Perec,

120:It’s the beating of my heart.
The way I lie awake, playing with shadows slowly climbing up my wall. The gentle moonlight slipping through my window and the sound of a lonely car somewhere far away, where I long to be too, I think. It’s the way I thought my restless wandering was over, that I’d found whatever I thought I had found, or wanted, or needed, and I started to collect my belongings. Build a home. Safe behind the comfort of these four walls and a closed door.
Because as much as I tried or pretended or imagined myself as a part of all the people out there,
I was still the one locking the door every night.
Turning off the phone and blowing out the candles so no one knew I was home.
’cause I was never really well around the expectations of my personality
and I wanted to keep to myself.
and because I haven’t been very impressed lately.
By people,
or places.
Or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind. ~ Charlotte Eriksson,

121:Carrie could not remember how long it was since some other person had cherished her. Had said, 'You look tired.' And, 'How about a little rest?' She had spent too many years being strong, looking after others and their problems...The day progressed, and through her window Carrie watched the weather and was glad she did not have to be out in it. Snow showers came and went; the sky was grey. From time to time she heard the faint keening of wind, whining around the old house. It was all rather cosy. She remembered as a child being ill, and in bed, and the awareness of others getting on with the business of day-to-day life without herself having to participate in any sort of way. Telephones rang, and someone else hurried to answer the call. Footsteps came and went; from behind the closed door, voices called and answered. Doors opened and shut. Towards noon, there came smells of cooking. Onions frying, or perhaps a pot of soup on the boil. The luxuries of self-indulgence, idleness, and total irresponsibility were all things that Carrie had long forgotten. ~ Rosamunde Pilcher,

122:She heard the door close as she examined the dog.
"You're looking much better," she told the animal. "Good enough that Jean-Marie might be able to take you outside to wash you. Oh, don't get up."
This last was said nervously as the dog climbed laboriously to his feet.
"Really, you shouldn't."
Eve watched wide-eyed as the animal staggered toward her.
"Sit back down, 'please,'" she said, arms raised, but the animal either didn't know what an order was or ignored hers. He walked unsteadily right to her as Eve glanced wildly toward the closed door, hoping that Jean-Marie would make a sudden, early reappearance.
And then the animal laid his big head on her knees.
"Oh," she said, for she had no idea what else to do. The dog was 'looking' at her with huge brown eyes, his forehead wrinkled up as though he was worried. His enormous drooping jowls were spread like a messy black skirt upon her lap, and the animal's triangular ears were back.
Actually it was rather adorable.
Hesitantly Eve laid her palm very gently on the beast's head.
Slowly the dog's tail swayed back and forth, and he gave a great sigh. ~ Elizabeth Hoyt,

123:This is the worst idea ever,” Lend shouted from behind the closed door as Arianna finished pinning my hair under a brunette wig.
“I’ve been having a lot of those lately, but one of us wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my most recent one.”
“Well, you look the part, at least,” Arianna said, standing back to admire her handiwork. I was in a fitted, sleek black pantsuit with a blouse underneath. The blouse was white. I hated it already. That, combined with the too-dark hair and colored eyebrows making my tragically pale skin even white, and I was not loving life. Still, sacrifices had to be made.
Jack was lying on the bed with his head hanging over the side, his face slowly turning more and more red as the blood rushed to it. He looked phenomenally bored for someone about to break into a secret international high security facility.
I slipped into my favorite stilettos, took one step, and fell over. “Ouch.” Shaking off the shoes, I rubbed at my still-tender feet. The stilettos were so not happening. That did it. If I didn’t already want to destroy the Dark Queen, the fact that she had ruined my ability to wear high heels put her at the very top of my hit list. She was so going down. ~ Kiersten White,

124:
Sweet Mother, is the physical mind the same as the mechanical mind?

Almost. You see, there is just a little difference, but not much. The mechanical mind is still more stupid than the physical mind. The physical mind is what we spoke about one day, that which is never sure of anything.

I told you the story of the closed door, you remember. Well, that is the nature of the physical mind. The mechanical mind is at a lower level still, because it doesn't even listen to the possibility of a convincing reason, and this happens to everyone.

Usually we don't let it function, but it comes along repeating the same things, absolutely mechanically, without rhyme or reason, just like that. When some craze or other takes hold of it, it goes... For example, you see, if it fancies counting: "One, two, three, four", then it will go on: "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four." And you may think of all kinds of things, but it goes on: "One, two, three, four", like that... (Mother laughs.) Or it catches hold of three words, four words and repeats them and goes on repeating them; and unless one turns away with a certain violence and punches it soundly, telling it, "Keep quiet!", it continues in this way, indefinitely. ~ The Mother,

125:Where are you going this hot day, Mis’ DeJong?”

Selina sat up very straight. “To Bagdad, Mrs. Pool.”

“To — Where’s that? What for?”

“To sell my jewels, Mrs. Pool. And to see Aladdin, and Harun-al-Rashid and Ali Baba. And the Forty Thieves.”

Mrs. Pool had left her rocker and had come down the steps. The wagon creaked on past her gate. She took a step or two down the path, and called after them. “I never heard of it. Bag — How do you get there?”

Over her shoulder Selina called out from the wagon seat. “You just go until you come to a closed door. And you say ‘Open Sesame!’ and there you are.”

Bewilderment shadowed Mrs. Pool’s placid face. As the wagon lurched on down the road it was Selina who was smiling and Mrs. Pool who was serious.

The boy, round eyed, was looking up at his mother. “That’s out of Arabian Nights, what you said. Why did you say that?” Suddenly excitement tinged his voice. “That’s out of the book. Isn’t it? Isn’t it! We’re not really ——”

She was a little contrite, but not very. “Well, not really, perhaps. But ’most any place is Bagdad if you don’t know what will happen in it. And this is an adventure, isn’t it, that we’re going on? People in disguise in the Haymarket. Caliphs, and princes, and slaves, and thieves, and good fairies, and witches.”

“In the Haymarket! That Pop went to all the time! That is just dumb talk. ~ Edna Ferber,

126:You know about the ugliness in people. You showed me the pictures. You use all the sad, weak parts of a man, and God knows he has them. But you don’t know about the rest. You don’t believe I brought you the letter because I don’t want your money. You don’t believe I loved you. And the men who come to you here with their ugliness, the men in the pictures—you don’t believe those men could have goodness and beauty in them. You see only one side, and you think—more than that, you’re sure—that’s all there is. There’s a part of you missing. Some men can’t see the color green, but they may never know they can’t. I think you are only a part of a human. I can’t do anything about that. But I wonder whether you ever feel that something invisible is all around you. It would be horrible if you knew it was there and couldn’t see it or feel it.”

"Did you ever hear of hallucinations? If there are things I can’t see, don’t you think it’s possible that they are dreams manufactured in your own sick mind?”

“No, I don’t,” said Adam. “No, I don’t. And I don’t think you do either.” He turned and went out
and closed the door behind him.

Kate sat down and stared at the closed door. She was not aware that her fists beat softly on the white oilcloth. But she did know that the square white door was distorted by tears and that her body shook with something that felt like rage and also felt like sorrow. ~ John Steinbeck,

127:Or indeed when the desire to create and contemplate beauty manages to overcome reductionism through a kind of salvation which occurs in beauty and in those who behold it. An authentic humanity, calling for a new synthesis, seems to dwell in the midst of our technological culture, almost unnoticed, like a mist seeping gently beneath a closed door. Will the promise last, in spite of everything, with all that is authentic rising up in stubborn resistance? 113. There is also the fact that people no longer seem to believe in a happy future; they no longer have blind trust in a better tomorrow based on the present state of the world and our technical abilities. There is a growing awareness that scientific and technological progress cannot be equated with the progress of humanity and history, a growing sense that the way to a better future lies elsewhere. This is not to reject the possibilities which technology continues to offer us. But humanity has changed profoundly, and the accumulation of constant novelties exalts a superficiality which pulls us in one direction. It becomes difficult to pause and recover depth in life. If architecture reflects the spirit of an age, our megastructures and drab apartment blocks express the spirit of globalized technology, where a constant flood of new products coexists with a tedious monotony. Let us refuse to resign ourselves to this, and continue to wonder about the purpose and meaning of everything. ~ Pope Francis,

128:Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. (last lines) ~ Kate Chopin,

129:He cupped her face. “He’s an asshole. You’re better off without him. Let’s never speak of him again.”
She laughed. “Sorry. I’m tired and that guy demanding to find my husband because he was sleeping with his wife brought it all up for me again.”
“You were hit by a car, you had your past thrown in your face, it’s late, and you’re tired. Why don’t you go change, and I’ll sweep up the glass and take care of boarding up the window. If you give me your insurance information, I’ll call them first thing in the morning and start your claim and have a new sliding door put in as soon as possible.”
“You don’t have to do all that.”
“I want to. This wouldn’t have happened if not for my client. Let me do this. It’s the least I can do.”
“You’ll find the information in my office.” She pointed to the closed door off the living room. “Bottom drawer of the desk in the file marked insurance.” He smiled to lighten things and teased, “An organized woman. Dangerous creatures.”
“Yes, well, stay out of the other stuff. There be dragons with sharp teeth who’ll burn your ass for snooping through my papers.”
He laughed. “Not the trusting sort, are you?”
“I’ve been burned already.”
“I’m not out to hurt you, honey. Just help you.”
“You can’t be that good looking and not have some flaws.” Her cheeks blazed red.
He laughed again. “I’ve got plenty of flaws, but none that will bite you on the ass. Unless you want me to,” he teased. “Because it’s a fine ass, and I wouldn’t mind.”

-Owen & Claire ~ Jennifer Ryan,

130:back,” Daddy said. “It’ll work out.” He had no idea what to do about Helen. They spoke a completely different language. He was an old-timer who called school “schoolin”’ and called me “boy.” He had run off from Jim Crow in the South and felt that education, any education, was a privilege. Helen was far beyond that. Weeks passed, months, and Helen didn’t return. Finally Jack called. “I found her. She’s living with some crazy woman,” Jack said. She told Ma she didn’t know much about the lady other than that she wore a lot of scarves and used incense. Mommy got the address and went to the place herself. It was a dilapidated housing project near St. Nicholas Avenue, with junkies and winos standing out front. Mommy stepped past them and walked through a haze of reefer smoke and took the elevator to the eighth floor. She went to the apartment door and listened. There was music playing on a stereo inside, and the voice of someone on the phone. She knocked on the door. The stereo lowered. “Who is it?” someone asked. It sounded like Helen. “I’m here to see Helen,” Mommy said. Silence. “I know you’re there, Helen,” Mommy said. Silence. “Helen. I want you to come home. Whatever’s wrong we’ll fix. Just forget all of it and come on home.” From down the hallway, a doorway opened and a black woman watched in silence as the dark-haired, bowlegged white lady talked to the closed door. “Please come home, Helen.” The door had a peephole in it. The peephole slid back. A large black eye peered out. “Please come home, Helen. This is no place for you to be. Just come on home.” The peephole closed. ~ James McBride,

131:No matter how many times I read the novel, I am always moved by the scene in which the pastor empties the offering can in front of the congregation, begins to count the money, and tells them it is not enough. He reminds them that one of their own, Helen Robinson, needs help while her husband is in jail. He then closes the church doors and announces that no one will leave until they’ve collected ten dollars. I can honestly say I have never witnessed this in a church service, have never heard of it happening, and can’t even imagine it taking place in real life, but there is something so moving about the pastoral determination of the reverend. In the silence that follows, he begins to call out by name the churchgoers who have not contributed enough. Scout tells us that after several long and uncomfortable moments, the ten dollars are finally collected and the church doors are unlocked. How could you read this scene and not think that we need more pastors like Reverend Sykes of First Purchase Church? You can almost feel the discomfort of the closed door, the sweating, the heat of the room, the smell of perfume, the rhythm of people fanning themselves to stay cool, and Reverend Sykes’s eyes raking over each parishioner as he scans the sanctuary, determined to make sure that Helen Robinson can feed her family that week. Isn’t this the way church should work? Not a soul openly questions the reverend’s authority in this scene. They are set on caring for one another. This was the way the early church operated in caring for its own community: “And so it turned out that not a person among them was needy. Those who owned fields or houses sold them and brought the price of the sale to the apostles and made an offering of it. The apostles then distributed it according to each person’s need” (Acts 4:34–35 MSG). ~ Matt Litton,

132:And now this mofiient also had come and gone. The dark-
red sun still hung, round as a ball, above the blue snowdrifts
on the skyline, and the snowy plain greedily sucked in its
juicy pineapple light, when the sleigh swept into sight and
vanished. “ Good-bye, Lara, until we meet in the next world,

AGAIN YARYKINO 441

good-bye, my Icwe, my inexhaustible, everlasting joy. I’ll
never see you again. I’ll never, never see you again.’*

It was getting dark. Swiftly the bronze-red patches of
sunset on the ^low faded and went out. The soft, ashy dis-
tance filled with lilac dusk turning to deep mauve, and its
smoky haze smudged the fine tracery of the roadside birch^
lightly hand-drawn on the pink sky, pale as thou^ it had
sudd^y grown shallow.

Grief had sharpened Yury’s vision and quickened his per-
ception a hundredfold. The very air surrounding him seemed
unique. The evening breathed witness of all that had befallen him. As if there had never
been such a dusk before and evening were falling now for
the first time in order to console him in his loneliness and
bereavement. As if the valky were not always girded by
woods growing on the surrounding hills and facing away from
the horizon, but the trees had only taken up their places
now, rising out of the ground on purpose to offer their
condolences.

He almost waved away the tangible beauty of the hour like
a crowd of persistent friends, almost said to the lingering
afterglow: “Thank you, thank you, I’ll be all right.”

Still standing on the veranda, he turned his face to the
closed door, his back to the world. “ My bri^t sun has set
something was repeating this inside him, as if to learn it by
heart. He had not the strength to say these words out loud ~ Boris Pasternak,

133:I just . . . I just wanted to make sure you were . . . okay.”
He shoved away from the door as he took a long stride toward her, letting the door slam behind him. “I should be asking you the same thing,” he said, cringing, his voice filled with concern.
Violet knew how she looked. The bruise on her cheek had turned a strange combination of green, yellow, and purple. The swelling had gone down, but not enough for anyone else to notice. “I’m fine.” She hedged and then tried to shrug it off. “If you like bar-fight chic.”
His face darkened. “I wasn’t really talking about what’s on the outside.”
“You mean, like, it’s what’s on the inside that counts?”
Rafe grimaced, the ghost of a smile finding his lips. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds sort of . . .”
“Sweet?”
“I was gonna say lame. But, yeah, that works too.”
“Yeah? Well, you look . . .” She was going to say better, but she practically stumbled over the word. He looked anything but better. If she looked beat-up, he looked downright thrashed. Even behind the bandages, Violet could see scrapes and mottled skin. “Terrible. You look terrible.” She moved closer to him on the landing as he unlocked the closed door. “But better than the last time I saw you, I guess.”
Rafe tried to laugh, but winced and grabbed his ribs. “Damn, V, I wouldn’t plan on a career in nursing if I were you; your bedside manner stinks.” His eyes clouded over when he saw her stroking the black onyx hanging from around her neck. “Krystal?” he asked.
“For protection,” Violet clarified.
“Um, yeah, I got one too. Mine’s for healing.” He tugged at the silver chain around his neck. He held up an irregular-looking stone that had been tucked beneath his shirt. It was cloudy—opaque—and Violet wondered at the mystical qualities Krystal believed it possessed. “I meant it’s from Krystal. Right?”
“Oh, yeah . . . right.” She nodded, realizing she’d misunderstood his question. ~ Kimberly Derting,

134:Moments later, a particularly harsh scream came from above, followed by the thin, lusty wail of a child. Charles dropped his glass and bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time as he sprinted to his wife's aid. In his wake, Gareth and Lucien merely exchanged amused glances. "A girl," said Gareth. "I'll bet you ten pounds on it." "No, no, Gareth. It will be a boy. It has to be a boy. I hope to God it's a boy, since it seems that the next heir to Blackheath is going to have to come down through Charles, not me." "Come now, Luce, you have plenty of time to marry and get an heir of your own." Lucien arched a brow. "What, and put myself through the hell that you two go through every time you become a father? I think not . . ." Upstairs, Charles was running headlong down the corridor toward the closed door of Amy's room. Nerissa stood just outside, arms folded, barring his way. She saw his panicked face, his wild eyes, as from behind the door, the baby's wailing intensified. "Really, Charles. Are you all right?" "Never mind me, are they all right?!" His sister smiled with infuriating sweetness. "Why don't you go in and see for yourself?" He lunged for the door. Nerissa grabbed the handle, laughing. "Ah! Sedately, brother dear!" He willed himself to calm down, his hands, his body, his very nerves, shaking. His throat felt dry and he feared his knees were going to give out and he had to take several gulping breaths to get himself under control. Nerissa, smiling, opened the door. And there was Amy, propped up on pillows, her face pale, wan, exhausted — radiant. Juliet stood beside the bed, sponging her brow and grinning as the midwife wrapped the tiny, squalling bundle in a blanket and placed it on Amy's chest. The old woman raised her head as she saw the lord of Lynmouth standing there, looking as though the gods had just struck him to stone with a bolt of lightning. "Congratulations, m'lord. You 'ave a little girl." Charles ~ Danelle Harmon,

135:Maddie woke to the sound of loud, angry voices. Her head pounded, her nose was stuffy, and her swollen eyes hurt. She’d finally gotten to sleep, and now this. What was going on down there? She climbed out of bed and ran down the stairs to find her living room filled with people. They were all yelling. “Hey!” she called out, but nobody heard. She squinted. Was that Gracie? She must be dreaming. Suddenly, she was grabbed at the waist and a hand was clamped over her mouth. “Don’t distract them.” Mitch. She sagged with relief. He’d come for her. She hadn’t thought he would, but couldn’t deny that she’d hoped. With one big hand still pressed against her lips, he dragged her to the first closed door he saw and pulled it open, letting out a snarl when it was a packed closet. He shut it and moved down the dark hallway. She pointed to the left and he yanked them into the powder room, slamming the door closed behind them. He spun her around, hauled her to him by the shoulders and kissed her. It was a hot, wet, desperate kiss that left her dizzy. She grabbed for his shirt, tugging him close, sinking into his embrace. She savored each moment, not knowing if it would be their last. He tore away and shook her. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. Do you understand?” She blinked at him, then shoved him away. “You told me to leave.” “You weren’t supposed to listen!” he yelled, wrenching her back for another punishing kiss. When he released her, she said breathlessly, “How was I supposed to know?” There was a loud banging on the bathroom door. “Maddie, open up!” It was Sophie. Mitch growled. “For God’s sake.” “Go away, Soph!” Maddie yelled, pressing her finger to her temple. “Are you okay?” came Penelope’s soft but firm voice. “Something tells me I’m not their favorite person.” Mitch plastered a hand against the bathroom door as if he expected them to break it down. Maddie shrugged. “I might have cried a little.” “I’m sorry, Princess.” He brushed a finger over her cheek. “Forgive me.” “Leave ~ Jennifer Dawson,

136:Cam reached for her left hand. Taking the signet ring between his fingers, he drew it off easily and gave it to her. “Here. Although I’d rather you left it on.”
Amelia’s mouth fell open. She examined her hand, then the ring, and hesitantly pushed it back on the same finger. It slid over her knuckle and back again with ease. “How did you do that?”
“I helped you to relax.” He ran a coaxing hand along her spine. “Put it back on, Amelia.”
“I can’t. That would mean I’ve accepted your proposal, and I haven’t.”
Stretching like a cat, Cam rolled her flat again, his weight partially supported on his elbows. Amelia drew in a quick breath as she felt him still firm within her. “You can’t lie with me twice and then refuse to marry me.” Cam lowered his head to kiss her ear. “I’ll be ruined.” He worked his way to the soft place behind her earlobe. “And I’ll feel so cheap.”
Despite the seriousness of the matter, Amelia had to bite back a smile. “I’m doing you a great favor by refusing you. You’ll thank me for it someday.”
“I’ll thank you right now if you’ll put the damned ring back on.”
She shook her head.
Cam pushed a bit farther inside her, making her gasp. “What about my personal endowments? Who’s going to take care of them?”
“You can take care of them”— she squirmed to the side to set the ring on the bedside table—“ all by yourself.”
Cam moved with her obligingly. “It’s much more satisfying when you’re involved.”
As he reached to retrieve the ring, his body shifted higher in hers. She tensed in surprise. He felt harder inside her, thicker, his desire gaining new momentum. “Cam,” she protested, glancing at the closed door. She grabbed for his wrist, trying to keep his hand away from the ring. He grappled with her playfully, turning until they had completed a full revolution across the mattress and she was under him again.
He was rampantly aroused now, teasing her with slow lunges. Twisting beneath him, Amelia pushed at his dark head as he began to kiss her breasts. “But … we just finished…”
Cam lifted his head. “Roma,” he said, as if by way of explanation, and settled back over her. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

137:He had been right. Kestrel felt better the moment she opened her eyes. Her knee was sore and wrapped in a bandage, but the fevered swelling was gone, and a great deal of pain with it.
Her father was standing, his back to her as he looked out the dark window.
“You’d better release me from our bargain,” she said. “The military won’t take me now, not with a bad knee.”
He turned and echoed her faint smile. “Don’t you wish that were so,” he said. “Painful though it is, this isn’t a serious wound. You’ll be on your feet soon, and walking normally before a month’s out. There’s no permanent damage. If you doubt me and think I’m blinded by my hope to see you become an officer, the doctor will tell you the same thing. She’s in the sitting room.”
Kestrel looked at the closed door of her bedroom and wondered why the doctor wasn’t in the room with them now.
“I want to ask you something,” her father said. “I’d prefer she didn’t hear.”
Suddenly it seemed as if Kestrel’s heart, not her knee, was sore. That it had been cut into, and bled.
“What kind of deal did you make with Irex?” her father asked.
“What?”
He gave her a level look. “The duel was going badly for you. Then Irex held back, and you two seemed to have quite an interesting conversation. When the fighting resumed, it was as if Irex was a different person. He shouldn’t have lost to you--not like that, anyway--unless you said something to make him.”
She didn’t know how to respond. When her father had asked his question she was so horribly grateful he wasn’t probing into her reasons for the duel that she missed some of his words.
“Kestrel, I just want to make sure that you haven’t given Irex some kind of power over you.”
“No.” She sighed, disappointed that her father had seen through her victory. “If anything, he’s in my power.”
“Ah. Good. Will you tell me how?”
“I know a secret.”
“Very good. No, don’t tell me what it is. I don’t want to know.”
Kestrel looked at the fire. She let the flames hypnotize her eyes.
“Do you think I care how you won?” her father said softly. “You won. Your methods don’t matter.”
Kestrel thought about the Herran War. She thought about the suffering her father had brought to this country, and how his actions had led to her becoming a mistress, and Arin a slave. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do. ~ Marie Rutkoski,

138:I have to see you in daylight.” His mouth chased lightly, hungrily over her throat and shoulder. “Monisha, you are the most beautiful woman, the most…” His hands moved with increasing impatience, pulling hard at her clothes until a few stitches popped.
“Don’t, this dress doesn’t belong to me,” Amelia said anxiously, fumbling to unfasten the borrowed garments herself rather than have them torn. She froze at the sound of footsteps coming along the hallway, passing the closed door without stopping. Most likely it was a servant. But what if someone had seen her entering Cam’s room?… What if someone were searching for her at this very moment? “Cam, please, not now.”
“I’ll be gentle.” He lifted her from the circle of discarded clothes. “I know it’s soon after your first time.”
She shook her head as he laid her on the bed. Clenching the fabric of her chemise with both hands to keep it in place, she whispered, “No, it’s not that. Someone will find out. Someone will hear. Someone will—”
“Let go, hummingbird, so I can take this off you.” There was a flick of devil’s fire in his eyes as he said mildly, “Let go, or I’ll rip it.”
“Cam, don’t—”
She was interrupted by the sound of rending linen. He had torn it completely down the front, the fragile material drooping on either side of her.
“You’ve ruined it,” she said in disbelief. “How am I to explain this to the maid? And how am I to put my corset back on?”
Cam didn’t look at all apologetic as he pulled the remnants of the chemise away from her body. “Take off your drawers. Or I’ll have to rip those, too.”
“Oh, God.” Seeing no way to stop him, Amelia pulled the drawers down over her hips. “Lock the door,” she whispered with a scarlet face. “Please, please lock it.”
A quick smile passed over Cam’s mouth. He left the bed and went to the door, stripping off his jerkin and shirt along the way. After turning the key in the lock, he took his time about returning to the bed, seeming to enjoy the sight of her burrowing beneath the bed linens.
He stood before her half-naked, the breeches riding low on his hips. Amelia dragged her gaze away from the sleek, tightly muscled surface of his torso, and shivered between the cold layers of the bedclothes. “You’re putting me in a terrible position.”
Cam finished undressing and joined her beneath the covers. “I know other positions you’ll like much better. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

139:Are you a relative of her late husband?” the woman asked.
His eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“It must be so hard for her, pregnant and just widowed,” the middle-aged woman continued. “We’ve all done what we could to make her happy here. Mr. Johnson, the curator, is a widower himself. He’s already sweet on her. But you’re probably anxious to see Mrs. Peterson. Shall I ring her and let her know you’re coming?”
Tate’s eyes were blazing. “No,” he said with forced politeness. “I want to surprise her!”
He stalked out, leaving the rented vehicle where it was as he trudged through the small layer of snow and glared contemptuously at the cars sliding around in the street as they passed. This little bit of snow was nothing compared to the six-foot snowdrifts on the reservation. Southerners, he considered, must not get much winter precipitation if this little bit of white dust paralyzed traffic!
As for Cecily’s mythical dead husband, he considered, going up the walkway to the small brick structure where she lived, he was about to make a startling, resurrected appearance!
He knocked on the door and waited.
There was an irritated murmur beyond the closed door and the sound of a lock being unfastened. The door opened and a wan Cecily looked straight into his eyes.
He managed to get inside the screen door and catch her before she passed out.
She came to on the sofa with Tate sitting beside her, smoothing back her disheveled hair. The nausea climbed into her throat and, fortunately, stayed there. She looked at him with helpless delight, wishing she could hide what the sight of him was doing to her after so many empty, lonely weeks.
He didn’t speak. He touched her hair, her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, with fingers that seemed bent on memorizing her. Then his hands went to the robe carelessly fastened over her cotton nightdress and pushed it aside. He touched her belly, his face radiant as he registered the very visible and tangible signs of her condition.
“When did we make him?” he asked without preamble.
She felt her world dissolve. He knew about the baby. Of course. That was why he was here.
He met her eyes, found hostility and bitter disillusionment in them. His hand pressed down over her belly. “I would have come even if I hadn’t known about the baby,” he said at once.
“The baby is mine.”
“And mine.”
“Audrey is not getting her avaricious little hands on my child…! ~ Diana Palmer,

140:The night following the reading, Gansey woke up to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved.
Noah stood in the doorway to his room, his face pathetic and long-suffering. “Make it stop,” he said.
Ronan’s room was sacred, and yet here Gansey was, twice in the same weak, pushing the door open. He found the lamp on and Ronan hunched on the bed, wearing only boxers. Six months before, Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room. It was a peculiar tattoo, both vicious and lovely, and every time Gansey saw it, he saw something different in the pattern. Tonight, nestled in an inked glen of wicked, beautiful flowers, was a beak where before he’d seen a scythe.
The ragged sound cut through the apartment again.
“What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air.
Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape.
“I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant,” Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand.
“I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping.”
Ronan shrugged. “Perhaps for you.”
“Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound?”
In response, Ronan dipped the tweezers into a plastic baggy on the blanket in front of him. Gansey wasn’t certain he wanted to know what the gray substance was in the tweezers’ grasp. As soon as the raven heard the rustle of the bag, it made the ghastly sound again—a rasping squeal that became a gurgle as it slurped down the offering. At once, it inspired both Gansey’s compassion and his gag reflex.
“Well, this is not going to do,” he said. “You’re going to have to make it stop.”
“She has to be fed,” Ronan replied. The ravel gargled down another bite. This time it sounded a lot like vacuuming potato salad. “It’s only every two hours for the first six weeks.”
“Can’t you keep her downstairs?”
In reply, Ronan half-lifted the little bird toward him. “You tell me. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

141:I suppose… I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. But knowing what I do of your past… I assumed…”
Her lame attempt at an apology seemed to erode the remnants of Sebastian’s self-control. “Well, your assumption was wrong! If you haven’t yet noticed, I’m busier than the devil in a high wind, every minute of the day. I don’t have the damned time for a tumble. And if I did—” He stopped abruptly. All semblance of the elegant viscount Evie had once watched from afar in Lord Westcliff’s drawing room had vanished. He was rumpled and bruised and furious. And he wasn’t breathing at all well. “If I did—” He broke off again, a flush crossing the crests of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
Evie saw the exact moment when his self-restraint snapped. Alarm jolted through her, and she lurched toward the closed door. Before she had even made a step, she found herself seized and pinned against the wall by his body and hands. The smell of sweat-dampened linen and healthy, aroused male filled her nostrils.
Once he had caught her, Sebastian pressed his parted lips against the thin skin of her temple. His breath snagged. Another moment of stillness. Evie felt the electrifying touch of his tongue at the very tip of her eyebrow. He breathed against the tiny wet spot, a waft of hellfire that sent chills through her entire body. Slowly he brought his mouth to her ear, and traced the intricate inner edges.
His whisper seemed to come from the darkest recesses of her own mind. “If I did, Evie… then by now I would have shredded your clothes with my hands and teeth until you were naked. By now I would have pushed you down to the carpet, and put my hands beneath your breasts and lifted them up to my mouth. I would be kissing them… licking them… until the tips were like hard little berries, and then I would bite them so gently…”
Evie felt herself drift into a slow half swoon as he continued in a ragged murmur. “… I would kiss my way down to your thighs… inch by inch… and when I reached those sweet red curls, I would lick through them, deeper and deeper, until I found the little pearl of your clitoris… and I would rest my tongue on it until I felt it throb. I would circle it, and stroke it… I’d lick until you started to beg. And then I would suck you. But not hard. I wouldn’t be that kind. I would do it so lightly, so tenderly, that you would start screaming with the need to come… I would put my tongue inside you… taste you… eat you. I wouldn’t stop until your entire body was wet and shaking. And when I had tortured you enough, I would open your legs and come inside you, and take you… take you…”
Sebastian stopped, anchoring her against the wall while they both remained frozen, aroused, panting.
At length, he spoke in a nearly inaudible voice. “You’re wet, aren’t you?”
Had it been physically possible to blush any harder, Evie would have. Her skin burned with violated modesty as she understood what he was asking. She tipped her chin in the tiniest of nods.
“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything on this earth. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

142:Once again this unspeakable man had caused her to make a complete fool of herself, and the realization made her eyes blaze with renewed fury as she turned her head and looked at him.
Despite Ian’s apparent nonchalance he had been watching her closely, and he stiffened, sensing instinctively that she was suddenly and inexplicably angrier than before. He nodded to the gun, and when he spoke there was no more mockery in his voice; instead it was carefully neutral. “I think there are a few things you ought to consider before you use that.”
Though she had no intention of using it, Elizabeth listened attentively as he continued in that same helpful voice. “First of all, you’ll have to be very fast and very calm if you intend to shoot me and reload before Jake there gets to you. Second, I think it’s only fair to warn you that there’s going to be a great deal of blood all over the place. I’m not complaining, you understand, but I think it’s only right to warn you that you’re never again going to be able to wear that charming gown you have on.” Elizabeth felt her stomach lurch. “You’ll hang, of course,” he continued conversationally, “but that won’t be nearly as distressing as the scandal you’ll have to face first.”
Too disgusted with herself and with him to react to that last mocking remark, Elizabeth put her chin up and managed to say with great dignity, “I’ve had enough of this, Mr. Thornton. I did not think anything could equal your swinish behavior at our prior meetings, but you’ve managed to do it. Unfortunately, I am not so ill-bred as you and therefore have scruples against assaulting someone who is weaker than I, which is what I would be doing if I were to shoot an unarmed man. Lucinda, we are leaving,” she said, then she glanced back at her silent adversary, who’d taken a threatening step, and she shook her head, saying with extreme, mocking civility, “No, please-do not bother to see us out, sir, there’s no need. Besides, I wish to remember you just as you are at this moment-helpless and thwarted.” It was odd, but now, at the low point of her life, Elizabeth felt almost exhilarated because she was finally doing something to avenge her pride instead of meekly accepting her fate.
Lucinda had marched out onto the porch already, and Elizabeth tried to think of something to dissuade him from retrieving his gun when she threw it away outside. She decided to repeat his own advice, which she began to do as she backed away toward the door. “I know you’re loath to see us leave like this,” she said, her voice and her hand betraying a slight, fearful tremor. “However, before you consider coming after us, I beg you will take your own excellent advice and pause to consider if killing me is worth hanging for.”
Whirling on her heel, Elizabeth took one running step, then cried out in pained surprise as she was jerked off her feet and a hard blow to her forearm sent the gun flying to the floor at the same time her arm was yanked up and twisted behind her back. “Yes,” he said in an awful voice near her ear, “I actually think it would be worth it.”
Just when she thought her arm would surely snap, her captor gave her a hard shove that sent her stumbling headlong out into the yard, and the door slammed shut behind her.
“Well! I never,” Lucinda said, her bosom heaving with rage as she glowered at the closed door.
“Neither have I,” said Elizabeth, shaking dirt off her hem and deciding to retreat with as much dignity as possible. “We can talk about what a madman he is once we’re down the path, out of sight of the house. So if you’ll please take that end of the trunk?”
With a black look Lucinda complied, and they marched down the path, both of them concentrating on keeping their backs as straight as possible. ~ Judith McNaught,

143:Seasons Of The Soul
To the memory of John Peale Bishop, 1892-1944
Attor porsi la mano un poco avante,
e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno;
e U tronco suo gridd: Perchd mi schiante?
I. SUMMER
Summer, this is our flesh,
The body you let mature;
If now while the body is fresh
You take it, shall we give
The heart, lest heart endure
The mind's tattering
Blow of greedy claws?
Shall mind itself still live
If like a hunting king
It falls to the lion's jaws?
Under the summer's blast
The soul cannot endure
Unless by sleight or fast
It seize or deny its day
To make the eye secure.
Brothers-in-arms, remember
The hot wind dries and draws
With circular delay
The flesh, ash from the ember,
Into the summer's jaws.
It was a gentle sun
When, at the June solstice
Green France was overrun
With caterpillar feet.
No head knows where its rest is
Or may lie down with reason
When war's usurping claws
Shall take the heart escheatGreen field in burning season
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To stain the weevil's jaws.
The southern summer dies
Evenly in the fall:
We raise our tired eyes
Into a sky of glass,
Blue, empty, and tall
Without tail or head
Where burn the equal laws
For Balaam and his ass
Above the invalid dead,
Who cannot lift their jaws.
When was it that the summer
(Daylong a liquid light)
And a child, the new-comer,
Bathed in the same green spray,
Could neither guess the night?
The summer had no reason;
Then, like a primal cause
It had its timeless day
Before it kept the season
Of time's engaging jaws.
Two men of our summer world
Descended winding hell
And when their shadows curled
They fearfully confounded
The vast concluding shell:
Stopping, they saw in the narrow
Light a centaur pause
And gaze, then his astounded
Beard, with a notched arrow,
Part back upon his jaws.
II. AUTUMN
It had an autumn smell
And that was how I knew
That I was down a well:
I was no longer young;
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My lips were numb and blue,
The air was like fine sand
In a butcher's stall
Or pumice to the tongue:
And when I raised my hand
I stood in the empty hall.
The round ceiling was high
And the gray light like shale
Thin, crumbling, and dry:
No rug on the bare floor
Nor any carved detail
To which the eye could glide;
I counted along the wall
Door after closed door
Through which a shade might slide
To the cold and empty hall.
I will leave this house, I said,
There is the autumn weatherHere, nor living nor dead;
The lights burn in the town
Where men fear together.
Then on the bare floor,
But tiptoe lest I fall,
I walked years down
Towards the front door
At the end of the empty hall.
Two men of our summer world
Descended winding hell
And when their shadows curled
They fearfully confounded
The vast concluding shell:
Stopping, they saw in the narrow
Light a centaur pause
And gaze, then his astounded
Beard, with a notched arrow,
Part back upon his jaws,
It had an autumn smell
And that was how I knew
63
That I was down a well:
I was no longer young;
My lips were numb and blue,
The air was like fine sand
In a butcher's stall
Or pumice to the tongue:
And when I raised my hand
I stood in the empty hall.
The round ceiling was high
And the gray light like shale
Thin, crumbling, and dry:
No rug on the bare floor
Nor any carved detail
To which the eye could glide;
I counted along the wall
Door after closed door
Through which a shade might slide
To the cold and empty hall.
I will leave this house, I said,
There is the autumn weatherHere, nor living nor dead;
The lights burn in the town
Where men fear together.
Then on the bare floor,
But tiptoe lest I fall,
I walked years down
Towards the front door
At the end of the empty hall.
The door was false-no key
Or lock, and I was caught
In the house; yet I could see
I had been born to it
For miles of running brought
Me back where I began.
I saw now in the wall
A door open a slit
And a fat grizzled man
Come out into the hall:
64
As in a moonlit street
Men meeting are too shy
To check their hurried feet
But raise their eyes and squint
As through a needle's eye
Into the faceless gloom,My father in a gray shawl
Gave me an unseeing glint
And entered another room!
I stood in the empty hall
And watched them come and go
From one room to another,
Old men, old women slow,
Familiar; girls, boys;
I saw my downcast mother
Clad in her street-clothes,
Her blue eyes long and small.
Who had no look or voice
For him whose vision froze
Him in the empty hall.
III. WINTER
Goddess sea-born and bright,
Return into the sea
Where eddying twilight
Gathers upon your peopleCold goddess, hear our plea!
Leave the burnt earth, Venus,
For the drying God above,
Hanged in his windy steeple,
No longer bears for us
The living wound of love.
All the sea-gods are dead.
You, Venus, come home
To your salt maidenhead,
The tossed anonymous sea
Under shuddering foamShade for lovers, where
65
A shark swift as your dove
Shall pace our company
All night to nudge and tear
The livid wound of love.
And now the winter sea:
Within her hollow rind
What sleek facility
Of sea-conceited scop
To plumb the nether mind!
Eternal winters blow
Shivering flakes, and shove
Bodies that wheel and dropCold soot upon the snow
Their livid wound of love.
Beyond the undertow
The gray sea-foliage
Transpires a phosphor glow
Into the circular miles:
In the centre of his cage
The pacing animal
Surveys the jungle cove
And slicks his slithering wiles
To turn the venereal awl
In the livid wound of love.
Beyond the undertow
The rigid madrepore
Resists the winter's flowHeadless, unageing oak
That gives the leaf no more.
Wilfully as I stood
Within the thickest grove
I seized a branch, which broke;
I heard the speaking blood
(From the livid wound of love)
Drip down upon my toe:
'We are the men who died
Of self-inflicted woe,
Lovers whose stratagem
66
Led to their suicide.'
I touched my sanguine hair
And felt it drip above
Their brother who, like them,
Was maimed and did not bear
The living wound of love.
IV. SPRING
Irritable spring, infuse
Into the burning breast
Your combustible juice
That as a liquid soul
Shall be the body's guest
Who lights, but cannot stay
To comfort this unease
Which, like a dying coal,
Hastens the cooler day
Of the mother of silences.
Back in my native prime
I saw the orient corn
All space but no time,
Reaching for the sun
Of the land where I was born:
It was a pleasant land
Where even death could please
Us with an ancient punAll dying for the hand
Of the mother of silences.
In time of bloody war
Who will know the time?
Is it a new spring star
Within the timing chill,
Talking, or just a mime,
That rises in the bloodThin Jack-and-Jilling seas
Without the human will?
Its light is at the flood,
Mother of silences!
67
It burns us each alone
Whose burning arrogance
Burns up the rolling stone,
This earth-Platonic cave
Of vertiginous chance!
Come, tired Sisyphus,
Cover the cave's egress
Where light reveals the slave,
Who rests when sleeps with us
The mother of silences.
Come, old woman, save
Your sons who have gone down
Into the burning cave:
Come, mother, and lean
At the window with your son
And gaze through its light frame
These fifteen centuries
Upon the shirking scene
Where men, blind, go lame:
Then, mother of silences,
Speak, that we may hear;
Listen, while we confess
That we conceal our fear;
Regard us, while the eye
Discerns by sight or guess
Whether, as sheep foregather
Upon their crooked knees,
We have begun to die;
Whether your kindness, mother,
Is mother of silences.
~ Allen Tate,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

WORDNET

* WISDOM TROVE *

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *