classes ::: injunction, Christianity, shame,
children :::
branches ::: confession

bookmarks: Instances - Definitions - Quotes - Chapters - Wordnet - Webgen


object:confession
class:injunction
subject class:Christianity
class:shame

--- DEF
  

--- MERITS


--- NOTES
  I created this after recently adding "shame", there I touched briefly confession but a related question earned this a entry. I also recently tried to do a confession to the Mother but it was difficult, I am not sure if it was because of my state, or energy level, or fear? or.. some resistance? Since then the will to do it passed but it seemed really important so ill add that above.

  My youngest understanding of confession was the act in which one admits their sins to a Priest, or to repent. Then they give you a set of prayers for the child, me, to repeat. What utter nonsense. What use is saying the prayers as a child, perhaps for those who had stronger intuitive religious sense or something, but I have my doubts. I wonder if I did feel bad for them.. its possible.

--- QUESTIONS
  Before one can confess, what is required?
    Awareness of faults? or of sins?
    honesty? the will for change?
    why does one confess?
  what is it to confess?

see also :::

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


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

TOPICS
SEE ALSO


AUTH

BOOKS
Infinite_Library
Manual_of_Zen_Buddhism
Modern_Man_in_Search_of_a_Soul
On_the_Free_Choice_of_the_Will
The_Confessions_of_Saint_Augustine
The_Divine_Comedy
The_Imitation_of_Christ
The_Use_and_Abuse_of_History
The_Way_of_Perfection

IN CHAPTERS TITLE
1.jwvg_-_General_Confession
1.lb_-_Confessional
1.rb_-_Confessions
1.wby_-_A_First_Confession
1.wby_-_A_Last_Confession
1.whitman_-_O_Bitter_Sprig!_Confession_Sprig!

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
00.00_-_Publishers_Note
0.00_-_The_Book_of_Lies_Text
0.02_-_Letters_to_a_Sadhak
0.03_-_Letters_to_My_little_smile
0.06_-_Letters_to_a_Young_Sadhak
01.08_-_Walter_Hilton:_The_Scale_of_Perfection
0_1961-04-29
0_1963-07-03
0_1967-05-03
0_1967-08-26
0_1967-09-03
0_1968-07-20
0_1969-10-01
02.11_-_The_Kingdoms_and_Godheads_of_the_Greater_Mind
1.00_-_Introduction_to_Alchemy_of_Happiness
1.01_-_Archetypes_of_the_Collective_Unconscious
1.01_-_Principles_of_Practical_Psycho_therapy
10.23_-_Prayers_and_Meditations_of_the_Mother
1.02_-_MAPS_OF_MEANING_-_THREE_LEVELS_OF_ANALYSIS
1.02_-_Of_certain_spiritual_imperfections_which_beginners_have_with_respect_to_the_habit_of_pride.
1.02_-_On_the_Service_of_the_Soul
1.02_-_The_Three_European_Worlds
1.03_-_Invocation_of_Tara
1.03_-_Sympathetic_Magic
1.04_-_BOOK_THE_FOURTH
1.04_-_Magic_and_Religion
1.04_-_On_blessed_and_ever-memorable_obedience
1.04_-_On_Knowledge_of_the_Future_World.
1.04_-_THE_APPEARANCE_OF_ANOMALY_-_CHALLENGE_TO_THE_SHARED_MAP
1.05_-_Christ,_A_Symbol_of_the_Self
1.05_-_Problems_of_Modern_Psycho_therapy
1.05_-_THE_HOSTILE_BROTHERS_-_ARCHETYPES_OF_RESPONSE_TO_THE_UNKNOWN
1.06_-_Of_imperfections_with_respect_to_spiritual_gluttony.
1.07_-_A_STREET
1.07_-_On_mourning_which_causes_joy.
1.08_-_Psycho_therapy_Today
1.08_-_The_Historical_Significance_of_the_Fish
1.09_-_The_Ambivalence_of_the_Fish_Symbol
1.13_-_SALVATION,_DELIVERANCE,_ENLIGHTENMENT
1.14_-_Bibliography
1.16_-_MARTHAS_GARDEN
1.19_-_Tabooed_Acts
1.2.07_-_Surrender
1.23_-_Improvising_a_Temple
1.23_-_On_mad_price,_and,_in_the_same_Step,_on_unclean_and_blasphemous_thoughts.
1.24_-_On_meekness,_simplicity,_guilelessness_which_come_not_from_nature_but_from_habit,_and_about_malice.
1.25_-_The_Knot_of_Matter
1.26_-_Continues_the_description_of_a_method_for_recollecting_the_thoughts._Describes_means_of_doing_this._This_chapter_is_very_profitable_for_those_who_are_beginning_prayer.
1.26_-_On_discernment_of_thoughts,_passions_and_virtues
1.27_-_Describes_the_great_love_shown_us_by_the_Lord_in_the_first_words_of_the_Paternoster_and_the_great_importance_of_our_making_no_account_of_good_birth_if_we_truly_desire_to_be_the_daughters_of_God.
1.28_-_On_holy_and_blessed_prayer,_mother_of_virtues,_and_on_the_attitude_of_mind_and_body_in_prayer.
1.38_-_The_Myth_of_Osiris
1.4.03_-_The_Guru
1.51_-_How_to_Recognise_Masters,_Angels,_etc.,_and_how_they_Work
1.55_-_The_Transference_of_Evil
1.56_-_The_Public_Expulsion_of_Evils
1.59_-_Geomancy
1.67_-_The_External_Soul_in_Folk-Custom
1.70_-_Morality_1
1.73_-_Monsters,_Niggers,_Jews,_etc.
1.79_-_Progress
1.83_-_Epistola_Ultima
1912_11_02p
1954-06-30_-_Occultism_-_Religion_and_vital_beings_-_Mothers_knowledge_of_what_happens_in_the_Ashram_-_Asking_questions_to_Mother_-_Drawing_on_Mother
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Case_of_Charles_Dexter_Ward
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Haunter_of_the_Dark
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Last_Test
1f.lovecraft_-_Two_Black_Bottles
1.jk_-_On_Visiting_The_Tomb_Of_Burns
1.jk_-_Otho_The_Great_-_Act_I
1.jk_-_Otho_The_Great_-_Act_III
1.jwvg_-_General_Confession
1.lb_-_Confessional
1.pbs_-_Epipsychidion_-_Passages_Of_The_Poem,_Or_Connected_Therewith
1.pbs_-_The_Cenci_-_A_Tragedy_In_Five_Acts
1.rb_-_Aix_In_Provence
1.rb_-_Confessions
1.rb_-_Pauline,_A_Fragment_of_a_Question
1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_Fifth
1.rb_-_The_Glove
1.rb_-_The_Italian_In_England
1.wby_-_A_First_Confession
1.wby_-_A_Last_Confession
1.wby_-_A_Woman_Young_And_Old
1.wby_-_The_Three_Bushes
1.whitman_-_As_I_Lay_With_My_Head_in_Your_Lap,_Camerado
1.whitman_-_O_Bitter_Sprig!_Confession_Sprig!
1.whitman_-_Song_Of_The_Open_Road
1.whitman_-_Trickle,_Drops
1.ww_-_Book_Seventh_[Residence_in_London]
1.ww_-_The_Excursion-_IV-_Book_Third-_Despondency
1.ww_-_The_Horn_Of_Egremont_Castle
1.ww_-_The_Trosachs
2.00_-_BIBLIOGRAPHY
2.03_-_On_Medicine
2.04_-_Positive_Aspects_of_the_Mother-Complex
2.08_-_Victory_over_Falsehood
2.0_-_THE_ANTICHRIST
2.18_-_January_1939
2.2.3_-_Depression_and_Despondency
2.3.04_-_The_Mother's_Force
2.3.06_-_The_Mind
3.01_-_Forms_of_Rebirth
3.02_-_King_and_Queen
3.04_-_LUNA
3.09_-_Of_Silence_and_Secrecy
3.09_-_The_Return_of_the_Soul
3.12_-_Of_the_Bloody_Sacrifice
3.16.1_-_Of_the_Oath
33.01_-_The_Initiation_of_Swadeshi
33.03_-_Muraripukur_-_I
33.05_-_Muraripukur_-_II
33.11_-_Pondicherry_II
3_-_Commentaries_and_Annotated_Translations
4.03_-_Prayer_of_Quiet
6.08_-_Intellectual_Visions
6.0_-_Conscious,_Unconscious,_and_Individuation
6.10_-_THE_SELF_AND_THE_BOUNDS_OF_KNOWLEDGE
Aeneid
BOOK_I._-_Augustine_censures_the_pagans,_who_attributed_the_calamities_of_the_world,_and_especially_the_sack_of_Rome_by_the_Goths,_to_the_Christian_religion_and_its_prohibition_of_the_worship_of_the_gods
BOOK_II._-_A_review_of_the_calamities_suffered_by_the_Romans_before_the_time_of_Christ,_showing_that_their_gods_had_plunged_them_into_corruption_and_vice
BOOK_II._--_PART_I._ANTHROPOGENESIS.
BOOK_II._--_PART_III._ADDENDA._SCIENCE_AND_THE_SECRET_DOCTRINE_CONTRASTED
BOOK_II._--_PART_II._THE_ARCHAIC_SYMBOLISM_OF_THE_WORLD-RELIGIONS
BOOK_I._--_PART_I._COSMIC_EVOLUTION
BOOK_I._--_PART_III._SCIENCE_AND_THE_SECRET_DOCTRINE_CONTRASTED
BOOK_I._--_PART_II._THE_EVOLUTION_OF_SYMBOLISM_IN_ITS_APPROXIMATE_ORDER
BOOK_VII._-_Of_the_select_gods_of_the_civil_theology,_and_that_eternal_life_is_not_obtained_by_worshipping_them
BOOK_XIII._-_That_death_is_penal,_and_had_its_origin_in_Adam's_sin
BOOK_XIV._-_Of_the_punishment_and_results_of_mans_first_sin,_and_of_the_propagation_of_man_without_lust
BOOK_XIX._-_A_review_of_the_philosophical_opinions_regarding_the_Supreme_Good,_and_a_comparison_of_these_opinions_with_the_Christian_belief_regarding_happiness
BOOK_X._-_Porphyrys_doctrine_of_redemption
BOOK_XVIII._-_A_parallel_history_of_the_earthly_and_heavenly_cities_from_the_time_of_Abraham_to_the_end_of_the_world
BOOK_XVII._-_The_history_of_the_city_of_God_from_the_times_of_the_prophets_to_Christ
COSA_-_BOOK_I
COSA_-_BOOK_II
COSA_-_BOOK_III
COSA_-_BOOK_IV
COSA_-_BOOK_IX
COSA_-_BOOK_V
COSA_-_BOOK_VI
COSA_-_BOOK_VII
COSA_-_BOOK_VIII
COSA_-_BOOK_X
COSA_-_BOOK_XI
COSA_-_BOOK_XII
COSA_-_BOOK_XIII
ENNEAD_03.08b_-_Of_Nature,_Contemplation_and_Unity.
Liber_111_-_The_Book_of_Wisdom_-_LIBER_ALEPH_VEL_CXI
Liber_46_-_The_Key_of_the_Mysteries
MoM_References
Phaedo
Prayers_and_Meditations_by_Baha_u_llah_text
Symposium_translated_by_B_Jowett
Tablets_of_Baha_u_llah_text
Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_1
The_Act_of_Creation_text
The_Book_of_Joshua
The_Book_of_the_Prophet_Isaiah
The_Dream_of_a_Ridiculous_Man
The_Dwellings_of_the_Philosophers
The_Epistle_of_James
The_First_Epistle_of_Paul_to_Timothy
The_Gospel_According_to_Luke
The_Gospel_According_to_Mark
The_Letter_to_the_Hebrews
The_Pilgrims_Progress

PRIMARY CLASS

injunction
shame
SIMILAR TITLES
confession
The Confessions of Saint Augustine

DEFINITIONS


TERMS STARTING WITH

confessional ::: a small enclosed stall in which a priest hears confessions.

confessionalism ::: n. --> An exaggerated estimate of the importance of giving full assent to any particular formula of the Christian faith.

confessionalist ::: n. --> A priest hearing, or sitting to hear, confession.

confessional ::: n. --> The recess, seat, or inclosed place, where a priest sits to hear confessions; often a small structure furnished with a seat for the priest and with a window or aperture so that the penitent who is outside may whisper into the priest&

confessionary ::: n. --> A confessional. ::: a. --> Pertaining to auricular confession; as, a confessionary litany.

confessionist ::: n. --> One professing a certain faith.

confession ::: n. --> Acknowledgment; avowal, especially in a matter pertaining to one&

confession. See PAPADEsANA.

confession

CONFESSION. ::: Helps to purge the consciousness of ham- pering elements and clears the inner air and makes for a closer and more intimate relation between the Guru and the disciple.


TERMS ANYWHERE

3. confession of transgressions (S. pāpadesanā; T. sdig pa bshags pa; C. chanhui yezhang 懺悔業障)

acknowledgment ::: n. --> The act of acknowledging; admission; avowal; owning; confession.
The act of owning or recognized in a particular character or relationship; recognition as regards the existence, authority, truth, or genuineness.
The owning of a benefit received; courteous recognition; expression of thanks.
Something given or done in return for a favor,


admission ::: n. --> The act or practice of admitting.
Power or permission to enter; admittance; entrance; access; power to approach.
The granting of an argument or position not fully proved; the act of acknowledging something /serted; acknowledgment; concession.
Acquiescence or concurrence in a statement made by another, and distinguishable from a confession in that an admission


aniyata. (T. gzhan 'gyur; C. buding; J. fujo; K. pujong 不定). In Sanskrit and PAli, "undetermined" or "indeterminate"; the term has separate usages in both ABHIDHARMA and VINAYA materials. In the abhidharma analysis of mind, among the mental constituents (CAITTA, P. CETASIKA), "indeterminate" refers to mental factors that, depending on the intention of the agent, may be virtuous, nonvirtuous, or neutral. They are variously listed as four (in the YOGACARA hundred-dharmas list) or eight (in the seventy-five dharmas list of the SARVASTIVADA school) and include sleep (MIDDHA), contrition (KAUKṚTYA, which can be nonvirtuous when one regrets having done a good deed), applied thought or investigation (VITARKA), and sustained thought or analysis (VICARA). ¶ In the vinaya (rules of discipline), "undetermined" refers to a category of ecclesiastical offenses of "uncertain" gravity, which therefore must be evaluated by the SAMGHA in order to make a determination. Aniyata offenses are of two types and always concern the conduct of a monk toward a woman in either (1) private or (2) semiprivate situations. For the monk, even to place himself in such a potentially compromising situation is an offense, since it can arouse suspicion among the laity about the monk's intentions. After learning of such an offense, the saMgha must then determine the seriousness of the monk's offense by evaluating his conduct while in that situation. After due evaluation, his "undermined" offense will then be judged accordingly as one of three types: (1) PARAJIKA, or most grave, entailing "defeat"; (2) SAMGHAVAsEsA (P. sanghAdisesa), the second most serious category, entailing confession before the assembly and expiation; and (3) PAYATTIKA (P. pAcittiya), the least serious offense, requiring only confession.

approvement ::: n. --> Approbation.
a confession of guilt by a prisoner charged with treason or felony, together with an accusation of his accomplish and a giving evidence against them in order to obtain his own pardon. The term is no longer in use; it corresponded to what is now known as turning king&


Aufklärung: In general, this German word and its English equivalent Enlightenment denote the self-emancipation of man from mere authority, prejudice, convention and tradition, with an insistence on freer thinking about problems uncritically referred to these other agencies. According to Kant's famous definition "Enlightenment is the liberation of man from his self-caused state of minority, which is the incapacity of using one's understanding without the direction of another. This state of minority is caused when its source lies not in the lack of understanding, but in the lack of determination and courage to use it without the assistance of another" (Was ist Aufklärung? 1784). In its historical perspective, the Aufklärung refers to the cultural atmosphere and contrlbutions of the 18th century, especially in Germany, France and England [which affected also American thought with B. Franklin, T. Paine and the leaders of the Revolution]. It crystallized tendencies emphasized by the Renaissance, and quickened by modern scepticism and empiricism, and by the great scientific discoveries of the 17th century. This movement, which was represented by men of varying tendencies, gave an impetus to general learning, a more popular philosophy, empirical science, scriptural criticism, social and political thought. More especially, the word Aufklärung is applied to the German contributions to 18th century culture. In philosophy, its principal representatives are G. E. Lessing (1729-81) who believed in free speech and in a methodical criticism of religion, without being a free-thinker; H. S. Reimarus (1694-1768) who expounded a naturalistic philosophy and denied the supernatural origin of Christianity; Moses Mendelssohn (1729-86) who endeavoured to mitigate prejudices and developed a popular common-sense philosophy; Chr. Wolff (1679-1754), J. A. Eberhard (1739-1809) who followed the Leibnizian rationalism and criticized unsuccessfully Kant and Fichte; and J. G. Herder (1744-1803) who was best as an interpreter of others, but whose intuitional suggestions have borne fruit in the organic correlation of the sciences, and in questions of language in relation to human nature and to national character. The works of Kant and Goethe mark the culmination of the German Enlightenment. Cf. J. G. Hibben, Philosophy of the Enlightenment, 1910. --T.G. Augustinianism: The thought of St. Augustine of Hippo, and of his followers. Born in 354 at Tagaste in N. Africa, A. studied rhetoric in Carthage, taught that subject there and in Rome and Milan. Attracted successively to Manicheanism, Scepticism, and Neo-Platontsm, A. eventually found intellectual and moral peace with his conversion to Christianity in his thirty-fourth year. Returning to Africa, he established numerous monasteries, became a priest in 391, Bishop of Hippo in 395. Augustine wrote much: On Free Choice, Confessions, Literal Commentary on Genesis, On the Trinity, and City of God, are his most noted works. He died in 430.   St. Augustine's characteristic method, an inward empiricism which has little in common with later variants, starts from things without, proceeds within to the self, and moves upwards to God. These three poles of the Augustinian dialectic are polarized by his doctrine of moderate illuminism. An ontological illumination is required to explain the metaphysical structure of things. The truth of judgment demands a noetic illumination. A moral illumination is necessary in the order of willing; and so, too, an lllumination of art in the aesthetic order. Other illuminations which transcend the natural order do not come within the scope of philosophy; they provide the wisdoms of theology and mysticism. Every being is illuminated ontologically by number, form, unity and its derivatives, and order. A thing is what it is, in so far as it is more or less flooded by the light of these ontological constituents.   Sensation is necessary in order to know material substances. There is certainly an action of the external object on the body and a corresponding passion of the body, but, as the soul is superior to the body and can suffer nothing from its inferior, sensation must be an action, not a passion, of the soul. Sensation takes place only when the observing soul, dynamically on guard throughout the body, is vitally attentive to the changes suffered by the body. However, an adequate basis for the knowledge of intellectual truth is not found in sensation alone. In order to know, for example, that a body is multiple, the idea of unity must be present already, otherwise its multiplicity could not be recognized. If numbers are not drawn in by the bodily senses which perceive only the contingent and passing, is the mind the source of the unchanging and necessary truth of numbers? The mind of man is also contingent and mutable, and cannot give what it does not possess. As ideas are not innate, nor remembered from a previous existence of the soul, they can be accounted for only by an immutable source higher than the soul. In so far as man is endowed with an intellect, he is a being naturally illuminated by God, Who may be compared to an intelligible sun. The human intellect does not create the laws of thought; it finds them and submits to them. The immediate intuition of these normative rules does not carry any content, thus any trace of ontologism is avoided.   Things have forms because they have numbers, and they have being in so far as they possess form. The sufficient explanation of all formable, and hence changeable, things is an immutable and eternal form which is unrestricted in time and space. The forms or ideas of all things actually existing in the world are in the things themselves (as rationes seminales) and in the Divine Mind (as rationes aeternae). Nothing could exist without unity, for to be is no other than to be one. There is a unity proper to each level of being, a unity of the material individual and species, of the soul, and of that union of souls in the love of the same good, which union constitutes the city. Order, also, is ontologically imbibed by all beings. To tend to being is to tend to order; order secures being, disorder leads to non-being. Order is the distribution which allots things equal and unequal each to its own place and integrates an ensemble of parts in accordance with an end. Hence, peace is defined as the tranquillity of order. Just as things have their being from their forms, the order of parts, and their numerical relations, so too their beauty is not something superadded, but the shining out of all their intelligible co-ingredients.   S. Aurelii Augustini, Opera Omnia, Migne, PL 32-47; (a critical edition of some works will be found in the Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, Vienna). Gilson, E., Introd. a l'etude de s. Augustin, (Paris, 1931) contains very good bibliography up to 1927, pp. 309-331. Pope, H., St. Augustine of Hippo, (London, 1937). Chapman, E., St. Augustine's Philos. of Beauty, (N. Y., 1939). Figgis, J. N., The Political Aspects of St. Augustine's "City of God", (London, 1921). --E.C. Authenticity: In a general sense, genuineness, truth according to its title. It involves sometimes a direct and personal characteristic (Whitehead speaks of "authentic feelings").   This word also refers to problems of fundamental criticism involving title, tradition, authorship and evidence. These problems are vital in theology, and basic in scholarship with regard to the interpretation of texts and doctrines. --T.G. Authoritarianism: That theory of knowledge which maintains that the truth of any proposition is determined by the fact of its having been asserted by a certain esteemed individual or group of individuals. Cf. H. Newman, Grammar of Assent; C. S. Peirce, "Fixation of Belief," in Chance, Love and Logic, ed. M. R. Cohen. --A.C.B. Autistic thinking: Absorption in fanciful or wishful thinking without proper control by objective or factual material; day dreaming; undisciplined imagination. --A.C.B. Automaton Theory: Theory that a living organism may be considered a mere machine. See Automatism. Automatism: (Gr. automatos, self-moving) (a) In metaphysics: Theory that animal and human organisms are automata, that is to say, are machines governed by the laws of physics and mechanics. Automatism, as propounded by Descartes, considered the lower animals to be pure automata (Letter to Henry More, 1649) and man a machine controlled by a rational soul (Treatise on Man). Pure automatism for man as well as animals is advocated by La Mettrie (Man, a Machine, 1748). During the Nineteenth century, automatism, combined with epiphenomenalism, was advanced by Hodgson, Huxley and Clifford. (Cf. W. James, The Principles of Psychology, Vol. I, ch. V.) Behaviorism, of the extreme sort, is the most recent version of automatism (See Behaviorism).   (b) In psychology: Psychological automatism is the performance of apparently purposeful actions, like automatic writing without the superintendence of the conscious mind. L. C. Rosenfield, From Beast Machine to Man Machine, N. Y., 1941. --L.W. Automatism, Conscious: The automatism of Hodgson, Huxley, and Clifford which considers man a machine to which mind or consciousness is superadded; the mind of man is, however, causally ineffectual. See Automatism; Epiphenomenalism. --L.W. Autonomy: (Gr. autonomia, independence) Freedom consisting in self-determination and independence of all external constraint. See Freedom. Kant defines autonomy of the will as subjection of the will to its own law, the categorical imperative, in contrast to heteronomy, its subjection to a law or end outside the rational will. (Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals, § 2.) --L.W. Autonomy of ethics: A doctrine, usually propounded by intuitionists, that ethics is not a part of, and cannot be derived from, either metaphysics or any of the natural or social sciences. See Intuitionism, Metaphysical ethics, Naturalistic ethics. --W.K.F. Autonomy of the will: (in Kant's ethics) The freedom of the rational will to legislate to itself, which constitutes the basis for the autonomy of the moral law. --P.A.S. Autonymy: In the terminology introduced by Carnap, a word (phrase, symbol, expression) is autonymous if it is used as a name for itself --for the geometric shape, sound, etc. which it exemplifies, or for the word as a historical and grammatical unit. Autonymy is thus the same as the Scholastic suppositio matertalis (q. v.), although the viewpoint is different. --A.C. Autotelic: (from Gr. autos, self, and telos, end) Said of any absorbing activity engaged in for its own sake (cf. German Selbstzweck), such as higher mathematics, chess, etc. In aesthetics, applied to creative art and play which lack any conscious reference to the accomplishment of something useful. In the view of some, it may constitute something beneficent in itself of which the person following his art impulse (q.v.) or playing is unaware, thus approaching a heterotelic (q.v.) conception. --K.F.L. Avenarius, Richard: (1843-1896) German philosopher who expressed his thought in an elaborate and novel terminology in the hope of constructing a symbolic language for philosophy, like that of mathematics --the consequence of his Spinoza studies. As the most influential apostle of pure experience, the posltivistic motive reaches in him an extreme position. Insisting on the biologic and economic function of thought, he thought the true method of science is to cure speculative excesses by a return to pure experience devoid of all assumptions. Philosophy is the scientific effort to exclude from knowledge all ideas not included in the given. Its task is to expel all extraneous elements in the given. His uncritical use of the category of the given and the nominalistic view that logical relations are created rather than discovered by thought, leads him to banish not only animism but also all of the categories, substance, causality, etc., as inventions of the mind. Explaining the evolution and devolution of the problematization and deproblematization of numerous ideas, and aiming to give the natural history of problems, Avenarius sought to show physiologically, psychologically and historically under what conditions they emerge, are challenged and are solved. He hypothesized a System C, a bodily and central nervous system upon which consciousness depends. R-values are the stimuli received from the world of objects. E-values are the statements of experience. The brain changes that continually oscillate about an ideal point of balance are termed Vitalerhaltungsmaximum. The E-values are differentiated into elements, to which the sense-perceptions or the content of experience belong, and characters, to which belongs everything which psychology describes as feelings and attitudes. Avenarius describes in symbolic form a series of states from balance to balance, termed vital series, all describing a series of changes in System C. Inequalities in the vital balance give rise to vital differences. According to his theory there are two vital series. It assumes a series of brain changes because parallel series of conscious states can be observed. The independent vital series are physical, and the dependent vital series are psychological. The two together are practically covariants. In the case of a process as a dependent vital series three stages can be noted: first, the appearance of the problem, expressed as strain, restlessness, desire, fear, doubt, pain, repentance, delusion; the second, the continued effort and struggle to solve the problem; and finally, the appearance of the solution, characterized by abating anxiety, a feeling of triumph and enjoyment.   Corresponding to these three stages of the dependent series are three stages of the independent series: the appearance of the vital difference and a departure from balance in the System C, the continuance with an approximate vital difference, and lastly, the reduction of the vital difference to zero, the return to stability. By making room for dependent and independent experiences, he showed that physics regards experience as independent of the experiencing indlvidual, and psychology views experience as dependent upon the individual. He greatly influenced Mach and James (q.v.). See Avenarius, Empirio-criticism, Experience, pure. Main works: Kritik der reinen Erfahrung; Der menschliche Weltbegriff. --H.H. Averroes: (Mohammed ibn Roshd) Known to the Scholastics as The Commentator, and mentioned as the author of il gran commento by Dante (Inf. IV. 68) he was born 1126 at Cordova (Spain), studied theology, law, medicine, mathematics, and philosophy, became after having been judge in Sevilla and Cordova, physician to the khalifah Jaqub Jusuf, and charged with writing a commentary on the works of Aristotle. Al-mansur, Jusuf's successor, deprived him of his place because of accusations of unorthodoxy. He died 1198 in Morocco. Averroes is not so much an original philosopher as the author of a minute commentary on the whole works of Aristotle. His procedure was imitated later by Aquinas. In his interpretation of Aristotelian metaphysics Averroes teaches the coeternity of a universe created ex nihilo. This doctrine formed together with the notion of a numerical unity of the active intellect became one of the controversial points in the discussions between the followers of Albert-Thomas and the Latin Averroists. Averroes assumed that man possesses only a disposition for receiving the intellect coming from without; he identifies this disposition with the possible intellect which thus is not truly intellectual by nature. The notion of one intellect common to all men does away with the doctrine of personal immortality. Another doctrine which probably was emphasized more by the Latin Averroists (and by the adversaries among Averroes' contemporaries) is the famous statement about "two-fold truth", viz. that a proposition may be theologically true and philosophically false and vice versa. Averroes taught that religion expresses the (higher) philosophical truth by means of religious imagery; the "two-truth notion" came apparently into the Latin text through a misinterpretation on the part of the translators. The works of Averroes were one of the main sources of medieval Aristotelianlsm, before and even after the original texts had been translated. The interpretation the Latin Averroists found in their texts of the "Commentator" spread in spite of opposition and condemnation. See Averroism, Latin. Averroes, Opera, Venetiis, 1553. M. Horten, Die Metaphysik des Averroes, 1912. P. Mandonnet, Siger de Brabant et l'Averroisme Latin, 2d ed., Louvain, 1911. --R.A. Averroism, Latin: The commentaries on Aristotle written by Averroes (Ibn Roshd) in the 12th century became known to the Western scholars in translations by Michael Scottus, Hermannus Alemannus, and others at the beginning of the 13th century. Many works of Aristotle were also known first by such translations from Arabian texts, though there existed translations from the Greek originals at the same time (Grabmann). The Averroistic interpretation of Aristotle was held to be the true one by many; but already Albert the Great pointed out several notions which he felt to be incompatible with the principles of Christian philosophy, although he relied for the rest on the "Commentator" and apparently hardly used any other text. Aquinas, basing his studies mostly on a translation from the Greek texts, procured for him by William of Moerbecke, criticized the Averroistic interpretation in many points. But the teachings of the Commentator became the foundation for a whole school of philosophers, represented first by the Faculty of Arts at Paris. The most prominent of these scholars was Siger of Brabant. The philosophy of these men was condemned on March 7th, 1277 by Stephen Tempier, Bishop of Paris, after a first condemnation of Aristotelianism in 1210 had gradually come to be neglected. The 219 theses condemned in 1277, however, contain also some of Aquinas which later were generally recognized an orthodox. The Averroistic propositions which aroused the criticism of the ecclesiastic authorities and which had been opposed with great energy by Albert and Thomas refer mostly to the following points: The co-eternity of the created word; the numerical identity of the intellect in all men, the so-called two-fold-truth theory stating that a proposition may be philosophically true although theologically false. Regarding the first point Thomas argued that there is no philosophical proof, either for the co-eternity or against it; creation is an article of faith. The unity of intellect was rejected as incompatible with the true notion of person and with personal immortality. It is doubtful whether Averroes himself held the two-truths theory; it was, however, taught by the Latin Averroists who, notwithstanding the opposition of the Church and the Thomistic philosophers, gained a great influence and soon dominated many universities, especially in Italy. Thomas and his followers were convinced that they interpreted Aristotle correctly and that the Averroists were wrong; one has, however, to admit that certain passages in Aristotle allow for the Averroistic interpretation, especially in regard to the theory of intellect.   Lit.: P. Mandonnet, Siger de Brabant et l'Averroisme Latin au XIIIe Siecle, 2d. ed. Louvain, 1911; M. Grabmann, Forschungen über die lateinischen Aristotelesübersetzungen des XIII. Jahrhunderts, Münster 1916 (Beitr. z. Gesch. Phil. d. MA. Vol. 17, H. 5-6). --R.A. Avesta: See Zendavesta. Avicehron: (or Avencebrol, Salomon ibn Gabirol) The first Jewish philosopher in Spain, born in Malaga 1020, died about 1070, poet, philosopher, and moralist. His main work, Fons vitae, became influential and was much quoted by the Scholastics. It has been preserved only in the Latin translation by Gundissalinus. His doctrine of a spiritual substance individualizing also the pure spirits or separate forms was opposed by Aquinas already in his first treatise De ente, but found favor with the medieval Augustinians also later in the 13th century. He also teaches the necessity of a mediator between God and the created world; such a mediator he finds in the Divine Will proceeding from God and creating, conserving, and moving the world. His cosmogony shows a definitely Neo-Platonic shade and assumes a series of emanations. Cl. Baeumker, Avencebrolis Fons vitae. Beitr. z. Gesch. d. Philos. d. MA. 1892-1895, Vol. I. Joh. Wittman, Die Stellung des hl. Thomas von Aquino zu Avencebrol, ibid. 1900. Vol. III. --R.A. Avicenna: (Abu Ali al Hosain ibn Abdallah ibn Sina) Born 980 in the country of Bocchara, began to write in young years, left more than 100 works, taught in Ispahan, was physician to several Persian princes, and died at Hamadan in 1037. His fame as physician survived his influence as philosopher in the Occident. His medical works were printed still in the 17th century. His philosophy is contained in 18 vols. of a comprehensive encyclopedia, following the tradition of Al Kindi and Al Farabi. Logic, Physics, Mathematics and Metaphysics form the parts of this work. His philosophy is Aristotelian with noticeable Neo-Platonic influences. His doctrine of the universal existing ante res in God, in rebus as the universal nature of the particulars, and post res in the human mind by way of abstraction became a fundamental thesis of medieval Aristotelianism. He sharply distinguished between the logical and the ontological universal, denying to the latter the true nature of form in the composite. The principle of individuation is matter, eternally existent. Latin translations attributed to Avicenna the notion that existence is an accident to essence (see e.g. Guilelmus Parisiensis, De Universo). The process adopted by Avicenna was one of paraphrasis of the Aristotelian texts with many original thoughts interspersed. His works were translated into Latin by Dominicus Gundissalinus (Gondisalvi) with the assistance of Avendeath ibn Daud. This translation started, when it became more generally known, the "revival of Aristotle" at the end of the 12th and the beginning of the 13th century. Albert the Great and Aquinas professed, notwithstanding their critical attitude, a great admiration for Avicenna whom the Arabs used to call the "third Aristotle". But in the Orient, Avicenna's influence declined soon, overcome by the opposition of the orthodox theologians. Avicenna, Opera, Venetiis, 1495; l508; 1546. M. Horten, Das Buch der Genesung der Seele, eine philosophische Enzyklopaedie Avicenna's; XIII. Teil: Die Metaphysik. Halle a. S. 1907-1909. R. de Vaux, Notes et textes sur l'Avicennisme Latin, Bibl. Thomiste XX, Paris, 1934. --R.A. Avidya: (Skr.) Nescience; ignorance; the state of mind unaware of true reality; an equivalent of maya (q.v.); also a condition of pure awareness prior to the universal process of evolution through gradual differentiation into the elements and factors of knowledge. --K.F.L. Avyakta: (Skr.) "Unmanifest", descriptive of or standing for brahman (q.v.) in one of its or "his" aspects, symbolizing the superabundance of the creative principle, or designating the condition of the universe not yet become phenomenal (aja, unborn). --K.F.L. Awareness: Consciousness considered in its aspect of act; an act of attentive awareness such as the sensing of a color patch or the feeling of pain is distinguished from the content attended to, the sensed color patch, the felt pain. The psychologlcal theory of intentional act was advanced by F. Brentano (Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkte) and received its epistemological development by Meinong, Husserl, Moore, Laird and Broad. See Intentionalism. --L.W. Axiological: (Ger. axiologisch) In Husserl: Of or pertaining to value or theory of value (the latter term understood as including disvalue and value-indifference). --D.C. Axiological ethics: Any ethics which makes the theory of obligation entirely dependent on the theory of value, by making the determination of the rightness of an action wholly dependent on a consideration of the value or goodness of something, e.g. the action itself, its motive, or its consequences, actual or probable. Opposed to deontological ethics. See also teleological ethics. --W.K.F. Axiologic Realism: In metaphysics, theory that value as well as logic, qualities as well as relations, have their being and exist external to the mind and independently of it. Applicable to the philosophy of many though not all realists in the history of philosophy, from Plato to G. E. Moore, A. N. Whitehead, and N, Hartmann. --J.K.F. Axiology: (Gr. axios, of like value, worthy, and logos, account, reason, theory). Modern term for theory of value (the desired, preferred, good), investigation of its nature, criteria, and metaphysical status. Had its rise in Plato's theory of Forms or Ideas (Idea of the Good); was developed in Aristotle's Organon, Ethics, Poetics, and Metaphysics (Book Lambda). Stoics and Epicureans investigated the summum bonum. Christian philosophy (St. Thomas) built on Aristotle's identification of highest value with final cause in God as "a living being, eternal, most good."   In modern thought, apart from scholasticism and the system of Spinoza (Ethica, 1677), in which values are metaphysically grounded, the various values were investigated in separate sciences, until Kant's Critiques, in which the relations of knowledge to moral, aesthetic, and religious values were examined. In Hegel's idealism, morality, art, religion, and philosophy were made the capstone of his dialectic. R. H. Lotze "sought in that which should be the ground of that which is" (Metaphysik, 1879). Nineteenth century evolutionary theory, anthropology, sociology, psychology, and economics subjected value experience to empirical analysis, and stress was again laid on the diversity and relativity of value phenomena rather than on their unity and metaphysical nature. F. Nietzsche's Also Sprach Zarathustra (1883-1885) and Zur Genealogie der Moral (1887) aroused new interest in the nature of value. F. Brentano, Vom Ursprung sittlicher Erkenntnis (1889), identified value with love.   In the twentieth century the term axiology was apparently first applied by Paul Lapie (Logique de la volonte, 1902) and E. von Hartmann (Grundriss der Axiologie, 1908). Stimulated by Ehrenfels (System der Werttheorie, 1897), Meinong (Psychologisch-ethische Untersuchungen zur Werttheorie, 1894-1899), and Simmel (Philosophie des Geldes, 1900). W. M. Urban wrote the first systematic treatment of axiology in English (Valuation, 1909), phenomenological in method under J. M. Baldwin's influence. Meanwhile H. Münsterberg wrote a neo-Fichtean system of values (The Eternal Values, 1909).   Among important recent contributions are: B. Bosanquet, The Principle of Individuality and Value (1912), a free reinterpretation of Hegelianism; W. R. Sorley, Moral Values and the Idea of God (1918, 1921), defending a metaphysical theism; S. Alexander, Space, Time, and Deity (1920), realistic and naturalistic; N. Hartmann, Ethik (1926), detailed analysis of types and laws of value; R. B. Perry's magnum opus, General Theory of Value (1926), "its meaning and basic principles construed in terms of interest"; and J. Laird, The Idea of Value (1929), noteworthy for historical exposition. A naturalistic theory has been developed by J. Dewey (Theory of Valuation, 1939), for which "not only is science itself a value . . . but it is the supreme means of the valid determination of all valuations." A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth and Logic (1936) expounds the view of logical positivism that value is "nonsense." J. Hessen, Wertphilosophie (1937), provides an account of recent German axiology from a neo-scholastic standpoint.   The problems of axiology fall into four main groups, namely, those concerning (1) the nature of value, (2) the types of value, (3) the criterion of value, and (4) the metaphysical status of value.   (1) The nature of value experience. Is valuation fulfillment of desire (voluntarism: Spinoza, Ehrenfels), pleasure (hedonism: Epicurus, Bentham, Meinong), interest (Perry), preference (Martineau), pure rational will (formalism: Stoics, Kant, Royce), apprehension of tertiary qualities (Santayana), synoptic experience of the unity of personality (personalism: T. H. Green, Bowne), any experience that contributes to enhanced life (evolutionism: Nietzsche), or "the relation of things as means to the end or consequence actually reached" (pragmatism, instrumentalism: Dewey).   (2) The types of value. Most axiologists distinguish between intrinsic (consummatory) values (ends), prized for their own sake, and instrumental (contributory) values (means), which are causes (whether as economic goods or as natural events) of intrinsic values. Most intrinsic values are also instrumental to further value experience; some instrumental values are neutral or even disvaluable intrinsically. Commonly recognized as intrinsic values are the (morally) good, the true, the beautiful, and the holy. Values of play, of work, of association, and of bodily well-being are also acknowledged. Some (with Montague) question whether the true is properly to be regarded as a value, since some truth is disvaluable, some neutral; but love of truth, regardless of consequences, seems to establish the value of truth. There is disagreement about whether the holy (religious value) is a unique type (Schleiermacher, Otto), or an attitude toward other values (Kant, Höffding), or a combination of the two (Hocking). There is also disagreement about whether the variety of values is irreducible (pluralism) or whether all values are rationally related in a hierarchy or system (Plato, Hegel, Sorley), in which values interpenetrate or coalesce into a total experience.   (3) The criterion of value. The standard for testing values is influenced by both psychological and logical theory. Hedonists find the standard in the quantity of pleasure derived by the individual (Aristippus) or society (Bentham). Intuitionists appeal to an ultimate insight into preference (Martineau, Brentano). Some idealists recognize an objective system of rational norms or ideals as criterion (Plato, Windelband), while others lay more stress on rational wholeness and coherence (Hegel, Bosanquet, Paton) or inclusiveness (T. H. Green). Naturalists find biological survival or adjustment (Dewey) to be the standard. Despite differences, there is much in common in the results of the application of these criteria.   (4) The metaphysical status of value. What is the relation of values to the facts investigated by natural science (Koehler), of Sein to Sollen (Lotze, Rickert), of human experience of value to reality independent of man (Hegel, Pringle-Pattlson, Spaulding)? There are three main answers:   subjectivism (value is entirely dependent on and relative to human experience of it: so most hedonists, naturalists, positivists);   logical objectivism (values are logical essences or subsistences, independent of their being known, yet with no existential status or action in reality);   metaphysical objectivism (values   --or norms or ideals   --are integral, objective, and active constituents of the metaphysically real: so theists, absolutists, and certain realists and naturalists like S. Alexander and Wieman). --E.S.B. Axiom: See Mathematics. Axiomatic method: That method of constructing a deductive system consisting of deducing by specified rules all statements of the system save a given few from those given few, which are regarded as axioms or postulates of the system. See Mathematics. --C.A.B. Ayam atma brahma: (Skr.) "This self is brahman", famous quotation from Brhadaranyaka Upanishad 2.5.19, one of many alluding to the central theme of the Upanishads, i.e., the identity of the human and divine or cosmic. --K.F.L.

auricular ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to the ear, or to the sense of hearing; as, auricular nerves.
Told in the ear, i. e., told privately; as, auricular confession to the priest.
Recognized by the ear; known by the sense of hearing; as, auricular evidence.
Received by the ear; known by report.
Pertaining to the auricles of the heart.


confessional ::: a small enclosed stall in which a priest hears confessions.

confessionalism ::: n. --> An exaggerated estimate of the importance of giving full assent to any particular formula of the Christian faith.

confessionalist ::: n. --> A priest hearing, or sitting to hear, confession.

confessional ::: n. --> The recess, seat, or inclosed place, where a priest sits to hear confessions; often a small structure furnished with a seat for the priest and with a window or aperture so that the penitent who is outside may whisper into the priest&

confessionary ::: n. --> A confessional. ::: a. --> Pertaining to auricular confession; as, a confessionary litany.

confessionist ::: n. --> One professing a certain faith.

confession ::: n. --> Acknowledgment; avowal, especially in a matter pertaining to one&

confession. See PAPADEsANA.

confession

bodhisattvasaMvara. (T. byang chub sems dpa'i sdom pa; C. pusa jie; J. bosatsukai; K. posal kye 菩薩戒). In Sanskrit, lit. "restraints for the BODHISATTVA"; the "restraints," "precepts," or code of conduct (SAMVARA) for someone who has made the bodhisattva vow (BODHISATTVAPRAnIDHANA; PRAnIDHANA) to achieve buddhahood in order to liberate all beings from suffering. The mainstream moral codes for monastics that are recognized across all forms of Buddhism are listed in the PRATIMOKsA, which refers to rules of discipline that help adepts restrain themselves from all types of unwholesome conduct. With the rise of various groups that came to call themselves the MAHAYANA, different sets of moral codes developed. These are formulated, for example, in the BODHISATTVABHuMI and Candragomin's BodhisattvasaMvaraviMsaka, and in later Chinese apocrypha, such as the FANWANG JING. The mainstream prAtimoksa codes are set forth in the Bodhisattvabhumi as saMvarasīla, or "restraining precepts." These are the first of three types of bodhisattva morality, called the "three sets of restraints" (TRISAMVARA), which are systematized fully in Tibet in works like TSONG KHA PA's Byang chub gzhung lam. It seems that in the early MahAyAna, people publicly took the famous bodhisattva vow, promising to achieve buddhahood in order to liberate all beings. A more formal code of conduct developed later, derived from a number of sources, with categories of root infractions and secondary infractions. The bodhisattva precepts, however, could be taken equally by laypeople and monastics, men and women, and formal ceremonies for conferring the precepts are set forth in a number of MahAyAna treatises. In addition, there appear to have been ceremonies for the confession of infractions, modeled on the UPOsADHA rituals. Some of the precepts have to do with interpersonal relations, prescribing the kind of altruistic behavior that one might expect from a bodhisattva. Others are grander, such as the precept not to destroy cities, and appear to presuppose a code of conduct for kings or other important figures in society. There is also the suggestion that the bodhisattva precepts supersede the prAtimoksa precepts: one of the secondary infractions of the bodhisattva code is not to engage in killing, stealing, sexual misconduct, lying, divisive speech, harsh speech, or senseless speech when in fact it would be beneficial to do so. The great weight given to the precept not to reject the MahAyAna as being the word of the Buddha (BUDDHAVACANA) suggests that, throughout the history of the MahAyAna in India, there were concerns raised about the questionable origin of the MahAyAna sutras. With the rise of TANTRA, the "three restraints" (trisaMvara) of bodhisattva morality were refigured as the second of a new set of precepts, preceded by the prAtimoksa precepts and followed by the tantric vows. There was much discussion, especially in Tibetan SDOM GSUM (dom sum) literature, of the relationships among the three sets of restraints and of their compatibility with each other. ¶ Although there is much variation in the listings of bodhisattva precepts, according to one common list, the eighteen root infractions are: (1) to praise oneself and slander others out of attachment to profit or fame; (2) not to give one's wealth or the doctrine, out of miserliness, to those who suffer without protection; (3) to become enraged and condemn another, without listening to his or her apology; (4) to abandon the MahAyAna and teach a poor facsimile of its excellent doctrine; (5) to steal the wealth of the three jewels (RATNATRAYA); (6) to abandon the excellent doctrine; (7) to steal the saffron robes of a monk and beat, imprison, and or expel him from his life of renunciation, even if he has broken the moral code; (8) to commit the five deeds of immediate retribution (ANANTARYAKARMAN) i.e., patricide, matricide, killing an arhat, wounding a buddha, or causing dissent in the saMgha; (9) to hold wrong views; (10) to destroy cities and so forth; (11) to discuss emptiness (suNYATA) with sentient beings whose minds have not been trained; (12) to turn someone away from buddhahood and full enlightenment; (13) to cause someone to abandon completely the prAtimoksa precepts in order to practice the MahAyAna; (14) to believe that desire and so forth cannot be abandoned by the vehicle of the sRAVAKAs and to cause others to believe that view; (15) to claim falsely, "I have withstood the profound emptiness (sunyatA)"; (16) to impose fines on renunciates; to take donors and gifts away from the three jewels; (17) to cause meditators to give up the practice of sAMATHA; to take the resources of those on retreat and give them to reciters of texts; (18) to abandon the two types of BODHICITTA (the conventional and the ultimate). See also BODHISATTVAsĪLA.

Candragomin. (T. Btsun pa zla ba). Fifth-century CE Indian lay poet and grammarian, who made substantial contributions to Sanskrit grammar, founding what was known as the CAndra school. A junior contemporary of the great KAlidAsa, Candragomin was one of the most accomplished poets in the history of Indian Buddhism. His play LokAnanda, which tells the story of the BODHISATTVA king Manicuda, is the oldest extant Buddhist play and was widely performed in the centuries after its composition. He was a devotee of TARA and composed several works in her praise. Tibetan works describe him as a proponent of VIJNANAVADA who engaged in debate with CANDRAKĪRTI, but there is little philosophical content in his works that can be confidently ascribed to him. Among those works are the "Letter to a Disciple" (sisyalekha), the "Confessional Praise" (DesanAstava), and perhaps the "Twenty Verses on the Bodhisattva Precepts" (BodhisattvasaMvaraviMsaka).

cognizance ::: n. --> Apprehension by the understanding; perception; observation.
Recollection; recognition.
Jurisdiction, or the power given by law to hear and decide controversies.
The hearing a matter judicially.
An acknowledgment of a fine of lands and tenements or confession of a thing done.


Coleridge, Samuel Taylor: (1772-1834) Leading English poet of his generation along with his friend and associate, William Wordsworth. He was for a time a Unitarian preacher and his writings throughout display a keen interest in spiritual affairs. He was among the first to bring the German idealists to the attention of the English reading public. Of greatest philosophic interest among his prose works are Biographia Literaria, Aids to Reflection and Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit. His influence was greit upon his contemporaries and also upon the American transcendentalists. -- L.E.D.

confessary ::: n. --> One who makes a confession.

confessedly ::: adv. --> By confession; without denial.

confesser ::: n. --> One who makes a confession.

CONFESSION. ::: Helps to purge the consciousness of ham- pering elements and clears the inner air and makes for a closer and more intimate relation between the Guru and the disciple.

confessor ::: n. --> One who confesses; one who acknowledges a fault, or the truth of a charge, at the risk of suffering; specifically, one who confesses himself a follower of Christ and endures persecution for his faith.
A priest who hears the confessions of others and is authorized to grant them absolution.


confiteor ::: n. --> A form of prayer in which public confession of sins is made.

creed ::: 1. A formal statement of religious belief; a confession of faith. 2. Any system or codification of belief or of opinion. creeds.

creed ::: v. t. --> A definite summary of what is believed; esp., a summary of the articles of Christian faith; a confession of faith for public use; esp., one which is brief and comprehensive.
Any summary of principles or opinions professed or adhered to.
To believe; to credit.


denial ::: n. --> The act of gainsaying, refusing, or disowning; negation; -- the contrary of affirmation.
A refusal to admit the truth of a statement, charge, imputation, etc.; assertion of the untruth of a thing stated or maintained; a contradiction.
A refusal to grant; rejection of a request.
A refusal to acknowledge; disclaimer of connection with; disavowal; -- the contrary of confession; as, the denial of a fault


duskṛta. (P. dukkata; T. nyes byas; C. ezuo/tujiluo; J. akusa/tokira; K. akchak/tolgilla 惡作/突吉羅). In Sanskrit, "wrongdoing"; a general category for the least serious of ecclesiastical offenses; for this reason, the term is also rendered in Chinese as "minor misdeed" (xiaoguo) or "light fault" (qingguo). In some recensions of the VINAYA, such as the Pāli, wrongdoings are treated as a category supplementary to the eight general classifications of rules and regulations appearing in the monastic code of conduct (PRĀTIMOKsA). The eight are: (1) PĀRĀJIKA ("defeat," entailing expulsion from the order in some vinaya recensions); (2) SAMGHĀVAsEsA (requiring a formal meeting and temporary suspension from the order); (3) ANIYATA (undetermined or indefinite offenses); (4) NAIḤSARGIKAPĀYATTIKA (offenses entailing expiation and forfeiture); (5) PĀYATTIKA (offenses entailing confession and forfeiture); (6) PRATIDEsANĪYA (offenses that are to be publicly acknowledged); (7) sAIKsADHARMA (minor rules of training); and (8) ADHIKARAnA (rules for settling disputes). Other such supplementary categories include STHuLĀTYAYA (various grave, but unconsummated offenses), and DURBHĀsITA (mischievous talk). In such treatments, the duskṛta category typically is said to entail deliberate disobeying of any of the saiksadharma rules, which involve a whole range of possible transgressions of monastic decorum and public conduct, such as improperly wearing one's robes, misconduct during alms round (PIndAPĀTA), or incorrect toilet habits. In addition, failed attempts to break any of rules in the relatively minor categories of the pāyattika, or pratidesanīya are a duskṛta, while failed attempts to break the much more serious pārājika and saMghāvasesa rules are both a duskṛta and a sthulātyaya. Finally, various offenses that are not specifically treated in a formal rule in the prātimoksa may also be treated as a duskṛta, e.g., striking a layperson, which is not specifically enjoined in the prātimoksa, although striking a monk is. Other vinayas, however, such as the DHARMAGUPTAKA VINAYA (C. Sifen lü), list the duskṛta offenses as one of the five categories of precepts, along with pārājika, saMghāvasesa, pāyattika, and pratidesanīya; alternatively, the Dharmaguptaka vinaya also lists seven categories of precepts, which include the preceding five categories, plus stulātyaya and durbhāsita. In such categorizations, the duskṛta essentially replace the saiksadharma rules of other vinayas. These duskṛta offenses are typically said to be expiated through confession; more specifically, the Dharmaguptaka vinaya stipulates that a deliberate wrongdoing should be confessed to a single monk or nun, while an accidental case of wrongdoing may simply be repented in the mind of the offender. Similarly, the MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA VINAYA includes the 112 duskṛta in the 253 PRĀTIMOKsA rules recited during the UPOsADHA confession. In MAHĀYĀNA discussions of bodhisattva precepts (according to ASAnGA and others, these are a second set of precepts that supplement the prātimoksa rules but do not contradict them), all offenses except the eighteen involving defeat (pārājika) [alt. mulāpatti, T. rtsa ltung] are classified as "minor offenses" (C. qing gouzui; T. nyas byas), i.e., duskṛta. There are, for instance, forty-two types of duskṛta discussed in the BODHISATTVABHuMI (Pusa dichi jing), forty-eight in the FANWANG JING, and fifty in the Pusa shanjie jing. In tantric Buddhism, gross infractions (sthula) are any form of behavior that does not constitute defeat (mulāpatti), but are a weaker form of the infraction.

earshrift ::: n. --> A nickname for auricular confession; shrift.

extort ::: v. t. --> To wrest from an unwilling person by physical force, menace, duress, torture, or any undue or illegal exercise of power or ingenuity; to wrench away (from); to tear away; to wring (from); to exact; as, to extort contributions from the vanquished; to extort confessions of guilt; to extort a promise; to extort payment of a debt.
To get by the offense of extortion. See Extortion, 2. ::: v. i.


Fengfa yao. (J. Hohoyo; K. Pongpop yo 奉法要). In Chinese, "Essentials of Upholding the DHARMA," a short Buddhist catechism, composed by Xichao (336-377), a lay follower of the monk ZHI DUN, which is preserved in the HONGMING JI. The Fengfa yao provides a brief overview of a number of important doctrinal concepts and categories, such as the three refuges (TRIsARAnA), five precepts (PANCAsĪLA), fasting, six recollections (ANUSMṚTI), five rebirth destinies (GATI), five aggregates (SKANDHA), five hindrances (NĪVARAnA), six sense bases (INDRIYA), mind (CITTA), KARMAN, patient endurance (KsĀNTI), NIRLĀnA, six perfections (PĀRAMILĀ), FOUR NOBLE TRUTHS, confession, doing good works, etc. These notions are sometimes explained with reference to Daoist thought and historical and mythical events in China. As such, the Fengfa yao is an important source for studying the manner in which Buddhist doctrine was understood in early China.

formula ::: n. --> A prescribed or set form; an established rule; a fixed or conventional method in which anything is to be done, arranged, or said.
A written confession of faith; a formal statement of foctrines.
A rule or principle expressed in algebraic language; as, the binominal formula.
A prescription or recipe for the preparation of a medicinal compound.


gurudharma. (P. gurudhamma/garudhamma; T. lci ba'i chos; C. jingfa; J. kyoho; K. kyongbop 敬法). In Sanskrit, "weighty" or "deferential" "rules," a list of eight special precepts the Buddha issued as a condition of admitting women to the Buddhist order, which explicitly subordinates the BHIKsUNĪ to the BHIKsU SAMGHA. According to traditional accounts, the Buddha was initially reluctant to admit women into the order, for fear that their presence would exacerbate the decline of the dharma (see SADDHARMAVIPRALOPA; MOFA). It was only after the earnest pleas of his aunt and stepmother, MAHĀPRAJĀPATĪ GAUTAMĪ, and the continued requests of his attendant, ĀNANDA, that the Buddha is said to have relented and ordained his aunt as the first BHIKsUNĪ. (Ānanda's support for the ordination of women would be one of the charges brought against him at at the first Buddhist council (see COUNCIL, FIRST), following the Buddha's PARINIRVĀnA.) As a condition of ordination, however, the Buddha required that women would have to accept the following list of eight "deferential rules" (the lists vary slightly by VINAYA tradition): (1) Although seniority within the order of monks was based on the length of time since ordination (see JIELA), a nun who had been ordained for even a hundred years must rise and pay respects to a monk ordained for a day; (2) a nun must not spend the annual rains retreat (VARsĀ) in a place where there are no monks; (3) nuns must ask the order of monks for instruction in the dharma and for the appropriate time to hold the fortnightly confession assembly (UPOsADHA) (an alternative rendering of this rule says, "Every half month the nuns must request a monk to give them the exhortation to keep the eight rules, and they should ask him when the confession rite should be performed"); (4) after the rains retreat, a nun should perform the rite of confessing any infractions (PRAVĀRAnĀ) that they have seen, heard, or suspected to both the order of monks and the order of nuns; (5) a nun who has committed an important infraction, or who fails to comply with any of the gurudharmas, must submit to the MĀNATVA discipline of probationary penance from both orders before she is reinstated before a quorum of twenty monks and twenty nuns; (6) women are required to receive ordination in both orders, in contrast to men, who need only be ordained in the bhiksusaMgha (other lists add that a woman must train for a period of two years as a probationary postulant, or sIKsAMĀnĀ, before seeking her dual ordination); (7) a nun should never abuse or revile a monk in any way; and (8) although a monk may point out a nun's transgressions, it is forbidden for a nun ever to admonish a monk. Some modern Buddhist reform movements have advocated the repeal of the eight deferential precepts for exemplifying an outmoded and sexist model of monasticism.

  “He never laid claim to spiritual powers, but proved to have a right to such claim. He used to pass into a dead trance from thirty-seven to forty-nine hours without awakening, and then knew all he had to know, and demonstrated the fact by prophesying futurity and never making a mistake. It is he who prophesied before the Kings Louis XV. and XVI., and the unfortunate Marie Antoinette. Many were the still-living witnesses in the first quarter of this century who testified to his marvellous memory; he could read a paper in the morning and, though hardly glancing at it, could repeat its contents without missing one word days afterwards; he could write with two hands at once, the right hand writing a piece of poetry, the left a diplomatic paper of the greatest importance. He read sealed letters without touching them, while still in the hand of those who brought them to him. He was the greatest adept in transmuting metals, making gold and the most marvellous diamonds, an art, he said, he had learned from certain Brahmans in India, who taught him the artificial crystallisation (‘quickening’) of pure carbon. As our Brother Kenneth Mackenzie has it: — ‘In 1780, when on a visit to the French Ambassador to the Hague, he broke to pieces with a hammer a superb diamond of his own manufacture, the counterpart of which, also manufactured by himself, he had just before sold to a jeweller for 5500 louis d’or.’ He was the friend and confidant of Count Orloff in 1772 at Vienna, whom he had helped and saved in St. Petersburg in 1762, when concerned in the famous political conspiracies of that time; he also became intimate with Frederick the Great of Prussia. As a matter of course, he had numerous enemies, and therefore it is not to be wondered at if all the gossip invented about him is now attributed to his own confessions: e.g., that he was over five hundred years old; also, that he claimed personal intimacy ‘with the Saviour and his twelve Apostles, and that he had reproved Peter for his bad temper’ — the latter clashing somewhat in point of time with the former, if he had really claimed to be only five hundred years old. If he said that ‘he had been born in Chaldea and professed to possess the secrets of the Egyptian magicians and sage,’ he may have spoken truth without making any miraculous claim. There are Initiates, and not the highest either, who are placed in a condition to remember more than one of their past lives. But we have good reason to know that St. Germain could never have claimed ‘personal intimacy’ with the Saviour. However that may be, Count St. Germain was certainly the greatest Oriental Adept Europe has seen during the last centuries. But Europe knew him not. Perchance some may recognise him at the next Terreur, which will affect all Europe when it comes, and not one country alone” (TG 308-9).

honest ::: a. --> Decent; honorable; suitable; becoming.
Characterized by integrity or fairness and straight/forwardness in conduct, thought, speech, etc.; upright; just; equitable; trustworthy; truthful; sincere; free from fraud, guile, or duplicity; not false; -- said of persons and acts, and of things to which a moral quality is imputed; as, an honest judge or merchant; an honest statement; an honest bargain; an honest business; an honest book; an honest confession.


ingenuous ::: a. --> Of honorable extraction; freeborn; noble; as, ingenuous blood of birth.
Noble; generous; magnanimous; honorable; upright; high-minded; as, an ingenuous ardor or zeal.
Free from reserve, disguise, equivocation, or dissimulation; open; frank; as, an ingenuous man; an ingenuous declaration, confession, etc.
Ingenious.


In the Epistles, Paul speaks of death as created by man, adding that by man also shall death be overcome. “For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor 15:21-2). Paul, by his own confession, was in the habit of speaking in parables and veiling mysteries under exoteric doctrines; as his Christos was in all men, it is logical to infer that his Adam was equally generic.

Jacobites A Christian sect in 6th century Syria “which held that Christ had only one nature and that confession was not of divine origin. They had secret signs, passwords and a solemn initiation with mysteries” (TG 161).

kalpikāraka. (P. kappiyakāraka; T. rung ba byed pa; C. jingren; J. jonin; K. chongin 淨人). In Sanskrit, lit. "one who makes it appropriate," viz., "legalizer," referring to a lay "steward" or "surrogate"; one who receives donations on behalf of monks and converts them into appropriate requisites. Monks are forbidden to physically touch certain kinds of donated goods. The VINAYA rules entailing forfeiture and confession (NAIḤSARGIKAPĀYATTIKA; P. nissaggiyapācittiya), for example, prohibit monks from handling gold and silver, so a monk out on his daily alms round (PIndAPĀTA) would not be allowed to receive a monetary donation offered by a layperson. The kalpikāraka attending the monk would instead serve as his stand-in, receiving the money in the monk's stead and keeping it until such time as the monk required some necessity or requisite. The kalpikāraka would then use the money to purchase the required item on the monk's behalf. This is the only major ecclesiastical office that is held by a layman, not a monk. See also VAIYĀPṚTYA(KARA).

karman. (P. kamma; T. las; C. jiemo; J. katsuma/konma; K. kalma 羯磨). In Sanskrit, "ecclesiastical proceeding"; from the literal meaning of karman as an "act." (To distinguish karman as "action" from "ecclesiastical proceeding," the Chinese uses a translation for the former and a transcription for the latter.) Such proceedings include admission into the order as novices (pravrajyā, see PRAVRAJITA), full ordination of monks and nuns (UPASAMPADĀ), the fortnightly confession ceremony (UPOsADHA) for recitation of the PRĀTIMOKsA precepts, the invitation ceremony (PRAVĀRAnĀ) closing the rain's retreat (VARsĀ), giving cloth for robes (KAtHINA), the adjudication of rules, the administration of punishments to transgressors of the precepts, and the settlement of disputes among the clergy. At such formal proceedings, a motion is made before the congregation of monks that may be approved by silent assent (see JNAPTIDVITĪYĀ KARMAVĀCANĀ [P. Nattidutiyakammavācā]; KARMAVĀCANĀ). In responding to monks who have transgressed the precepts, for example, the VINAYA provides for seven different ecclesiastical proceedings, depending on the kind and severity of the infraction. They are reprimands; expulsion from the clergy; the appointment of an overseeing mentor (see ĀCĀRYA; ANTEVĀSIKA); temporary proscription against contact with the laity; confronting with incriminating evidence a suspect who refuses to confess; confronting an unrepentant transgressor with incriminating evidence; and correcting someone who intransigently holds on to the pernicious view that certain precepts are expendable. Distinguish KARMAN, "action," s.v.; see also SAMGHAKARMAN.

licentiate ::: n. --> One who has a license to exercise a profession; as, a licentiate in medicine or theology.
A friar authorized to receive confessions and grant absolution in all places, independently of the local clergy.
One who acts without restraint, or takes a liberty, as if having a license therefor.
On the continent of Europe, a university degree intermediate between that of bachelor and that of doctor.


Lutheranism: An ecclesiastical school of thought claiming Martin Luther (1483-1546) as its source and inspiration. See Reformation. The Protestant doctrine of salvation by faith, the free grace of God, wholly without earned merit and institutional sanctions, is emphasized. The essence of the church-community is held to revolve about the pure, revealed Word of God and the sacraments of baptism and communion. Varieties of Lutheranism range from a liberal acknowledgment of the Augsburg Confession of 1530 to a more strict adherence to the several Lutheran documents collectively known as the Book of Concord. -- V.F.

Mahākapphina. (P. Mahākappina; T. Ka pi na chen po; C. Mohejiebinna; J. Makakohinna; K. Mahagoppinna 摩訶劫賓那). Sanskrit proper name of an eminent ARHAT deemed by the Buddha foremost among those who taught monks. According to Pāli accounts (where he is referred to as Mahākappina), he was older than the Buddha and had been the king of a frontier kingdom whose capital was Kukkutavatī. His wife was a princess from the city of Sāgala named Anojā. Mahākappina was endowed with a great intellect and every day he sent messengers from his city to inquire if scholars were traveling through his realm. One day, merchants from Sāvatthi (S. sRĀVASTĪ) visited Kukkutavatī and told the king about the Buddha and his teachings. On hearing the news, the king was overjoyed and, presenting the travelers with a gift of thousands of coins, resolved to meet the Buddha himself. Setting out for Sāvatthi with his retinue, Mahākappina found his path blocked by three rivers. These he crossed by means of an "asseveration of truth" (see SATYAVACANA), in which he declared, "If this teacher indeed be a perfect buddha, let not even the hooves of my horses get wet." When the royal delegation approached the Buddha, he preached to them, whereupon all of them attained arhatship and entered the order. When Anojā and the other royal wives heard the news, they resolved to follow their husbands and enter the order as nuns. When the Buddha preached to the women they all attained stream-entry (P. sotāpanna; S. SROTAĀPANNA) and took ordination. Mahākappina used to spend his time in the bliss of meditative absorption (P. JHĀNA; S. DHYĀNA) and was wont to exclaim, "Oh joy, Oh joy." While dwelling at the Maddakucchi Deer Park, he wondered whether he needed to attend the fortnightly confessional (P. UPOSATHA; S. UPOsADHA). The Buddha, knowing his thoughts, appeared before him and instructed him to attend. Thinking Mahākappina too inactive, he instructed him to teach the dharma to others. Mahākappina complied, and by means of a single sermon a thousand recluses attained arhatship. In the Mahāyāna sutras, where he is known by his Sanskrit name, Mahākapphina, he is listed among the monks in audience for the preaching of the SUKHĀVATĪVYuHASuTRA.

pāpadesanā. [alt. pāpasodhana] (P. pāpadesanā; T. sdig pa bshags pa; C. chanhui; J. sange; K. ch'amhoe 懺悔). In Sanskrit, "confession of transgressions," "atonement"; the confession of unvirtuous deeds, either privately in the presence of a real or visualized representation of a buddha, or communally as part of a confession ceremony, such as the fortnightly monastic confession (S. UPOsADHA; P. uposatha). Such confession also figures as a standard component in many MAHĀYĀNA and tantric liturgies. The Mahāyāna also deployed a confessional ritual designed for people burdened with heavy karmic obstructions who wished swiftly to attain complete, perfect enlightenment (ANUTTARASAMYAKSAMBODHI); this ritual involved chanting the names of thirty-five buddhas of the ten directions (dasadigbuddha, see DAsADIs) and making offerings before images of them. Regardless of the setting, the tenor of confession practice is to make public something that has been hidden; there is no tradition in Buddhism of a priest offering absolution of sins. According to standard theory of KARMAN, the seeds of an unsalutary deed can be removed only through suffering the effects of that deed or through destroying the seed through wisdom (PRAJNĀ). However, there is a general view in the Buddhist ethical systems that the strength of an unwholesome deed, especially one of a less heinous nature, can be diminished through its declaration and revelation.

peccavi ::: --> I have sinned; -- used colloquially to express confession or acknowledgment of an offense.

penitencer ::: n. --> A priest who heard confession and enjoined penance in extraordinary cases.

penitential ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to penitence, or to penance; expressing penitence; of the nature of penance; as, the penitential book; penitential tears. ::: n. --> A book formerly used by priests hearing confessions, containing rules for the imposition of penances; -- called also

prahānasālā. (T. spong khang; C. chanfang; J. zenbo; K. sonpang 禪房/禪坊). In Sanskrit, lit. "hall for religious exertion"; a "meditation hall." Prescriptions as to how and why to build such a structure are found in various literary sources, but most often in the VINAYA. For example, in the MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA VINAYA, the Buddha orders a prahānasālā built so that monks will have some degree of privacy during their meditative practice. In the Abhisamācārikā Dharmāḥ, the Buddha lists the prahānasālā as an appropriate place for the bimonthly confession and recitation of precepts (UPOsADHA) and explains how the hall is to be maintained from day to day. See also SENGTANG.

pratidesanā. (P. patidesanā; T. so sor bshags pa; C. huiguo; J. keka; K. hoegwa 悔過). Often translated from Sanskrit as "confession," but meaning something closer to "disclosure" or "acknowledgment"; the practice of acknowledging one's misdeeds. It is the central practice of the fortnightly UPOsADHA rites, where monks and nuns "disclose" or "confess" their transgressions of the PRĀTIMOKsA precepts and is also an important part of MAHĀYĀNA liturgy, in which misdeeds are revealed during an additional recitation during the uposadha rites, or, in the absence of a community (SAMGHA), to an image of the buddha or to visualized buddhas. In the prātimoksa, the related term PRATIDEsANĪYA refers specifically to four infractions that need only be acknowledged.

pratidesanīya. (P. pātidesanīya; T. so sor bshags par bya ba; C. duishou/boluotitisheni; J. taishu/haradaidaishani; K. taesu/parajejesani 對首/波羅提提舍尼). In Sanskrit, lit., "entailing acknowledgment" or "disclosure"; a group of four ecclesiastical offenses related to the receiving and eating of food, which are to be disclosed to, or confessed before, another monk. These offenses include (1) receiving food from an unrelated nun in an uninhabited area, (2) not dismissing a nun who is giving orders while monks are eating, (3) consuming food received from a "family in training," that is, a family too poor to provide alms, and (4) consuming unsolicited food received in one's own residence in the wilderness while one is not ill. In certain recensions of the PRĀTIMOKsA, such as the Pāli and MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA, the offenses entailing acknowledgment form a separate category of transgressions from other misdeeds that require confession, in that the words used in acknowledging the violation are specifically prescribed for these four rules.

prātimoksa. (P. pātimokkha; T. so sor thar pa; C. boluotimucha; J. haradaimokusha; K. parajemokch'a 波羅提木叉). In Sanskrit, "code" or "rules," referring to a disciplinary code of conduct (of which there are several versions) for fully ordained monks (BHIKsU) and nuns (BHIKsUnĪ), or a text that sets forth that code, which probably constitutes the oldest part of the various Buddhist VINAYAs. The pre-Buddhist denotation of prātimoksa is uncertain, and may perhaps mean a promise that is to be redeemed; the Buddhist etymologies seem to indicate a "binding obligation" and, by extension, a monastic regulation. Indian Buddhist schools tended to define themselves in terms of the particular monastic code to which they adhered, and differences in the interpretation of the rules of conduct resulted in the convening of councils (SAMGĪTI) to adjudicate such differences and, ultimately, in the schisms that produced the various mainstream Buddhist schools. Several different recensions of the prātimoksa are extant, but there are three main lineages followed within the Buddhist tradition today: the THERAVĀDA pātimokkha followed in Sri Lankan and Southeast Asian Buddhism; the DHARMAGUPTAKA prātimoksa followed in Chinese and Korean Buddhism; and the MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA prātimoksa followed in Tibetan Buddhism. Despite divergences in the numbers of rules listed in these codes (the Theravāda, for example, has 227 rules for bhiksus, the Dharmaguptaka 250, and the Mulasarvāstivāda 253, and all have considerably more rules for bhiksunī), there is substantial agreement among the prātimoksa of the various mainstream Buddhist schools. They are all similarly structured, with separate codes for monks and nuns, enumerating a set of categories of transgressions: (1) PĀRĀJIKA transgressions of ethical expectations that were so serious as to bring "defeat" and in some vinaya traditions to require expulsion from the order, e.g., engaging in sexual intercourse and murder; (2) SAMGHĀVAsEsA, transgressions entailing temporary suspension from the order, such as masturbation, acting as a go-between for sexual liaisons, or attempting to cause schism in the order (SAMGHABHEDA); (3) ANIYATA, undetermined cases exclusive to monks who are found with women, which require investigation by the saMgha; (4) NAIḤSARGIKAPĀYATTIKA, transgressions requiring confession and forfeiture of a prohibited object, such as hoarding excessive numbers of robes (CĪVARA), begging bowls (PĀTRA), and medicine, or keeping gold and silver; (5) PĀYATTIKA, transgressions that can be expiated through confession alone, such as lying; (6) PRATIDEsANĪYA, minor transgressions to be acknowledged, related to receiving and eating food, which were to be confessed; (7) sAIKsA, minor training rules governing monastic etiquette and deportment, such as not wearing robes sloppily or eating noisily, violations of which were called DUsKṚTA, lit. "bad actions." Both the bhiksu and bhiksunī prātimoksa also include (8) ADHIKARAnAsAMATHA, seven methods of resolving ecclesiastical disputes. Regardless of the school, the prātimoksa was recited separately during the fortnightly UPOsADHA ceremony by chapters of monks and nuns who gather inside a purified SĪMĀ boundary. All monks and nuns were expected to have confessed (see PĀPADEsANĀ) to any transgressions of the rules during the last fortnight prior to the recitation of the code, thus expiating them of that transgression. At the conclusion of the recitation of each category of transgression, the reciter questions the congregation as to whether the congregation is pure; silence indicates assent.

pray ::: n. & v. --> See Pry. ::: v. i. --> To make request with earnestness or zeal, as for something desired; to make entreaty or supplication; to offer prayer to a deity or divine being as a religious act; specifically, to address the Supreme Being with adoration, confession, supplication, and

pujā. (T. mchod pa; C. gongyang; J. kuyo; K. kongyang 供養). In Sanskrit, lit. "worship" and "offering"; any "ritual" at which offerings are made, or the offerings themselves. These offering rituals involve a number of standard liturgies, including those in three parts (TRISKANDHAKA) and seven parts (SAPTĀnGAVIDHI). In the MAHĀYĀNA, many pujās seem to derive from a simple three-part liturgy, which appeared in two forms. One form consisted of (1) the confession of transgressions (PĀPADEsANĀ), (2) the admiration of others' virtues (ANUMODANA), and (3) the dedication of merit (PARInĀMANĀ). The other consisted of (1) the confession of transgressions, (2) the admiration of others' virtue, and (3) the request to the buddhas to turn the wheel of the dharma (DHARMACAKRAPRAVARTANA). This tripartite ritual was eventually expanded to include seven sections: obeisance, offering, confession, admiration, supplication to the buddhas and bodhisattvas to teach the dharma, entreaty not to pass into PARINIRVĀnA, and dedication of any merit accrued by performing the preceding ritual to the enlightenment of all sentient beings. This sevenfold liturgy, presented most famously in the opening twelve stanzas of the BHADRACARĪPRAnIDHĀNA ("Vow of SAMANTABHADRA's Deeds"), the last section of the GAndAVYuHA in the AVATAMSAKASuTRA, became a standard part of many MAHĀYĀNA practices, often serving as a prolegomenon to a meditation session. This sevenfold liturgy became a common element of tantric pujās as well.

Rule of Faith: In general, an authoritative statement of belief. In historic Christianity such statements appeared out of existing formulae (e.g., the early baptismal confessions) or were formulated to meet existing heresies. In Catholic Christianity the Rule of Faith (Regula Fidei) includes the whole of apostolic teaching and its further elaborations. -- V.F.

sādhana. (T. sgrub thabs; C. chengjiu fa; J. jojuho; K. songch'wi pop 成就法). In Sanskrit, "method" or "technique," used especially in reference to a tantric ritual designed to receive attainments (SIDDHI) from a deity. Tantric sādhanas generally take one of two forms. In the first, the deity (which may be a buddha, BODHISATTVA, or another deity) is requested to appear before the meditator and is then worshipped in the expectation of receiving blessings. In the other type of tantric sādhana, the meditator imagines himself or herself to be the deity at this very moment, that is, to have the exalted body, speech, and mind of an enlightened being. Tantric sādhanas tend to follow a fairly set sequence, whether they are simple or detailed. More elaborate sādhanas may include the recitation of a lineage of GURUs; the creation of a protection wheel guarded by wrathful deities to subjugate enemies; the creation of a body MAndALA, in which a pantheon of deities take residence at various parts of the meditator's body, etc. Although there are a great many variations of content and sequence, in many sādhanas, the meditator is instructed to imagine light radiating from the body, thus beckoning buddhas and bodhisattvas from throughout the universe. Visualizing these deities arrayed in the space, the meditator then performs a series of standard preliminary practices called the sevenfold service (SAPTĀnGAVIDHI), a standard component of sādhanas. The seven elements are (1) obeisance, (2) offering (often concluding with a gift of the entire physical universe with all its marvels), (3) confession of misdeeds, (4) admiration of the virtuous deeds of others, (5) entreaty to the buddhas not to pass into NIRVĀnA, (6) supplication of the buddhas and bodhisattvas to teach the dharma, and (7) dedication of the merit of performing the preceding toward the enlightenment of all beings. The meditator then goes for refuge to the three jewels (RATNATRAYA), creates the aspiration for enlightenment (BODHICITTA; BODHICITTOTPĀDA), the promise to achieve buddhahood in order to liberate all beings in the universe from suffering, and dedicates the merit from the foregoing and subsequent practices toward that end. The meditator next cultivates the four "boundless" attitudes (APRAMĀnA) of loving-kindness (MAITRĪ), compassion (KARUnĀ), empathetic joy (MUDITĀ), and equanimity or impartiality (UPEKsĀ), before meditating on emptiness (suNYATĀ) and reciting the purificatory mantra, oM svabhāvasuddhāḥ sarvadharmāḥ svabhāvasuddho 'haM ("OM, naturally pure are all phenomena, naturally pure am I"), understanding that emptiness is the primordial nature of everything, the unmoving world and the beings who move upon it. Out of this emptiness, the meditator next creates the mandala. The next step in the sādhana is for the meditator to animate the residents of the mandala by causing the actual buddhas and bodhisattvas, referred to as "wisdom beings" (JNĀNASATTVA), to descend and merge with their imagined doubles, the "pledge beings" (SAMAYASATTVA). Light radiates from the meditator's heart, drawing the wisdom beings to the mandala where, through offerings and the recitation of mantra, they are prompted to enter the residents of the mandala. With the preliminary visualization now complete, the stage is set for the central meditation of the sādhana, which varies depending upon the purpose of the sādhana. Generally, offerings and prayers are made to a sequence of deities and boons are requested from them, each time accompanied with the recitation of appropriate MANTRA. At the end of the session, the meditator makes mental offerings to the assembly before inviting them to leave, at which point the entire visualization, the palace and its residents, dissolve into emptiness. The sādhana ends with a dedication of the merit accrued to the welfare of all beings.

saiksadharma. (P. sekhiyadhamma; T. bslabs pa'i chos; C. zhongxue; J. shugaku; K. chunghak 衆學). In Sanskrit, lit., "qualities in which to be trained"; in the PRĀTIMOKsA, a large set of rules to be followed in the course of daily monastic life, the violation of which entails no sanction beyond the need for confession. They are for the most part items of etiquette with regard to dress, accepting and eating food, teaching the dharma, and using the toilet. The number of these precepts varies by VINAYA recension, with the Chinese MAHĀSĀMGHIKA having sixty-six and the Chinese SARVĀSTIVĀDA having 113. In the Pāli vinaya, the term refers to a group of seventy-five precepts found in the Pātimokkha divided into seven sections. The first two rules concern proper dress. The next twenty-four rules concern the proper way to enter villages and inhabited areas and interact with the laypeople there. A set of thirty rules concerns the proper way to take meals. The next fifteen rules concern the preaching of dharma, and the last three rules concern the use of the toilet. saiksa rules are the same for monks and nuns. One who knowingly transgresses these rules is guilty of an "offense of wrongdoing" (S. DUsKṚTA; P. dukkata).

saMghakarman. (P. sanghakamma; T. dge 'dun gyi las; C. seng jiemo; J. sokonma; K. sŭng kalma 僧羯磨). In Sanskrit, an "ecclesiastical act," such as admission into the order as novices (PRAVRAJITĀ), full ordination of monks and nuns (UPASAMPADĀ); the fortnightly confession ceremony recitation of the PRĀTIMOKsA (UPOsADHA), the ceremony closing the rains retreat (PRAVĀRAnĀ), giving cloth for robes (KAtHINA), the adjudication of rules, the administration of punishments to transgressors of the precepts, and the settlement of disputes among the clergy. See KARMAN.

saMghāvasesa. [alt. saMghātisesa] (P. sanghādisesa; T. dge 'dun lhag ma; C. sengcanzui/sengcanfa; J. sozanzai/sozanho; K. sŭngjanjoe/sŭngjanpop 僧殘罪/僧殘法). In Sanskrit, "probationary offense"; a category of offenses in the roster of monastic rules (PRĀTIMOKsA) that require penance and/or probation. The saMghāvasesa offenses are the second most serious category of offense in the VINAYA, second only to the "defeats" (PĀRĀJIKA), which render a monk or nun "not in communion" (ASAMVĀSA) with the community. A saMghāvasesa infraction requires either an open confession of the offense before a gathering of monks or else expulsion from the order (SAMGHA) if the offender refuses to confess. According to one paranomastic gloss, because the remedy for these offenses requires the intervention of the saMgha at both the beginning (ādi) and the end (sesa) of the expiation process, these offenses are known collectively as saMghādisesa. The probationary offender receives two different kinds of punishments: penance (MĀNATVA) and temporary probation (PARIVĀSA). The mānatva penance is imposed on a monk who commits a saMghāvasesa offense when that monk immediately confesses the infraction to another monk. In the Pāli vinaya, the penance imposed in this circumstance is called "penance for unconcealed offenses" (apaticchannamānatta), which entails the loss of the usual privileges of monkhood for a set period of six nights. If a monk instead conceals a saMghāvasesa offense for a period of time before confessing it, he must undergo a "probationary penance" called either parivāsa or, in Pāli, "penance for concealed offenses" (paticchannamānatta). This probationary penance likewise entails the loss of privileges, but in this case that probation must last for as long as the offense was concealed. After the parivāsa penance is completed, the monk must then undergo mānatta penance for six nights. These penances are similar in some vinaya traditions to those meted out to "pārājika penitents" (sIKsĀDATTAKA). During his probationary period, the offender is stripped of his seniority and expected to observe certain social constraints. For example, the VINAYAPItAKA states that such offenders may not leave the monastery grounds without being accompanied by at least four monks (BHIKsU) who are not themselves on probation. Also, every day of his probation, the offending monk must inform the other monks of the offense for which he is being punished. The exact number of precepts that fall under the category of saMghāvasesa varies somewhat among the different vinaya traditions; a typical list of thirteen rules for monks includes (1) willingly emitting semen, (2) engaging in lustful physical contact with a woman, (3) using sexually inappropriate language toward a woman, (4) praising sexual intercourse as a religious act, (5) acting as the liaison in the arrangement of a marriage, (6) building a personal hut that is larger than the prescribed dimensions, (7) building a monastery (VIHĀRA) for the community that does not meet the prescribed specifications, (8) falsely and maliciously accusing another monk of an infraction, (9) taking up an issue as a ploy to falsely accuse another monk of an infraction, (10) taking any action that may result in a schism within the community (SAMGHABHEDA), (11) siding with or following a monk who has created a schism in the order, (12) refusing to acknowledge and to heed the admonishments of training given by other monks, and finally (13) corrupting families. Nuns are typically subject to seventeen rules, including a few additional restrictions enumerated in the bhiksunīprātimoksa. After completing the parivāsa penance and his six nights of mānatva, the monk approaches the saMgha, which in this case means a quorum of monks consisting of at least twenty members, and requests to be "called back into community" (S. ABHYĀYANA, P. abbhāna). If the saMgha agrees, the monk is declared free of the saMghāvasesa offense and is restored to his former status.

saptādhikaranasamatha. (P. sattādhikaranasamatha; T. rtsod pa nye bar zhi ba bdun; C. qi miezheng fa; J. shichimetsujoho; K. ch'il myolchaeng pop 七滅諍法). In Sanskrit, "seven methods of settling disputes." In confronting monastic members who have transgressed the rules and regulations of the order (see PRĀTIMOKsA), or when there are disputes about meting out the appropriate sanctions for such infraction, the VINAYA outlines seven methods for dealing with the transgressors and resolving the differences, respectively. According to the CulAVAGGA section of the Pāli pātimokkha (using the Sanskrit name for each section): (1) SaMmukha-vinaya involves the appeal to scriptural and vinaya laws or to direct evidence of transgression. (2) Smṛti-vinaya relies on character witness, testimony of witness[es] of the infraction, and the memory of the transgressor himself if he or she has a clean record and is of trustworthy temperament. In the latter case, an otherwise trustworthy suspect who claims to have no memory of the infraction is presumed innocent. (3) Amudha-vinaya is resorting to insanity claims. "Temporary insanity" or the loss of judgment due to different causes at the time of the infraction is considered mitigating and even exculpatory. The transgressor is only brought to the monastic hearing when his sanity or consciousness is restored. (4) Tatsvabhāvaisīya-vinaya is the postponement of appropriate punishment after the transgressor has offered a voluntary confession. (5) Yadbhuyasikīya-vinaya is used when a suspect intransigently refuses to confess. It is the citing of contrary evidence to, and self-contradictions and variances in, the suspect's account. (6) PratijNākāraka-vinaya is the verdict of the majority through voting. Typically elder monks of renowned virtue are assembled for the vote. (7) Tṛnastāraka-vinaya is interpreted in two ways. One account explains this procedure as having the disputing parties each elect a senior representative to argue their respective cases. Another account has it that, in the case of ultimately irresolvable disputes, both parties should bow down to each other reverentially like "grass in the wind," offering apologies and divulging how oneself could have possibly been more culpable. The Tibetan translation (rtswa bkram pa lta bur 'os pa) suggests a procedure "that strews grass over it [as a covering]." See also ADHIKARAnAsAMATHA.

saptāngavidhi. (T. yan lag bdun pa'i cho ga; C. qizhi zuofa; J. shichishisaho; K. ch'ilchi chakpop 七支作法). In Sanskrit, "seven-branched worship," a common component of MAHĀYĀNA Buddhist liturgy, often performed as a means of accumulating merit at the beginning of a Mahāyāna or tantric ritual or meditation session. The list may include more than seven items, but its standard form includes: obeisance (vandanā), offering (pujana), confession of wrongdoing (PĀPADEsANĀ), admiration or rejoicing (ANUMODANA), requesting the buddhas to turn the wheel of dharma (dharmacakrapravartanacodana), requesting the buddhas not to pass into PARINIRVĀnA (aparinirvṛtādhyesana), and the dedication of merit (PARInĀMANĀ). Obeisance includes reciting the three refuges (TRIsARAnA) formula and praising the excellent qualities of the Buddha, DHARMA, and SAMGHA; the offering branch is expanded to include elaborate offerings to each of the senses, and, in tantric rituals, so-called inner and secret offerings. In the BHADRACARĪPRAnIDHĀNA, the final part of the GAndAVYuHA (and itself the final chapter of the AVATAMSAKASuTRA), the bodhisattva SAMANTABHADRA reveals the worship in its fullest Mahāyāna formulation: he prefaces his famous ten vows with a version in which he imagines, on each atom in the universe, as many buddhas and bodhisattvas as there are atoms in the universe, and before each atom he imagines beings, as many as there are atoms in the universe, making obeisance, offering, confessing, and so on.

Shema ::: (Heb. hear) Title of the fundamental, monotheistic statement of Judaism, found in Deut. 6:4 (“Hear, O Israel, the LORD is our God, the LORD is One”; shema Yisrael YHWH elohenu YHWH ehad). This statement avers the unity of God, and is recited daily in the liturgy (along with Deut. 6:5-9, 11.13-21; Num. 15.37- 41 and other passages), and customarily before sleep at night. This proclamation also climaxes special liturgies (like Yom Kippur), and is central to the confession before death and the ritual of martyrdom. The Shema is inscribed on the mezuzah and the tefillin. In public services, it is recited in unison.

shrift ::: n. --> The act of shriving.
Confession made to a priest, and the absolution consequent upon it.


shrive ::: v. t. --> To hear or receive the confession of; to administer confession and absolution to; -- said of a priest as the agent.
To confess, and receive absolution; -- used reflexively. ::: v. i. --> To receive confessions, as a priest; to administer confession and absolution.


shriving ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Shrive ::: n. --> Shrift; confession.

skandhaka. (T. phung po; P. khandhaka; C. jiandu; J. kendo; K. kondo 犍度). In Sanskrit, "chapter," or "division," especially referring to a major section of the VINAYA. Whereas the PRĀTIMOKsA largely deals with the conduct of individual monk or nuns, the skandhaka primarily deals with the conduct of monks and nuns in their capacity as collective members of the SAMGHA. In the extant Sanskrit vinayas, this section is sometimes called the VINAYAVASTU. The Pāli vinaya has twenty-two sections (khandhaka). Most of the Sanskrit vinayas have twenty skandhaka, as follows. (1) pravrajyāvastu: this section deals with matters related to admission into the order as a novice (pravrajyā; see PRAVRAJITA), ordination as a fully ordained monk (UPASAMPADĀ), admission of novices (sRĀMAnERA), regulations for the interactions with the preceptor (UPĀDHYĀYA) or teacher (ĀCĀRYA), and circumstances that disqualify one from being admitted to the monastic order; (2) posadhavastu: this section deals with the UPOsADHA, or confession ceremony, including a history of its origin and the rules for its performance. (3) varsāvastu: this section deals with the annual rains retreat (VARsĀ) and the rules to be observed during that period, including what kinds of dwelling are permitted. (4) pravāranāvastu: this section deals with the ceremony that marks the end of the annual rains retreat (PRAVĀRAnĀ) and elimination of any disharmony that may have arisen during the retreat. (5) carmavastu: this section deals with leather and especially the usage of shoes. (6) bhaisajyavastu: this section deals with both medicine and food, setting forth which medicines are permitted and when they may be used; the rules concerning food set forth which foods may be accepted, how invitations from the laity should be treated; how food is to be prepared, and how the monastery storeroom should be utilized. (7) cīvaravastu: this section deals with robes (CĪVARA), including how may robes a monk may possess, how robes are to be received from the laity, how robes are to worn, and how robes are to sewn; (8) kathinavastu: this section deals specifically with the cloth (KAtHINA) that monks receive from the laity at the end of the rains retreat; (9) kosambakavastu: this section deals with the dispute that occurred between the Kausāmbī monks and how it was resolved by the Buddha, who allowed an expelled monk to be reinstated upon confession. (10) karmavastu: this section deals with ecclesiastical acts (SAMGHAKARMAN) taken by the community in various assemblies. (11) pāndulohitavastu: this section deals with disciplinary measures that are taken when violations of the monastic code occur. (12) pudgalavastu: this section deals with SAMGHĀVAsEsA infractions, the types of probationary periods (e.g., MĀNATVA; PARIVĀSA), and the procedure for reinstatement after probation. (13) pārivāsikavastu: this section describes the proper conduct of a monk during the probationary period. (14) posadhasthāpanavastu: this section sets forth the circumstances under which a monk may be excluded from the UPOsADHA ceremony. (15) samathavastu: this section deals with legal cases (ADHIKARAnA) and their resolution. (16) saMghabhedavastu: this section deals with the schisms in the saMgha (SAMGHABHEDA), including the schism caused by DEVADATTA. (17) sayanāsanavastu: this section deals with the various dwelling places of members of the saMgha. (18) ācāravastu: this section deals with conduct, especially in interactions with others, including laity, visiting monks, and forest-dwelling monks. (19) ksudrakavastu: this section deals with miscellaneous minor rules. (20) bhiksunīvastu: this section deals with the rules specific to nuns. The skandhaka begins with a biography of the Buddha that includes his genealogy, his birth, and his life up to the conversion of sĀRIPUTRA and MAHĀMAUDGALYĀYANA. It concludes with the story of the Buddha's death and goes on to describe the first Buddhist council (SAMGĪTI, see COUNCIL, FIRST) at RĀJAGṚHA and the second council (COUNCIL, SECOND) at VAIsĀLĪ. In the Tibetan BKA' 'GYUR, the vinaya section includes the above materials in the following sections: 'dul ba'i gzhi (vinayavastu), so sor thar pa (prātimoksa), 'dul ba rnam par 'byed pa (vinayavibhanga), dge slong ma'i so sor thar pa'i mdo (bhiksunī prātimoksasutra), dge slong ma'i 'dul ba rnam par 'byed pa (bhiksunī vinayavibhanga), 'dul ba phran tshegs (vinayaksudraka), 'dul ba gzhung bla ma/dam pa (vinayottaragrantha).

sthulātyaya. (P. thullaccaya; T. nyes pa sbom po; C. toulanzhe; J. churanja/churansha; K. t'uranch'a 偸蘭遮). In Sanskrit, "grave offense" or "important fault"; a category of misdeed in the Buddhist VINAYA, it includes the most serious offenses that can be expiated through simple confession to another monk, rather than the more severe sanction of "defeat" (PĀRĀJIKA) or the sanction of confession at a formal meeting of the order (SAMGHĀVAsEsA). The misdeeds that fall under this category generally involve a failed or lesser version of a misdeed that would otherwise entail a stronger sanction. Such transgressions would include, for example, attempting to kill someone but only inflicting injury, testing poison on a human being, killing a nonhuman being, such as a PRETA, NĀGA, or YAKsA, stealing something of little or no value (defined in the Pāli vinaya as being worth more than one māsaka and less than five māsaka), touching the hem of a woman's garment with a lustful motivation, making lustful contact with an animal that one has mistaken for a woman, seeking to ejaculate but failing to do so, attempting to have sexual intercourse with a corpse, lustfully touching the genitals of cattle, making lascivious reference to a woman's private parts without her understanding the reference, performing two of the three deeds of a go-between (accepting the request, inquiring, reporting back), going naked, wearing a garment made of owls' wings, wearing a garment of bark, castrating oneself, eating human flesh, giving away a monastery, giving away a metal pot, causing a boat to rock in place although it does not move up or down stream, delivering the penultimate blow in chopping down a tree, causing an animal to move any of its feet, moving a boundary marker (SĪMĀ), causing an owner to give up attempts to regain possession of property, implying (although not stating explicitly) that one is endowed with supranormal powers, and unsuccessfully attempting to cause a schism in the order (SAMGHABHEDA).

tantric vows. (T. rig 'dzin gyi sdom pa; *vidyādharasaMvara). Any of a number of vows taken as part of a tantric initiation and to be maintained as part of tantric practice. Many tantras list disparate sets of rules, the best known being that found in the Rgyud rdo rje rtse mo (the Tibetan version of the VAJRAsEKHARASuTRA, a SARVATATHĀGATATATTVASAMGRAHA explanatory tantra). Such texts enumerate "restraints" or "vows" (SAMVARA) and pledges (SAMAYA) connected with the five buddha families (BUDDHAKULA; PANCATATHĀGATA), and possibly an ordination and confession ceremony modeled on the PRĀTIMOKsA. These disparate rules were later codified more systematically in a number of tantric texts: the so-called root infractions in the Vajrayānamulāpatti attributed to AsVAGHOsA, and an even shorter list of secondary vows in the Vajrayānasthulāpatti attributed to NĀGĀRJUNA. In addition, rules of deportment toward the guru were set forth in works such as the GURUPANCĀsIKĀ ("Fifty Stanzas on the Guru"), also attributed to Asvaghosa. In Tibet, these rules were codified and commented on at length in the "three vow" (SDOM GSUM) literature. The "root infractions" are the following: (1) to disparage the guru, (2) to overstep the words of the buddhas, (3) to be cruel to one's VAJRA siblings (disciples of the same guru), (4) to abandon love for sentient beings, (5) to abandon the two types of BODHICITTA, (6) to disparage the doctrines of one's own and others' schools, (7) to proclaim secrets to the unripened, (8) to scorn the aggregates, (9) to have doubts about the essential purity of all phenomena, (10) to show affection to the wicked, (11) to have false views about emptiness, (12) to disillusion the faithful, (13) not to rely on the pledges, and (14) to disparage women. It is noteworthy that, unlike the prātimoksa, the infractions here involve attitudes and beliefs, in addition to transgressions of body and speech. It was generally said that receiving the bodhisattva vows was a prerequisite for receiving tantric vows; the prior receipt of prātimoksa precepts was optional. In expositions of the "three vows," tantric vows are the third, after the prātimoksa precepts and the bodhisattva precepts. Especially in Tibet there is extensive discussion of the compatibility of the three sets of vows. See also TRISAMVARA.

"To me, for instance, consciousness is the very stuff of existence and I can feel it everywhere enveloping and penetrating the stone as much as man or the animal. A movement, a flow of consciousness is not to me an image but a fact. If I wrote "His anger climbed against me in a stream", it would be to the general reader a mere image, not something that was felt by me in a sensible experience; yet I would only be describing in exact terms what actually happened once, a stream of anger, a sensible and violent current of it rising up from downstairs and rushing upon me as I sat in the veranda of the Guest-House, the truth of it being confirmed afterwards by the confession of the person who had the movement. This is only one instance, but all that is spiritual or psychological in Savitri is of that character. What is to be done under these circumstances? The mystical poet can only describe what he has felt, seen in himself or others or in the world just as he has felt or seen it or experienced through exact vision, close contact or identity and leave it to the general reader to understand or not understand or misunderstand according to his capacity. A new kind of poetry demands a new mentality in the recipient as well as in the writer.” Letters on Savitri

“To me, for instance, consciousness is the very stuff of existence and I can feel it everywhere enveloping and penetrating the stone as much as man or the animal. A movement, a flow of consciousness is not to me an image but a fact. If I wrote ’His anger climbed against me in a stream’, it would be to the general reader a mere image, not something that was felt by me in a sensible experience; yet I would only be describing in exact terms what actually happened once, a stream of anger, a sensible and violent current of it rising up from downstairs and rushing upon me as I sat in the veranda of the Guest-House, the truth of it being confirmed afterwards by the confession of the person who had the movement. This is only one instance, but all that is spiritual or psychological in Savitri is of that character. What is to be done under these circumstances? The mystical poet can only describe what he has felt, seen in himself or others or in the world just as he has felt or seen it or experienced through exact vision, close contact or identity and leave it to the general reader to understand or not understand or misunderstand according to his capacity. A new kind of poetry demands a new mentality in the recipient as well as in the writer.” Letters on Savitri

torture ::: n. --> Extreme pain; anguish of body or mind; pang; agony; torment; as, torture of mind.
Especially, severe pain inflicted judicially, either as punishment for a crime, or for the purpose of extorting a confession from an accused person, as by water or fire, by the boot or thumbkin, or by the rack or wheel.
The act or process of torturing.


triskandhaka. (T. phung po gsum pa; C. sanju; J. sanju; K. samch'wi 三聚). In Sanskrit, lit. "three sections"; a three-part Mahāyāna liturgy that may have served as the foundation for more elaborate tantric liturgies (PuJĀ), such as the sevenfold ritual (SAPTĀnGAVIDHI). There are two versions of the three: (1) confession of transgressions (PĀPADEsANĀ), (2) rejoicing in other's virtues (ANUMODANA), and (3) dedication of merit (PARInĀMANĀ). A second version is: (1) confession of transgressions, (2) appreciation of other's virtues, and (3) requesting the buddhas to turn the wheel of the dharma (dharmacakrapravartanacodana). See also PuJĀ.

tshogs zhing. (tsok shing). In Tibetan, "field of assembly" or "field of accumulation"; the assembly of buddhas, bodhisattvas, and other deities visualized in meditation practice (and represented in Tibetan scroll paintings, or THANG KA). The term is generally glossed to mean "the field for the collection of merit" because the assembly of deities are the objects of various virtuous practices through which the meditator accumulates merit. The most common practice performed in the presence of the field of assembly would be the sevenfold offering (SAPTĀnGAVIDHI): obeisance (vandana), offering (pujana), confession of transgressions (PĀPADEsANĀ), rejoicing in others' virtues (ANUMODANA), requesting that the buddhas turn the wheel of the dharma (dharmacakrapravartanacodana), beseeching the buddhas not pass into NIRVĀnA (aparinirvṛtādhyesana), and the dedication (PARInĀMANĀ) of merit. In paintings of the field of assembly, the central figure is often depicted with previous figures in the lineage in a vertical line above, with various disciples on either side and protector deities at the bottom.

uposadha. [alt. posadha; upavasatha] (P. uposatha; T. gso sbyong; C. busa; J. fusatsu; K. p'osal 布薩). In Sanskrit, the fortnightly retreat (the term is generally left untranslated into English). It is the semimonthly ceremony (observed on the new moon and the full moon) in which monks and nuns are to assemble within a specified boundary (SĪMĀ) to recite the monastic rules of conduct set forth in the PRĀTIMOKsA. The observance involves the confession of faults, following which the prātimoksa is recited. The bhiksuprātimoksa is recited by fully ordained monks, the bhiksunīprātimoksa by fully ordained nuns; novices and laypeople are prohibited from participating in either observance. The purpose of the ceremony is for the SAMGHA to purify itself of misdeeds through confession and to renew its commitment to moral conduct, thus helping to ensure harmony within the monastic community and between the clergy and the laity. Laypeople will often maintain eight precepts (AstĀnGASAMANVĀGATAM UPAVĀSAM) on this day, which essentially turn them into monks or nuns for a day: not to kill, steal, engage in sexual activity, lie, use intoxicants, eat after noon, adorn their bodies, or sleep on high beds. The term uposadha means to abide in a state of fasting or abstinence, a practice that was pre-Buddhist in origin; in Vedic times, it specifically referred to the day prior to a soma sacrifice. The practice seems to have been adopted from other religious sects in India during the Buddha's lifetime. There are several types of uposadha ceremony, the most common and important of which is the saMgha uposadha, which is attended by four or more monks who recite the prātimoksa and is held on the new- and full-moon days of the month. When three or fewer monks are present, the ceremony is held but the prātimoksa is not recited. According to the Pāli vinaya, there are twenty-one types of persons in whose presence a monk's uposadha ceremony may not be held, viz., nuns, women in training to become nuns, male and female novices, persons who have seceded from the order, persons guilty of a PĀRĀJIKA offense, monks who refuse to acknowledge their own wrongdoing (of three kinds), eunuchs, ersatz monks who wear monastic attire without having been ordained, monks who have joined other religions, nonhumans, patricides, matricides, murderers of ARHATs, seducers of nuns, schismatics, hermaphrodites, laypersons, and those who have shed the blood of a buddha.

Vajrasattva. (T. Rdo rje sems dpa'; C. Jingang saduo; J. Kongosatta; K. Kŭmgang sal'ta 金剛薩埵). In Sanskrit, lit. "VAJRA Being"; a tantric deity widely worshipped as both an ĀDIBUDDHA and a buddha of purification. Vajrasattva is sometimes identified as a sixth buddha in the PANCATATHĀGATA system, such as in the SARVATATHĀGATATATTVASAMGRAHA, where he is also identical to VAJRAPĀnI. Vajrasattva also occasionally replaces AKsOBHYA in the same system, and so has been considered an emanation of that buddha. As an ādibuddha, he is identical with VAJRADHARA. He is also one of the sixteen bodhisattvas of the vajradhātumandala. In the trikula system, an early tantric configuration, Vajrasattva is the buddha of the VAJRAKULA, with VAIROCANA the buddha of the TATHĀGATAKULA and Avalokitesvara the head of the PADMAKULA. East Asian esoteric Buddhism considers Vajrasattva to be the second patriarch of the esoteric teachings; VAIROCANA taught them directly to Vajrasattva, who passed them to NĀGĀRJUNA, who passed them to VAJRABODHI/VAJRAMATI, who taught them to AMOGHAVAJRA, who brought them to China in the eighth century. In Tibet, worship of Vajrasattva is connected to YOGATANTRA and ANUTTARAYOGATANTRA, such as the twenty-fifth chapter of the Abhidhanottaratantra, in which he is known as the Heruka Vajrasattva. He is particularly famous in Tibet for his role in a practice of confession and purification in which one repeats a hundred thousand times the hundred-syllable MANTRA of Vajrasattva. These repetitions (with the attendant visualization) are a standard preliminary practice (T. SNGON 'GRO) required prior to receiving tantric instructions. The mantra is: oM vajrasattva samayam anupālaya vajrasattva tvenopatistha dṛdho me bhava sutosyo me bhava suposyo me bhava anurakto me bhava sarvasiddhiM me prayaccha sarvakarmasu ca me cittaM sreyaḥ kuru huM ha ha ha ha hoḥ bhagavan sarvatathāgatavajra mā me muNca vajrī bhava mahāsamayasattva āḥ huM. Unlike many mantras that seem to have no semantic meaning, Vajrasattva's mantra may be translated as: "OM Vajrasattva, keep your pledge. Vajrasattva, reside in me. Make me firm. Make me satisfied. Fulfill me. Make me compassionate. Grant me all powers. Make my mind virtuous in all deeds. huM ha ha ha ha ho. All the blessed tathāgatas, do not abandon me, make me indivisible. Great pledge being. āḥ huM."

vinayapitaka. (T. 'dul ba'i sde snod; C. lüzang; J. ritsuzo; K. yulchang 律藏). In Sanskrit and Pāli, "basket of discipline" or the "collection of discipline"; one of the three "baskets" (TRIPItAKA), or divisions of Buddhist scripture, together with the SuTRAPItAKA and the ABHIDHARMAPItAKA. Although typically presumed to include just the rules and regulations of monastic conduct, the vinayapitaka is actually one of the richest sources for understanding Buddhist practice and institutions in India. It is said that the Buddha instituted a new rule only after the commission of some form of misconduct that he sought to prevent in the future, so the vinayas are careful to recount in great detail the circumstances leading up to the Buddha's promulgation of the rule. The vinayapitaka is therefore composed largely of narratives, some of considerable length; one of the earliest biographies of the Buddha appears in the vinaya of the MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA school (see MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA VINAYA). According to tradition, the redaction of the vinayapitaka occurred at the first Buddhist council (SAMGĪTI; see COUNCIL, FIRST), shortly after the Buddha's death, when a group of ARHATs assembled to recite the Buddha's teachings. There, the monk UPĀLI, considered an expert in the monastic code, was called upon to recite the vinaya. However, assuming that such a recitation occurred, disputes soon arose over what was allowable conduct according to the rules and regulations included in the vinayapitaka. At the time of his death, the Buddha told ĀNANDA that, after his death, the minor rules could be disregarded. At the first council, he was asked what those minor rules were, and Ānanda admitted that he had failed to ask. All rules were therefore retained, and his failure to ask was one of his errors requiring a confession of wrongdoing. The eventual division into the traditional eighteen MAINSTREAM BUDDHIST SCHOOLS often centered on questions of vinaya practice and conduct. There is, therefore, no single vinayapitaka, but a number of vinayapitakas, with the precise content determined by the specific Indian school. To give one example, the Pāli vinayapitaka, which was perhaps redacted around the first century CE, is composed of the following three major divisions: (1) SUTTAVIBHAnGA (S. sutravibhanga; cf. VINAYAVIBHAnGA), which includes the pātimokkha (S. PRĀTIMOKsA) code with explanations and commentary, including the mahāvibhanga with the rules for monks and the bhikkhunīvibhanga with the rules for nuns; (2) KHANDHAKA (S. skandhaka; cf. VINAYAVASTU), which is subdivided between the MAHĀVAGGA, which includes chapters on such topics as the procedure for the ordination of monks, the fortnightly observances (P. uposatha; S. UPOsADHA), the rains retreat, the use of clothing, food, medicine, and so forth, and the CulAVAGGA, which includes a variety of judicial rules, procedures for the ordination of nuns, and accounts of the first and second Buddhist councils; and (3) PARIVĀRA, an appendix that provides a summary and classification of the rules of monastic conduct. ¶ Numerous vinaya texts were translated into Chinese, including complete (or near-complete) vinayapitakas associated with five of the mainstream schools of Indian Buddhism. In the order of their translation dates, these five are (1) "Ten-Recitations Vinaya" (C. Shisong lü; C. *Dasabhānavāravinaya; *Dasādhyāyavinaya) of the SARVĀSTIVĀDA school, perhaps composed sometime between the first and third centuries CE and translated into Chinese between 404 and 409 CE; (2) DHARMAGUPTAKA vinaya, the renowned "Four-Part Vinaya" (SIFEN LÜ), translated between 410 and 412 CE, which becomes the definitive recension of the vinaya in the East Asian traditions and the focus of scholarship in the different East Asian vinaya schools (see NANSHAN LÜ ZONG, DONGTA LÜ ZONG, RISSHu); (3) MAHĀSĀMGHIKA vinaya (Mohesengji lü), composed between 100 and 200 CE and translated between 416 and 418; (4) MAHĪMsĀSAKA vinaya, or the "Five-Part Vinaya" (Wufen lü), perhaps composed in the first century BCE and translated between 422 and 423; and (5) the MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA vinaya, perhaps composed in the fourth or fifth century CE and translated into Chinese between 703 and 713. (The complete Tibetan translation of this vinaya becomes definitive for Tibetan Buddhism). ¶ It is important to note that the texts contained in the vinayapitaka of any school have served as just one source of the monastic code. In China, no complete recension of any Indian vinaya was translated until the beginning of the fifth century. (Indeed, none of the surviving recensions of the vinayas of any Buddhist school can be dated prior to the fifth century CE.) When the Indian vinayas were translated into Chinese, for example, their regulations were viewed as being so closely tied to the customs and climate of India that they were sometimes found either incomprehensible or irrelevant to the Chinese. This led to the composition of indigenous Chinese monastic codes, called guishi ("regulations") or QINGGUI ("rules of purity"), which promulgated rules of conduct for monks and nuns that accorded more closely with the realities of life in East Asian monasteries. In Tibet, the VINAYASuTRA by GUnAPRABHA, a medieval Indian summary of the much larger Mulasarvāstivāda vinaya, was the primary source for the monastic code, but each monastery also had its own regulations (BCA' YIG) that governed life there. See also PRĀTIMOKsASuTRA.

vinaya. (T. 'dul ba; C. lü; J. ritsu; K. yul 律). In Sanskrit and Pāli, "discipline"; the corpus of monastic regulations, especially that directed at fully ordained monks (BHIKsU) and nuns (BHIKsUnĪ). The term is used by extension for those texts in which these codes are set forth, which form the "basket of the discipline" (VINAYAPItAKA) in the Buddhist canon (TRIPItAKA). According to an account in the Sifen lü kaizongji, by the Chinese vinaya master DAOXUAN (596-667), UPAGUPTA, the fifth successor in the Buddha's lineage about a century following his death, had five major disciples, who were said to have established their own schools based on their differing views regarding doctrine; these five also redacted separate recensions of the VINAYA, which the Chinese refer to as "five recensions of the vinaya" (Wubu lü). These five vinayas are (1) the "Four-Part Vinaya" (C. SIFEN LÜ; S. *Cāturvargīyavinaya) of the DHARMAGUPTAKA school; (2) the "Ten-Recitations Vinaya" (C. Shisong lü; S. *Dasādhyāyavinaya; [alt. *Dasabhānavāravinaya]) of the SARVĀSTIVĀDA school; (3) the "Five-Part Vinaya" (C. Wufen lü; S. *PaNcavargikavinaya) of the MAHĪsĀSAKA school and the *Prātimoksavinaya of the KĀsYAPĪYA school; (4) the *MAHĀSĀMGHIKA VINAYA of the MAHĀSĀMGHIKA school; and (5) the MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA VINAYA. All five of these recensions are extant in Chinese translation, but the Sifen lü ("Four-Part Vinaya") of the Dharmaguptakas came to dominate the conduct of ecclesiastical affairs in East Asian Buddhism. The only vinaya to survive intact in an Indian language is the Pāli vinaya used in the STHAVIRANIKĀYA tradition; this vinaya compilation was unknown to the Chinese Tradition. The largest vinaya of them all, the Mulasarvāstivāda vinaya, is a massive collection that is some four times longer than any of the other recensions. The entire collection is available in its Tibetan translation; portions of this vinaya were also translated in Chinese, and substantial fragments of its original Sanskrit version have survived. ¶ The vinayas are a rich source of Buddhist history because they describe the occasion surrounding the formulation of each of the myriads of rules of conduct and deportment promulgated by the Buddha. It is said that the Buddha made a new rule only after the commission of an infraction that would need to be prevented in the future, so the vinayas are careful to recount, in sometimes embarrassing detail, the specific events leading up to the Buddha's formulation of the rule. These accounts therefore provide important insights into issues facing the monastic institutions of India. The principal rules of monastic life are contained in the PRĀTIMOKsA, which presents rosters of offenses of varying gravity, with penalties ranging from expulsion from the order for the most serious to mere confession for the more minor ones. The most serious offenses, called PĀRĀJIKA, or "defeat," and requiring expulsion according to some vinaya traditions, were four for monks: sexual misconduct (defined in the case of a monk as the penetration of an orifice to the depth of a mustard seed), theft, the killing of a living being, and lying about spiritual attainments. (Even for such serious misdeeds, however, some vinayas prescribe procedures for possible reinstatement; see sIKsĀDATTAKA.) In the Mulasarvāstivāda vinaya, there were 253 total rules to be followed by monks, 364 for nuns. The majority of these rules were matters of etiquette and decorum meant to ensure harmonious relations within the monastic institution and with lay patrons. The prātimoksa was recited fortnightly in the UPOsADHA ceremony. A second major part of the vinaya is the VIBHAnGA, or explanation of each rule, explaining the circumstances of its formulation and the conditions under which a violation does and does occur. A third part was called the VINAYAVASTU or KHANDAKA, separate sections (ranging between seventeen and twenty in number) on various topics such as ordination, the rains retreats, bedding, robes, and the use of medicine. Although sometimes regarded simply as a collection of regulations, the various vinaya texts are an essential part of Buddhist literature. Many of the vinayas, but especially the Mulasarvāstivāda vinaya, also include enormous numbers of narrative tales and ancillary materials, including texts that in other traditions would have been collected in the SuTRAPItAKA.

vinayavibhanga. (T. 'dul ba rnam par 'byed pa; C. Genben Shuoyiqieyoubu pinaiye; J. Konpon Setsuissaiubu binaya; K. Kŭnbon Sorilch'eyubu pinaya 根本一切有部毘奈耶). In Sanskrit, lit. "Differentiation of the Discipline"; a major division of Sanskrit VINAYA literature, corresponding to the SUTTAVIBHAnGA in the Pāli VINAYAPItAKA. The primary foci of such sections are the disciplinary rules for monks (PRĀTIMOKsA), the exact number of which varies according to the tradition. The vinayavibhanga of the MuLASARVĀSTIVĀDA vinaya (to which the Sinographs above correspond), for example, lists 253 such rules. Each rule is accompanied by a description of the appropriate response to its violation. These sanctions may range from possible expulsion from the order, as with the rules of "defeat" (PĀRĀJIKA), to simple confession of the misdeed during the fortnightly recitation of the rules (UPOsADHA). The narrative form used to convey these rules follows that of most other vinaya literature, describing the circumstances that led to the Buddha's declaration of a particular rule. Just as the Pāli vinaya begins with a section of this type, the vinayas of the SARVĀSTIVĀDA and Mulasarvāstivāda schools also begin with sections entitled vinayavibhanga. In both of these vinayas, a formal listing of the rules is followed by commentary and narratives that explain each rule more fully. These accounts provide important and often surprising insights into the concerns of Indian Buddhist monastic life.

virtual reality (VR) 1. "application" Computer simulations that use 3D graphics and devices such as the {data glove} to allow the user to interact with the simulation. 2. "games" A form of network interaction incorporating aspects of role-playing games, interactive theater, improvisational comedy, and "true confessions" magazines. In a virtual reality forum (such as {Usenet}'s {news:alt.callahans} newsgroup or the {MUD} experiments on {Internet} and elsewhere), interaction between the participants is written like a shared novel complete with scenery, "foreground characters" that may be personae utterly unlike the people who write them, and common "background characters" manipulable by all parties. The one iron law is that you may not write irreversible changes to a character without the consent of the person who "owns" it, otherwise, anything goes. See {bamf}, {cyberspace}. [{Jargon File}] (1995-01-30)

yi ge brgya pa. (yi ge gyapa). In Tibetan, "hundred-syllable MANTRA"; term used to describe a number of lengthy MANTRAs, most commonly that of VAJRASATTVA, recited as part of a Tibetan tantric confession and purification practice. This is one of the preliminary practices (SNGON 'GRO) of the RNYING MA sect of Tibetan Buddhism, involving one hundred thousand repetitions of the Vajrasattva mantra.

Yom Kippur (&



QUOTES [9 / 9 - 1089 / 1089]


KEYS (10k)

   2 Saint Thomas Aquinas
   1 Saint Philip Neri
   1 Saint Basil of Caesarea
   1 Saint Ambrose
   1 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   1 Publilius Syrus
   1 Saint Augustine of Hippo
   1 Aleister Crowley

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   31 Anonymous
   14 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   13 Dietrich Bonhoeffer
   12 Pope Francis
   8 Timothy J Keller
   8 Oliver D Crisp
   8 Mahatma Gandhi
   8 Maggie Stiefvater
   8 Albert Camus
   7 Stephen King
   6 Saint Augustine of Hippo
   6 Paul David Tripp
   6 Marissa Meyer
   6 John Grisham
   6 James K A Smith
   6 James Baldwin
   6 C S Lewis
   6 Charles Haddon Spurgeon
   5 R C Sproul
   5 Max Lucado

1:Confession of our faults is the next thing to innocence. ~ Publilius Syrus,
2:People do not seem to realise that their opinion of the world is also a confession of their character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
3:Confession leads the way and brings us to salvation; baptism follows, setting the seal on our assent. ~ Saint Basil of Caesarea,
4:When we go to confession, we ought to persuade ourselves to find Jesus Christ in the person of our confessor." ~ Saint Philip Neri,
5:Several actions are required for the perfection of Penance: contrition, confession, and satisfaction ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 3.90.1).,
6:But in God's court judgment is based on the person accusing himself, namely, on self-confession ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (Commentary on Matthew 12, lect. 2).,
7:A psalm is a blessing on the lips of the people, a hymn in praise of God, the assembly's homage, a general acclamation, a word that speaks for all, the voice of the Church, a confession of faith in song. ~ Saint Ambrose,
8:To suffer as a Christian is not only to suffer in confession of the faith, which is done by words, but also to suffer for doing any good work, or for avoiding any sin, for Christ's sake ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 2-2.124.5ad1).,
9:The third operation in any magical ceremony is the oath or proclamation. The Magician, armed and ready, stands in the centre of the Circle, and strikes once upon the bell as if to call the attention of the Universe. He then declares who he is, reciting his magical history by the proclamation of the grades which he has attained, giving the signs and words of those grades. He then states the purpose of the ceremony, and proves that it is necessary to perform it and to succeed in its performance. He then takes an oath before the Lord of the Universe (not before the particular Lord whom he is invoking) as if to call Him to witness the act. He swears solemnly that he will perform it-that nothing shall prevent him from performing it-that he will not leave the operation until it is successfully performed-and once again he strikes upon the bell. Yet, having demonstrated himself in that position at once infinitely lofty and infinitely unimportant, the instrument of destiny, he balances this by the Confession, in which there is again an infinite exaltation harmonised with an infinite humility. He admits himself to be a weak human being humbly aspiring to something higher; a creature of circumstance utterly dependent-even for the breath of life-upon a series of fortunate accidents.
   ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Psychaiatrist realize that there are curative powers in confession. ~ billy-graham, @wisdomtrove
2:A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession. ~ albert-camus, @wisdomtrove
3:The Argument from Intimidation is a confession of intellectual impotence. ~ ayn-rand, @wisdomtrove
4:The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works. ~ saint-augustine, @wisdomtrove
5:I should say that psycho-analysis was confession without absolution. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove
6:For a successful season of prayer, the best beginning is confession. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove
7:We first become salesmen as children in the confession booths of our parents. ~ criss-jami, @wisdomtrove
8:If you excuse yourself in confession, you shut up sin within your soul, and shut out pardon. ~ saint-augustine, @wisdomtrove
9:God comes on his own terms. He comes when commands are revered, hearts are clean, and confession is made. ~ max-lucado, @wisdomtrove
10:People do not seem to realize that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. ~ ralph-waldo-emerson, @wisdomtrove
11:It does not spoil your happiness to confess your sin. The unhappiness is in not making the confession. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove
12:The minister to whom confession is made is the delegate of Christ, Who is the Judge of the living and the dead. ~ denis-diderot, @wisdomtrove
13:The minister to whom confession is made is the delegate of Christ, Who is the Judge of the living and the dead. ~ thomas-aquinas, @wisdomtrove
14:God freely forgives us on account of Christnot on account of our works, contrition, confession, or satisfactions. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove
15:Only as we bow in contrition, confession, and repentance at the foot of the cross, can we find forgiveness. There is the grace of God. ~ billy-graham, @wisdomtrove
16:Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. ~ robert-louis-stevenson, @wisdomtrove
17:Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn't matter; only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you-that would be the real betrayal. ~ george-orwell, @wisdomtrove
18:There is, in world affairs, a steady course to be followed between an assertion of strength that is truculent and a confession of helplessness that is cowardly ~ dwight-eisenhower, @wisdomtrove
19:The saddest object in civilization, and to my mind the greatest confession of its failure, is the man who can work, who wants work, and who is not allowed to work. ~ robert-louis-stevenson, @wisdomtrove
20:It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one's worship into words. ~ oscar-wilde, @wisdomtrove
21:Three conditions are necessary for Penance: contrition, which is sorrow for sin, together with a purpose of amendment; confession of sins without any omission; and satisfaction by means of good works. ~ denis-diderot, @wisdomtrove
22:Three conditions are necessary for Penance: contrition, which is sorrow for sin, together with a purpose of amendment; confession of sins without any omission; and satisfaction by means of good works. ~ thomas-aquinas, @wisdomtrove
23:Now there is any amount of this nonsense cropping up among American cranks. Anybody may propose to establish coercive Eugenics; or enforce psychoanalysis that is, enforce confession without absolution. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove
24:Prayer in the sense of petition, asking for things, is a small part of it; confession and penitence are its threshold, adoration its sanctuary, the presence and vision and enjoyment of God its bread and wine. ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove
25:Believest thou? then thou wilt speak boldly. Speakest thou boldy? then thou must suffer. Sufferest thou? then thou shalt be comforted. For faith, the confession thereof, and the cross do follow one another. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove
26:The vice of envy is not only a dangerous, but a mean vice; for it is always a confession of inferiority. It may promote conduct which will be fruitful of wrong to others, and it must cause misery to the man who feels it. ~ theodore-roosevelt, @wisdomtrove
27:I wrote in Les Mots that "I have often thought against myself." That sentence has not been understood either. Critics have seen in it a confession of masochism. But that is how one should think: revolting against everything "inculcated" that one may have within oneself. ~ jean-paul-sartre, @wisdomtrove
28:Confession is the act of inviting God to walk the acreage of our hearts. There is a rock of greed over here, Father. I can’t budge it. And that tree of guilt near the fence? Its roots are long and deep. And may I show you some dry soil, too crusty for seed? God’s seed grows better if the soil of the heart is cleared. ~ max-lucado, @wisdomtrove
29:Nowadays, as before, the public declaration and confession of Orthodoxy is usually encountered among dull-witted, cruel and immoral people who tend to consider themselves very important. Whereas intelligence, honesty, straightforwardness, good-naturedness and morality are qualities usually found among people who claim to be non-believers. ~ leo-tolstoy, @wisdomtrove
30:I've made a terrible confession to you, he concluded gloomily. Do appreciate it, gentlemen. And it's not enough, not enough to appreciate it, you must not just appreciate it, it should also be precious to you, and if not, if this, too, goes past your souls, then it means you really do not respect me, gentlemen. I tell you that, and I will die of shame at having confessed to such men as you. ~ fyodor-dostoevsky, @wisdomtrove
31:It is by far the most elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with incense, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, and the real presence, confession, absolution, - there is something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no possibility of doubt; for those who swallow their Deity, really and truly, in transubstantiation, can hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of digestion. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove
32:Repentance was never yet produced in any man's heart apart from the grace of God. As soon may you expect the leopard to regret the blood with which its fangs are moistened,—as soon might you expect the lion of the wood to abjure his cruel tyranny over the feeble beasts of the plain, as expect the sinner to make any confession, or offer any repentance that shall be accepted of God, unless grace shall first renew the heart. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove
33:Either [Jesus] was what he said he was or he was the world's greatest liar. It is impossible for me to believe a liar or charlatan could have had the effect on mankind that he has had for 2000 years. We could ask, would even the greatest of liars carry his lie through the crucifixion, when a simple confession would have saved him? ... Did he allow us the choice... to believe in his teaching but reject his statements about his own identity? ~ ronald-reagan, @wisdomtrove
34:I should think that many of our poets, the honest ones, will confess to having no manifesto. It is a painful confession but the art of poetry carries its own powers without having to break them down into critical listings. I do not mean that poetry should be raffish and irresponsible clown tossing off words into the void. But the very feeling of a good poem carries its own reason for being... Art is its own excuse, and it’s either Art or it’s something else. It’s either a poem or a piece of cheese. ~ charles-bukowski, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:pride.” Job’s Confession ~ Anonymous,
2:Confession Nocturne
~ Émile Nelligan,
3:confession ran in the family. ~ Iris Murdoch,
4:My whole act is confession. ~ Shelley Berman,
5:A work of art is a confession. ~ Albert Camus,
6:Advice is always a confession. ~ Andre Maurois,
7:Do not be afraid of confession! ~ Pope Francis,
8:No confession brings perfection. ~ Oscar Romero,
9:The act of love is a confession. ~ Albert Camus,
10:All art is a kind of confession. ~ James Baldwin,
11:Confession: Nate was intoxicating. ~ Elle Strauss,
12:All art is a kind of confession. ~ James A Baldwin,
13:Acting is a form of confession. ~ Tallulah Bankhead,
14:Evil is a confession of inadequacy ~ Stefan Molyneux,
15:CONFESSION WITHOUT CHANGE IS JUST A GAME. ~ Anonymous,
16:Faith never makes a confession. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
17:A confession: I am not a good friend. ~ Victoria Schwab,
18:The poem is a confession of faith. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
19:A confession: solitude no longer hurt me. ~ Mario Benedetti,
20:A confession : solitude no longer hurt me. ~ Mario Benedetti,
21:All philosophy is a form of confession. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
22:I'm a confession that is waiting to be heard ~ Marilyn Manson,
23:Nothing spoils a confession like repentance. ~ Anatole France,
24:A proper autobiography is a death-bed confession. ~ Mary Antin,
25:The act of love, for instance, is a confession. ~ Albert Camus,
26:A true confession: I believe in a soluble fish. ~ Charles Simic,
27:Psychoanalysis is confession without absolution. ~ G K Chesterton,
28:Confession makes you a more trustworthy narrator. ~ Phillip Lopate,
29:A confession has to be part of your new life. ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein,
30:Confession may well be a dirty word in poetry. ~ Lucie Brock Broido,
31:The woman could get a confession faster than a priest. ~ B J Daniels,
32:Psychoanalysis is the confession without absolution. ~ Germaine Greer,
33:Terror, perhaps, is always a confession of illegitimacy. ~ Martin Amis,
34:Judgement is often no more than a confession of ignorance. ~ Bill Clegg,
35:Confession is an act of violence against the unoffending. ~ Tom Stoppard,
36:in other words, his story was part boast, part confession. ~ Ben Mezrich,
37:Your confession must absolutely agree with the Word of God! ~ T B Joshua,
38:Confession of our faults is the next thing to innocence. ~ Publilius Syrus,
39:Confession of our faults is the next thing to innocence. ~ Publilius Syrus,
40:There is always something. That is confession’s nature. ~ Viet Thanh Nguyen,
41:Confession: I’ve wanted to do that since the day that I met you. ~ G L Tomas,
42:Myth is neither a lie nor a confession: it is an inflexion. ~ Roland Barthes,
43:The end of confession is to tell the truth to and for oneself. ~ J M Coetzee,
44:It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. ~ Oscar Wilde,
45:Confession is always a good place to start when we feel lost. ~ Edward T Welch,
46:but a confession would only clear my conscience and sadden his. ~ Chelsea Field,
47:Prayer is a confession of one's own unworthiness and weakness. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
48:Confession is the giving up of ALL self-righteousness. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
49:Women can have all the evidence but they still want the confession. ~ Chris Rock,
50:People would make a much fuller confession to Satan than to God. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
51:Psychaiatrist realize that there are curative powers in confession. ~ Billy Graham,
52:A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession. ~ Albert Camus,
53:Concealment makes the soul a swamp. Confession is how you drain it. ~ Charles M Blow,
54:The Argument from Intimidation is a confession of intellectual impotence. ~ Ayn Rand,
55:The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works. ~ Saint Augustine,
56:True wisdom lies in one's confession about the limits of one's knowledge. ~ Socrates,
57:You’re not a knight in shining armor; you’re someone’s confession.” A ~ Dannika Dark,
58:Every Catholic is one good Confession away from potential sainthood. ~ Patrick Madrid,
59:His confession was silent, and her promise of faithfulness was silent. ~ George Eliot,
60:My pain is constant and sharp...this confession has meant nothing ~ Bret Easton Ellis,
61:(Confession? Sometimes I don’t read my texts in a timely manner.) “PEEN! ~ Lauren Rowe,
62:Love is like that. I could crush her beneath the weight of confession. ~ Ellen Hopkins,
63:For a successful season of prayer, the best beginning is confession. ~ Charles Spurgeon,
64:Bad girls are my favorites. They make confession more interesting and fun. ~ Nancee Cain,
65:Confession is good for all of us, but even better for you than for me. ~ John R Erickson,
66:I have replaced my instinct for secrecy with an instinct for confession. ~ Melissa Febos,
67:It's not a confession if no one reads it. It's just an unshared secret. ~ Colleen Hoover,
68:It’s not a confession if no one reads it. It’s just an unshared secret. ~ Colleen Hoover,
69:This feels like so much more than just a kiss. It feels like a confession. ~ Beth Michele,
70:Confession is a sacred rite enhanced by allegory, exaggeration, and lies. ~ Craig Ferguson,
71:Make this confession out loud: “I am the righteousness of God in Christ. ~ Kenneth E Hagin,
72:The heart of true prayer is vertical confession, not horizontal desire. ~ Paul David Tripp,
73:We first become salesmen as children in the confession booths of our parents. ~ Criss Jami,
74:Confession is good for the soul, it empties the soul making more space for sin. ~ Trevanian,
75:I should say that psycho-analysis was confession without absolution. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,
76:There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession. ~ Daniel Webster,
77:Confession is good for the conscience, but it usually bypasses the soul. ~ Mignon McLaughlin,
78:Confession is good for the soul, it empties the spirit making more room for sin. ~ Trevanian,
79:I wish I had heard him more clearly: an oblique confession is always a plea. ~ James Baldwin,
80:Confession is the sacrament of the tenderness of God, his way of embracing us. ~ Pope Francis,
81:If you excuse yourself in confession, you shut up sin within your soul, and ~ Saint Augustine,
82:The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
83:Confession can be good for the soul, but it can exact a heavy toll on friendships. ~ C D Payne,
84:Private confession was not ordered by Christ and was not used by the apostles. ~ John Wycliffe,
85:So it was a two ear confession. Those are the best kind you know. The most reliable. ~ C J Box,
86:Bad cops are bad priests', she said. 'All confession, and no absolution. ~ Gregory David Roberts,
87:A meeting is a collective tacit confession of participants’ unwillingness to work. ~ Pawan Mishra,
88:Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been a minute since my last confession. ~ Frank McCourt,
89:Confession has a “consequence” too—a good consequence! A free and happy heart! ~ Stormie Omartian,
90:It's like finally going to confession only to find out the priest has earplugs in. ~ Jandy Nelson,
91:I hope I never need to believe in God. It would be an awful confession of failure. ~ Kenneth Tynan,
92:Remembrance. Even more, confession. It did always made the heavy things come loose. ~ Erika Robuck,
93:when confession and sacrifice are done, it is as if the wrongdoing never occurred. ~ Carlene Havel,
94:Rather than contradicting sola Scriptura, a confession is actually a sound guide to it. ~ Anonymous,
95:So this is my Pathetic Loser’s confession: I am Oren Tenning, and I have fallen. Hard. ~ Linda Kage,
96:Holy Week is a good occasion to go to confession and to take up the right path again. ~ Pope Francis,
97:So, this is my Pathetic Loser’s confession: I am Oren Tenning, and I have fallen. Hard. ~ Linda Kage,
98:General Confession it had been watered down to we are truly sorry and we humbly repent. ~ Gail Godwin,
99:I do not approve of children being beaten. It is always a confession of failure. ~ Patricia Wentworth,
100:CONFESSION NO. 18 Girls just want to have fun…and live to tell about it the next day. ~ Ronda Thompson,
101:My child, a true-confession story should never be tarnished by any taint of truth. ~ Robert A Heinlein,
102:The only confession Jolene had ever wrenched from him was that he had cared about her. ~ Erin McCarthy,
103:I am very afraid of the devil. A strange confession from the lips of an unbeliever. ~ Witold Gombrowicz,
104:The weapons of divine justice are blunted by the confession and sorrow of the offender. ~ Dante Alighieri,
105:Confession may or may not be good for the soul, but it's undoubtedly soothing to the nerves. ~ Stephen King,
106:Every psychology—my own included—has the character of a subjective confession” (1929b, p. 336). ~ Anonymous,
107:Mark Twain said a novel was a confession to everything by a man who had never done anything. ~ Stephen King,
108:This girl holds my heart in her hand and she's squishing it to nothing with her confession. ~ Siobhan Davis,
109:But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. ~ Anonymous,
110:Confession designed to restore lost blessings is a management technique, it is not repentance. ~ Larry Crabb,
111:Here's a confession: I hate parenting books. I hate the ones that are earnest and repetitive. ~ Bruce Feiler,
112:If revenge is a dish best served cold, confession should be dished up piping hot or not at all. ~ Erin Kelly,
113:I’m beginning to get the feeling that confession is what we need in order to forgive ourselves. ~ Shane Kuhn,
114:The fastest way to bring a wrecking ball to our skewed interpretations is through confession. ~ Edward T Welch,
115:People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
116:Don't be afraid to go to the Sacrament of Confession, where you will meet Jesus who forgives you. ~ Pope Francis,
117:Confession: I don't want to be one of my characters. I'm mean to them sometimes. Really mean. ~ Michelle M Pillow,
118:True confession: The reason we don't talk about race is because we do not speak a common language. ~ Jodi Picoult,
119:True confession? The reason we don’t talk about race is because we do not speak a common language. ~ Jodi Picoult,
120:Catholics don't believe in divorce. We do believe in murder. There's always Confession, after all. ~ Diana Gabaldon,
121:a theological confession is one thing, a practical realization of the truth we confess is quite another. ~ R A Torrey,
122:However, I'm beginning to get the feeling that confession is what we need in order to forgive ourselves. ~ Shane Kuhn,
123:With an air of confession, Jin lowered his voice. "Eggs come out of chickens' butts, you know. ~ Lois McMaster Bujold,
124:x Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for  y he who promised is faithful. 24And ~ Anonymous,
125:For with the heart one believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. ~ Tim LaHaye,
126:God comes on his own terms. He comes when commands are revered, hearts are clean, and confession is made. ~ Max Lucado,
127:People do not seem to realize that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
128:The candidate was required to prepare himself by confession, fasting, and passing the night in prayer. ~ Horatio Alger,
129:Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time. ~ Karl Marx,
130:Scientific objectivity is not the absence of initial bias. It is attained by frank confession of it. ~ Mortimer J Adler,
131:A true inner world is often revealed by style and sensibility as much as by what appears to be confession. ~ Stephen Dunn,
132:Fri. L. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. ~ William Shakespeare,
133:I MUST make one confession” Ivan began. “I could never understand how one can love one’s neighbours. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
134:It does not spoil your happiness to confess your sin. The unhappiness is in not making the confession. ~ Charles Spurgeon,
135:Let us hold on to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful. Hebrews 10:23 ~ Beth Moore,
136:Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence. ~ Dorothy Dix,
137:Confession of one's guilt purifies and uplifts. Its suppression is degrading and should always be avoided. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
138:Whoever said confession was good for the soul hadn’t been forced to take one after half a night’s sleep. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,
139:People do not seem to realise that their opinion of the world is also a confession of their character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
140:The Christian confession is not a neutral proposition; it is prayer, only yielding its meaning within prayer. ~ Benedict XVI,
141:Why me?” Claire asked him. “Fuck if I know.” She blinked. Well, that wasn’t exactly some romantic confession. ~ Cynthia Eden,
142:Ben smiled back, 'Mark Twain said a novel was a confession to everything by a man who had never done anything. ~ Stephen King,
143:People do not seem to realise that their opinion of the world is also a confession of their character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
144:I honestly love [my fans] so much. [Their] support is everything and I'm glad [they] liked [my confession]. ~ Lucas Cruikshank,
145:He wondered what the collective noun was for psychologists: a shortage of shrinks? A confession of counsellors? ~ Daryl Gregory,
146:In Confession, Jesus welcomes us with all our sinfulness, to give us a new heart, capable of loving as he loves. ~ Pope Francis,
147:Raise a million filters and the rain will not be clean, until the longing for it be refined in deep confession. ~ Leonard Cohen,
148:The experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
149:The novel is not the author's confession; it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become ~ Milan Kundera,
150:FRIAR LAWRENCE Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. ~ William Shakespeare,
151:Self-Criticism is the secret weapon of democracy, and candor and confession are good for the political soul. ~ Adlai Stevenson I,
152:The words carry their own momentum. A confession in motion tends to stay in motion. Newton's first law of jealousy. ~ Erica Jong,
153:As ordeals and duels gave way to confession as a proof of guilt, judicial torture was actually increasing in France. ~ Eric Jager,
154:God freely forgives us on account of Christnot on account of our works, contrition, confession, or satisfactions. ~ Martin Luther,
155:Knowing the KGB would be eager to learn every detail of his work with the CIA, he offered to write a confession. ~ David E Hoffman,
156:I would like to make a confession which may seem immoral: I do not believe absolutely in Hilbert space any more. ~ John von Neumann,
157:A poem is a private story, after all, no matter how apparently public. The reader is always overhearing a confession. ~ Jorie Graham,
158:The confession of the authority of the Word of God can never be isolated from the saving content of the Word of God. ~ G C Berkouwer,
159:classic creeds, produced by seasoned Christians, stand the test of time. A confession is a mature, proven set of beliefs. ~ Anonymous,
160:...telling doesn't help me - it helps you. As Wilde says, It is the confession, not the priest, that gives absolution... ~ John Geddes,
161:The minister to whom confession is made is the delegate of Christ, Who is the Judge of the living and the dead. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,
162:We must confess that we are "nothing else but sin," for no confession short of this will be the whole truth. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
163:Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect - simply a confession of failures. ~ Oscar Wilde,
164:I have a confession to make.121 Almost every time I tune in to religious radio or TV, I want to change my religion. I ~ Brian D McLaren,
165:A disobedient soul will win no victory, even if the Lord Jesus himself, in person, were to hear its confession. ~ Mary Faustina Kowalska,
166:I had to make a confession of faith in stone. That was the beginning of the tower, the house I built for myself at Bollingen. ~ Carl Jung,
167:Every day my conscience makes confession relying on the hope of Your mercy as more to be trusted than its own innocence. ~ Saint Augustine,
168:I have a confession: I'm not a man of simplicity. I spent my entire early career making complex stuff. Lots of complex stuff. ~ John Maeda,
169:The act of love . . . is a confession. Selfishness screams aloud, vanity shows off, or else true generosity reveals itself. ~ Albert Camus,
170:The man who has truly believed in his heart ... his life will be marked by a biblical confession of Christ in word and deed. ~ Paul Washer,
171:The Sacraments are Jesus Christ’s presence in us. So it is important for us to go to Confession and receive Holy Communion. ~ Pope Francis,
172:Confession should be a daily activity for the Christian, whose entire pilgrimage is characterized by the spirit of repentance. ~ R C Sproul,
173:It must be the full confession by Christendom of Christendom's specific contribution to the sum of human cruelty and treachery. ~ C S Lewis,
174:People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Conduct of Life (1860),
175:She’s heard that confession is good for the soul. But the one person she truly should confess to has gone missing. ~ Marybeth Mayhew Whalen,
176:My prayer is that people will not being ashamed to know that confession is not the end of the world and it actually brings healing. ~ LeCrae,
177:The great danger is that in the confession of any collective sin, one shall confess the sins of others and forget our own. ~ Georgia Harkness,
178:Ask Jesus to make you a saint. After all, only He can do that. Go to confession regularly and to Communion as often as you can ~ Dominic Savio,
179:If you would know whether you have made a good confession, ask yourself I you have resolved to abandon your sins. ~ Saint Bernard of Clairvaux,
180:It takes a while for the heat to work in this piece of shit, but when it kicks in, you’ll sweat like a fat whore at confession. ~ Robyn Peterman,
181:Bowman's idea of "entirely cooperative" was a man who brought along a certified stenographer to take down his own confession. ~ Richard Stevenson,
182:The Party, as such, stands for positive Christianity, but does not bind itself in the matter of creed to any particular confession. ~ Adolf Hitler,
183:Every day my conscience makes confession relying on the hope of Your mercy as more to be trusted than its own innocence. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
184:Fear is a confession of weakness. What you fear is stronger than you, or you think it is, else you wouldn't be afraid of it. ~ Lucy Maud Montgomery,
185:Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. ~ Charles Dickens,
186:Therefore, holy brothers, [1] you who share in  r a heavenly calling, consider Jesus,  s the apostle and high priest of our confession, ~ Anonymous,
187:All nights are sacred nights to make confession and resolve and prayer; all days are sacred days to wake new gladness in the sunny air. ~ Helen Hunt,
188:Fight the good fight for the faith; take hold of eternal life, to which you were called and have made a good confession. 1 Timothy 6:12 ~ Beth Moore,
189:And then his mouth met mine and the taste of him was all I knew. I moaned, a wordless confession of my desire and complete willingness ~ Mia Sheridan,
190:I have a confession to make," I told her.
"Go ahead," she said. "I enjoy a good blurting out of secrets as much as the next person. ~ Alan Bradley,
191:Only as we bow in contrition, confession, and repentance at the foot of the cross, can we find forgiveness. There is the grace of God. ~ Billy Graham,
192:Through the proof of this service, they will glorify God for your obedience to the confession of the gospel of Christ. 2 Corinthians 9:13 ~ Beth Moore,
193:Ain't no way I'm letting her out of this now. Not after that confession. It was as epic as the fucking storm and ten times as unexpected. ~ C M Stunich,
194:Everything here is a small offense and not of value as art or confession. It is not a whim. It is an attempt to peel another putrid skin. ~ Patti Smith,
195:If even the most emphatic and frequent confession of the lordship of Jesus Christ is not evidence of true conversion, then what is? ~ Paul David Washer,
196:I knew that his confession would be a tremendous relief to him but a burden to me. Such information, once shared, can never be retracted. ~ Karen Essex,
197:I promised no more poetry and I’d rather think of this as a confession: you are still the first person I want to share new things with. ~ Trista Mateer,
198:The validity of our confession of Jesus Christ’s lordship and of our conversion is evidenced by our obedience to the Father’s will. ~ Paul David Washer,
199:What is unhealthy is every wallowing in guilt which does not lead to confession, repentance, faith in Jesus Christ and so forgiveness. ~ John R W Stott,
200:Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,
201:Speaking uses us up, speeds us up. Without prayer, that act of confession for merely existing, one might live forever and not know it. ~ Gregory Maguire,
202:Confession is an act of honesty and courage - an act of entrusting ourselves, beyond sin, to the mercy of a loving and forgiving God. ~ Pope John Paul II,
203:Confession is for the confessor. It makes you feel good; it ruins the lives of everyone else. It’s a selfish thing to do. Don’t confess. ~ Jake Adelstein,
204:By all those tells, he wrote his anxiety and his guilt as clearly as if he had composed his confession on a blackboard with a stick of chalk. ~ Dean Koontz,
205:Fantastic,” I said without an ounce of enthusiasm. “I’m just one more embarrassing confession away from taking over the world.” --Spencer Nye ~ Jason Letts,
206:I’m making this confession without hope for absolution.
One morning, I pretended to go crazy. Perhaps in pretending, I proved myself so. ~ Miguel Syjuco,
207:... it is because sympathy is but a living again through our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response of confession. ~ George Eliot,
208:Vulnerability minus boundaries is not vulnerability. It’s confession, manipulation, desperation, or shock and awe, but it’s not vulnerability. ~ Bren Brown,
209:You took my heart when you left,” I whispered.
He took a slow step forward, his confession cracking in the air. “And I left mine with you. ~ A L Jackson,
210:Confession, apology, and forgiveness, Aunt Beru had been fond of reminding him, were the tools friends used to break walls down into bridges. ~ Timothy Zahn,
211:I have a confession to make.
I hate voir dire.
I despise prying into other people's lives because I wouldn't want them prying into mine. ~ Paul Levine,
212:The most defenseless tenderness and the bloodiest of powers have a similar need of confession. Western man has become a confessing animal. ~ Michel Foucault,
213:A spiritual law that few recognize is that our confession rules us. It is what we confess with our lips that really dominates our inner being. ~ F F Bosworth,
214:Confession of errors is like a broom which sweeps away the dirt and leaves the surface brighter and clearer. I feel stronger for confession. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
215:I told myself this was probably a bad idea, to let him kiss me into a confession. But, I reasoned, if there was ever a way to cave, this was it. ~ Kiera Cass,
216:It used to irritate a friend of mine that when he went to confession he never got the chance to tell the priest the good things he had done. ~ Monica Furlong,
217:Secrecy sets barriers between men, but at the same time offers the seductive temptation to break through the barriers by gossip or confession. ~ Georg Simmel,
218:A personal essay often includes some or a lot of personal confession. That makes the reader feel less lonely in their confusion and darkness. ~ Phillip Lopate,
219:It is my guiding confession that I believe the greatest error in economics is in seeing the economy as a stable, immutable structure. ~ John Kenneth Galbraith,
220:I’ve never liked to call it that,” cut in Thyon—softly, like a confession. “It’s bitter on my tongue. I think of it as the Unseen City instead. ~ Laini Taylor,
221:Learn in confession to be honest with God. Do not give fair names to foul sins; call them what you will, they will smell no sweeter. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
222:She turned back to watch the action across the street and waited to feel the good feelings she’d imagined her confession would bring. ~ Marybeth Mayhew Whalen,
223:I have a confession,” he said. “Sometimes I offend on purpose. It’s like my smile.”
“That’s not an apology.”
“Princes don’t apologize. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
224:Repression, a degree of restraint, and a little dedication to self-editing belong to love just as surely as a capacity for explicit confession. ~ Alain de Botton,
225:If the only thing wrong with mosques, Lent, chanting, ?Mecca, confession, or reincarnation is that they're not yours- well maybe the problem is "YOU ~ Mitch Albom,
226:People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Conduct of Life, Chapter 6, “Worship,” p. 214,
227:Accountable government does not come through elections. It comes through respect for law, through public spirit and through a culture of confession. ~ Roger Scruton,
228:There are people who are afraid to go to confession, forgetting that they will not encounter a severe judge there, but the immensely merciful Father. ~ Pope Francis,
229:To conceal ignorance is to increase it. An honest confession of it, however, gives ground for the hope that it will diminish some day or the other. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
230:we are not priests. We don’t want their sort of confession. We are lawyers. We want the truth little by little and only those parts of it we can use. ~ Hilary Mantel,
231:Well-meanin' man. Did it all for the best." Stalky curled gracefully round the stair-rail. "Head in a drain-pipe. Full confession in the left boot. ~ Rudyard Kipling,
232:accountable government does not come through elections. It comes through respect for law, through public spirit and through a culture of confession. To ~ Roger Scruton,
233:They were students of the expressions of young women as they went in to confession, and they saw them as they came out and read the nature of the sin. ~ John Steinbeck,
234:Confession is good for the soul, they say. I'd imagine this is true. But my sins were too convoluted. And from the little I understand--too damning. ~ Kate Karyus Quinn,
235:Christianity is a confession, not an explanation. We will attempt to explain what we legitimately can, but we will always confess more than we can explain. ~ Brian Zahnd,
236:Confession heals, confession justifies, confession grants pardon of sin, all hope consists in confession; in confession there is a chance for mercy. ~ Isidore of Seville,
237:I never felt scandal and confession were necessary to be an actress. I've never revealed my self or even my body in films. Mystery is very important. ~ Claudia Cardinale,
238:I will begin with this confession: whatever I have done in the course of my life, whether it be good or evil, has been done freely; I am a free agent. ~ Giacomo Casanova,
239:People can’t function without forgiveness. It’s why the Catholics have confession and the Jews have Yom Kippur. You recognize your failings, and you move on. ~ Simon Wood,
240:Women's vulnerability confessing their desire to see men as a success object is matched by men's confession of compulsiveness of sexual desire for women. ~ Warren Farrell,
241:Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn't matter; only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you-that would be the real betrayal. ~ George Orwell,
242:Just being visible is my biggest confession, so they try to set me at ease by revealing our equality, by dragging out their own less-apparent deformities. ~ Katherine Dunn,
243:How is it, then, that so many in the evangelical church are unaware of their sin and unmarked by confession? It is because they are largely unconverted. ~ Paul David Washer,
244:Modesty is the lowest of the virtues, and is a real confession of the deficiency it indicates. He who undervalues himself is justly undervalued by others. ~ William Hazlitt,
245:They certified that I was sane; but I know that I am mad." This confession gives us the key to what is most important and significant in Tolstoy's hidden life. ~ Lev Shestov,
246:I took a shower and poured a glass. Confession: I poured the glass first and took it into the shower with me, soaping with one hand, drinking with the other. ~ Melanie Harlow,
247:Faith is confession with the tongue and belief with the heart and work with the members of the body. So long as you do not work, you do not find reward. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,
248:Although an atheist, Pascal said he would make a deathbed confession to God. If there was no God to hear it, what difference did it make? But if there was . . . ~ Robert Masello,
249:Augustine is so wholly with me, that if I wished to write a confession of my faith, I could do so with all fullness and satisfaction to myself out of his writings. ~ John Calvin,
250:But in the month when this confession begins, my way of seeing the world still seemed more of a virtue than a danger, which is how some dangers first appear. ~ Viet Thanh Nguyen,
251:CONFESSION NO. 1 Most women find the bloating, cramping, and bitchiness of PMS bothersome at worst. I turn into a monster a week before my period…literally.
~ Ronda Thompson,
252:convinced is the biblical doctrine on the great subject of the inspiration of Scripture. In making this confession and presenting this commentary, we hope to dispel ~ R C Sproul,
253:Our Great High Priest 14 Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens — Jesus the Son of God — let us hold fast to the confession. ~ Anonymous,
254:Today, I command my days by confessing that every minute will be blessed and perfect. My confession then has no other choice but to confer blessings upon my life. ~ Kel Mitchell,
255:All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up. ~ James Baldwin,
256:All they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with a rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means. ~ Billy Collins,
257:Candor toward a brother must not be mistaken for confession. The latter is made to the Lord of heaven and earth in the presence of a man is authorized to hear it. ~ Brother Roger,
258:The books, the authors who matter the most are those who speak to me and speak for me all those things about life I most need to hear as the confession of myself ~ Aidan Chambers,
259:The public declaration and confession of Orthodoxy is usually encountered among dull-witted, cruel and immoral people who tend to consider themselves very important. ~ Leo Tolstoy,
260:Whoever will imagine a perpetual confession of ignorance, a judgment without leaning or inclination, on any occasion whatever, hasa conception of Pyrrhonism. ~ Michel de Montaigne,
261:All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story, to vomit the anguish up. ~ James A Baldwin,
262:Every genuine confession humbles the soul. When it takes the form of thanksgiving, it teaches the soul that it has been delivered by the grace of God. ~ Saint Maximus the Confessor,
263:A clean confession combined with a promise never to commit the sin again, when offered before one who has the right to receive it, is the purest type of repentance. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
264:She shot me in the arm once.” This confession was said with as much tenderness as if Scarlet had given him a bouquet of wildflowers rather than a bullet wound. Cress ~ Marissa Meyer,
265:And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable. ~ Suzanne Collins,
266:This was supposed to be a question. Not a poem confession or whatever it's become. I just want to know if you would listen with me to the sound of our heartbeats. ~ Elizabeth Acevedo,
267:Unbelief, in distinction from disbelief, is a confession of ignorance where honest inquiry might easily find the truth. - "Agnostic" is but the Greek for "ignoramus." ~ Tryon Edwards,
268:We have to hear again and again who God is for us and what God has done on our behalf. We must free each other from bondage through our confession and forgiveness. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
269:Our confession will either imprison us or set us free. Our confession is the result of our believing, and our believing is the result of our right or wrong thinking. ~ Kenneth E Hagin,
270:A clean confession, combined with a promise never to commit the sin again, when offered before one who has the right to receive it, is the purest type of repentance. I ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
271:Almost none of us liked the self-searching, the leveling of our pride, the confession of shortcomings which the process requires for its successful consummation. ~ Alcoholics Anonymous,
272:watching
the house
that was
my sanctuary
& my hell
go up in
flames
was
bittersweet
but mostly

just sweet.

- a confession. ~ Amanda Lovelace,
273:Confession is like a bridle that keeps the soul which reflects on it from committing sin, but anything left unconfessed we continue to do without fear as if in the dark. ~ John Climacus,
274:If the melody is telling me this is what the song is about, then I'm sort of forced into confession, autobiography or fantasy. If I don't do that, I've hamstrung the melody. ~ Ben Folds,
275:One must repeat one’s confession of faith from time to time, actually state what one condones, what one condemns; for the opposing camp isn’t silent either. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
276:What was doubly disconcerting for me was that he showed such extraordinary and precocious insight in describing his own feelings that I felt he was making my own confession. ~ Andr Gide,
277:The call goes forth, and is at once followed by the response of obedience. The response of the disciples is an act of obedience, not a confession of faith in Jesus. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
278:There is -- in world affairs -- a steady course to be followed between an assertion of strength that is truculent and a confession of helplessness that is cowardly. ~ Dwight D Eisenhower,
279:I have a confession to make,” she said. “I did poison you. But it wasn’t in the bottle, it was on it. You were done the moment you took the wrapping off and touched it. ~ Brian D Anderson,
280:I spent a long time trying to build up an organisation [the Lance Armstrong Foundation that changed its name to Livestrong after his confession] to help a lot of people. ~ Lance Armstrong,
281:The saddest object in civilization, and to my mind the greatest confession of its failure, is the man who can work, who wants work, and who is not allowed to work. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,
282:Your boldness confounds me! Shall I conceal your crime, I whom you have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no! I will render you a more essential service. I ~ Matthew Lewis,
283:If the church is to be faithful it must be formed andordered from the inside of its experience and confession and not by borrowing from sources extenal to its own life. ~ Walter Brueggemann,
284:Now, after my confession, I felt battered, like one of those dolls that always bounces back up when hit. But here's the thing - those silly dolls get hit all the more for it. ~ Kresley Cole,
285:The nonnegotiable ethos of a confession may actually force a slacker generation to return to Scripture and steer through some difficult issues. Such may actually help us mature. ~ Anonymous,
286:The purifying influence of public confession springs from the fact, that by it the hope in lies is forever swept away, and the soul recovers the noble attitude of simplicity. ~ George Eliot,
287:A diary is the last place to go if you wish to seek the truth about a person. Nobody dares to make the final confession to themselves on paper: or at least, not about love. ~ Lawrence Durrell,
288:It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one's worship into words. ~ Oscar Wilde,
289:all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means. ~ Billy Collins,
290:For whenever unbaptized persons die confessing Christ, this confession is of the same efficacy for the remission of sins as if they were washed in the sacred font of baptism. ~ Saint Augustine,
291:I didn't have a class at the Met," she said, opting to open with a confession, thinking that would make the rest come easier. She could hear her heartbeat punctuating every word. ~ Ingrid D az,
292:Repression by brute force is always a confession of the inability to make use of the better weapons of the intellect—better because they alone give promise of final success. ~ Ludwig von Mises,
293:The confession of ignorance is crucial to the pursuit of knowledge. Another way of putting it is that those who pretend to know never will – they lack the humility to learn. ~ Jonathan Renshaw,
294:The true religion is to be posited not in the knowledge or confession of what God allegedly does or has done for our salvation, but in what we must do to become worthy of this. ~ Immanuel Kant,
295:Babe, with you, I’m more unsure than I’ve ever been.”
The confession, uttered with a hint of bewilderment and one-hundred-percent honesty, had the knot loosening in her chest. ~ Jill Shalvis,
296:Christianity did not begin with a confession. It began with an invitation into friendship, into creating a new community, into forming relationships based on love and service. ~ Diana Butler Bass,
297:If ever the book which I am not going to write is written it must be the full confession by Christendom of Christendom’s specific contribution to the sum of human cruelty and treachery. ~ C S Lewis,
298:No confession is inerrant; Reformed Christians are supposed to be those who seek to be constantly reformed according to the Word of God - and that includes our confessions as well. ~ Oliver D Crisp,
299:Gradually it has become clear to me what every great philosophy so far has been: namely, the personal confession of its author and a kind of involuntary and unconscious memoir. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
300:I would like to say that I was inspired to write Shiver by some overwhelming belief in true love, but here’s my true confession. I wrote Shiver because I like to make people cry. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
301:Let it be known that this is the true Church, in which there is confession and penance and which takes a health-promoting care of the sins and wounds to which the weak flesh is subject. ~ Lactantius,
302:Bragging is often merely a ladder we build for ourselves out of words when we are afraid we are not tall enough in the eyes of the world. It is an unwitting confession to low self-esteem. ~ P M Forni,
303:Look out sinners because if you do not go to confession, confession will come to you. The Catholic Church in northern England has launched a mobile confession unit called the Mercy Bus. ~ Peter Sagal,
304:From these articles of my confession you can imagine others to my discredit. But whatever I make myself out to be, provided that I show myself as I am, I am fulfilling my purpose. ~ Michel de Montaigne,
305:It is a matter of fact; I approached without a preconceived idea, too ready to declare, if the experiment had imposed upon me the confession, that there was a spontaneous generation, of ~ Louis Pasteur,
306:I would like to say that I was inspired to write 'Shiver' by some overwhelming belief in true love, but here's my true confession: I wrote 'Shiver' because I like to make people cry. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
307:Open confession of dictatorship is far less dangerous than sham democracy. One can defend oneself against the former; the latter is like a creeper attached to the body of a drowning man. ~ Wilhelm Reich,
308:People do bad things in their lives. And those sort of things are forgivable. That's half the point of having confession in church - you need to be able to fess up to what you've done. ~ Macaulay Culkin,
309:Somehow, Thorne’s inability to talk about his attraction to Cress spoke so much louder than an outright confession. After all, he had no trouble making suggestive commentary about Cinder. ~ Marissa Meyer,
310:You can be Hitler and go to confession and say forgive me, Father, I killed six million Jews, and the priest would just be like no problem. Say 10 Heil Marys. And Hitler goes to heaven. ~ Sarah Silverman,
311:He knew he had changed because when presently he took confession from a woman who had been using contraceptives and whose husband had left her, he did not equate the sin with the consequence. ~ Fay Weldon,
312:...the very notion that a candidate should openly solicit votes violated the principled presumption that such behavior itself represented a confession of unworthiness for national office. ~ Joseph J Ellis,
313:Late night, and like a medal in the sky
The harvest moon was beaming down,
And, like a river, the solemnity
Of night arranged on the sleeping town.

- Confession ~ Charles Baudelaire,
314:My confession begins," Father S said, "as the confessions of many men begin - with three words"

"Father forgive me?" Michael hazarded a guess. Father S signed.

"I met Eleanor. ~ Tiffany Reisz,
315:Confession: this book takes place in the summer mainly because I was really hating on winter, and I was tired of being cold. Oh, and I wanted to write a sweaty, oil-streaked, shirtless Cal. ~ Megan Erickson,
316:Pascal’s wager, to her mind: Although an atheist, Pascal said he would make a deathbed confession to God. If there was no God to hear it, what difference did it make? But if there was . . . ~ Robert Masello,
317:"The goal of treatment by catharsis is full confession -- no merely intellectual acknowledgement of the facts, but their confirmation by the heart and the actual release of suppressed emotions." ~ Carl Jung,
318:I'd stand in line for Confession with old people and little kids, and as the line moved up and it was getting closer to my turn, I knew that when I got into the box I would lie! Again! ~ Mercedes McCambridge,
319:On the last day, God will not acquit us because our good works were good enough, but he will look for evidence that our good confession was not phony. It’s in this sense that we must be holy. ~ Kevin DeYoung,
320:The confession of our failings is a thankless office. It savors less of sincerity or modesty than of ostentation. It seems as if we thought our weaknesses as good as other people's virtues. ~ William Hazlitt,
321:You won't tell?"

"I'll add it to the box under my bed labeled 'The Secret Confession of the Immortal Pia'. Good Lord, girl, don't look so mortified. There's not actually a box. ~ Jessica Khoury,
322:I have a confession."
"Oh?"
"I can't get you off my mind."
His statement robbed her of words. Heat spread down the nape of her neck. He was saying too much. ~ Ted DekkerThomas to Chelise ~ Ted Dekker,
323:We have another confession from Dare Kattalakis. Going once, going twice…are there any more confessions in the room? Anyone else want to admit to shooting a lion? Didn’t think so. (Savitar) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
324:I will say this.” Quinn held me with his eyes, his expression increasing in severity as though hovering on the precipice of a meaningful confession. “You make me want to be less of an asshole.” My ~ Penny Reid,
325:A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
    

The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. ~ Albert Camus,
326:But the surest sign that his confession had been good and that he had had sincere sorrow for his sin was, he knew, the amendment of his life. —I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself. ~ James Joyce,
327:I start to pull back, but he hugs me tighter.
“You love me. You admitted it.”
“I do love you.”

His body trembles in response, as if he can’t contain his emotions at my confession. ~ A G Howard,
328:The Romans say, 'You must', the Protestant Nonconformists say, 'You must not', the Catholic Church of England says, 'You may.' [regarding the practice of confession; Overture to Death, chapter 17] ~ Ngaio Marsh,
329:While Socrates empties the cup of poison with unshaken soul,Christ exclaims,'If it is possible, let this cup pass from me'.Christ in this respect is the self- confession of human sensibility. ~ Ludwig Feuerbach,
330:A few years ago, the liberal churches complained that the Calvinistic church denied to them the name of Christian. I think the complaint was confession; a religious church would not complain. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
331:Horst…’ He lowered his voice, ashamed. ‘I’ve done things since then. Things you don’t know about.’ The confession almost choked him, but somehow he forced the words out. ‘I’ve done good things. ~ Jonathan L Howard,
332:it is no less since this same Confession of Faith was first subscribed and sworn to. And it has been still in use yearly to be subscribed and sworn to in some parts, among some in this land, to this day. ~ Various,
333:Love is not based on the willingness to listen, to understand problems of others, or to tolerate their otherness. Love is based on the mutuality of the confession of our total self to each other. ~ Henri J M Nouwen,
334:Salvation, then, is a movement from one realm into another realm, from the kingdom of darkness into the kingdom of light, and the confession captures this idea when it speaks of engrafting into Christ. ~ R C Sproul,
335:To all my nonbelieving, sort-of-believing, and used-to-be-believing friends: I feel like I should begin with a confession. I am sorry that so often the biggest obstacle to God has been Christians. ~ Shane Claiborne,
336:Even his I love you's," she said, "were like tiny daggers, like little needles or safety pins. Beware of a man who says he loves you but is incapable of a passionate confession; of melting into a sob. ~ Lorrie Moore,
337:In spite of warnings, change rarely occurs until the status quo becomes more painful than change. People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of their character. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
338:In this way the godly are filled with the Holy Spirit, so that they cannot keep from breaking forth into thanksgiving, confession, glorifying God, and teaching and proclaiming the Word of the Gospel. ~ Martin Luther,
339:There it was: a full confession. Sherlock Holmes had done it again, and as I marveled at my devastating powers of deduction, I wished there had been two of me so I could have patted myself in the back. ~ Paul Auster,
340:But sometimes one hears an Etiquette-Buster’s confession that rings true: “You make me feel guilty.” I’m not going to bother, this argument goes, so we need to lower the standard so I don’t look bad. On ~ Judith Martin,
341:It was here in the darkness of night and warmth of my bed that I made my confession, inside myself and silently to her.  I loved her.  It was too fast, too rushed, too new, but I didn’t care.  I loved her. ~ Lila Felix,
342:Nobody likes to be found out, not even one who has made ruthless confession a part of his profession. Any autobiographer, therefore, at least between the lines, spars with his reader and potential judge. ~ Erik Erikson,
343:All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story, to vomit the anguish up. All of it, the literal and the fanciful. ~ James Baldwin,
344:Oh my God, she’d kissed him! She’d stuck her tongue inside a creature from hell. Oh jeez, this would sound great in confession. Say two Hail Marys and avoid further contact with the spawn of the devil. ~ Kerrelyn Sparks,
345:The word 'confession,' to me, means needing to be absolved. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm not asking people to understand. I'd like to think that I tell stories and sometimes my life weaves through it. ~ Tori Amos,
346:You and I need to say it to ourselves again and again. We need to look in the mirror and make the confession as part of our morning routine. Here’s what we all need to say: “I am not a grace graduate. ~ Paul David Tripp,
347:Prayer in the sense of petition, asking for things, is a small part of it; confession and penitence are its threshold, adoration its sanctuary, the presence and vision and enjoyment of God its bread and wine. ~ C S Lewis,
348:They were all sufferers in their despicable pain, every one of them, and what right did he have to laugh at the woman whose husband was pouring his heart out to him, a man in sincere confession to a fellowman? ~ Yiyun Li,
349:When a man declares: "There are no blacks and whites [in morality]" he is making a psychological confession, and what he means is: "I am unwilling to be wholly good - and please don't regard me as wholly evil!" ~ Ayn Rand,
350:Believest thou? then thou wilt speak boldly. Speakest thou boldy? then thou must suffer. Sufferest thou? then thou shalt be comforted. For faith, the confession thereof, and the cross do follow one another. ~ Martin Luther,
351:What is art? (...) Like a declaration of love: the consciousness of our dependence on each other. A confession. An unconscious act that none the less reflects the true meaning of life—love and sacrifice. ~ Andrei Tarkovsky,
352:And much addicted to speaking the truth. In her younger years she was a good deal of a romp, and, though it is an awkward confession to make about one's heroine, I must add that she was something of a glutton. ~ Henry James,
353:Three conditions are necessary for Penance: contrition, which is sorrow for sin, together with a purpose of amendment; confession of sins without any omission; and satisfaction by means of good works. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,
354:Confession basically means saying the same thing about your sin as God says. So if you say you want to develop integrity, but you're not willing to face the rough parts and confess them, you won't get there. ~ David Jeremiah,
355:Now there is any amount of this nonsense cropping up among American cranks. Anybody may propose to establish coercive Eugenics; or enforce psychoanalysis that is, enforce confession without absolution. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,
356:This tendency to confession and contrition seems peculiar to all the Americans I've ever known, as if they've somehow become acculturated to disbosoming themselves along with learning to salute their flag. ~ Elizabeth George,
357:I hesitate to deposit money in a bank. I am afraid I shall never dare to take it out again. When you go to confession and entrust your sins to the safe-keeping of the priest, do you ever come back for them? ~ Jean Baudrillard,
358:True confession: My dad wouldn’t leave for Haiti until I proved to him that I could change a tire. According to him, that’s like the one life skill you must know for human survival. That, and how to fry bacon. ~ Deborah Raney,
359:Believest thou? then thou wilt speak boldly. Speakest thou boldy? then thou must suffer. Sufferest thou? then thou shalt be comforted. For ... faith, the confession thereof, and the cross do follow one another. ~ Martin Luther,
360:God will help us - said the holy man. - But first let us understand the reason for these pains. I suggest Your Majesty confesses now, for confession makes men face up to their problems, and liberates much guilt. ~ Paulo Coelho,
361:It's like this with us baby. We're coppers and everybody hates our guts....nothing we do is right, not ever. If we get a confession we beat it out of a guy, they say, and some shyster lawyer calls us Gestapo. ~ Raymond Chandler,
362:Sacrifice, discipline and prayer are essential. We gain strength through God's word. We receive grace from the sacrament. And when we fumble due to sin - and it's gonna happen - confession puts us back on the field. ~ Lou Holtz,
363:... there must be reserves -- except with God. The human soul is solitary. But for confession that is different; justice and reparation sometimes demand it; but, again, justice and courage sometimes forbid it. ~ Margaret Deland,
364:I cannot stand that whole game of confession, that is: Here I have sinned, now I'm confessing my sins, and describing my path of sin and then in the act of confession I beg for your forgiveness and redemption. ~ Aleksandar Hemon,
365:I must make you one confession,” Ivan began. “I could never understand how one can love one's neighbors. It's just one's neighbors, to my mind, that one can't love, though one might love those at a distance. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
366:Suicide is a confession of failure. And like divorce, it is shrouded in excuses and rationalizations spun endlessly to disguise the simple fact that all one's energy, passion, appetite and ambition have been aborted. ~ Al lvarez,
367:Then I wanted to beg him to forgive me. But this would have been too great a confession; any yielding at that moment would have locked me forever in that room with him. And in a way this was exactly what I wanted. ~ James Baldwin,
368:The third big idea is that we confess our sins to someone close to us--a friend or our spouse. I don't mean a public declaration of our shortcomings; I mean confession in the security of a trusted and living friend. ~ Ted Haggard,
369:Confession has been my habitual homecoming since I was a child. It is a consolation and a joy, and such joy, our faith teaches us, is meant for everyone. It is our vocation to bring it to as many people as possible. ~ Donald Wuerl,
370:The sermon passed into the general confession, and Phryne admitted with perfect frankness that she had done those things which she ought not to have done and left undone those things which she ought to have done. ~ Kerry Greenwood,
371:Sean slowly met her eyes. He knew damn well that now wasn’t the time to have this conversation, not when they were parked a hundred yards from the warehouse, but he couldn’t stop the confession. “I love you, you know. ~ Elle Kennedy,
372:Though the first stages of confession may not seem to do anything, they are changing an image and causing faith to come. Faith comes by hearing God's Word. Keep hearing yourself speak God's Word, and faith will come. ~ Charles Capps,
373:He had never missed God or the hope of heaven, but he had dearly wanted confession to rest his mind, Communion to let him touch something beyond Father Krone's dry, shaky hand, and holy water to taste like starlight. ~ Peter S Beagle,
374:I will be” is a confession that “I am not “ The Father's will is always “I AM.” Until you realize that YOU are the Father (there is only one I AM and your infinite self is that I AM), your will is always “I will be. ~ Neville Goddard,
375:Confession of sins is not meritorious: to confess sins as a way of placing God in your debt is not dealing with sin; it is committing another sin. The context of all confession must be the free grace of justification. ~ Douglas Wilson,
376:The denial in Article XIX is very important. The framers of the confession are saying unambiguously that confession of belief in the inerrancy of Scripture is not an element of the Christian faith essential for salvation. ~ R C Sproul,
377:A novel is a long confession in which you expose your heartaches, complain about all the things that are wrong in the world, then try to put those things right for the sake of the reader, as well as your own well being. ~ Chloe Thurlow,
378:We may justify or minimize it by blaming circumstances and other people. However, real repentance first admits sin as sin and takes full responsibility. True confession and repentance begins when blame shifting ends. ~ Timothy J Keller,
379:Loneliness feels like such a shameful experience, so counter to the lives we are supposed to lead, that it becomes increasingly inadmissible, a taboo state whose confession seems destined to cause others to turn and flee. ~ Olivia Laing,
380:Between Dad’s confession that Mom wasn’t even supposed to be a choice and Mom’s revelation
that she didn’t want to be a part of the choosing in the first place, I wondered how they had managed
to find each other at all ~ Kiera Cass,
381:My life has been about living like a monk and looking like a priest so that people will come up to me and tell me their most appalling stories. They have to make their confession to somebody, and it might as well be me. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,
382:The whole program of unemployment insurance, Social Security, was a confession of the failure of our whole social order. And confession of failure of Christian principles: that man, in fact, did not look after his brother. ~ Studs Terkel,
383:I’m fairly certain I’m having my first truly religious experience, and it’s probably a very bad thing that it’s happening in a church, but it’s over a sculpture. Mental note: Add idol worship to your list for confession. ~ Lisa Desrochers,
384:So I shut my mouth-shut it tight and bite back my confession…again. I can feel the truth pressing hard against time. But, right now he is humming Yellow and we are dancing under the sky, tangled together for the last time. ~ Tarryn Fisher,
385:Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been…”
“Eight days,” Soren supplied. “Eight days since my last confession. Let’s see… where to start?”
“Pace yourself, Eleanor. If you forget something, I will remind you. ~ Tiffany Reisz,
386:Medieval justice was scrupulous about holding proper trials and careful not to sentence without proof of guilt, but it achieved proof by confession rather than evidence, and confession was routinely obtained by torture. ~ Barbara W Tuchman,
387:Q: What inspired you to write Shiver? A: I would like to say that I was inspired to write Shiver by some overwhelming belief in true love, but here’s my true confession. I wrote Shiver because I like to make people cry. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
388:Some pretend want of power to make a competent return; and you shall find in others a kind of graceless modesty, that makes a man ashamed of requiting an obligation, because it is a confession that he has received one. ~ Seneca the Younger,
389:A man making the confession of any creed worth ten minutes' intelligent talk, is always a man who gains something and gives up something. So long as he does both he can create: for he is making an outline and a shape. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,
390:Publicly and among themselves biologists rightly celebrate the diversity of life on Earth... At the end of the day, however, their confession is heard by no one: they work with a single scientific sample-life on Earth. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,
391:So are we actually cooking Radiasure?" Carols asks as he plops on his brother's bed. "Because if Mom and Dad catch us we'll never see the outside of the confession bootha gain."
Bea rolls her eyes. "Nothing new for you. ~ Natalie Whipple,
392:If you talked or laughed in church, told lies, had impure thoughts or conversations, you were bad; if you obeyed your parents or guardians, went to confession and communion regularly, said prayers for the dead, you were good. ~ Mary McCarthy,
393:It is not only an explosive outburst that calls for broken confession, but a momentary flash of anger in our hearts. It is not only a consummated affair that grieves our holy God, but a fleeting consideration of one in our minds. ~ Anonymous,
394:Renee St. Claire would have known, and probably would have told me if I'd asked - telling stuff was Renee's specialty, I bet she wore the priest out when she did the old confession bit - but some things you don't want to know. ~ Stephen King,
395:The vice of envy is not only a dangerous, but a mean vice; for it is always a confession of inferiority. It may promote conduct which will be fruitful of wrong to others, and it must cause misery to the man who feels it. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,
396:Abby, listen to me. I can hear thoughts–” – Sundown
“Little late now, bucko. I noticed. Thanks for volunteering that. Let me give you a Hero Award for your first confession. Big flippin’ hairy doo dah…Woo. Hoo.” – Abigail ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
397:I also finally see that a crimson kiss isn't something you can chase, because it's more than just the passionate meeting of mouths.

It's a confession.

It's the truth your lips whisper to someone you love. ~ Wendelin Van Draanen,
398:True salvation always produces an abiding change of nature in a true convert. Therefore, whenever holiness of life does not accompany a confession of conversion, it must be understood that this individual is not a Christian. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
399:We do not always proclaim loudly the most important thing we have to say. Nor do we always privately share it with those closest to us, our intimate friends, those who have been most devotedly ready to receive our confession. ~ Walter Benjamin,
400:His gaze met mine, unflinching, and he said, “I’m not leaving you, Brianna. Not again.” My heart clenched as the moment changed. They weren’t just words, they were a confession, a promise. And not from my protector. From Logan. ~ Melissa Wright,
401:It's like the one Scarlet had.' He flipped the gun in his palms. 'She shot me in the arm once.'
His confession was said with as much tenderness as if Scarlet had given him a bouquet of wildflowers rather than a bullet wound. ~ Marissa Meyer,
402:What right has a man to ask Jesus to forgive him, when his heart is still burning with hatred or festering with grudges against a fellow-creature? Confession, to be of any avail, must let go of its hold on the sin confessed. ~ Theodore L Cuyler,
403:When we inform, we lead from strength; when we communicate, we lead from weakness—and it is precisely this confession of mortality that engages the ears, heads and hearts of those we want to enlist as allies in a common cause. ~ Sydney J Harris,
404:Guilt, therefore, I do not acknowledge: and, if I did, it is possible that I might still resolve on the present act of confession, in consideration of the service which I may thereby render to the whole class of opium-eaters. ~ Thomas de Quincey,
405:I have a terrible confession to make, sort of like those people who say that they've been mispronouncing a word all their life: I've never read Ways of Seeing all the way through. I'm sure I carried it around with me in art school. ~ David Salle,
406:Let there be the deep confession of our inability to bring God the worship that is pleasing to Him; the childlike teachableness that waits on Him to instruct us; the simple faith that yields itself to the breathing of the Spirit. ~ Andrew Murray,
407:I’m in love with him. They won’t stop repeating themselves, and the sick fucking thing is the reason I can’t shake them is because I won’t let them go. I’m running scared, but the confession…it makes my heart feel like it’s on fire. ~ Callie Hart,
408:After all, what is a kiss? A vow made at closer range, a more precise promise, a confession that contains its own proof, a seal placed on a pact that has already been signed; it's a secret told to the mouth rather than to the ear. ~ Edmond Rostand,
409:Do not first announce action, and then, when you are unable to take action, withdraw, because you will only find yourself in the same position as now, plus a public and humiliating confession of impotence. ~ Archibald Primrose 5th Earl of Rosebery,
410:I dreamed about you every night.” My confession makes her smile.
It’s the truth. It’s the only truth I know – if she’s in danger, I’ll carry her out. If she’s crying, I hold her until she stops. If she wants me…I can’t tell her no. ~ Tia Louise,
411:No longer could he deny what he wanted. Perhaps it was her confession. Maybe it was because he hadn't taken to the skies in weeks. Whatever it was, all he knew was that he had to have her or go up in flames. "Then seduce me." - Kiril ~ Donna Grant,
412:achieved a result, then just hours later this retreat, which didn't worry him, he said, the confession would weigh heavily in court, it needed explaining. We're hopeful that Goran will be convicted, he said, sounding very persuasive. ~ Karin Fossum,
413:Certainly, I signed a statement that I killed two and a half million Jews. But I could just as well have said that it was five million Jews. There are certain methods by which any confession can be obtained, whether it is true or not. ~ Rudolf Hess,
414:Bram v. United States, said that a statement must be free and voluntary, not extracted by any sorts of threats or violence or promises, however slight. A confession obtained from an accused who has been threatened cannot be admissible. ~ John Grisham,
415:Originally written in French (1561) by Guido de Brès, this confession in Dutch translation (1562) became a doctrinal standard of the Reformed tradition, originally adopted by the Reformed Church of the Netherlands (Antwerp, 1566). Like ~ Kelly M Kapic,
416:There is only one way that the things of God will be manifested for you and your family: by faith, by your confession of the Scriptures. Are you willing to make God’s Word the foundation of your believing? If you do, God won’t fail you. ~ Norvel Hayes,
417:Being sent to bed is a terrible command to all children, because it means the most public possible humiliation in front of adults, the confession that they bear the stigma of childhood, of being small and having a child's need for sleep. ~ Stefan Zweig,
418:(difficult to make a real confession and show what happened when you're such an egomaniac all you can do is take off on big paragraphs about minor details about yourself and the big sole details about others go sitting and waiting around) ~ Jack Kerouac,
419:Resolved, never to count that a prayer, nor to let that pass as a prayer, nor that as a petition of a prayer, which is so made, that I cannot hope that God will answer it; nor that as a confession, which I cannot hope God will accept. ~ Jonathan Edwards,
420:These are things," Trudi's father told her long before she was old enough for confession, "that the church calls sins, but they are part of being human. And those we need to embrace. The most important thing--" He paused. "--is to be kind. ~ Ursula Hegi,
421:Peeta actually is charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable. ~ Suzanne Collins,
422:So though it’s true that sin itself is not good, to see our sin is good. Whereas sin leads down a burden-filled path, Jesus says, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly” (John 10:10). Confession is essential to that life. ~ Edward T Welch,
423:The distinction between shame and guilt is very important, since these two emotions may tear a person in opposite directions. The wish to relieve guilt may motivate a confession, but the wish to avoid the humiliation of shame may prevent it. ~ Paul Ekman,
424:would be terrified that she would be found out. She could be so frightened, perhaps, that she might blurt out a confession. No one was leaning on her. To a burdened conscience, silence and solicitude can be more threatening than interrogation. ~ Ann Rule,
425:The Tories in England had long imagined that they were enthusiastic about the monarchy, the church and beauties of the old English Constitution, until the day of danger wrung from them the confession that they are enthusiastic only about rent. ~ Karl Marx,
426:I believe there is a great deal too much mutual confession going on today, as if sharing one’s problems somehow makes them go away. All it really does, of course, is increase the number of people who have to worry about a particular issue. ~ Helen Simonson,
427:The price that has to be paid for finding truly personal life is a very high one. It is a price in terms of the acceptance of responsibility. And the awareness of responsibility inevitably leads either to despair or to confession and grace. ~ Paul Tournier,
428:There was something about the self-confession and self-confusion of Abstract expressionism - as though the man and the work were the same - that personally always put me off because at that time my focus was in the opposite direction. ~ Robert Rauschenberg,
429:I think there's a ton of things about being Catholic that are hard. Going to Church every week is tough. I'd like to go to church, like, every couple of months. Going to confession is hard. Confessing my sins out loud is a very difficult thing. ~ Lino Rulli,
430:His grace is cheapened when you think that He has only forgiven you of your sins up to the time you got saved, and after that point, you have to depend on your confession of sins to be forgiven. God's forgiveness is not given in installments. ~ Joseph Prince,
431:Life is very narrow. Bring any club or company of intelligent men together again after ten years, and if the presence of some penetrating and calming genius could dispose them to frankness, what a confession of insanities would come up! ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
432:My name is Kirby Rose, and I'm adopted. I don't mean to make it sound like an AA confession, although sometimes that's how people take it, like it's something they should be supportive about. I just mean that they are two basic facts about me. ~ Emily Giffin,
433:A strong offensive is indicated. The stalemate you seem to be satisfied with is fatal. It would be a confession of weakness to all the worlds of the Periphery, where the appearance of strength is all-important, and there’s not one vulture among ~ Isaac Asimov,
434:But . . . I may as well say what I should not otherwise have said, that I always knew in my heart Walt Whitman’s mind to be more like my own than any other man’s living. As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a pleasant confession. ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins,
435:Confession: I believe in my heart Jesus Christ is the Son of God. I believe He was raised from the dead for my justification. I confess Him as my Lord and Saviour. Jesus is my Lord. He is dominating my life. He is guiding me. He is leading me. ~ Kenneth E Hagin,
436:Confession is something we will never outgrow, even if we become the saints God made us to be. Pope John Paul II and Mother Teresa of Calcutta were revered even during their lifetime; but both made frequent use of the Sacrament of Reconciliation. ~ Donald Wuerl,
437:This confession leads me to the sentence with which I shall conclude: If, reader, in this book there be anything that pleases you, it is certainly mine; but whenever you come to something you dislike,—lay the blame upon the old gentleman! ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,
438:Torture is a good way to get people to talk but a poor method of finding out the truth; people confess whether there is any reality to the confession or not.

-Symphony for the City of the Dead: Dmitri Shostakovich and the Siege of Leningrad ~ M T Anderson,
439:You should constantly be confessing who you are. On no, not who you are physically—the son or daughter of John Doe who lives on such-and-such street. No! But who you are according to the Word of God. That’s the confession we’re to hold fast to. ~ Kenneth E Hagin,
440:It is one of the poorest of human weaknesses that a man would be ashamed of saying he has done wrong instead of so ashamed of having done wrong that he cannot rest till he has said so. For the shame cleaves fast until the confession removes it. ~ George MacDonald,
441:I'm not asking you to never feel sad, Callie, I'm asking you to fight. Always fight. You can do that, can't you?"

I suck in a deep breath. "I don't know," I say honestly.

His entire demeanor gentles with that confession. "Can you try? ~ Laura Thalassa,
442:She wasn't my kind of woman and that's why, that night she was. This wine is the Blood of Christ. Brings the truth out of a woman sooner than any confession box does. Makes you trust a stranger with your life, your car keys, your best-guarded secret. ~ Amruta Patil,
443:we are to ‘hunger and thirst for righteousness’. For what is the use of confessing and lamenting our sin, of acknowledging the truth about ourselves to both God and men, if we leave it there? Confession of sin must lead to hunger for righteousness. ~ John R W Stott,
444:But it rained all the time, fog covered the fields, and by then he was reading Tolstoy. There were some books that reached through the noise of life to grab you by the collar and speak only of the truest things. A Confession was a book like that. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,
445:Hopt v. Utah, the Supreme Court ruled that a confession is not admissible if it is obtained by operating on the hopes or fears of the accused, and in doing so deprives him of the freedom of will or self-control necessary to make a voluntary statement. ~ John Grisham,
446:But the more time I spend with you . . . the more like you I become.” He pulls back and I’m left with that heavy, yet strangely flattering, confession. I’m not sure what I should say. So I awkwardly mumble, “Well, be prepared to become totally awesome. ~ Karina Halle,
447:I have never united myself to any church because I found difficulty in giving my assent without mental reservation to the long, complicated statements of Christian doctrine which characterize the articles of belief and the usual confession of faith. ~ Abraham Lincoln,
448:I need to capture my sprite with trembling hands. Except I could crush her. Wonder how many small things of beauty - flowers, seashells, dragonflies - have met such a demise. Wonder how much fragile love has collapsed beneath the weight of confession. ~ Ellen Hopkins,
449:The wide confidence interval is a confession of ignorance, which is not socially acceptable for someone who is paid to be knowledgeable in financial matters. Even if they knew how little they know, the executives would be penalized for admitting it. ~ Daniel Kahneman,
450:"A creed is a confession of faith intended chiefly for the world at large and is thus an intramundane affair, while the meaning and purpose of religion lie in the relationship of the individual to God . . . or to the path of salvation and liberation. . . " ~ Carl Jung,
451:Dancers are a great breed of people. And they really want to dance so you don't have to beg them to work. However, dancers sometimes build walls around themselves because they are presenting themselves all the time: dancing is very much a confession. ~ Suzanne Farrell,
452:It was hard to be honest, to open up, and reveal something that sounded crazy. Because once you told someone the truth, that person had a piece of you—and they could belittle it, destroy it. They could turn your confession into a wound that never healed. ~ Sarah Cross,
453:I say, 'But he does not have you,' and I kiss her through the orchard gate.
It's a kiss I have longed to take. A kiss that gently tugs at Astrid's seething power, at the wildness inside both of us. It's sweet and feels like a confession: I love her. ~ Tessa Gratton,
454:She squeezed off three shots, targeting the kneeling man, giving him no chance because he was not a man but a kneeling thing that had once been a man, and he collapsed in a judgment of blood like a penitent whose confession was rejected by some angry god. ~ Dean Koontz,
455:That it is Peter, the rock of the church, who incurs guilt here immediately after his own confession to Jesus Christ and after his appointment by Jesus, means that from its very inception the church itself has taken offense at the suffering Christ. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
456:If Lutheranism is to be Lutheran, we must recapture our comfort level with the catholic shape of our identity and this means learning not to run instinctively from words like the Mass or from the sacramental practice of our baptismal life in private confession. ~ Anonymous,
457:Those last few minutes with him this evening had been a revelation. They weren’t words of self-pity, but more like confession of guilt, the guilt of having wasted a life and the pity that there was no second chance. You had one and that was all. He must ~ Catherine Cookson,
458:Sidney was beginning to feel uncomfortable. As a priest he was used to informal confession, but he could never quite reconcile himself to the fact that it often contained quite a lot of detail. There were times when he wished people wouldn’t tell him so much. ~ James Runcie,
459:The old Confession was written by men who knew what it felt like to have done bad things: “We do earnestly repent, and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; The remembrance of them is grievous unto us; The burden of them is intolerable.” Indeed. ~ Julia Spencer Fleming,
460:There are many ways to cover up our sin. We may justify or minimize it by blaming circumstances and other people. However, real repentance first admits sin as sin and takes full responsibility. True confession and repentance begins when blame shifting ends. ~ Timothy J Keller,
461:If you do not forgive, you are demanding something your offender does not choose to give, even if it is only confession of what he did. This "ties" him to you and ruins boundaries. Let the dysfunctional family you came from go. Cut it loose, and you will be free. ~ Henry Cloud,
462:but all I hear are those words: I’m in love with him. They won’t stop repeating themselves, and the sick fucking thing is the reason I can’t shake them is because I won’t let them go. I’m running scared, but the confession…it makes my heart feel like it’s on fire. ~ Callie Hart,
463:Sean does that slow sweep of his eyes that he does, the one that goes from my head to my toes and back again and makes me feel that he's scanning the depths of my soul and teasing out my motivations and sins. It's worse than confession with Father Mooneyham. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
464:If some priest or other comes to take my confession and give me sacrament, tell him to clear out, quick, and leave me his curse instead! I´ve done heaps and heaps of things in my life, but I still did not do enough. Men like me ought to live a thousand years. ~ Nikos Kazantzakis,
465:I have somewhere heard or read the frank confession of a Benedictine abbot: "My vow of poverty has given me a hundred thousand crowns a year; my vow of obedience has raised me to the rank of a sovereign prince." - I forget the consequences of his vow of chastity. ~ Edward Gibbon,
466:Gaming is a kind of tacit confession that the company engaged therein do in general exceed the bounds of their respective fortunes, and therefore they cast lots to determine upon whom the ruin shall at present fall, that the rest may be saved a little longer. ~ William Blackstone,
467:The Journal is not essentially a confession, a story about oneself. It is a Memorial. What does the writer have to remember? Himself, who he is when he is not writing, when he is living his daily life, when he is alive and real, and not dying and without truth. ~ Maurice Blanchot,
468:Average intelligence loves blinders, which facilitate an even trot; but a brisker and livelier intelligence desires uncertainty, risk, a play of more deceptive and elusive forces...where one can preserve flight, pride, joke, confession, rapture, play, struggle. ~ Witold Gombrowicz,
469:I treat anger, grief and strife as a sin, so I let all that go and I am no longer living a sinful life. Today, I command my days by confessing that every minute will be blessed and perfect. My confession then has no other choice but to confer blessings upon my life. ~ Kam Williams,
470:In his haste to get his client on and off the stand with as little damage as possible, Barney neglected to rebut most of the allegations from the state’s witnesses. Ron could have explained his “dream confession” to Rogers and Featherstone the night after his arrest. ~ John Grisham,
471:So it's the unwinding of your nervous system. The corresponding experience to what winds you up comes out in your dreams. To write a song then, even one like Don't Bother Me, helps to get rid of some subconscious burden. Writing a song is like going to confession. ~ George Harrison,
472:They discussed what was involved in making a full confession, described the joys of heaven and the terrors of hell, and mostly listed sins mortal and venial, from Adultery, Theft, and Murder to Delight in Soft Beds and Excessive Fondness for Cushiony Places to Kneel. ~ Melissa Mohr,
473:She would never again lie in bed on a Good Friday morning and relax in the blissful knowledge that there was nothing to do and nowhere to be, because for the rest of her life, there would always, always be something left undone. An unmade confession. An ugly secret. ~ Liane Moriarty,
474:The Irish innovation was to make all confession a completely private affair between penitent and priest - and to make it as repeatable as necessary. (In fact, repetition was encouraged on the theory that, oh well, everyone pretty much sinned just about all the time.) ~ Thomas Cahill,
475:Teresina went often to confession. She was the despair of Father Ramon. Indeed he had seen that while her knees, her hands, and her lips did penance for an old sin, her modest and provocative eyes, flashing under drawn lashes, laid the foundation for a new one. During ~ John Steinbeck,
476:But for her there was no possibility of a clear conscience, merely the weak absolution of honesty, of confession.
She could not buy into the cycle of sin and penance. She would always remember what she had done, and it would always sting. She would not be washed clean. ~ Sonja Yoerg,
477:The church is not a theological classroom. It is a conversion, confession, repentance, reconciliation, forgiveness and sanctification center, where flawed people place their faith in Christ, gather to know and love him better, and learn to love others as he designed. ~ Paul David Tripp,
478:the rabbi comes in to read the Psalms with you and hear you say the Vidui, that terrible confession in which you admit your responsibility not only for the sins you have committed, whether by word, deed, or thought, but also for those you may have caused others to commit. ~ Elie Wiesel,
479:Authority: The power the Bible possesses, having been issued from God, for which it “ought to be believed and obeyed” (Westminster Confession 1:4). Because of its divine author, the Bible is “the source and norm for such elements as belief, conduct, and the experience of God ~ Anonymous,
480:If the only thing wrong with Moses is that he's not yours; if the only thing wrong with Jesus is that he's not yours; if the only thing wrong with mosques, Lent, chanting, Mecca, Buddha, confession, or reincarnation is that they're not yours--well, maybe the problem is you. ~ Mitch Albom,
481:Learn in confession to be honest with God. Do not give fair names to foul sins; call them what you will, they will smell no sweeter. What God sees them to be, that do you labour to feel them to be; and with all openness of heart acknowledge their real character. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
482:I ask them to take a poem & hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. ...But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope & torture a confession out of it They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means. ~ B Collins,
483:A true Christian will be sensitive to the sin in their life and it will lead them to brokenness and genuine confession, but the person who says they are a Christian and are not sensitive to sin, it does not lead them to confession, a person who is that way is not a Christian. ~ Paul Washer,
484:So it's the unwinding of your nervous system. The corresponding experience to what winds you up comes out in your dreams. To write a song then, even one like Don't Bother Me, helps to get rid of some subconscious burden. Writing a song is like going to confession. ~ George Harrison,
485:The bottom of being is left logically opaque to us, a datum in the strict sense of the word, something we simply come upon and find, and about which (if we wish to act) we should pause and wonder as little as possible. In this confession lies the lasting truth of empiricism. ~ William James,
486:The church is not a theological classroom. It is a conversion, confession, repentance, reconciliation, forgiveness, and sanctification center, where flawed people place their trust in Christ, gather to know and love him better, and learn to love others as he has designed. ~ Paul David Tripp,
487:Then,” said Dick, “ye shall die unshriven. Here am I, and here shall stay. There shall no priest come near you, rest assured. For of what avail is penitence, an ye have no mind to right those wrongs ye had a hand in? and without penitence, confession is but mockery. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,
488:What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure? How's that?"
"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,
489:So no Eucharist?' Denise asked. 'No Latin readings? No confession to a priest?'
'Not like you're used to. But that doesn't translate to 'no God.' God is as present here as He is in the cathedral of Notre Dame. And, always, always, we can pray. In fact, I recommend it. Come. ~ Jocelyn Green,
490:Bondurant was no expert on where sex between consenting adults on cathedral grounds fit in the grand hierarchy of sins in the Catholic faith. But he figured it must be high up the ladder of mortal sins, ones that required serious contrition and confession to a priest. Bondurant ~ John Heubusch,
491:I'm not good, Mac. Never have been.'
What-true confession time? my eyes tease. Don't need it.
'I want what I want and I take it.'
Is he warning me? What could he possibly threaten me with now?
'There's nothing I can't live with. Only things I won't live without. ~ Karen Marie Moning,
492:To me it seemed that the teaching of God's Word was unmistakably clear: 'Owe no man anything.' To borrow money implied to my mind a contradiction of Scripture--a confession that God had withheld some good thing, and determination to get for ourselves what He had not given. ~ James Hudson Taylor,
493:Every age has a keyhole to which its eye is pasted. Spicy court-memoirs, the lives of gallant ladies, recollections of an ex-nun, a monk's confession, an atheist's repentance, true-to-life accounts of prostitution and bastardy gave our ancestors a penny peep into the forbidden room. ~ Mary McCarthy,
494:To me it seemed that the teaching of God's Word was unmistakably clear: "Owe no man any thing." To borrow money implied, to my mind, a contradiction of Scripture—a confession that God had withheld some good thing, and a determination to get for ourselves what He had not given. ~ James Hudson Taylor,
495:A soul does not benefit from the sacrament of confession if it is not humble. Pride keeps it in darkness. The soul neither knows how, nor is it willing, to probe with precision the depths of its own misery. It puts on a mask and avoids everything that might bring it recovery. ~ Mary Faustina Kowalska,
496:...diabolical error, when it has artfully colored its lies, easily clothes itself in the likeness of truth while very brief additions or changes corrupt the meaning of expressions; and confession, which usually works salvation, sometimes, with a slight change, inches toward death. ~ Pope Clement XIII,
497:Some men I can bind with who I am. Some I can bind with where I’m going. Others need to know who walks with me. I’ve given you my confession. I repent. Now God walks with me, and you’re the priest who will tell the faithful that I am His warrior, His instrument, the Sword of the Almighty. ~ Anonymous,
498:Diabolical error decks itself out with ease in lying colors with some appearance of truth, so that the force of pronouncement is corrupted by a very brief addition or change, and the confession of faith which should have resulted in salvation, by a subtle transition leads to death! ~ Pope Clement XIII,
499:A man passes for that he is worth. What he is engraves itself on his face, on his form, on his fortunes, in letters of light. Concealment avails him nothing; boasting nothing. There is confession in the glances of our eyes; in our smiles; in salutations; and the grasp of hands. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
500:Nothing erases the immoral act. Not forgiveness. Not confession. And even if the act could be forgiven, no one could bear the responsibility of forgiveness on behalf of the dead. Not act of violence is ever resolved when the one who can forgive can no longer speak; there is only silence. ~ Anne Michaels,
501:Hot Guy with Mysterious Past + Way With Pretty Words x Chivalry at Beach / His Aloofness at Coffee Shop (Immunity to My Face & Flirty Efforts) + Innuendo at Hardware Store x Honest Confession about OCD Struggles —> Curiosity + Arousal (Belly Flutters + Pulse Quickening)=ATTACKISS. ~ Melanie Harlow,
502:The torturer was wheeling around the room, shrieking, holding his impaled hand, which had a pen sticking out of it. The guard by the door was in paroxysms of laughter. Frey had crumpled the confession into a ball and was trying to get it into his mouth to eat it, but couldn't quote reach. ~ Chris Wooding,
503:I CAME INTO YOUR LIFE TO MAKE YOU FREE. If you’re involved in hurtful relationships, I will help you change them or break free; if you are trapped in addictions, I will help you take the first step toward freedom—honest confession of the truth. In every situation, the truth will set you free. ~ Sarah Young,
504:The cross is not the suffering tied to natural existence, but the suffering tied to being Christians. The cross is never simply a matter of suffering, but a matter of suffering and rejection for the sake of Jesus Christ, not for the sake of some other arbitrary behavior or confession. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
505:This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war. ~ Erich Maria Remarque,
506:I frowned with disappointment. I’m not sure what I’d expected to see, although a short, dark-haired man standing beneath a floating neon arrow that read BAD GUY HERE would have been nice. A suspect and quick confession wouldn’t have been amiss, either. This was a lot harder than in the movies. ~ Chloe Neill,
507:Once you have learned to pray in full awareness of the disorderedness of your heart and where true joys are found, he says, you can be guided in the specifics of how to pray by studying the Lord’s Prayer. Look at all the kinds of prayer in it—adoration, petition, thanksgiving, confession. ~ Timothy J Keller,
508:I foresee all: how I’ll annoy
You deeply, by my sad confession:
What bitter scorn in your expression,
How proud the glance you’ll employ!
What can I hope for? With what aim
Reveal my soul, and thereafter
Open myself to endless blame,
Prompting your malicious laughter? ~ Alexander Pushkin,
509:Confession Who knows more of Wanda, the wan, than I do? And who knows more of Terry, the torn, than I do? And who knows more than I do of Ziggy, the Zap, fleeing the rap, using his eyes and teeth to spring the trap, than I do!      Or did. Good Lord, forbid that morning’s acre, held in the palm ~ James Baldwin,
510:Sexually, I wanted him six days to Sunday. Sixty-nine days to Sunday, in fact, and I wasn’t even a sixty-nine kind of girl. Confession: I was, of course I was. I’d just never acted like it in real life. But I’d do it with Charlie. In a heartbeat. And were there other numbers? I’d do those too. ~ Melanie Harlow,
511:. . . I would learn to discern and distinguish the difference between presumption and confession, between those who see what the goal is but not how to get there and those who see the way which leads to the home of bliss, not merely as an end to be perceived but as a realm to live in. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
512:Do not be afraid of Confession! One who is in line to confess himself feels all these things - even shame - but then, when he finishes confessing, he leaves free, great, beautiful, forgiven, [...] happy. And this is the beauty of Confession... Jesus is there...and He receives you with so much love. ~ Pope Francis,
513:No one can be saved, and attain eternal joy, without all of the following: (1) a morally honest acceptance of the demands of virtue, (2) a serious effort to practice it, (3) an intellectually honest confession of failure, (4) repentance, and (5) at least an implicit faith and hope in God as Savior. ~ Peter Kreeft,
514:He is so committed to his guilt. He needs Michael’s death to be his fault. It’s what keeps his brother alive for him—that connection. As though, as long as he still has a confession to make, Michael will be forced one day to return in order to hear it. Without that prospect, there is only an ending. ~ Adam Haslett,
515:You know they say confession is good for the soul, right?

"I think that applies unless you're a priest. And you dont look like ANY priest I've ever seen."

"It's true. I am having trouble with purity of thoughts at the moment..."

She hadn't had a pure thought since she'd met him... ~ Amy Andrews,
516:Without the cross the Discipline of Confession would be merely therapeutic. But it is so much more. It involves an objective [a better word would have been "metaphysical"] change in our relationship with God and a subjective change in us. It is a means of healing and transforming the inner spirit. ~ Richard J Foster,
517:Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession, absolution without personal confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
518:She tried to think of what to say to make it all better again, or at least the way it was before she'd made her confession, though she didn't regret having confessed. Perhaps that was what had been wrong with her all along. Now that the lie wasn't between them anymore, maybe she could love him again. ~ Cheryl Strayed,
519:The current memoir craze has fostered the belief that confession is therapeutic, that therapy is redemptive and that redemption equals art, and it has encouraged the delusion that candor, daring and shamelessness are substitutes for craft, that the exposed life is the same thing as an examined one. ~ Michiko Kakutani,
520:I always wished I could go to confession. I was so full of things I couldn't name and had an instinct to hide. I felt burdened by the loneliness of my interior life. I wanted some container that I could empty myself into, some ear that would never be shocked, even if it offered me some kind of penance. ~ Melissa Febos,
521:Ronan watched Gansey over the body of the creature — it seemed even larger in its death — and his expression was as unguarded as Gansey had ever seen it. He was being made to understand that this, all of it, was a confession. A look into who Ronan really had been the entire time he had known him. What ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
522:I have a confession,” Kai mumbled into her hair. She tilted her head to peer at him. “Careful. There could be paparazzi hiding behind these trees. Any confessions might end up on tomorrow’s newsfeeds.” He pretended to consider this for a moment, eyes twinkling, before he said, “I could live with that.” She ~ Marissa Meyer,
523:I shouldn't be surprised. Catholicism is the ultimate loophole religion (sin, confess, repeat), so it makes sense that a priest would know better than anyone how to work the angles. Still, when you go to confession and say, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you don't expect him to say, "So, who hasn't? ~ Marc Acito,
524:Sin always splits the self to some degree, yes. You know that you have harmed yourself and others, but you probably are not going to come to terms with that because you’re carrying on a charade of righteousness, even if you don’t believe it. So confession is very deep in the process of discovering the soul. ~ Dallas Willard,
525:A person who knew he could come to God with nothing more than a cupful of flour and a confession of his sin and still receive forgiveness was learning something fundamental about the grace of God . . . even the most powerful in the land knew that God was not impressed by the most lavish sacrifices. . . .49 ~ Timothy J Keller,
526:Art affirms all that is best in man—hope, faith, love, beauty, prayer…What he dreams of and what he hopes for…What is art?…Like a declaration of love: the consciousness of our dependence on each other. A confession. An unconscious act that none the less reflects the true meaning of life—love and sacrifice. ~ Andrei Tarkovsky,
527:When the church aligns itself politically, it gives priority to the compromises and temporal successes of the political world rather than its Christian confession of eternal truth. And when the church gives up its rightful place as the conscience of the culture, the consequences for society can be horrific. ~ Charles W Colson,
528:Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession...Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
529:Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession.... Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
530:I am not the man I was,” Senlin said abruptly, as if he were afraid to delay the confession any longer. His friends around the table looked to him expectantly. This would be the apology then, and knowing Senlin it would be long-winded, roundabout, and obscure. They collectively braced themselves for the oration. ~ Josiah Bancroft,
531:We fell silent and all joking ceased. We gazed mutely into each other's eyes and an intense longing for the fullest avowal of the truth forced us to a confession, requiring no words whatever, or the incommensurable misfortune that weighed upon us. With tears and sobs we sealed a vow to belong to each other alone. ~ Frederic Chopin,
532:Confession is the act of inviting God to walk the acreage of our hearts. “There is a rock of greed over here, Father. I can’t budge it. And that tree of guilt near the fence? Its roots are long and deep. And may I show you some dry soil, too crusty for seed?” God’s seed grows better if the soil of the heart is cleared. ~ Max Lucado,
533:Our relationship with Christ is secure. Instead, we should confess so that we can enjoy maximum fellowship and joy with him.     True confession also involves a commitment not to continue in sin. We wouldn’t be genuinely confessing our sins to God if we planned to commit them again and just wanted temporary forgiveness. ~ Anonymous,
534:Sea does the sweep of his eyes that he does, the one that goes from my head to my toes and back again and makes me feel that he's scanning the depths of my soul and teasing out my motivations and sins. It's worse than confession with Father Mooneyham. At the end of it, he says, "If you help, this will go faster. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
535:Everyone say to himself: 'When was the last time I went to confession?' And if it has been a long time, don't lose another day! Go, the priest will be good. And Jesus, (will be) there, and Jesus is better than the priests - Jesus receives you. He will receive you with so much love! Be courageous, and go to confession. ~ Pope Francis,
536:Sean does the sweep of his eyes that he does, the one that goes from my head to my toes and back again and makes me feel that he's scanning the depths of my soul and teasing out my motivations and sins. It's worse than confession with Father Mooneyham. At the end of it, he says, "If you help, this will go faster. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
537:If I begin a poem, "I am a donkey," reason kicks in and says, "She is taking on the persona of a donkey." But if I write, "I have taken so many drugs I can't see my feet," the tendency is to take that as a confession on the part of the poet. Maybe that doesn't matter. I'd almost prefer for it to be the other way round. ~ Matthea Harvey,
538:No one ever kissed me like you did. No one ever touched me like you did. No one—”
With a choked sound of defeat, I crushed my mouth to hers. I had to shut her up. Her words were slaying me. Her tears were like poison. I died a hundred deaths from each aching confession. And I needed her to stop before I ceased to exist. ~ Linda Kage,
539:Without grace, there is fear. And where there is fear, confession will be muted. Confession will always be unwelcome in places where authenticity engenders judgment and where we are pressured to conform and perform. Until we’re allowed to be the mess we are, we will continue the hiding, the lying, and the pretending. ~ Jen Pollock Michel,
540:You go to someone and you think, 'I'll tell him this.' But why? The impulse is that the telling is going to relieve you. And that's why you feel awful later--you've relieved yourself, and if it truly is tragic and awful, it's not better, it's worse---the exhibitionism inherent to a confession has only made the misery worse. ~ Philip Roth,
541:Guilt must not be allowed to fester in the silence of the soul, poisoning it from within. It needs to be confessed. Through confession we bring it into the light, we place it within Christ's purifying love. In confession, the Lord washes our soiled feet over and over again and prepares us for table fellowship with him. ~ Pope Benedict XVI,
542:He grinned at her. “Well, then I have a bit of a confession to make. Colin said some things to me and the sound of his voice irritated me so I had one of those clowns with the big red noses in the paediatric wing turn him into a balloon animal. A giraffe I’m afraid. Sad fate it was,” Alessandro joked with no sign of remorse at all. ~ E Jamie,
543:I have a confession to make. The love affair of my life has been with the Greek language. I have now reached the age when it has occurred to me that I may have read some books for the last time. I suddenly thought that there are books I cannot bear not to read again before I die. One that stands out a mile is Homer's Iliad. ~ William Golding,
544:It’s just like the one Scarlet had.” He flipped the gun in his palms, running his thumbs along the barrel. “She shot me in the arm once.”

This confession was said with as much tenderness as if Scarlet had given him a bouquet of wildflowers rather than a bullet wound.

Cress and the others traded sorrowful looks. ~ Marissa Meyer,
545:There is no true prayer without confession. As long as we have unconfessed sin in our soul, we are not going to have power with God in prayer. He says if we regard iniquity in our hearts, He will not hear us, much less answer. As long as we are living in any known sin, we have no power in prayer. God is not going to hear it. ~ Dwight L Moody,
546:As we were baptized, so we profess our belief. As we profess our belief, so also we offer praise. As then baptism has been given us by the Savior, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, so, in accordance with our baptism, we make the confession of the creed, and our doxology in accordance with our creed. ~ Saint Basil,
547:Truth is that concordance of an abstract statement with the ideal limit towards which endless investigation would tend to bring scientific belief, which concordance the abstract statement may possess by virtue of the confession of its inaccuracy and one-sidedness, and this confession is an essential ingredient of truth. ~ Charles Sanders Peirce,
548:A confession: I am not a good friend. Lyndsey writes letters, Lyndsey makes calls. Lyndsey makes plans. Everything I do is in reaction to everything she does, and I’m terrified of the day she decides not to pick up the phone, not to take the first step. I’m terrified of the day Lyndsey outgrows my secrets, my ways. Outgrows me. ~ Victoria Schwab,
549:Beneath the kiss itself, it is its meaning that interests us—which is why the desire to kiss someone can be decisively reduced (as it may need be, for instance, when two lovers are already married to other people) by a declaration of that desire—a confession which may in itself be so erotic as to render the actual kiss superfluous. ~ Alain de Botton,
550:The idea of hell disappeared from educated thought, even from pulpit homilies. Presbyterians became ashamed of the Westminster Confession, which had pledged them to belief in a God who had created billions of men and women despite his foreknowledge that, regardless of their virtues and crimes, they were predestined to everlasting hell. ~ Will Durant,
551:“I love you,” she whispered.
How horrifying, and how thrilling. It felt like a secret, a confession, a taunt: a dare to fate.
But he did not seem to think it remarkable or daring. “I know,” he said, and his thumbs stroked her wrists, once. “We love each other. And look, darling: the world continues to turn.” ~ Meredith Duran,
552:The cross is not the suffering tied to being natural existence, but the suffering tied to being Christians. The cross is never simply a matter of suffering, but a matter of suffering and rejection, and even, strictly speaking, rejection for the sake of Jesus Christ, not for the sake of some other arbitrary behavior or confession. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
553:I have been writing my heart out all my life, but only getting a living out of it now.... ... it's not a question of the merit of art, but a question of spontaneity and sincerity and joy I say. I would like everybody in the world to tell his full life confession and tell it his own way and then we'd have something to read in our old age. ~ Jack Kerouac,
554:Nowadays, as before, the public declaration and confession of Orthodoxy is usually encountered among dull-witted, cruel and immoral people who tend to consider themselves very important. Whereas intelligence, honesty, straightforwardness, good-naturedness and morality are qualities usually found among people who claim to be non-believers. ~ Leo Tolstoy,
555:Art has to be a kind of confession. I don't mean a true confession in the sense of that dreary magazine. The effort it seems to me, is: if you can examine and face your life, you can discover the terms with which you are connected to other lives, and they can discover them, too - the terms with which they are connected to other people. ~ James A Baldwin,
556:...from Emerson's journals. In the context, it is written in the past tense; changing the verb to present tense it reads: The poem is a confession of faith. Which is to say, the poem is not an exercise. It is not 'wordplay.' Whatever skill or beauty it has, in contains something beyond language devices, and has a purpose other than itself. ~ Mary Oliver,
557:I divide each [biblical] command into four parts, thereby fashioning a garland of four strands. That is I think of each commandment as first, instruction, which is really what it is intended to be, and consider what the Lord God demands of me so earnestly. Second, I turn it into a thanksgiving; third, a confession; and fourth, a prayer. ~ Timothy J Keller,
558:But to go back in such circumstances is a terrible disaster. It amounts to complete defeat; and is tantamount to a confession that you must go home, because you are unable to ride to hounds. A man, when he is compelled to do this, is almost driven to resolve at the spur of the moment that he will give up hunting for the rest of his life. ~ Anthony Trollope,
559:I remembered going to confession to a great priest, Father Moriarty of South William Street. I told him, "I shot a man, Father." "Did you think you were doing right? Had you no qualms about it?" he asked me. I told him I didn't have any qualms, I thought I was doing right, and he said, "Carry on with the good work," and gave me absolution. ~ Tim Pat Coogan,
560:The cross stands as a mystery because it is foreign to everything we exalt- self over principle, power over meekness, the quick fix over the long haul, cover-up over confession, escapism over confrontation, conform over sacrifice, feeling over commitment, legality over justice, the body over the spirit, anger over forgiveness, man over God. ~ Ravi Zacharias,
561:No one wants to hear anything like the truth during these landmark times. It has to be one emotion, a positive one - unless it's a quiet, heartfelt confession of fear or nervousness that can utterly disarm listeners and give them the opportunity to be reassuring - just to keep the social wheels turning in the way that makes everyone feel secure. ~ Emma Newman,
562:Confession: When I went to see The Empire Strikes Back I found myself glancing at my watch. The Force is with us, indeed, and a lot of it is hot air. It's a measure of my mixed feelings about The Empire Strikes Back that I'm not at all sure that I understand the plot. The Empire Strikes Back is about as personal as a Christmas card from a bank. ~ Vincent Canby,
563:The ongoing function of God’s law is not to serve as a standard to be met for justification but as a guide for Christian living. Thus, according to the Confession of Faith: True believers be not under the law as a covenant of works to be thereby justified or condemned yet it is of great use to them as well as to others as a rule of life.34 ~ Sinclair B Ferguson,
564:Colon in particular had great difficulty with the idea that you went on investigating after someone had confessed. It outraged his training and experience. You got a confession and there it ended. You didn’t go around disbelieving people. You disbelieved people only when they said they were innocent. Only guilty people were trustworthy. Anything ~ Terry Pratchett,
565:confession of effort chafes against the notion that empathy should always rise unbidden, that genuine means the same thing as unwilled, that intentionality is the enemy of love. But I believe in intention and I believe in work. I believe in waking up in the middle of the night and packing our bags and leaving our worst selves for our better ones. ~ Leslie Jamison,
566:Look at what it’s done to us. Zu’s crying face the other night floated to the forefront of my mind, only to be replaced by the memory of Chubs’s confession about the requirements of becoming a skip tracer; him being shot; Liam’s battered face—all of these were linked in my mind now. They’d never fade, not even in the afterlight of all of this. ~ Alexandra Bracken,
567:Thus we were approaching the borderline between confession and resistance; and if we did not cross this border, our confession was going to be no better than cooperation with the criminals. And so it became clear where the problem lay for the Confessing Church: we were resisting by way of confession, but we were not confessing by way of resistance. ~ Eric Metaxas,
568:A proper autobiography is a death-bed confession. A true man finds so much work to do that he has no time to contemplate his yesterdays; for to-day and to-morrow are here, with their impatient tasks. The world is so busy, too, that it cannot afford to study any man's unfinished work; for the end may prove it a failure, and the world needs masterpieces. ~ Mary Antin,
569:Mrs Thatcher has told one of her interviewers that she had nothing to say to her mother after she reached the age of fifteen. Such a sad, blunt confession it seems, and yet not a few of us could make it. The world moves on so fast, and we lose all chance of being the women our mothers were; we lose all understanding of what shaped them. Hilary Mantel ~ Helen Garner,
570:In the twentieth century the Reformed tradition was developed in several ways including additional confessions (Barmen, the Belhar Confession, the 1967 Confession of the PC(USA), and so on). It was also significantly augmented by the work of important thinkers like Karl Barth, T. F. Torrance, Jürgen Moltmann, Emil Brunner, Kathryn Tanner, and so on. ~ Oliver D Crisp,
571:It has gradually become clear to me what every great philosophy up till now has consisted of—namely, the confession of its originator, and a species of involuntary and unconscious auto-biography; and moreover that the moral (or immoral) purpose in every philosophy has constituted the true vital germ out of which the entire plant has always grown. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
572:This confession of effort chafes against the notion that empathy should always rise unbidden, that genuine means the same thing as unwilled, that intentionality is the enemy of love. But I believe in intention and I believe in work. I believe in waking up in the middle of the night and packing our bags and leaving our worst selves for our better ones. ~ Leslie Jamison,
573:It has gradually become clear to me what every great philosophy up till now has consisted of – namely, the confession of its originator, and a species of involuntary and unconscious autobiography; and moreover that the moral (or immoral) purpose in every philosophy has constituted the true vital germ out of which the entire plant has always grown. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
574:I'll make myself a memory, I have only to listen, the voice will tell me everything, tell it to me again, everything I need, in dribs and drabs, breathless, it's like a confession, a last confession, you think it's finished, then it starts off again, there were so many sins, the memory is so bad, the words don't come, the words fail, the breath fails... ~ Samuel Beckett,
575:Only Marshall didn’t blink an eye, mostly because, big confession, his favorite uncle is gay: Big effing deal. Why should I care if Uncle Ken is in love with a dude? It’s not like he gives me all the filthy details. And man, can that Taylor cook! Tell Luke to be sure and find someone who knows how to make homemade pizza. See, that is why I love Marshall. ~ Ellen Hopkins,
576:The point is this: guilt must not be allowed to fester in the silence of the soul, poisoning it from within. It needs to be confessed. Through confession, we bring it into the light, we place it within Christ’s purifying love (cf. Jn 3:20-21). In confession, the Lord washes our soiled feet over and over again and prepares us for table fellowship with him. ~ Benedict XVI,
577:The principle of non-aggression is a deep and fundamental Truth in human interaction. Actions that are coerced have no moral value. A confession under torture is no real confession. Giving money to the poor at gunpoint is not real charity. The aim of Islam, and religion more broadly, is to place moral value in every action, so how can coercion be virtuous? ~ Davi Barker,
578:God will allow us to follow self-help, self-improvement programs until we have tried them all, until we finally come to the honest confession, ‘I can't do it. I can't be righteous in my own strength!’ It is then, when we admit our utter powerlessness, that we find hope. For it is then when the Lord intervenes to do a work that we could not do for ourselves. ~ Chuck Smith,
579:When our friend says, “If my friends found out how I really feel, if I would show my real self, then they would no longer love me but hate me” — he speaks about a real possibility. It is very risky to be honest, because someone just might not respond with love, but take us by our weak spot and turn it against ourselves. Our confession might destroy us. ~ Henri J M Nouwen,
580:The next time you run into a question that you can only pretend to answer, go ahead and say “I don’t know”—and then follow up, certainly, with “but maybe I can find out.” And work as hard as you can to do that. You may be surprised by how receptive people are to your confession, especially when you come through with the real answer a day or a week later. ~ Steven D Levitt,
581:Every Christian is chosen-chosen for similar deeds, namely: to be with the Lord, through unceasing remembrance of Him and awareness of His omnipresence, through the preaching and fulfillment of His commandments, and through a readiness to confess one's faith in Him. In those circles where such a confession is made, it is a loud sermon for all to hear. ~ Theophan the Recluse,
582:She always had a headache, or it was too hot, always, or she pretended to be asleep, or she had her period again, her period, always her period. So much so that Dr. Urbino had dared to say in class, only for the relief of unburdening himself without confession, that after ten years of marriage women had their periods as often as threes times a week. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,
583:She always had a headache, or it was too hot, always, or she pretended to be asleep, or she had her period again, her period, always her period. So much so that Dr. Urbino had dared to say in class, only for the relief of unburdening himself without confession, that after ten years of marriage women had their periods as often as threes times a week. ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
584:Byrne, for example, remembered going to confession to ‘a great priest, Father Moriarty of South William Street. I told him: “I shot a man, Father.” “Did you think you were doing right? Had you no qualms about it?” he asked me. I told him I didn’t have any qualms, I thought I was doing right, and he said, “Carry on with the good work,” and gave me absolution. ~ Tim Pat Coogan,
585:Lysley Tenorio is a writer of sly wit and lively invention—these are stories bursting with wonders (from monster movies and leper colonies, to faith-healers and superheroes)—but most wondrous of all is his intimate sense of character. Each story is a confession of love betrayed, told with a mournful, austere tenderness as heartbreaking as it is breathtaking. ~ Peter Ho Davies,
586:It is a confession that we do not have such a prodigious head as is required to answer the question what is happening, that we cannot get on top of what is happening, that we are stuck in the middle of it, in medias res, inter-esse, amazing and bewildered. We cannot soar over what is happening with philosophy's eagle-wings. What's happening has clipped our wings. ~ John D Caputo,
587:If every marriage placed value on holiness, the following would be present: Confession and ownership of the problems in each individual A relentless drive toward growth and development A giving up of everything that gets in the way of love A surrendering of everything that gets in the way of truth A purity of heart where nothing toxic is allowed to grow This would be ~ Henry Cloud,
588:It was thought that the confession of the accused was indispensable to his condemnation, an idea not only unreasonable, but contrary to the most simple good sense in matters of jurisprudence; for if the denial of the accused is not accepted as proof of his innocence, the confession which is torn from him by torture ought to serve still less as proof of his guilt. ~ Alexander Pushkin,
589:She wrote somewhere that photographs create their own memories, and supplant the past. In her pictures there isn’t nostalgia for the fleeting moment, captured by chance with a camera. Rather, there’s a confession: this moment captured is not a moment stumbled upon and preserved but a moment stolen, plucked from the continuum of experience in order to be preserved. ~ Valeria Luiselli,
590:Then he told her, in the quiet tones of someone offloading a confession, that she was the most mazing women he had ever met. And when she lifted her swollen eyes to his, Ed mopped her bleeding nose, and he dropped his lips gently onto hers, and he did what he had wanted to do for the past forty-eight hours, even if he had been initially too dumb to know it, He kissed her. ~ Jojo Moyes,
591:He who is accustomed to give account of his life at confession here will not fear to give an answer at the terrible judgment-seat of Christ. It is for this purpose that the mild tribunal of penitence was here initiated, in order that we, being cleansed and amended through penitence here below, may give an answer without shame at the terrible judgment-seat of Christ. ~ John of Kronstadt,
592:I don’t care what you are. I’ll find a way through your skin. If not through your flesh, my claws will enter you another way. There are many paths to get to a man’s heart. I’ve dug my hand in other holes before.” I didn’t even want to ponder where he was going with that. I wasn’t even afraid to admit it … I might’ve clenched my own ass and stepped back at his confession. ~ Kenya Wright,
593:Sometimes I miss Boston', I said. It was a timid confession. I missed it every day - its space, its familiar streets and smells. I missed the laughter, I missed the feel of American money which was like the feel of flesh. Reality for me was the past, and it was elsewhere. This - London - was like a role I had been assigned to play, and I was still yet unsure of my lines. ~ Paul Theroux,
594:Selene," Cheney cupped my face, "if this is the beginning of a confession, let me assure you I am not naive. You're a beautiful woman, and I have little doubt you have had a lot of boyfriends during our time apart. Please feel free to NEVER tell me about any of them. And if you never utter the name Michael again, it would be much appreciated." His eyes flashed at his name. ~ Liz Schulte,
595:That it is Peter, the rock of the church, who incurs guilt here immediately after his own confession to Jesus Christ and after his appointment by Jesus, means that from its very inception the church itself has taken offense at the suffering Christ. It neither wants such a Lord nor does it, as the Church of Christ, want its Lord to force upon it the law of suffering. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
596:If conscience is to do its work and the contrite heart is to feel its proper remorse, it is necessary for each individual to confess his sin by name. The confession must be intensely personal. In a meeting of ministers, probably no single sin should be acknowledged with deeper shame than the sin of prayerlessness. Each one of us needs to confess that we are guilty of this. ~ Andrew Murray,
597:The psalms lead us to do what the psalmists do—to commit ourselves to God through pledges and promises, to depend on God through petition and expressions of acceptance, to seek comfort in God through lament and complaint, to find mercy from God through confession and repentance, to gain new wisdom and perspective from God through meditation, remembrance, and reflection. ~ Timothy J Keller,
598:After listening to modern tirades against the great creeds of the Church, one receives a shock when one turns to the Westminster Confession... and discovers that in doing so one has turned from shallow modern phrases to a "dead orthodoxy" that is pulsating with life in every word. In such orthodoxy there is life enough to set the whole world aglow with Christian love. ~ John Gresham Machen,
599:go on bravely in the spirit of humility to make your general confession;—but I entreat you, be not troubled by any sort of fearfulness. The scorpion who stings us is venomous, but when his oil has been distilled, it is the best remedy for his bite;—even so sin is shameful when we commit it, but when reduced to repentance and confession, it becomes salutary and honourable. ~ Francis de Sales,
600:Tell everything to your spiritual father, and the Lord will have mercy on you and you will escape delusion. But if you think that you know more about the spiritual life than your spiritual father, and you stop telling him everything about yourself in confession, then you will immediately be allowed to fall into some sort of delusion, in order that you may be corrected. ~ Silouan the Athonite,
601:When I open a book now, I was seized with desperation. I felt as if I was madly in love. It was as if I were in a confession booth and the characters in the book were on the other side telling me their most intimate secrets. When I read, I was a philosopher and it was up to me to figure out the meaning of things. Reading made me feel as if I were the center of the universe. ~ Heather O Neill,
602:How can one express the indefinable sensations that one experiences while writing an instrumental composition that has no definite subject? It is a purely lyrical process. It is a musical confession of the soul, which unburdens itself through sounds just as a lyric poet expresses himself through poetry...As the poet Heine said, 'Where words leave off, music begins.' ~ Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky,
603:If a man speculates on what 'society' should do for the poor, he accepts thereby the collectivist premise that men's lives belong to society and that he, as a member of society, has the right to dispose of them...that psychological confession reveals the enormity of the extent to which altruism erodes men's capacity to grasp the concept of rights or the value of an individual life. ~ Ayn Rand,
604:In the doctrine of Providence, we have a specific Christian confession exclusively possible through faith in Jesus Christ. This faith is no general, vague notion of Providence. It has a concrete focus: ‘If God is for us, who is against us? He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not also with him freely give us all things?’ (Rom.8:31, 32). ~ G C Berkouwer,
605:John's baptism...was a radical act of individual commitment to belong to the true people of God, based on personal confession and repentance... This is one of the main reasons that I do not believe in baptizing infants, who cannot make this personal commitment or confession or repentance. John's baptism was an assault on the very assumptions that give rise to much infant baptism. ~ John Piper,
606:The Reformed tradition at the beginning of the twenty-first century is different as a consequence of this - and different in nontrivial ways. Some may scoff at this, saying that such "developments" don't represent Reformed thought. But by what standard? Perhaps by the Westminster Confession. But this is only one Reformed confession, and it was only ever a subordinate standard. ~ Oliver D Crisp,
607:When I opened a book now, I was seized with desperation. I felt as if I was madly in love. It was as if I were in a confession booth and the characters in the book were on the other side telling me their most intimate secrets. When I read, I was a philosopher and it was up to me to figure out the meaning of things. Reading made me feel as if I were the center of the universe. ~ Heather O Neill,
608:One night i rode home - it was a confession - and i came staggering across the yard and i fell into the rosebush and crawled up the stairs on my hands and knees and i was sick on the floor beside my bed. In the morning I tried to tell him I was sorry, and do you know what he said? 'Why, Tom, you were just jolly'. 'Jolly,' if I did it. A drunken man didn't crawl home. Just Jolly ~ John Steinbeck,
609:By inner experience I understand that which one usually calls mystical experience: the states of ecstasy, of rapture, at least of meditated emotion. But I am thinking less of confessional experience, to which one has had to adhere up to now, that of an experience laid bare, free of ties, even of an origin, of any confession whatever. This is why I don't like the word mystical. ~ Georges Bataille,
610:go on bravely in the spirit of humility to make your general confession;—but I entreat you, be not troubled by any sort of fearfulness. The scorpion who stings us is venomous, but when his oil has been distilled, it is the best remedy for his bite;—even so sin is shameful when we commit it, but when reduced to repentance and confession, it becomes salutary and honourable. ~ Saint Francis de Sales,
611:It had been Luther’s idea that Christians should confess to one another instead of to a priest. Most Lutherans had thrown that baby out with the bathwater and didn’t confess to anyone. Confession of any kind was considered overly Catholic, just as extemporaneous prayer was criticized as too pietistic. But Bonhoeffer successfully instituted the practice of confessing one to another. ~ Eric Metaxas,
612:Wolf made a strangled sound, pulling everyone’s attention toward him as he lifted a handgun from the crate. “It’s just like the one Scarlet had.” He flipped the gun in his palms, running his thumbs along the barrel. “She shot me in the arm once.”

This confession was said with as much tenderness as if Scarlet had given him a bouquet of wildflowers rather than a bullet wound. ~ Marissa Meyer,
613:But if we know that the people of God are first a fellowship of sinners, we are freed to hear the unconditional call of God's love and to confess our needs openly before our brothers and sisters. The fear and pride that clings to us like barnacles cling to others also. In acts of mutual confession we release the power that heals. Our humanity is no longer denied, but transformed. ~ Richard J Foster,
614:Confession is a radical reliance on grace. A proclamation of our trust in God’s goodness. “What I did was bad,” we acknowledge, “but your grace is greater than my sin, so I confess it.” If our understanding of grace is small, our confession will be small: reluctant, hesitant, hedged with excuses and qualifications, full of fear of punishment. But great grace creates an honest confession. ~ Max Lucado,
615:Honest confession is an externalizing of an inward conversation for the purpose of gaining insight, releasing a burden, or admitting reality. Confession leads to movement and helps us get out of merely coping. It opens doors to growth and change because it is an act of congruence. By externalizing--sharing--our true state of affairs, w are better able to receive the help we really need. ~ Jocelyn Green,
616:accountable government does not come through elections. It comes through respect for law, through public spirit and through a culture of confession. To think that there is a merely accidental connection between those virtues and our Judaeo-Christian heritage is to live in cloud cuckoo land. It is to overlook the culture that has focused, down the centuries, on the business of repentance. ~ Roger Scruton,
617:I have to go,” he said softly. “But you should take a few minutes to fix your hair; it’s a real mess. And your face is all flushed.”
“Maybe I’m just not practiced in these sorts of things.”
For a long moment, Ash said nothing. Then he whispered, “Neither am I.”
His next words were forced out like a confession. “If I was any good at it, it was only because I’ve imagined it so often. ~ Erin Beaty,
618:As the church in reform draws closer to its core confession, it inescapably embraces its most radical vision that violates and contradicts conventional practice in its social context. What makes such reform difficult, moreover, is the fact that while we ponder the radical core claims of faith, we ourselves are variously enmeshed in conventional practices that are inimical to the gospel. ~ Walter Brueggemann,
619:A Task
In fear and trembling, I think I would fulfill my life
Only if I brought myself to make a public confession
Revealing a sham, my own and of my epoch:
We were permitted to shriek in the tongue of dwarfs and
demons
But pure and generous words were forbidden
Under so stiff a penalty that whoever dared to pronounce one
Considered himself as a lost man.
~ Czeslaw Milosz,
620:I've made a terrible confession to you, he concluded gloomily. Do appreciate it, gentlemen. And it's not enough, not enough to appreciate it, you must not just appreciate it, it should also be precious to you, and if not, if this, too, goes past your souls, then it means you really do not respect me, gentlemen. I tell you that, and I will die of shame at having confessed to such men as you. ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky,
621:Forgiveness is not automatic. It’s conditioned upon confession: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). Christ offers to everyone the gift of forgiveness, salvation, and eternal life: “Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life” (Revelation 22:17). ~ Randy Alcorn,
622:I've made a terrible confession to you," he concluded gloomily. "Do appreciate it, gentlemen. And it's not enough, not enough to appreciate it, you must not just appreciate it, it should also be precious to you, and if not, if this, too, goes past your souls, then it means you really do not respect me, gentlemen. I tell you that, and I will die of shame at having confessed to such men as you. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
623:Like revenge, the fantasy of forgiveness often becomes a cruel torture, because it remains out of reach for most ordinary human beings. Folk wisdom recognizes that to forgive is divine. And even divine forgiveness, in most religious systems, is not unconditional. True forgiveness cannot be granted until the perpetrator has sought and earned it through confession, repentance, and restitution. ~ Judith Lewis Herman,
624:Ten Things You Shouldn't Say on a Date.
1. You're wearing that?
2. Something smells funny.
3. Where's the Tylenol?
4. And to think, I first wanted to date your brother.
5. I have a confession to make…
6. My dad has a suit just like that.
7. That man is hot. Look at him.
8. My ex, may he rot in hell forever…
9. You're going to order that? Seriously?
10. You're how old? ~ Gena Showalter,
625:The Church’s Confession of Faith remained unaltered. But it would be naïve scholarship that extrapolated from what was professed to what was preached and indeed from what was preached to what was possessed. Every pastor should know this and therefore should never assume that everyone listening to him has been gripped by the wonder of God’s grace—even if they have confessed the church’s creed. ~ Sinclair B Ferguson,
626:The Call to Discipleship And as he passed by he saw Levi, the son of Alpæus, sitting at the place of toll, and he saith unto him, Follow me. And he arose and followed him. (Mark 2.14) THE CALL goes forth, and is at once followed by the response of obedience. The response of the disciples is an act of obedience, not a confession of faith in Jesus. How could the call immediately evoke obedience? ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
627:Yes, we feel the need now of being taught to pray. At first there is no work appears so simple; later on, none that is more difficult; and the confession is forced from us: We know not how to pray as we ought. It is true we have God's Word, with its clear and sure promises; but sin has so darkened our mind, that we know not always how to apply the Word. ========== Lord, Teach Us To Pray (Murray, Andrew) ~ Anonymous,
628:But had it been the wine? Maybe it was something else. I was no math expert, but this was an intoxicating equation: Hot Guy with Mysterious Past + Way With Pretty Words x Chivalry at Beach / His Aloofness at Coffee Shop (Immunity to My Face & Flirty Efforts) + Innuendo at Hardware Store x Honest Confession about OCD Struggles —> Curiosity + Arousal (Belly Flutters + Pulse Quickening)=ATTACKISS. ~ Melanie Harlow,
629:To be penitent, to feel sorry for sin, to shed tears, to even make decisions does not bring in salvation. Confession, decision, and many other religious acts can never be and are not to be construed as new birth. Rational judgment, intelligent understanding, mental acceptance, or the pursuit of the good, the beautiful, and the true are merely soulical activities if the spirit is not reached and stirred. ~ Watchman Nee,
630:According to Saint Maximus the Confessor in "One Hundred Chapters of Love", the key to directing and increasing one's desire for God is the acquisition of the virtues-which, you'll recall, we described above as noncognitive "dispositions" acquired through practices. So how does one acquire such virtues, such dispositions of desire? Through participation in concrete Christian practices like confession. ~ James K A Smith,
631:After the confession, still inside his sleeping, a massive boil shaped like a bird’s egg appears on his left hand between his point finger and his thumb. When medics drain the boil, from the pustule’s face floods a creamy darkish oil. The runoff will be stored in a glass vial in a black locker several miles from Gravey’s fleshy self, no one seeing what the wet does in the darkness when no longer watched. ~ Blake Butler,
632:Candlesticks and incense not being portable into the maintop, the sailor perceives these decorations to be, on the whole, inessential to a maintop mass. Sails must be set and cables bent, be it never so strict a saint's day; and it is found that no harm comes of it. Absolution on a lee-shore must be had of the breakers, it appears, if at all; and they give plenary and brief without listening to confession. ~ John Ruskin,
633:Father used to say that change took time, but he was wrong. It did not take any time at all to change me. The glimpse of a family. A beautiful tale. A child’s tears. A confession. A wound. An honest opinion. A friend’s betrayal. One parent’s death and another’s embrace. A touch—an instant slapping you with its light and jolting you back, shaken and blinking. Those quick moments were what changed people. ~ Natalia Jaster,
634:Him: Confession: I deleted all the 1 Direction from your iPod when u were in the can.
You’re welcome.
Me: WHAT?? I’m going to kiss u!
Him: With tongue?
It takes me a second to realize what happened, at which point I’m completely mortified.
Me: Kill u! I meant KILL. u. Damn autocorrect.
Him: Surrrrrre. Let’s blame it on autocorrect.
Me: Shut it.
Him: I think someone wants to kiss me… ~ Elle Kennedy,
635:Confession frees, but power reduces one to silence; truth does not belong to the order of power, but shares an origincal affinity with freedom: traditional themes in philosophy, which a political history of truth would have to overturn by showing that truth is not by nature free--nor error servile--but that its production is thoroughly imbued with relations of power. The confession is an example of this. ~ Michel Foucault,
636:For my part, I wonder whether someday I will ever succeed in making it felt that the true character and the only one that interests me is the reader, to the degree in which something of what I write ought to contribute to his mutation, displacement, alienation, transportation.” In spite of the tacit confession of defeat in the last sentence, Ronald found a presumption in the note that displeased him. (–18) ~ Julio Cort zar,
637:Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. ~ Anonymous,
638:There truly is no salvation where there is no recognition of sin and a confession of the righteousness of God in the just punishment of it. There may be great religious fervor and a lot of “Christian talk,” but unless a person confesses that God is right to punish sin, and that he or she is a guilty sinner, completely deserving of eternal death, there is no true faith, no true repentance, no true salvation. ~ James R White,
639:The Wind of God took possession of D. L. Moody, an uneducated young business man in Chicago, and in the power of this resistless Wind, men and women and young people were mowed down before his words and brought in humble confession and renunciation of sin to the feet of Jesus Christ, and filled with the life of God they have been the pillars in the churches of Great Britain and throughout the world ever since. ~ R A Torrey,
640:It is by far the most elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with incense, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, and the real presence, confession, absolution, - there is something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no possibility of doubt; for those who swallow their Deity, really and truly, in transubstantiation, can hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of digestion. ~ Lord Byron,
641:Devil does not bring sinners to Hell with their eyes open: he first blinds them with the malice of their own sins. He thus leads them to eternal perdition. Before we fall into sin, the enemy labours to blind us, that we may not see the evil we do, and the ruin we bring upon ourselves by offending God. After we commit sin, he seeks to make us dumb, that, through shame, we may conceal our guilt in confession. ~ Alphonsus Liguori,
642:The wide confidence interval is a confession of ignorance, which is not socially acceptable for someone who is paid to be knowledgeable in financial matters. Even if they knew how little they know, the executives would be penalized for admitting it. President Truman famously asked for a “one-armed economist” who would take a clear stand; he was sick and tired of economists who kept saying, “On the other hand… ~ Daniel Kahneman,
643:A kiss! When all is said, what is a kiss? An oath of allegiance taken in closer proximity, a promise more precise, a seal on a confession, a rose-red dot upon the letter i in loving; a secret which elects the mouth for ear; an instant of eternity murmuring like a bee; balmy communion with a flavor of flowers; a fashion of inhaling each other's hearts, and of tasting, on the brink of the lips, each other's soul! ~ Edmond Rostand,
644:The dividing line will run right through the confessing Church. Even if we make the confession of faith, it gives us no title to any special claim upon Jesus. We can never appeal to our confession or be saved simply on the ground that we have made it...The man who says "Lord, Lord" has either called himself to Jesus without the Holy Spirit, or else he has made out of the call of Jesus a personal privilege. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
645:Confession is the God-given remedy for self-deception and self-indulgence. When we confess our sins before a brother-Christian, we are mortifying the pride of the flesh and delivering it up to shame and death through Christ. Then through the word of absolution we rise as new men, utterly dependent on the mercy of God. Confession is thus a genuine part of the life of the saints, and one of the gifts of grace. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
646:I’m a writer, and everything I write is both a confession and a struggle to understand things about myself and this world in which I live. This is what everyone’s work should be-whether you dance or paint or sing. It is a confession, a baring of your soul, your faults, those things you simply cannot or will not understand or accept. You stumble forward, confused, and you share. If you’re lucky, you learn something. ~ Arthur Miller,
647:You are the sun, Silver. You’re gravity. You’re the air in my fucking lungs. I’m a satellite, trapped in your orbit, and I’ll remain here until the end of time. My face and my dumb, wretched heart, will always be turned to you.”
I’m not a romantic person by nature. I don’t say these things to try and flatter her with pretty words. This is simply the confession of a helpless man resigned to a beautiful fate. ~ Callie Hart,
648:In the same way, Christians today are often suspicious of creeds. Many churches are more comfortable with mission statements than with creeds. The thing about a mission statement is you always get to make it up for yourself. It’s like writing your own wedding vows. But here’s the paradox. It is the individualized confession, like the personalized wedding vow, that ends up sounding like an echo of the wider society. ~ Benjamin Myers,
649:Love? Yes, God loves us. But his love is passionate and seeks faithful, committed love in return. God does not want tame pets to fondle and feed; he wants mature, free people who will respond to him in authentic individuality. For that to happen there must be honesty and truth. The self must be toppled from its pedestal. There must be pure hearts and clear intelligence, confession of sin and commitment in faith. ~ Eugene H Peterson,
650:Devil does not bring sinners to Hell with their eyes open: he first blinds them with the malice of their own sins. He thus leads them to eternal perdition. Before we fall into sin, the enemy labours to blind us, that we may not see the evil we do, and the ruin we bring upon ourselves by offending God. After we commit sin, he seeks to make us dumb, that, through shame, we may conceal our guilt in confession. ~ Saint Alphonsus Liguori,
651:it is precisely in this continuous process of confession and forgiveness that we are liberated from our isolation and encounter the possibility of a new disarmed way of living. Christians are peacemakers not when they apply some special skill to reconcile people with one another but when, by the confession of their brokenness, they form a community through which God's unlimited forgiveness is revealed to the world. ~ Henri J M Nouwen,
652:Thus religion, beginning as a slight and partial acknowledgment of powers superior to man, tends with the growth of knowledge to deepen into a confession of man’s entire and absolute dependence on the divine; his old free bearing is exchanged for an attitude of lowliest prostration before the mysterious powers of the unseen, and his highest virtue is to submit his will to theirs: In la sua volontade è nostra pace. ~ James George Frazer,
653:He chuckled, drawing Maddie’s attention back to his reflection in the mirror. He cocked a brow. “Is someone having impure thoughts?” “Not me,” she said in a voice filled with feigned innocence. “I went to confession yesterday. I can’t ruin it already.” “Princess, we’re living in sin. You ruin it the second you step out of the church.” “Yeah, well.” She waved a hand in the air. “You can’t expect me to be perfect.” She’d ~ Jennifer Dawson,
654:[...]we must ask ourselves whether we have not often been deceiving ourselves with our confession of sin to God, whether we have not rather been confessing our sins to ourselves and also granting ourselves absolution. And is not the reason perhaps for our countless relapses and the feebleness of our Christian obedience to be found precisely in the fact that we are living on self-forgiveness and not a real forgiveness. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
655:Repentance was never yet produced in any man's heart apart from the grace of God. As soon may you expect the leopard to regret the blood with which its fangs are moistened,—as soon might you expect the lion of the wood to abjure his cruel tyranny over the feeble beasts of the plain, as expect the sinner to make any confession, or offer any repentance that shall be accepted of God, unless grace shall first renew the heart. ~ Charles Spurgeon,
656:NEVER HAVE I EVER … • lied at Confession, • made out with my friend’s sister, • blackmailed a teacher, • smoked a joint, • lost my virginity. The way they played it at Evangeline, people who had done what you had not done had to tell their story and pass you their drink to gulp. The purer your past, the faster you got drunk. It was a corruption of the innocent, a confession in reverse. No one knew how the tradition got started. ~ Lauren Kate,
657:And they got blackout drunk one night and it just happened. It was basically an accident, and he gave me the most sincere and moving confession of all time, swore to God he loved me so much and would do anything to convince me, blah blah blah, but it didn’t matter, I kept thinking about it and running it through my head and just burning with it. I cried every night for weeks. Practically wore the binary off all my saddest Mp3s. ~ Isaac Marion,
658:God does not forgive you based on the quality of your confession or your resolve to be a better person. But you keep thinking otherwise. Your standard is what you would do to someone like yourself, and chances are that you would not let the incident pass quickly. God, however, forgives, for his own name's sake. "I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more" (Isa. 43:25). ~ Edward T Welch,
659:Her mother was Jewish, but her father had insisted that she and Anne be raised Catholic. So she went to mass every Sunday as a child, received communion, went to confession, and was confirmed, but because her mother never participated in any of this, Alice began questioning the validity of these beliefs at a young age. And without a satisfying answer from either her father or the Catholic Church, she never developed a true faith. ~ Lisa Genova,
660:Guilt leads us to confession and repentance, she told me, but after we take it to the cross, we're suppose to leave it there, not carry it around with us. Jesus's burden is light. Guilt is heavy. Satan is the one who wants to increase our burden, to weigh us down with shame and despair, to steal our joy and the strength of the Lord that goes with it. Believing his lies instead of God's truth makes us weak. Made me a hypocrite. ~ Karen Witemeyer,
661:The man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing," mused the Inspector, "Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times... What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off the treasure! How's that?" "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside," said Holmes. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,
662:The state, then, is by no means a power forced on society from outside; neither is it the "realization of the ethical idea," "the image and the realization of reason," as Hegel maintains. It is simply a product of society at a certain stage of evolution. It is the confession that this society has become hopelessly divided against itself, has entangled itself in irreconcilable contradictions which it is powerless to banish. In ~ Friedrich Engels,
663:How often the priest had heard the same confession--Man was so limited: he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died: the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater the glory lay around the death; it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or civilization--it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt. ~ Graham Greene,
664:Jeffco had a problem. Before Eric and Dylan shot themselves, officers had discovered files on the boys. The cops had twelve pages from Eric’s Web site, spewing hate and threatening to kill. For detectives, a written confession, discovered before the killers were captured, was a big break. It certainly simplified the search warrant. But for commanders, a public confession, which they had sat on since 1997—that could be a PR disaster. ~ Dave Cullen,
665:Repentance was never yet produced in any man's heart apart from the grace of God. As soon may you expect the leopard to regret the blood with which its fangs are moistened,—as soon might you expect the lion of the wood to abjure his cruel tyranny over the feeble beasts of the plain, as expect the sinner to make any confession, or offer any repentance that shall be accepted of God, unless grace shall first renew the heart. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,
666:The man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing," mused the Inspector, "Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times... What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off the treasure! How's that?"
"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside," said Holmes. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,
667:But here is a confession, which I also happily shared with him at our last meeting, which happened as I was completing this book: I had never thought this deeply about my own craft and what makes a column work until our chance encounter prompted me to do so. Had I not paused to engage him, I never would have taken apart, examined, and then reassembled my own framework for making sense of the world in a period of rapid change. Not ~ Thomas L Friedman,
668:I want to be more than just a player. I want to use my degree. I want a business. I want a family.” It feels like a confession. “To be a good husband. A good father. This world I’m entering in a few months, I’ve seen it devour guys. We work toward this all our lives, and an injury, age, a bad trade, whatever—can end it overnight. If the game has eaten up your priorities, turned you into someone you never wanted to be, what’s the point? ~ Kennedy Ryan,
669:When we stand up and confront ourselves in ways our parents have not, a desire for justice makes it harder to forgive them in some ways. However, the increased differentiation this endeavor provides allows one to better self-soothe, to validate one’s own experience, thereby unhooking the need for confession from one’s parent. At this point, forgiveness becomes an act of self-caring and a deliberate decision to get on with one’s life. ~ David Schnarch,
670:Yelena, you've driven me crazy. You've caused me considerable trouble and I've contemplated ending your life twice since I've known you." Valek's warm breath in my ear sent a shiver down my spine. "But you’ve slipped under my skin, invaded my blood and seized my heart.” “That sounds more like a poison than a person,” was all I could say. His confession had both shocked and thrilled me. “Exactly,” Valek replied. “You have poisoned me. ~ Maria V Snyder,
671:You missed me,” said Alucard. It was not a question, but there was a confession in it, because everything about Alucard—the tension in his back, the ways his hips pressed into Rhy’s, the race of his heart and the tremor in his voice—said that the missing had been mutual.
“I’m a prince,” said Rhy, striving for composure. “I know how to keep myself entertained.”
The sapphire glinted in Alucard’s brow. “I can be very entertaining. ~ Victoria Schwab,
672:His confession felt like finding out my cat—Sir Edmund Hillary, named after the first man to climb Mt Everest—could talk and wanted to give me a tongue bath. At best, Sir Hillary was indifferent to my existence. At worst, he may have been plotting my demise. He was an audacious Calico psychopath, always pushing his litterbox from its place beside the toilet in the bathroom directly in front of the shower, but only when I was in the shower… ~ Penny Reid,
673:Social psychology comes into the picture here, because the answer that a truthful CFO would offer is plainly ridiculous. A CFO who informs his colleagues that “there is a good chance that the S&P returns will be between –10% and +30%” can expect to be laughed out of the room. The wide confidence interval is a confession of ignorance, which is not socially acceptable for someone who is paid to be knowledgeable in financial matters. ~ Daniel Kahneman,
674:There is something in the eyes of a bonobo that you don’t see in those of a tiger or a shark. They are human eyes, but not the cautious glimpse of a stranger you pass on a city street, or the pretended interest of a shrink you’re paying $300 an hour. Or someone you think you recognize but don’t. The eyes of a bonobo are the eyes of your best friend or a lover or a priest. They see into you. They see nothing else. They invite confession. ~ Vanessa Woods,
675:the inquisitors of yesteryear knew only too well, as do the country snatchers of today: torture is useless for protecting people. It is only good for terrorizing them. The bureaucracy of pain tortures in order to perpetuate the power of the powers it serves. A confession extracted by torture is worth little or nothing. But in the torture chamber the powerful do drop their masks. By torturing, they confess that fear is their daily bread. ~ Eduardo Galeano,
676:All of God's sovereignty is mediated through one who was crucified on my behalf. For Christians, that means God's sovereignty can no longer be viewed as a merely credal point, still less as the source of endless mystery. There is more than enough material for credal confession here, and not a little mystery; but these mysteries revolve around one who died in my place. The mysteries of prayer remain, but they dissolve in worship and gratitude. ~ D A Carson,
677:Either [Jesus] was what he said he was or he was the world's greatest liar. It is impossible for me to believe a liar or charlatan could have had the effect on mankind that he has had for 2000 years. We could ask, would even the greatest of liars carry his lie through the crucifixion, when a simple confession would have saved him? ... Did he allow us the choice... to believe in his teaching but reject his statements about his own identity? ~ Ronald Reagan,
678:[There are] code words used today to measure the 'authenticity' of relationships or other persons. We speak of whether we can personally 'relate' to events or other persons, and whether in the relationship itself people are 'open' to one another. The first is a cover word for measuring the other in terms of a mirror of self-concern, and the second is a cover for measuring social interaction in terms of the market exchange of confession. ~ Richard Sennett,
679:The Nature of True Repentance, Part 1 I shall next show what Gospel repentance is. Repentance is a grace of God’s Spirit whereby a sinner is inwardly humbled and visibly reformed. For a further amplification, know that repentance is a spiritual medicine made up of six special ingredients: 1. Sight of sin 2. Sorrow for sin 3. Confession of sin 4. Shame for sin 5. Hatred for sin 6. Turning from sin If any one is left out, it loses its virtue. ~ Thomas Watson,
680:I longed that those who, I have reason to think, owe me ill will, might be eternally happy. It seemed refreshing to think of meeting them in heaven, how much soever they had injured me on earth: had no disposition to insist upon any confession from them, in order to reconciliation, and the exercise of love and kindness to them. Oh! it is an emblem of heaven itself, to love all the world with a love of kindness, forgiveness, and benevolence. ~ David Brainerd,
681:Ah, guilt and sorrow had dogged Juan's footsteps too, for he was not a Catholic who could rise refreshed from the cold bath of confession. Yet the banality stood: that the past was irrevocably past. And conscience had been given man to regret it only in so far as that might change the future. For man, every man, Juan seemed to be telling him, even as Mexico, must ceaselessly struggle upward. What was life but a warfare and a stranger's sojourn? ~ Malcolm Lowry,
682:The glance is natural magic. The mysterious communication established across a house between two entire strangers, moves all the springs of wonder. The communication by the glance is in the greatest part not subject to the control of the will. It is the bodily symbol of identity with nature. We look into the eyes to know if this other form is another self, and the eyes will not lie, but make a faithful confession what inhabitant is there. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
683:There are many ways to cover up our sin. We may justify or minimize it by blaming circumstances and others people. However, real repentance first admits sin as sin and takes full responsibility. True confession and repentance begins when blame shifting ends...Just as real repentance begins only where blame shifting ends, so it also begins where self-pity ends, and we start to turn from our sin out of love for God rather than mere self-interest. ~ Timothy Keller,
684:Words too can be wrung from us like a cry from that space which doesn’t seem to be the body nor a metaphor curving into perspective. Rather the thickness silence gains when pressed. The ghosts of grammar veer toward shape while my hopes still lie embedded in a quiet myopia from which they don’t want to arise. The mistake is to look for explanations where we should just watch the slow fuse burning. Nerve of confession. What we let go we let go. ~ Rosmarie Waldrop,
685:He claims the box we found was some sort of macabre time capsule, kept by a criminal who needed confession – as a ritual of his or her life. Our small town just doesn’t go in for these kinds of stories. It cost us a summer of sorting it all out. If what happened in these journals is true, then, indeed, it was time well spent! If it’s all fabrication, then the author should be grateful that we made heads and tails out of the occasionally illegible text! ~ Anonymous,
686:Actions punishable by jail sentences are not the only crimes. If we knew the antonym of crime, I think we would know its true nature. God . . . salvation . . . love . . . light. But for God there is the antonym Satan, for salvation there is perdition, for love there is hate, for light there is darkness, for good, evil. Crime and prayer? Crime and repentance? Crime and confession? Crime and ... no, they’re all synonymous. What is the opposite of crime? ~ Osamu Dazai,
687:Vanity, or to call it by a gentler name, the desire of admiration and applause, is, perhaps, the most universal principle of humanactions.... Where that desire is wanting, we are apt to be indifferent, listless, indolent, and inert.... I will own to you, under the secrecy of confession, that my vanity has very often made me take great pains to make many a woman in love with me, if I could, for whose person I would not have given a pinch of snuff. ~ Lord Chesterfield,
688:A hundred years earlier, in Hopt v. Utah, the Supreme Court ruled that a confession is not admissible if it is obtained by operating on the hopes or fears of the accused, and in doing so deprives him of the freedom of will or self-control necessary to make a voluntary statement. In 1897, the Court, in Bram v. United States, said that a statement must be free and voluntary, not extracted by any sorts of threats or violence or promises, however slight. A ~ John Grisham,
689:Just praise is only a debt, but flattery is a present. The acknowledgment of those virtues on which conscience congratulates us is a tribute that we can at any tine exact with confidence; but the celebration of those which we only feign, or desire without any vigorous endeavours to attain them, is received as a confession of sovereignty over regions never conquered, as a favourable decision of disputable claims, and is more welcome as more gratuitous. ~ Samuel Johnson,
690:Yet today, from countless paintings, statues, and buildings, from literature and history, from personality and institution, from profanity, popular song, and entertainment media, from confession and controversy, from legend and ritual—Jesus stands quietly at the center of the contemporary world, as he himself predicted. He so graced the ugly instrument on which he died that the cross has become the most widely exhibited and recognized symbol on earth. ~ Dallas Willard,
691:I tried to call your cell phone when we got in to see if you made it."
Ash immediately tensed as he put his comic down and pulled out another issue. "I turned it off on the day I got here."
"Really?" Dante asked, stunned by Ash's confession. It wasn't like him to be out of touch with his Dark-Hunter charges. "What if one of the Dark-Hunters needed you?"
Ash shrugged. "If they can't survive alone for four days once a year, they deserve to die. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
692:A confession, if a faithful echo of what God already says, can guide us and shelter us from the disabilities of an age or locale. Confessions that parrot and lightly amplify the soundings of Scripture endure, while also equipping God’s family with strength and perspective to avoid the ditches of every fad or heresy. Confessions that stand on the shoulders of previous saintly exegetes are the advanced courses that settle certain matters and yield a head start. ~ Anonymous,
693:Yelena, you've driven me crazy. You've caused me considerable trouble and I've contemplated ending your life twice since I've known you." Valek's warm breath in my ear sent a shiver down my spine.

"But you’ve slipped under my skin, invaded my blood and seized my heart.”

“That sounds more like a poison than a person,” was all I could say. His confession had both shocked and thrilled me.

“Exactly,” Valek replied. “You have poisoned me. ~ Maria V Snyder,
694:He occasionally tried to fathom a comrade with seductive sentences. He looked about to find men in the proper mood. All attempts failed to bring forth any statement which looked in any way like a confession to those doubts which he privately acknowledged in himself. He was afraid to make an open declaration of his concern, because he dreaded to place some unscrupulous confidant upon the high plane of the unconfessed from which elevation he could be derided. ~ Stephen Crane,
695:Sourds et aveugles à la vérité comme au mensonge, nous ne croyons plus en rien qu’à la seule force de la confession qui nous rend frère de notre solitude et nous amène pour ainsi dire à notre ultime prise de conscience, laquelle transforme son nom terrible en cet agneau qui court devant nous, et nous venons juste de comprendre que nous le suivons depuis très longtemps, et que cette fois-ci, si nous ne relachons pas nos efforts, nous le rattraperons peut-être ~ Imre Kert sz,
696:Father, I am empty, but you are full. I am hungry, but you are the Bread of Heaven. I am thirsty, but you are the Fountain of Life. I am weak, but you are strong. I am poor, but you are rich. I am foolish, but you are wise. I am broken, but you are whole. I am dying, but your steadfast love is better than life” (see Psalm63:3). When God sees this confession of need and this expression of trust, he acts, because the glory of his all-sufficient grace is at stake. ~ John Piper,
697:I have never been very good at dealing with the police. I always come off as a smart-ass, and whenever I claim to be innocent, not only am I generally not believed, but it tends to make my questioner lose his patience. I also have a special gift for creating misunderstandings in the dialogue. This tends to stoke the already simmering anger of the police, whose sole aim is to pry loose a nice solid confession and go home, happy to have earned their salary. ~ Massimo Carlotto,
698:Blackburn v. Alabama, the Court said, ‘Coercion can be mental as well as physical.’ In reviewing whether a confession was psychologically coerced by the police, the following factors are crucial: (1) the length of the interrogation, (2) whether it was prolonged in nature, (3) when it took place, day or night, with a strong suspicion around nighttime confessions, and (4) the psychological makeup—intelligence, sophistication, education, and so on—of the suspect. ~ John Grisham,
699:Dangerous it were for the feeble brain of man to wade far into the doings of the Most High; whom although to know be life, and joy to make mention of his name, yet our soundest knowledge is to know that we know him not as indeed he is, neither can know him; and our safest eloquence concerning him is our silence, when we confess without confession that his glory is inexplicable, his greatness above our capacity and reach. ~ Hooker, Ecclesiastical Polity, Book I, Chapter II. 3,
700:Every morning she went to the eight o'clock service at the basilica of Santa María del Mar, and she confessed no less than three times a week, four in warm weather. Don Gustavo, who was a confirmed agnostic (which Bernarda suspected might be a respiratory condition, like asthma, but afflicting only refined gentlemen), deemed it mathematically impossible that the maid should be able to sin sufficiently to keep up that schedule of confession and contrition. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
701:Remain in My presence whenever and for as long as you can. Being with Me is the great means to healing and to holiness. It is enough to remain with Me if you be like Me. Come to Me, full of expectant hope, and I will do all the rest. To adore Me is to seek My Face and to approach My Heart, full of wonder and of holy fear, and above all, full of love. Adoration is the wordless confession of My divinity. Adoration proclaims that I am all and that all else is nought.2 ~ Anonymous,
702:Since it is likely that, being men, they would sin every day, St. Paul consoles his hearers by saying ‘renew yourselves’ from day to day. This is what we do with houses: we keep constantly repairing them as they wear old. You should do the same thing to yourself. Have you sinned today? Have you made your soul old? Do not despair, do not despond, but renew your soul by repentance, and tears, and Confession, and by doing good things. And never cease doing this. ~ John Chrysostom,
703:The confession of John the apostle that God is love is the fundamental meaning of the holy and adorable Trinity. Put bluntly, God is sheer Being-in-Love and there was never a time when God was not love. The foundation of the furious longing of God is the Father who is the originating Lover, the Son who is the full self-expression of that Love, and the Spirit who is the original and inexhaustible activity of that Love, drawing the created universe into itself. ~ Brennan Manning,
704:We shall understand the mode of purification by confession, and that of contemplation by analysis, advancing by analysis to the first notion, beginning with the properties underlying it; abstracting from the body its physical properties, taking away the dimension of depth, then that of breadth, and then that of length. For the point which remains is a unit, so to speak, having position; from which if we abstract position, there is the conception of unity. ~ Clement of Alexandria,
705:The characters in my novels are my own unrealized possibilities. That is why I am equally fond of them all and equally horrified by them. Each one has crossed a border that I myself have circumvented. It is that crossed border (the border beyond which my own "I" ends) which attracts me most. For beyond that border begins the secret the novel asks about. This novel is not the author's confession; it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become. ~ Milan Kundera,
706:There it was: a full confession. Sherlock Holmes had done it again, and as I marveled at my devastating powers of deduction, I wished there had been two of me so I could have patted myself on the back. I know it sounds arrogant, but how often does one achieve a mental triumph of that magnitude? After listening to her speak just two words, I had nailed the whole bloody thing. If Watson had been there, he would have been shaking his head and muttering under his breath. ~ Paul Auster,
707:God, I thank thee, I am not as the rest of men, or even as this publican." It is in that which is just cause for thanksgiving, it is in the very thanksgiving which we render to God, it may be in the very confession that God has done it all, that self finds its cause of complacency. Yes, even when in the temple the language of penitence and trust in God's mercy alone is heard, the Pharisee may take up the note of praise, and in thanking God be congratulating himself. ~ Andrew Murray,
708:Since it is likely that, being men, they would sin every day, St. Paul consoles his hearers by saying 'renew yourselves' from day to day. This is what we do with houses: we keep constantly repairing them as they wear old. You should do the same thing to yourself. Have you sinned today? Have you made your soul old? Do not despair, do not despond, but renew your soul by repentance, and tears, and Confession, and by doing good things. And never cease doing this. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,
709:Since it is likely that, being men, they would sin every day, St. Paul consoles his hearers by saying ‘renew yourselves’ from day to day. This is what we do with houses: we keep constantly repairing them as they wear old. You should do the same thing to yourself. Have you sinned today? Have you made your soul old? Do not despair, do not despond, but renew your soul by repentance, and tears, and Confession, and by doing good things. And never cease doing this. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,
710:But when I am alone, I do not have the effrontery to consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters. I am only a public clown-a mountebank. I have understood my time and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries. It is a bitter confession, this confession of mine, more painful than it may seem. But at least and at last it does have the merit of being honest. ~ Pablo Picasso,
711:Father George Paulsen said to me, “Most of us have been in the same boat. Most of us find that the sins of our days are the sins of our lives. And the worst thing we can do is let our shame or our pride keep us from asking forgiveness every time we must.” And then he said, “The fact that Jesus will always forgive you finally becomes the prod. One day, you realize that you are tired of this confession, tired of this sin; on that day, you’ll decide you truly want it gone. ~ Gregory Wolfe,
712:In 1960, in Blackburn v. Alabama, the Court said, “Coercion can be mental as well as physical.” In reviewing whether a confession was psychologically coerced by the police, the following factors are crucial: (1) the length of the interrogation, (2) whether it was prolonged in nature, (3) when it took place, day or night, with a strong suspicion around nighttime confessions, and (4) the psychological makeup—intelligence, sophistication, education, and so on—of the suspect. ~ John Grisham,
713:It’s confession time: I don’t like test names. Technically they’re method names, but they’re never called explicitly. That alone should make you somewhat suspicious. I consider method names found within tests to be glorified comments that come with all the standard warnings: they often grow out of date, and are often a Code Smell emanating from bad code. Unfortunately, most testing frameworks make test names mandatory, and you should spend the time to create helpful test names. ~ Anonymous,
714:We stand for organized terror - this should be frankly admitted. Terror is an absolute necessity during times of revolution. Our aim is to fight against the enemies of the Soviet Government and of the new order of life. We judge quickly. In most cases only a day passes between the apprehension of the criminal and his sentence. When confronted with evidence criminals in almost every case confess; and what argument can have greater weight than a criminal's own confession. ~ Felix Dzerzhinsky,
715:Very cold, Lucas thought. “I guess,” he said. He turned to walk away, and at the edge of the room, turned back to say, “I know goddamn well that you were involved.” She said not a word, but smiled at him, one long arm along the top of the couch, a new gold chain glowing from her neck. If a jury had seen the smile, they would have convicted her: it was both a deliberate confession and a smile of triumph. But there was no jury in the room. Lucas shook his head and walked away. ~ John Sandford,
716:Jackson plotted a four-step, fool-proof process.

Step One: Confess the mercy killing first.

Step Two: Wait for Ryn to acclimate to Jackson’s ability to take another’s life.

Step Three: Make her fall so deep in love with him that not even the assassin confession could drive her away.

Step Four: Be prepared to gently hold her in captivity until she snaps out of her inevitable conniption fit because realistically there is no way Step Three would ever fly. ~ Jewel E Ann,
717:Anyone who has fallen into fornication, adultery or any other such bodily impurity, should desist from this revolting filth and cleanse himself through confession, tears, fasting and the like. For God judges unrepentant fornicators and adulterers. He condemns them, dismisses them and consigns them to hell, unquenchable fire and other never-ending punishments, saying, 'Let the impure and accursed be taken away, lest they see and enjoy the glory of the Lord' (cf. Isa. 26:10 LXX). ~ Gregory Palamas,
718:Christ became our Brother in order to help us. Through him our brother has become Christ for us in the power and authority of the commission Christ has given him. Our brother stands before us the sign of the truth and the grace of God. He has been given to us to help us. He hears the confession of our sins in Christ's stead and he forgives our sins in Christ's name. He keeps the secret of our confession as God keeps it. When I go to my brother to confess, I am going to God. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
719:A hug is a display of love that begins on the physical end of the spectrum but bleeds into the emotional end of the spectrum if you let it, if you give into it. It’s the most innocent, pure form of physical human connection there is. It only takes two willing people, who don’t even have to know each other, to participate. Two willing people who want that exchange. It’s so easy, but there are people who never get them. People who never get them,” she repeats softly, it’s a confession. ~ Kim Holden,
720:Concert pianists get to be quite chummy with dead composers. They can't help it. Classical music isn't just music. It's a personal diary. An uncensored confession in the dead of night. A baring of the soul. Take a modern example. Florence and the Machine? In the song 'Cosmic Love,' she catalogs the way in which the world has gone dark, distorting her, when she, a rather intense young woman, was left bereft by a love affair. 'The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out. ~ Marisha Pessl,
721:For what harm can come to you even if the world is most hostile to you, persecutes and torments you? You still know that you have Christ the Lord as your Friend, and not only Him but also the Father, who assures you and testifies through the mouth of His Son that He loves and cherishes you because of your faith in Christ, and your confession of Him. Now, since you have this Lord on your side, together with all the angels and saints, why should you worry about or fear the world's ire? ~ Martin Luther,
722:Elmer Karr
What but the love of God could have softened
And made forgiving the people of Spoon River
Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt
And murdered him beside?
Oh, loving hearts that took me in again
When I returned from fourteen years in prison!
Oh, helping hands that in the church received me,
And heard with tears my penitent confession,
Who took the sacrament of bread and wine!
Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.
~ Edgar Lee Masters,
723:To say that somebody ‘is not responsible for his actions’ is to demean him or her as a human being. It is part of the glory of being human that we are held responsible for our actions. Then, when we also acknowledge our sin and guilt, we receive God’s forgiveness, enter into the joy of his salvation, and so become yet more completely human and healthy. What is unhealthy is every wallowing in guilt which does not lead to confession, repentance, faith in Jesus Christ and so forgiveness. ~ John R W Stott,
724:We need repentance. You see, repentance is not only going to a priest and confessing. We must free ourselves from the obsession of thoughts. We fall many times during our life, and it is absolutely necessary to reveal everything [in Confession] to a priest who is a witness to our repentance.

Repentance is the renewal of life. This means we must free ourselves from all our negative traits and turn toward absolute good. No sin is unforgivable except the sin of unrepentance. ~ Thaddeus of Vitovnica,
725:To take up another issue, I don’t understand how Mohler can claim to be a confessional evangelical and yet criticize Fuller Seminary for a doctrinal statement on Scripture that looks remarkably like what the Westminster Confession of Faith (WCF) and London Baptist Confession (LBC) say about Scripture. If Fuller was so reprehensible for changing “free from all error” to “trustworthy record,” then what are we to say about the WCF and LBC, which do not ever say that Scripture is “without error”? ~ Anonymous,
726:Arturo Bandini was pretty sure that he wouldn't go to hell when he died. The way to hell was the committing of mortal sin. He had committed many, he believed, but the confessional had saved him. He always got to confession on time — that is, before he died. And he knocked on wood whenever he thought of it — he always would get there on time — before he died. So Arturo was pretty sure he wouldn't go to hell when he died. For two reasons. The confessional, and the fact that he was a fast runner. ~ John Fante,
727:Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. ~ Anonymous,
728:I am as much a villain in my nature as a common thief on the high road,” he said. “Did you not know it?” His words framed a confession but he spoke it shamelessly. He did not sound sorry at all. “Here is what makes me a criminal, Nora. Righteous men conceive of an end and pray for righteous means to obtain it. But criminals do not look to prayer for their hopes. They place no faith in chance. When they see an end, they risk everything to obtain it—no matter whether it is theirs to risk or no ~ Meredith Duran,
729:Although I had grown significantly, my spiritual growth was as imperceptible on a daily basis as is the physical growth of a child. I was aware, however, that my reception into the Catholic Church was absolutely necessary to my continued progress. My first confession had cleansed me of my sins, enabling me to move forward with a clean slate, and my regular reception of the Blessed Sacrament supplied the very bread of my life, nourishing me with grace and enabling me to grow healthier. Although ~ Joseph Pearce,
730:Yet before I answer, I should like my readers again to be warned that this cavil is not hurled against me but against the Holy Spirit, who surely put this confession in the mouth of the holy man Job, “As it pleased God, so was it done” [Job 1:21, cf. Vg.]. When he had been robbed by thieves, in their unjust acts and evil-doing toward him he recognized God’s just scourge. What does Scripture say elsewhere? Eli’s sons did not obey their father because God willed to slay them [I Sam. 2:25]. Another ~ John Calvin,
731:During congregational silences, in meditation rooms or halls, in prison cells and meeting rooms, in silent confession at church, all these screwed-up people like us, with tangled lives and minds, find their hearts opening through quiet focus. In unfolding, we are enfolded, and there is a melding of spirits, a melding of times, eternal, yesterday morning, the now, the ancient, even as we meet beneath a digital clock on the wall, flipping its numbers, keeping ordinary time in all that timelessness. ~ Anne Lamott,
732:The impulse to confession almost always requires the presence of a fresh ear and a fresh heart; and in our moments of spiritual need, the man to whom we have no tie but our common nature, seems nearer to us than mother, brother, or friend. Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of ourselves from each other behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, and those who sit with us at the same hearth, are often the farthest off from the deep human soul within us, full of unspoken evil and unacted good. ~ George Eliot,
733:wore the same well-tailored clothes, and married women of their own tribe. But all that time, Philby had one secret he never shared: he was covertly working for Moscow, taking everything he was told by Elliott and passing it on to his Soviet spymasters. Elliott has come to Beirut to extract a confession. He has wired up the apartment and set watchers on the doors and street. He wants to know how many have died through Philby’s betrayal of their friendship. He wants to know when he became a fool. ~ Ben Macintyre,
734:The worst was relizing that I’d lost him for nothing because he’d been rght about all of it-- vampires, my parents, everything.
He’d told me my parents lied. I yelled at him for it. He forgave me. He told me vampires were killers. I told him they weren’t, even after one stalked Raquel. He told me Charity was dangerous. I didn’t listen, and she killed Courtney. He told me vampires were treacherous, and did I get the message? Not until my illusions had been destroyed by my parents’ confession.
~ Claudia Gray,
735:L'Empire romain (c'est-à-dire tous les pays méditerranéens et, du côté de l'Europe, quelques pays en marge de l'olivier et de la vigne) a été l'espace dévolu, au début, à la jeune religion triomphante, l' "aire chrétienne", a dit Paul Valéry en voulant, par ce jeu de mots, marquer les liens du christianisme avec la terre, le pain, le vin, le blé et la vigne, et même l'huile sainte; avec les bases géographiques méditerranéennes que la confession chrétienne devait, par la suite, largement dépasser. ~ Fernand Braudel,
736:Self-surrender is essential and by that is meant the confession of personal impotence. “I can of mine own self do nothing.” Since creation is finished it is impossible to force anything into being. The example of magnetism previously given is a good illustration. You cannot make magnetism, it can only be displayed. You cannot make the law of magnetism. If you want to build a magnet, you can do so only by conforming to the law of magnetism. In other words, you surrender yourself or yield to the law. ~ Neville Goddard,
737:That we can come here today and in the presence of thousands and tens of thousands of the survivors of the gallant army of Northern Virginia and their descendants, establish such an enduring monument by their hospitable welcome and acclaim, is conclusive proof of the uniting of the sections, and a universal confession that all that was done was well done, that the battle had to be fought, that the sections had to be tried, but that in the end, the result has inured to the common benefit of all. ~ William Howard Taft,
738:Assigning degrees of blame to betrayal is a difficult project, much like deciding which of two murderers has the more wicked heart. With murder, there are tangible distinctions. First degree is intentional; second degree, irresponsible; third degree, accidental. But with crimes of the heart, the distinctions are more subtle. Who is it to say when a secret turns into a sin? With a daydream, a kiss, a confession? Who is to say which transgression is worse: sexual or emotional, coveting or caressing? ~ Galt Niederhoffer,
739:I should think that many of our poets, the honest ones, will confess to having no manifesto. It is a painful confession but the art of poetry carries its own powers without having to break them down into critical listings. I do not mean that poetry should be raffish and irresponsible clown tossing off words into the void. But the very feeling of a good poem carries its own reason for being... Art is its own excuse, and it’s either Art or it’s something else. It’s either a poem or a piece of cheese. ~ Charles Bukowski,
740:Do you think my husband and his soldiers will be overly upset with me?" The priest broke into a wide grin. "I'll stand by your side when we find out," he said. "I would be honored to escort you to your husband." The priest took hold of Johanna's arm. She didn't notice. "I expect them to be a little upset at first," she explained. "But only just a little." "Yes," he agreed. "Tell me, lass. When was your last confession?" "Why do you ask?" "It's preferred to receive absolution before you meet your Maker. ~ Julie Garwood,
741:early on in the Synoptics, only the demons grasp Jesus' full identity. Surprisingly to us, Jesus always rebukes these proclamations, but, in fact, this is spiritual warfare at work. One of the keys to gaining supernatural power over an opponent is to invoke his name (cf. Jesus' own strategy in Mark 5:9). “The recognition-formula is not a confession, but a defensive attempt to gain control of Jesus … [in hopes that] the use of the precise name of an individual or spirit would secure mastery over him. ~ Craig L Blomberg,
742:The crude commercialism of America, its materialising spirit, its indifference to the poetical side of things, and its lack of imagination and of high unattainable ideals, are entirely due to that country having adopted for its national hero a man who, according to his own confession, was incapable of telling a lie, and it is not too much to say that the story of George Washington and the cherry-tree has done more harm, and in a shorter space of time, than any other moral tale in the whole of literature. ~ Oscar Wilde,
743:The land has a memory.
Every stream and river runs with a confession of sorts, history whispered over rocks, lifted in the beaks of birds at a stream, carried out to the sea. Buffalo thunder across plains whose soil was watered with the blood of battles long since relegated to musty books on forgotten shelves. Fields once strewn with blue and gray now flower with uneasy buds. The slave master snaps the lash, and generations later, the ancestral scars remain.
Under it all, the dead lie, remembering. ~ Libba Bray,
744:The tea-master, Kobori-Enshiu, himself a daimyo, has left to us these memorable words: "Approach a great painting as thou wouldst approach a great prince." In order to understand a masterpiece, you must lay yourself low before it and await with bated breath its least utterance. An eminent Sung critic once made a charming confession. Said he: "In my young days I praised the master whose pictures I liked, but as my judgement matured I praised myself for liking what the masters had chosen to have me like. ~ Kakuz Okakura,
745:Your head is pounding with voices of confession and revelation. You followed the rails of white powder across the mirror in pursuit of a point of convergence where everything was cross-referenced according to a master code. For a second, you felt terrific. You were coming to grips. Then the coke ran out; as you hoovered the last line, you saw yourself hideously close-up with a rolled twenty sticking out of your nose. The goal is receding. Whatever it was. You can't get everything straight in one night. ~ Jay McInerney,
746:Is it not a rather fantastic historical irony that the torture techniques that the North Vietnamese used against McCain that forced him to offer a videotaped false confession are now the techniques the Bush administration is using to gain "intelligence" about terror networks. How is it possible to know that everything John McCain once said on videotape for the enemy was false, because it was coerced, and yet assert that everything we torture out of terror suspects using exactly the same techniques is true? ~ Andrew Sullivan,
747:You staked him. You actually staked him."

"It was handy. Let's get those medics in here. I don't want this guy skipping out on multiple murder charges by dying on me. I want to know the minute he's able to talk. I think we're going to get an interesting confession."

"It's supposed to be the heart." she heard Peabody mutter. "It's really supposed to be the heart."

Eve blew out a long breath. "Keep it up, Peabody, and I may have Mira shrink your head after she's done with the second-rate Dracula ~ J D Robb,
748:Both mistakes are spiritually deadly. To lose our grip on the costliness of forgiveness will result in a superficial, perfunctory confession that does not lead to any real change of heart. There will be no life-change. To lose our grip on the freeness of forgiveness, however, will lead to continued guilt, shame, and self-loathing. There will be no relief. Only when we see both the freeness and the cost of forgiveness will we get relief from the guilt as well as liberation from the power of sin in our lives. ~ Timothy J Keller,
749:I want to marry ye.” His confession took her breath away. She took a step back, unsure of herself and the worth he thrust onto her. “Why?” Daniel shrugged. “Ye are fair bonny, lass. Ye’re brave and I like my women strong in mind as well as body.” She was flattered that he’d noticed those things about her and that he liked them. Most were turned off by how not simperish she was. Myra was no Rose. She was not likely to do what her husband told her, and she was likely to get into trouble with the gust of the wind. ~ Eliza Knight,
750:Prayer is either a sheer illusion or a personal contact between embryonic, incomplete persons (ourselves) and the utterly concrete Person. Prayer in the sense of petition, asking for things, is a small part of it; confession and penitence are its threshold, adoration its sanctuary, the presence and vision and enjoyment of God its bread and wine. In it God shows Himself to us. That He answers prayers is a corollary—not necessarily the most important one—from that revelation. What He does is learned from what He is. ~ C S Lewis,
751:Acknowledging the interpreted status of the gospel should translate into a certain humility in our public theology. It should not, however, translate into skepticism about the truth of the Christian confession. If the interpretive status of the gospel rattles our confidence in its truth, this indicates that we remain haunted by the modern desire for objective certainty. But our confidence rests not on objectivity but rather on the convictional power of the Holy Spirit (which isn't exactly objective). [pg. 51] ~ James K A Smith,
752:Is it not possible that the rage for confession, autobiography, especially for memories of earliest childhood, is explained by our persistent yet mysterious belief in a self which is continuous and permanent; which, untouched by all we acquire and all we shed, pushes a green spear through the dead leaves and through the mould, thrusts a scaled bud through the year of darkness until, one day, the light discovers it and shakes the flower free and - we are alive - we are flowering for our moment upon the earth? ~ Katherine Mansfield,
753:The call to find the way again by seeking out God in the confession of sins is always at the eleventh hour. Whether you are young or old, whether you have sinned much or little, whether you have offended much or neglected much, the guilt makes this call come at the eleventh hour. The inner agitation of the heart understands what remorse insists upon, that the eleventh hour has come. For in the sense of time, the old man’s age is the eleventh hour; and the instant of death, the final moment in the eleventh hour. ~ S ren Kierkegaard,
754:I have a confession," he said softly.

"Oh no," I sighed. "It's not about the gloves is it?"

"No," he grinned, and gave me a quick peck on the lips. "I've seriously been crushing on you for about three years."

"Really?" I was genuinely surprised. His asking me out a few times never equated to a crush to me. I knew he probably liked me a little, but I didn't think he had a crush on me.

"Okay, maybe more than crushing. I'm pretty sure I've had some pretty strong feelings for you for a long time. ~ L D Davis,
755:Prayer is an act of worship. Prayer is act of submission. Prayer is act of obedience. But prayer is also an act of admission. Every instance of prayer is a confession in which I own my condition and embrace my need.....To reduce prayer to a grocery list of things you ant and think you need not only demeans prayer, but it also demeans the sacrifice of love that the One to whom you are praying made so that you and your prayers would be received. The heart of true prayer is vertical confession, not horizontal desire. ~ Paul David Tripp,
756:Introduction To Poetry I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author's name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means. ~ Billy Collins,
757:There can be no emblem or parable in a village idiot's hallucinations or in last night's dream of any of us in this hall. In those random visions nothing – underline nothing (grating sound of horizontal stroke can be construed as allowing itself to be deciphered y a witch doctor that can then cure a madman or give confort to a killer by laying the blame on a too fond, too fiendish or too indifferent parent – secret festerings that the foster quack feigns to heal by expensive confession feasts (laughter and applause). ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
758:I admit the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.

I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.

Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?

~ William Butler Yeats, A First Confession
,
759:Confession: Imagine if love, not law, was the standard by which we learned to examine ourselves and confess our sins against God, neighbor, and the earth we share. Imagine if each week we were guided into the kind of self-examination that helped us name and turn from our unloving acts in recent days. And imagine if, along with confessing our sins, we confessed or named our hurts, the places where others have wounded us, so that we could process our pain and then respond in a way that doesn’t give in to resentment or revenge. ~ Brian D McLaren,
760:First the mania for confession,
then the mania for clarity,
issued from you, dark, hypocritical
sentiment! Let them now
condemn my every passion, let them
drag me through the mud, call me twisted,
foul pervert, dilettante, perjurer;
you keep me apart, give me life’s assurance:
I burn at the stake, play the card of fire
and win: I win this small,
vast possession, my infinite,
miserable pity
which makes even righteous anger my friend.
And I can do this because I’ve endured you too long! ~ Pier Paolo Pasolini,
761:For me, one of the reasons I love this form - the personal essay form - is because it's a way of forming an intimacy with the reader. What I'm saying to the reader is: I'm going to tell you something; I'm going to be generous; I'm going to offer. The confession, on the other hand, is sort of an imposition because you're asking the reader to forgive you or somehow exonerate you or say, "Hey, I'm even worse." But what I'm interested in doing is being generous and offering a perspective or suggesting a way of thinking about something. ~ Meghan Daum,
762:What matters to us is the revelation of the swindle, fraud, or defalcation. This makes known to the world that things have not been as they should have been, that it is time to stop and see how they truly are. The making known of malfeasance, whether by the arrest or surrender of the miscreant, or by one of those other forms of confession, flight or suicide, is important as a signal that the euphoria has been overdone. The stage of overtrading may well come to an end. The curtain rises on revulsion, and perhaps discredit. ~ Charles P Kindleberger,
763:Censorship is at its most effective when its victims pretend it does not exist. If intellectuals had stated that they were too scared to cover subjects of public concern, then at least they would have possessed the courage to admit that they were afraid. Western societies would then have been honest with themselves, and perhaps that honesty would have given birth to a new resolution. But the psychological costs of a frank confession were too high to contemplate. Honesty would have exposed contemporary culture as a culture of pretence. ~ Nick Cohen,
764:Full confession: I am not dispassionate and unbiased. I didn't come to genetic genealogy services to be underwhelmed or go back to a vague appreciation of my heritage. I'm here to use a developing technology to sort out what has survived history in order to tease out a fuller understanding of my origins and my family's story. I am unapologetic about my enthusiasm, but I'm also cautious because I feel the need to protect the integrity of the history.

All I ever really wanted was a recipe of who I am and where I come from. ~ Michael W Twitty,
765:David made no attempt to clothe his prayer (Psalm 51) with flowing rhetoric, for it is simply a series of brokenhearted sobs. He pleaded no extenuating circumstances and attempted no self-vindication. The magnitude of his sin is not toned down, but is freely acknowledged. Hear the broken sobs, expressed in vivid verbs: Have mercy! Cleanse! Blot out! Wash! Purge! Hide Your face from my sins! Create! Do not cast! Renew! Restore! Save! Open my lips!
Here is true confession, free from all sham and insincerity. Examine it in detail. ~ J Oswald Sanders,
766:Black Lives Matter is a textbook example of how not to build solidarity. There is no denying that by publicizing and protesting police mistreatment of African-Americans the movement mobilized supporters and delivered a wake-up call to every American with a conscience. But there is also no denying that the movement’s decision to use this mistreatment to build a general indictment of American society, and its law enforcement institutions, and to use Mau-Mau tactics to put down dissent and demand a confession of sins and public penitence (most ~ Mark Lilla,
767:But every step of my writing career was a brutal fight, like the stealing of that oatmeal from hungry children.” Even the waiters stopped removing plates and stood with the trays in their hands, listening openmouthed. One confession led to another. “When I banked the money the movies paid me for Hungry Hearts, the elation of suddenly possessing a fortune was overshadowed by the voice of conscience: What is the difference between a potbellied boss who exploits the labor of helpless workers and an author who grows rich writing of the poor? ~ Anzia Yezierska,
768:us farther light, and our principles have been improving, and our errors diminishing. Now we are not sure that we are arrived at the end of this progression, and at the perfection of spiritual or theological knowledge; and we fear that, if we should once print our confession of faith, we should feel ourselves as if bound and confin'd by it, and perhaps be unwilling to receive further improvement, and our successors still more so, as conceiving what we their elders and founders had done, to be something sacred, never to be departed from. ~ Benjamin Franklin,
769:I was not much afraid of punishment, I was only afraid of disgrace.But that I feared more than death, more than crime, more than anything in the world. I should have rejoiced if the earth had swallowed me up and stifled me in the abyss. But my invincible sense of shame prevailed over everything . It was my shame that made me impudent, and the more wickedly I behaved the bolder my fear of confession made me. I saw nothing but the horror of being found out, of being publicly proclaimed, to my face, as a thief, as a liar, and slanderer. ~ Jean Jacques Rousseau,
770:Radner rightly presses us to recognize that pursuing the common good with gospel integrity requires both a healthy state and an ecclesial anchor. For some of us, that will mean rethinking our tendency to vilify “the state” and its procedures. For others of us, it will mean revaluing the centrality of the church as our political center—a body politic whose worship includes the regular confession of her sins while at the same time laboring for kingdom come, concerned about our country while at the same time desiring a better one (Heb. 11:16). ~ James K A Smith,
771:when I see the same enormities practiced upon beings whose complexion and blood claim kindred with my own, I curse the perpetrators, and weep over the wretched victims of their rapacity. Indeed, truth and justice demand from me the confession that the Christian slaves among the barbarians of Africa are treated with more humanity than the African slaves among the professing Christians of civilized America; and yet here sensibility bleeds at every pore for the wretches whom fate has doomed to slavery." Such testimony would seem to furnish ~ Ida B Wells Barnett,
772:All of a sudden I understand why I like Aliki Barnstones poems so much. They remind me of the one she has studied most - shall we call her her master - Emily Dickinson. Not in the forms, not, as such, in the music, and not in the references; but in that weird intimacy, that eerie closeness, that absolute confession of soul.... In Barnstone, too, the two worlds are intensely present, and the voice moves back and forth between them. She has the rare art of distance and closeness. It gives her her fine music, her wisdom, her form. She is a fine poet. ~ Gerald Stern,
773:Deathbed confession or mere ordinance work do not change man’s nature. This is the reason Satan’s plan to force everyone to be good would have failed, for there could never be a returning to the presence of the Eternal Father without a testing in the face of opposites and temptation and without the continuous choosing of the highest good over lesser goods and over evil. Any other approach to salvation ignores this process of growth and turns it all into some kind of an arbitrary and awesome mystery that, to many, is the hallmark of spirituality. ~ Stephen R Covey,
774:I ended up being allowed to take that sabbatical, and it was a fantasy come true. In fact, I have a confession. This is exactly how geeky I am: Soon after I arrived in California, I hopped into my convertible and drove over to Imagineering headquarters. It was a hot summer night, and I had the soundtrack to Disney’s The Lion King blasting on my stereo. Tears actually began streaming down my face as I drove past the building. Here I was, the grown-up version of that wide-eyed eight-year-old at Disneyland. I had finally arrived. I was an Imagineer. III ~ Randy Pausch,
775:An enormous emotion beat on him; it was like something trying to get in, the pressure of gigantic wings against the glass. Dona nobis pacem. He withstood it, with all the bitter force of the school bench, the cement playground, the St. Pancras waiting room, Dallow's and Judy's secret lust, and the cold and unhappy moment on the pier. If the glass broke, if the beast--whatever it was--got in, God knows what it would do. He had a sense of huge havoc--the confession, the penance, and the sacrament--an awful distraction, and he drove blind into the rain. ~ Graham Greene,
776:I don't know. I've come to tell you what I did.' Yes, that was the reason of his visit. It was the closing of a book that would never be read again, and better close such a book than leave it lying about to get dirtied. The volume of their past must be restored to its shelf, and here, here was the place, amid darkness and perishing flowers. He owed it to Alec also. He could suffer no mixing of the old with the new. All compromise was perilous, because furtive, and, having finished his confession, he must disappear from the world that had brought him up. ~ E M Forster,
777:And if we fail at marriage, we are lucky we don’t have to fail with the force of our whole life. I would like there to be an eighth sacrament: the sacrament of divorce. Like Communion, it is a slim white wafer on the tongue. Like confession, it is forgiveness. Forgiveness is important not so much because we’ve done wrong as because we feel we need to be forgiven. Family, friends, God, whoever loves us forgives us, takes us in again. They are thrilled by our life, our possibilities, our second chances. They weep with gladness that we did not have to die. ( ~ Ann Patchett,
778:I think it’s only fair to tell you that I might also be possessive.” She looked down at the soft black comforter and rubbed it between her fingers. Dreading the main part of the confession, she figured it best just to get it over with. She blew out a breath. He waited, watching her with narrowed eyes. “Okay, I’m afraid if we do this and you ever get bored… and you tried to seek other lovers, I would most likely… level something. Probably you.” She hated how insecure that made her sound, but she had agreed to be honest. To her surprise, he barked out a laugh, ~ Setta Jay,
779:It's a beautiful religion and I wish I understood it more. No, I don't want to understand it all. It's beautiful because it's always a mystery. Sometimes I say I don't believe in God and Jesus and Mary. I'm a bad Catholic because I miss mass once in a while and I grumble when, at confession, I get a heavy penance for something I couldn't help doing. But good or bad, I am a Catholic and I'll never be anything else.
Of course, I didn't ask to be born Catholic, no more than I asked to be born American. But I'm glad it turned out that I'm both these things. ~ Betty Smith,
780:My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect---simply a confession of failures. Faithfulness! I must analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up. But I don't want to interrupt you. Go on with your story. ~ Oscar Wilde,
781:[O]nly if the form of Christ can be lived out in the community of the church is the confession of the church true; only if Christ can be practiced is Jesus Lord. No matter how often the subsequent history of the church belied this confession, it is this presence within time of an eschatological and dvine peace, really incarnate in the person of Jesus and forever imparted to the body of Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit, that remains the very essence of the church's evangelical appeal to the world at large, and of the salvation it proclaims. (1-2) ~ David Bentley Hart,
782:I wanted to pack a lot into the lyric, but not go beyond its bounds. Some have written that I wanted to expand what the lyric could do. I just want the hugeness of experience-which includes philosophical discursiveness-to move at a rate of speed that kept it (because all within one unity of experience) emotional. Also, often, questions became the way the poems propelled themselves forward It brings the reader in as a listener to a confession[.] A poem is a private story, after all, no matter how apparently public. The reader is always overhearing a confession. ~ Jorie Graham,
783:What did the torturers of the Inquisition want? The admission of evil, of the principle of evil. It was necessary to make the accused say that he was not guilty except by accident, through the incidence of the principle of Evil in the divine order. Thus confession restored a reassuring causality, and torture, and the extermination of evil through torture, were nothing but the triumphal coronation (neither sadistic nor expiatory) of the fact of having produced Evil as cause. Otherwise, the least heresy would have rendered all of divine creation suspect. ~ Jean Baudrillard,
784:Before the lightning strike, as Tony had listened to Marisita’s confession, he had been looking down from this very great height onto Bicho Raro and he had been thinking about the enormity of what they were doing tonight and how this entire family had come together to do it. He was thinking about Joaquin’s incredible promise. And finally he was thinking that it wasn’t all bad being a radio giant, as long as you looked for the things you could do as a giant that you couldn’t do as anything else, like hold up someone else’s voice so it was just a little louder. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
785:Mark refers to Jesus by various titles — teacher, rabbi, Son of David, Christ, Lord, Son of Man, and Son of God. Of these, the final title is unquestionably the most important. Son of God defines both the beginning and end of the Gospel: it occurs in the opening pronouncement of the Gospel, “The beginning of the gospel about Jesus Christ, the Son of God” (1:1), as well as in the concluding and climactic confession of the centurion at the cross, “‘Surely this man was the Son of God!’” (15:39). The divine Sonship of Jesus is the theological keystone to the Gospel of Mark. ~ Anonymous,
786:Maybe tell me about those letters. Confession is good for the soul."
I expected her to tear into me yet again, but instead she stayed silent for several seconds, running her fingers over the trim of her blanket. "I do belive my soul is past the point of helping."
"That's not true. It's never too late."
She looked at the town as we walked by, her eyes heavy with fatigue. And an ache so deep, it didn't have a name. I'd seen that look in my own mirror.
"I gave up that right many years ago," she said. "My fate is like those envelopes-sealed and tossed aside. ~ Jenny B Jones,
787:We are so unrepentant that we would rather perish than confess truthfully that we are sinners and justify God by means of confession. David justified the prophet Nathan's words: 'You are an adulterer, a murderer, and a blasphemer.' When David heard this, he was chastened and replied: 'The words are true.' He confessed his sins immediately and received forgiveness. Nathan did not write David a letter of indulgence, nor did he say to him: 'Make a pilgrimage to St. James, or have Masses read; or lie down in a hairy garment!' No, he said: 'The Lord has removed your sin. ~ Martin Luther,
788:White guilt is more of a sanctioned social convention than a genuine emotional experience. It’s a form of theatrical empathy that’s socially and financially rewarded. When you learn to say and perhaps even believe the right things about race, doors are opened for you. When you say the wrong thing, those doors slam shut. Then, the gossips and church ladies will shame you publicly, demand that you be fired from your job, and use every avenue available to them to coerce a confession, a public apology and a staged conversion that contributes to their progressive narrative. ~ Jack Donovan,
789:ever accept a wife who knows more than himself. Sophie sighed and thought of Patrick’s teasing confession that he was able to speak only poor French. Her mother was undoubtedly correct. Poor Eloise! She had spent years trying to talk Sophie out of her passion for languages. Eloise had probably fought Latin the hardest. “Latin is as unfeminine a decoration for the inside of a woman’s head as a beard is for the outside,” she had protested, her lips white with fury. But George had stood up to his wife, and consequently Sophie’s mornings had been filled with the conjugation ~ Eloisa James,
790:So, confession, DNA, bam.  Done.”  Brian nods at the beauty of it.  If only the asshole would just tell the truth, Nicole could be home free.

“Yeah, he’s toast.”

“What about entrapment or whatever?  Isn’t setting him up like this going to make it impossible to use this stuff in court?”

“You watch too much TV.  The only way it’s entrapment is if it’s a police officer in there.  Citizens can’t entrap other citizens.”  He grins.  “I love the law.”

“I can tell,” Brian says, trying not to roll his eyes, but glad the guy knows what he’s talking about. ~ Elle Casey,
791:At the sessions after I was indicted for an upholder and maintainer of unlawful assemblies and conventicles, and for not conforming to the national worship of the church of England; and after some conference there with the justices, they taking my plain dealing with them for a confession, as they termed it, of the indictment, did sentence me to a perpetual banishment, because I refused to conform.  So being again delivered up to the jailer’s hands, I was had home to prison, and there have lain now complete twelve years, waiting to see what God would suffer these men to do with me. ~ John Bunyan,
792:Jerome was a marvelous advocate of chastity: yet hear his confession: “O, how often have I thought myself to be in the midst of the vain delights and pleasures of Rome, even when I was in the wild wilderness.” Again, “I, who for fear of hell had condemned myself to such a prison, thought myself oftentimes to be dancing among young women, when I had no other company, but scorpions and wild beasts. My face was pale with fasting, but my mind was inflamed with desires in my cold body: and although my flesh was half-dead already, yet the flames of fleshly lust, boiled within me, etc. ~ Martin Luther,
793:There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape, but even after admitting this there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself; no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing. ~ Bret Easton Ellis,
794:Introduction To Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
~ Billy Collins,
795:The High Hall of the Arryns was aglow with the light of fifty torches, burning in the sconces along the walls. The Lady Lysa wore black silk, with the moon-and-falcon sewn on her breast in pearls. Since she did not look the sort to join the Night’s Watch, Tyrion could only imagine that she had decided mourning clothes were appropriate garb for a confession. Her long auburn hair, woven into an elaborate braid, fell across her left shoulder. The taller throne beside her was empty; no doubt the little Lord of the Eyrie was off shaking in his sleep. Tyrion was thankful for that much, at least. ~ Anonymous,
796:But in practice, every psychological confession has religious significance, and every religious confession, whether ritual and sacramental or free, its psychological effects. It is perhaps in this fact that we perceive most clearly the unity of the human being, and how impossible it is to dissociate the physical, psychological and religious aspects of his life. Every doctor, even without specializing in psychotherapy, in so far as he has understanding of what is human and likes contact with human beings, may suddenly find himself promoted to a confessor's priesthood without having sought it. ~ Paul Tournier,
797:she felt strangely healed, as if simply speaking her mistake were enough to purge some of the pain of it. For the first time, then, she caught a glimpse of what the power of speaking might be. It wasn’t a matter of confession, penance, and absolution, like the priests offered. It was something else entirely. Telling the story of who she was, and then realizing that she was no longer the same person. That she had made a mistake, and the mistake had changed her, and now she would not make the mistake again because she had become someone else, someone less afraid, someone more compassionate. ~ Orson Scott Card,
798:I once told you that I am not a saint, and I hope never to see the day that I cannot admit having made a mistake. So I will close with another confession. Frequently, along the tortuous road of recent months from this chamber to the Presidents House, I protested that I was my own man. Now I realize that I was wrong. I am your man, for it was your carefully weighed confirmation that changed my occupation. The truth is I am the peoples man, for you acted in their name, and I accepted and began my new and solemn trust with a promise to serve all the people and do the best that I can for America. ~ Gerald R Ford,
799:As records of courts and justice are admissible, it can easily be proved that powerful and malevolent magicians once existed and were a scourge to mankind. The evidence (including confession) upon which certain women were convicted of witchcraft and executed was without a flaw; it is still unimpeachable. The judges' decisions based on it were sound in logic and in law. Nothing in any existing court was ever more thoroughly proved than the charges of witchcraft and sorcery for which so many suffered death. If there were no witches, human testimony and human reason are alike destitute of value. ~ Ambrose Bierce,
800:That was the way with Casaubon's hard intellectual labours. Their most characteristic result was not the 'Key to all Mythologies', but a morbid consciousness that others did not give him the place which he had not demonstrably merited - a perpetual suspicious conjecture that the views entertained of him were not to his advantage - a melancholy absence of passion in his efforts at achievement, and a passionate resistance to the confession that he had achieved nothing.

Thus his intellectual ambition which seemed to others to have absorbed and dried him, was really no security against wounds ~ George Eliot,
801:We all of us make mistakes, lad. Our only hope for a genuine turning comes when we take a good hard look at our direction. We do that, we're bound to see ourselves as the real problem. So what to do? I, for one, only found a lasting solution in turning to God. Has this halted the blunders I make? Look around, lad. See for yourself. Our need for a Savior remains with us for always. Through Him we find the strength for honest reflection, confession, repentance, prayer, healing, and change." He offered Taylor his spread fingers. "Do feel free to point out whichever of these you've managed on your own. ~ Davis Bunn,
802:But as records of courts of justice are admissible, it can easily be proved that powerful and malevolent magicians once existed and were a scourge to mankind. The evidence (including confession) upon which certain women were convicted of witchcraft and executed was without a flaw; it is still unimpeachable. The judges' decisions based on it were sound in logic and in law. Nothing in any existing court was ever more thoroughly proved than the charges of witchcraft and sorcery for which so many suffered death. If there were no witches, human testimony and human reason are alike destitute of value. ~ Ambrose Bierce,
803:Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means. ~ Billy Collins,
804:The Bible, which defines the Christian faith, says that faith isn’t about heredity, but relationship. We know this because of words like these found in the book of Romans: “If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For with the heart one believes and is justified, and with the mouth one confesses and is saved” (Rom. 10:9–10 esv). It’s all about you and not your family or the fact that you were baptized as a baby. When you own your faith, it starts with your confession and not the confession of those who love you. ~ Hayley DiMarco,
805:Eternity"

It has been found again.
What? – Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

Sentinel soul,
Let us whisper the confession
Of the night full of nothingness
And the day on fire.

From humain approbation,
From common urges
You diverge here
And fly off as you may.

Since from you alone,
Satiny embers,
Duty breathes
Without anyone saying: at last.

Here is no hope,
No orietur.
Knowledge and fortitude,
Torture is certain.

It has been found again.
What? – Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,
806:Philosophy, as long as a drop of blood shall pulse in its world-subduing and absolutely free heart, will never grow tired of answering its adversaries with the cry of Epicurus:

"Not the man who denies the gods worshiped by the multitude, but he who affirms of the gods what the multitude believes about them, is truly impious"

Philosophy makes no secret of it. The confession of Prometheus:

"In simple words, I hate the pack of gods"

is its own confession, its own aphorism against all heavenly and earthly gods who do not acknowledge human self-consciousness as the highest divinity. ~ Karl Marx,
807:Calm yourself. Take one thing at a time. We have to save not just the children, but Martha as well. And it is a fact that there was a witches’ mark on each of the dead children. And that all of them had previously been at the midwife’s. It’s possible that the Elector’s secretary will arrive as early as tomorrow, and Lechner wants to have the confession by then. I can actually understand why: if the secretary begins meddling in the matter, then one witch just won’t do. That’s exactly how it was with the last great witch hunt here in Schongau. In the end they burned more than sixty women in these parts. ~ Oliver P tzsch,
808:Eternity
It has been found again.
What ? - Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.
Sentinel soul,
Let us whisper the confession
Of the night full of nothingness
And the day on fire.
From human approbation,
From common urges
You diverge here
And fly off as you may.
Since from you alone,
Satiny embers,
Duty breathes
Without anyone saying : at last.
Here is no hope,
No orietur.
Knowledge and fortitude,
Torture is certain.
It has been found again.
What ? - Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.
~ Arthur Rimbaud,
809:But the kingdom of God does not consist in the Law; it consists in the Word of the promise. Today it is commonly said: “He loves the Word. He loves the Word of the Gospel, or the ministry.” But in the papal decretals and canons you will not find even a syllable about the Word. They thunder only about the confession of sins, contrition, satisfaction, obedience to the pope, and the observance of monastic rules. But there is the deepest silence concerning the promises. Accordingly, the papal kingdom was a horrible devastation of the church, and even now promise is an unheard-of word to the pope and the cardinals. ~ Martin Luther,
810:Preaching is more than the regurgitation of your favorite exegetical commentary, or a rather transparent recast of the sermons of your favorite preachers, or a reshaping of notes from one of your favorite seminary classes. It is bringing the transforming truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ from a passage that has been properly understood, cogently and practically applied, and delivered with the engaging tenderness and passion of a person who has been broken and restored by the very truths he stands up to communicate. You simply cannot do this without proper preparation, meditation, confession, and worship. ~ Paul David Tripp,
811:I was still without any formal spiritual direction, but I went frequently to confession, especially at St. Francis’ Church, where the Friars were more inclined to give me advice than secular priests had been. And it was in one of the confessionals at St. Francis’ that a good priest one day told me, very insistently: “Go to Communion every day, every day.” By that time, I had already become a daily communicant, but his words comforted and strengthened me, and his emphasis made me glad. And indeed I had reason to be, for it was those daily Communions that were transforming my life almost visibly, from day to day. ~ Thomas Merton,
812:I think you’re a reward for my patience. I’ve never had anyone there for me, not like this. I feel a sort of peace I’ve never had before.” Tears trail down my cheeks. “You changed my luck, Dame. And for the first time in my life, I feel like if I ever need rescuing, I’ll have somebody there to help save me.”
Any brick or mortar I have left surrounding my heart disintegrates with his confession. He gives me all his trust, and I take it, and in return, I give him mine. Because he is worth it. “I will, Lucas. If you ever need saving, I’ll be there. I promise.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “I’m counting on it. ~ Kate Stewart,
813:But Jakob had the gift of confession, could talk about how he wanted to touch her and be with her, with all the daring and athletic skill he brought to riding a unicycle or walking on a tightrope. He was small and compact and muscular, and also intellectually muscular, mentally something of an acrobat. Sometimes she felt that those intellectual acrobatics were a bit tiring; at those times she felt less as if they were feeling everything together, more as if she were simply his audience, someone to applaud his latest leap through the burning hoop of existentialism and his backflip onto the trampoline of nonconformity. But ~ Joe Hill,
814:Western concepts of sin lead us to feel guilty when we do something bad, but we often do not have the language of shame when we are sinned against. When the shame of han overwhelms us, as it does the personified Jerusalem in Lamentations, the simple act of individual confession does not prove adequate. Han must be addressed on the level in which it operates. Andrew Park suggests “that with a vision of new relationships or the Hanless society, we confront the Han-causing elements and transform them.”15 The guilt of individual sin leads to individual confession, but the shame of han should lead to social transformation. ~ Soong Chan Rah,
815:To remember sometimes is a great sorrow, but when the remembering has been done, there comes afterwards a very curious peacefulness. Because you have planted your flag on the summit of the sorrow. You have climbed it.
And I notice again in the writing of this confession that there is nothing called long-ago after all. When things are summoned up, it is all present time, pure and simple. So that, much to my surprise, people I have loved are allowed to live again. What it is that allows them I don’t know. I have been happy now and then in the last two weeks, the special happiness that is offered from the hand of sorrow. ~ Sebastian Barry,
816:[...] After this compromising confession of "forgery" I should be obliged to consider myself condemned and annihilated if I had not the consolation of seeing side by side with me in the prisoner's dock hundreds of fellow-culprits, among them many of the most trusted observers and most esteemed biologists. The great majority of all the diagrams in the best biological textbooks, treatises and journals would incur in the same degree the charge of "forgery," for all of them are inexact, and are more or less doctored, schematised and constructed.
[Berliner Volks-Zeitung - Haeckel's Frauds and Forgeries - Assmuth and Hull:1915] ~ Ernst Haeckel,
817:Mostly, though, he looked at the girl, with her red hair and bare white arms. There was something about the whiteness of those arms that made them seem more naked than the bare arms of other women in church. A lot of red heads had freckles, but she looked as if she had been carved from a block of soap…She was very pretty, about his age, her hair braided into a silky rope the colour of black cherries. She was fingering a delicate gold cross around her throat, and she turned it just so, into the sunlight, and it shone, became a cruciform flame. She lingered on the gesture, making it a kind of confession, then turned the cross away. ~ Joe Hill,
818:Everything teaches, whether you intend it to or not. The songs teach people doctrine and proper affections for God. Your prayers (or lack of them) teach people how to pray themselves. The kinds of prayers you pray (or don’t pray) teach people about the important differences between prayers of adoration, confession, thanksgiving, and supplication. The way you administer the ordinances teaches people about their meaning, and even the very meaning of the Gospel. Your preaching teaches people how to study and use the Bible appropriately. Everything from the call to worship to the benediction counts as teaching. Teaching is everything. ~ Mark Dever,
819:No doubt, he is horrible, he is abject, he is a shining example of moral leprosy, a mixture of ferocity and jocularity that betrays supreme misery perhaps, but is not conductive to attractiveness.
He is ponderously capricious.
Many of his casual opinions on people and scenery of this country are ludicrous.
A desperate honesty that throbs through his confession does not absolve him from sins of diabolical cunning.
He is abnormal.
He is not a gentleman.
But how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring it’s author! ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
820:No spiritual exercise is such a blending of complexity and simplicity. It is the simplest form of speech that infant lips can try, yet the sublimest strains that reach the Majesty on high. It is as appropriate to the aged philosopher as to the little child. It is the ejaculation of a moment and the attitude of a lifetime. It is the expression of the rest of faith and of the fight of faith. It is an agony and an ecstasy. It is submissive and yet importunate. In the one moment it lays hold of God and binds the devil. It can be focused on a single objective and it can roam the world. It can be abject confession and rapt adoration. ~ John F MacArthur Jr,
821:Love at first sight.” It comes out as hardly more than a whisper, but the quietest words carry in this vast, echoing room. “I’ve always thought real love could only come later. After you both know each other, trust each other. After days, or weeks, or months spent together—learning to understand everything that isn’t spoken out loud.”

Paul smiles, which only makes his eyes look sadder. “One can grow into the other, my lady.” His words are even quieter than mine. “I have known that to be true.”

When we look at each other then, he silently admits something beautiful and dangerous. Does he see the same confession in my eyes? ~ Claudia Gray,
822:You know what it's like when a cart overturns in the street? Everybody you meet has witnessed it. They saw a man's leg sliced clean off. They saw a woman gasp her last. They saw the goods looted, thieves stealing from the back-end while the carter was crushed at the front. They heard a man roar out his last confession, while another whispered his last will and testament. And if all the people who say they were there had really been there, then the dregs of London would have drained to the one spot, the gaols emptied of thieves, the beds empty of whores, and all the lawyers standing on the shoulders of the butchers to get a better look. ~ Hilary Mantel,
823:I have been writing my heart out all my life, but only getting a living out of it now, and the attacks are coming in thick. A lot of people are mad and jealous and bitter and I only hope they also can be heard by an expanding publishing program the size of Russia's. Because it's not a question of the merit of art, but a question of spontaneity and sincerity and joy I say. I would like everybody in the world to tell his full life confession and tell it HIS OWN WAY and then we'd have something to read in our old age, instead of the hesitations and cavilings of 'men of letters' with blear faces who only alter words that the Angel brought them. ~ Jack Kerouac,
824:Of course the merchandise appears to be cheaper. Because where there are so many things close together, they can hardly help not thinking of themselves as precious. In their own eyes they shrink, and they lower their prices, and they become humble, for humility in good expresses itself as cheapness. And since there are also so many shoppers crowded together, the goods make less of a challenge or an appeal to them; and so they too become humble. If the very large department store looked to begin with like a work of hubris, it comes to seem merely an enormous container for human smalless and modesty; an enormous confession of earthly cheapness. ~ Joseph Roth,
825:Don't Be Afraid by Author C.A. Harms

Here's a #SneakPeek!
“I’m just scared.”
“Of what?” Willow moved around the counter and stepped up to my side.
“Forgetting him.” My vision blurred with tears. “Sometimes I wake up and I can still see him so clearly. I can imagine the way his eyes wrinkled when he grinned. Or I can hear his laughter when I’d go on one of my rambles and he was unable to hold it back.” My heart ached with each confession. “When I walk into a room, I swear I can sometimes still smell him, like he’s there waiting for me. I’ve even looked around like I’d actually find him watching television or pouring a cup of coffee. ~ C A Harms,
826:Most modern authors dealing with Erzsébet's life and crimes have produced works of fiction, including Jozo Niznansky's The Lady of Čachtice (1932); Kálmán Vándor's Báthory Erzsébet (1940); La Comtesse sanglante, by Valentine Penrose (1962), Alejandra Pizarnik's Acerca's de la Contessa sangrienta (1968); Comtesse de Sang, by Maurice Périsset (1975); Andrei Codrescu's The Blood Countess (1995); Ella, Drácula, by Javier García Sanchez (2002); Alisa Libby's The Blood Confession (2006); Alexandre Heredia's O Legado de Báthory (2007); The Countess, by Rebecca Johns (2010); Maria Szabó's Én, Báthory Erzsébet (2010); and The Blood Countess by Tara Moss (2012). ~ Peter Vronsky,
827:Half an hour from now, when I shall again and for ever reindue that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most strained and fear-struck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find the courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here, then, as I lay down the pen, and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,
828:Nothing in this world is hidden forever. The gold which has lain for centuries unsuspected in the ground, reveals itself one day on the surface. Sand turns traitor, and betrays the footstep that has passed over it; water gives back to the tell-tale surface the body that has been drowned. Fire itself leaves the confession, in ashes, of the substance consumed in it. Hate breaks its prison-secrecy in the thoughts, through the doorway of the eyes; and Love finds the Judas who betrays it by a kiss. Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen. ~ Wilkie Collins,
829:Leo Tolstoy’s A Confession is possibly the most important document of the last two centuries for understanding our current plight. The dogmas of modern unbelief had captured his elite circle of Russian intellectuals, artists, and members of the social upper crust, and the implications of it slowly destroyed the basis of his life. On those dogmas only two things are real: particles and progress. “Why do I live?” he asked. And the answer he got was, “In infinite space, in infinite time, infinitely small particles change their forms in infinite complexity, and when you have understood the laws of those mutations of form you will understand why you live on the earth”. ~ Dallas Willard,
830:Romans 7:18 where he confesses, “For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out.” In verse 24 he goes so far as to call himself a “wretched man.” If Paul made that confession in most churches today, the evangelegalists would run him out of the ministry. Paul is so disclosing of his own failings because he is a broken man trying to help other men find what he found in Jesus. Seeing Paul as arrogant because he tells his story is what the arrogant do, but men who have been laid low by Jesus Christ have an awesome story to relay and they don’t care if it gets a bit messy. ~ James MacDonald,
831:[Jesus] tilted His head back, pulled up one last time to draw breath and cried, "Tetelestai!" It was a Greek expression most everyone present would have understood. It was an accounting term. Archaeologists have found papyrus tax receipts with "Tetelestai" written across them, meaning "paid in full." With Jesus' last breath on the cross, He declared the debt of sin cancelled, completely satisfied. Nothing else required. Not good deeds. Not generous donations. Not penance or confession or baptism or...or...or...nothing. The penalty for sin is death, and we were all born hopelessly in debt. He paid our debt in full by giving His life so that we might live forever. ~ Charles R Swindoll,
832:God Listens I cry out to the LORD; I pray to the LORD for mercy. Psalm 142:1 You can talk to God because God listens. Your voice matters in heaven. He takes you very seriously. When you enter his presence, he turns to you to hear your voice. No need to fear that you will be ignored. Even if you stammer or stumble, even if what you have to say impresses no one, it impresses God, and he listens. He listens to the painful plea of the elderly in the rest home. He listens to the gruff confession of the death-row inmate. When the alcoholic begs for mercy, when the spouse seeks guidance, when the businessman steps off the street into the chapel, God listens. Intently. Carefully. ~ Max Lucado,
833:You know I’m crazy about you,” he said. She bit her lip, half afraid her own confession would come tumbling out. Half afraid it wouldn’t. She was crazy about him. She was falling so hard and fast, she was dizzy with it. “You don’t have to say a word,” he said. “It’s all right there in your eyes.” “Think so?” “Know so.” A teasing light entered his eyes. “And I’m always right, you know.” She gave a wry smile. “One of those, are you?” “Know what else I’m right about?” “I can hardly wait to find out.” He brushed his lips across hers, drawing back with a tender smile. “Jack’s going to eat his heart out tonight when he has to sit across the table and know what he missed out on. ~ Denise Hunter,
834:I was trained to sniff out weakness in my cohorts. I learned how to read body language, how to detect lies, how to use people against one another, all in order to discover where my own people had committed trespasses against the Empire. Anything from small breaches of conduct to outright treachery against the throne. I was the shadow they couldn’t shake. You put me in a base or battle station or office and they knew they were on notice. I’d scare up what they’d done like a hunter flushing prey from the brush. And I’d hurt them to earn a confession and correct the errors. Oh, it wasn’t just physical pain I caused, though that was certainly a part of it. It was emotional pain. ~ Chuck Wendig,
835:Sonnet
SHE loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips
The live confession came, like rich perfume
From crimson petals bursting into bloom!
And still my heart at the remembrance skips
Like a young lion, and my tongue too trips
As drunk with joy! while every object seen
In life’s diurnal round wears in its mien
A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse.
And if the common things of nature now
Are like old faces flushed with new delight,
Much more the consciousness of that rich vow
Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright,
While throned I seem on love’s divinest height
’Mid all the glories glowing round its brow.
~ Charles Harpur,
836:Emilia held Sarah's hands and looked at her. She could see now the depth of sadness in Sarah's eyes. And she could feel the warmth and kindness that Julius must have been drawn to. And she was grateful to Sarah, for her compassion and honesty. It must have been a painful confession. She felt honored to be trusted with the secret. She supposed when she had time to think about it, she might be shocked, but she wasn't going to judge. She found it a comfort, that Julius had this woman's devotion. And she knew, from all the books she had ever read, that life was complicated, that love sprang from nowhere sometimes, and that forbidden love wasn't always something to be ashamed of. ~ Veronica Henry,
837:No spiritual exercise is such a blending of complexity and simplicity. It is the simplest form of speech that infant lips can try, yet the sublimest strains that reach the Majesty on high. It is as appropriate to the aged philosopher as to the little child. It is the ejaculation of a moment and the attitude of a lifetime. It is the expression of the rest of faith and of the fight of faith. It is an agony and an ecstasy. It is submissive and yet importunate. In the one moment it lays hold of God and binds the devil. It can be focused on a single objective and it can roam the world. It can be abject confession and rapt adoration. It invests puny man with a sort of omnipotence.2 ~ John F MacArthur Jr,
838:Explain the service as you go along. Though there is some danger of pastoral verbosity here that distracts from the worship experience, learn to give one- to two-sentence, nonjargon explanations of each part of the service as it comes. For example, prior to leading a prayer of confession, you might say: “When we confess our sins, we are not groveling in guilt, but we’re dealing with our guilt. If we deny our sins, we will never get free from them.” It may also be helpful to begin a worship service (as is customary in African-American churches) with a “devotional” — a brief talk that explains the meaning of worship. By doing this, we will continually instruct newcomers in worship. ~ Timothy J Keller,
839:The fourth kind is suggested by the need and hope of benefits. Recognising that without Him we can neither do nor possess anything good, we worship Him, asking Him to satisfy [106] our needs and desires, that we may be preserved from evil and arrive at good. The fifth kind is the worship of contrition and confession. As sinners we worship God, and prostrate ourselves before Him, needing His forgiveness, as it becomes servants. This happens in three ways. A man may be sorry out of love, or lest he should lose God's benefits, or for fear of chastisement. The first is prompted by goodness and desire for God himself, and the condition of a son: the second is interested, the third is slavish. What ~ John of Damascus,
840:Empathy isn't just something that happens to us - a meteor shower of synapses firing across the brain - it's also a choice we make: to pay attention, to extend ourselves. It's made of exertion, that dowdier cousin of impulse. Sometimes we care for another because we know we should, or because it's asked for, but this doesn't make our caring hollow. This confession of effort chafes against the notion that empathy should always rise unbidden, that genuine means the same thing as unwilled, that intentionality is the enemy of love. But I believe in intention and I believe in work. I believe in waking up in the middle of the night and packing our bags and leaving our worst selves for our better ones. ~ Leslie Jamison,
841:It's just that... since we met, I have been rather... well, fascinated by..."
You.
Say it, he willed, not entirely certain what he would do if she did, but willing to put himself to the test.
She took another breath. "By your bones."
Would she ever say anything expected? "My bones?"
She nodded. "Yes. Well, the muscles and tendons, too. Your forearms. Your thighs. And earlier- while I watched you drink whiskey- by your hands."
Cross had been propositioned many times in his life. He'd made a career of refusing women's requests. But he had never been complimented on his bones.
It was the strangest, sexiest confession he'd ever heard.
And he had no idea how to respond. ~ Sarah MacLean,
842:Hale, this life . . .' she started slowly, still practically speechless. 'This . . . what we do--what my family does--it looks a lot more glamorous when you choose it.'

'So choose it.' He handed her another envelope. Smaller this time. Thinner.

'What's this?' she asked.

'That, darling, is my full confession. Dates. Times.' Hale leaned against the antique table. 'I thought the crane rental receipt was a particularly nice touch.' Kat looked at him, speechless. 'It's your ticket back into Colgan. If you want it.'

'Hale, I . . .'

But Hale was still moving, shrinking the distance between them. He seemed impossibly close as he whispered. 'And I didn't choose it, Kat. I chose you. ~ Ally Carter,
843:The Golden Age
is thought to be a confession, won by endless
torture, but which our interrogators must
hate to record—all those old code names, dates,
the standard narrative of sandpaper
throats, even its remorse, fall ignored. Far
away, a late (not lost) messenger stares,
struck by window bargains or is it the gift
of a sudden solicitude: is she going to
lift up her shadow's weight, shift hers
onto it? She knows who bears whom. In
that momentary museum where memory occurs
more accrue of those torturers' pincers than
lessened fingernails, eyes teased to a pulp,
we beg for closeups. Ormolus, objets d'art!
A satyr drains an hourglass with one gulp.
~ Bill Knott,
844:A sinner is justified and reconciled with God the moment he truly believes in the person and atoning work of Christ. However, the evidence that he truly believed and was genuinely converted in that moment is that he goes on believing and confessing all the days of his life. This is not to say that the true believer will be immune to doubts, free from failure, or unhindered in his growth to maturity. However, it does mean that the God who began a good work in him will continue perfecting that work until the final day.7 Salvation is by grace alone through faith alone.8 However, the evidence of saving faith is a genuine and enduring confession of the lordship of Jesus Christ throughout the believer’s life. ~ Paul David Washer,
845:Christine,” he started, “is it possible that God can do more yet between us?” Was that a note of hope in his voice? Did he still care for her after all? She couldn’t look into his eyes for fear of what she might see. Instead she focused on the way his hand wrapped so perfectly around hers. “If you say no, that you don’t want me, I promise I’ll respect your answer—” “I do want you,” she said. The words came out before she could halt them, and she was mortified at her confession. She hurried to cover up her embarrassment. “It’s just that I don’t understand why anyone would be interested in me. I’m nothing—” “You’re everything to me. I love you, Christine. I think I’ve loved you from that first day you spoke to me. ~ Jody Hedlund,
846:Guilt plays a pro-social function in strengthening relationships; it encourages taking responsibility, motivates amendatory behaviors such as apology or confession, leads to higher quality solutions to crises and is associated with more constructive anger management … Guilt is also associated with positive empathy and the ability to acknowledge and understand others’ points of view. In contrast shame is associated with responses that are injurious to social relationships… Shame, too, seems to be a driving force in traumatized behavior. Negotiation feels like a defeat, a reminder of the earlier violation. Giving in, adjusting, and changing feel life-threatening. Difference, as to the Supremacist, becomes a threat. ~ Sarah Schulman,
847:Yet I provided you everything (almost) in my book, which the government denies you the access to. I was going to go deeper in details, but I figured it was futile. To make a long story short, you may divide my time in two big steps. (1) Pre-torture (I mean that I couldn’t resist): I told them the truth about me having done nothing against your country. It lasted until May 22, 2003. (2) Post-torture era: where my brake broke loose. I yessed every accusation my interrogators made. I even wrote the infamous confession about me planning to hit the CN Tower in Toronto, based on SSG ■​■​■​■​■​■​■​■​■​ advice. I just wanted to get the monkeys off my back. I don’t care how long I stay in jail. My belief comforts me.2 ~ Mohamedou Ould Slahi,
848:A couple of days after the letter arrived, I was discharged from the hospital, in the custody, so to speak, of about three yards of adhesive tape around my ribs. Then began a very strenuous week's campaign to get permission to attend the wedding. I was finally able to do it by laboriously ingratiating myself with my company commander, a bookish man by his own confession, whose favorite author, as luck had it, happened to be my favorite author-L. Manning Vines. Or Hinds. Despite this spiritual bond between us, the most I could wangle out of him was a three-day pass, which would, at best, give me just enough time to travel by train to New York, see the wedding, bolt a dinner somewhere, and then return damply to Georgia. ~ J D Salinger,
849:happy about that.” “I’m sure he wasn’t.” “And there could have been another reason.” “Like what?” “The old story. Another woman?” “My father did have a mistress.” She jerked and shot him a look. “What!” “It was called the United States Army. He barely had time for his family, much less another woman in his life. But it would be nice to know why he came back early and didn’t tell anyone.” “We’ll have to dig into that. By the way, where are we going?” “To see a priest.” She looked startled. “For what?” “I’m going to confess my sins.” “Seriously, Puller.” “He’s the something that might lead to something else.” She settled back in her seat. “Okay.” She paused and then added, “I’m long overdue for a confession, actually. ~ David Baldacci,
850:The Plaid Dress
Strong sun, that bleach
The curtains of my room, can you not render
Colourless this dress I wear?—
This violent plaid
Of purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripe
Of thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds done
Through indolence high judgments given here in haste;
The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?
No more uncoloured than unmade,
I fear, can be this garment that I may not doff;
Confession does not strip it off,
To send me homeward eased and bare;
All through the formal, unoffending evening, under the clean
Bright hair,
Lining the subtle gown. . .it is not seen,
But it is there.
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay,
851:In confession occurs the breakthrough of the Cross. The root of all sin is pride, superbia. I want to be my own law, I have a right to my self, my hatred and my desires, my life and my death. The mind and flesh of man are set on fire by pride; for it is precisely in his wickedness that man wants to be as God. Confession in the presence of a brother is the profoundest kind of humiliation. It hurts, it cuts a man down, it is a dreadful blow to pride...In the deep mental and physical pain of humiliation before a brother - which means, before God - we experience the Cross of Jesus as our rescue and salvation. The old man dies, but it is God who has conquered him. Now we share in the resurrection of Christ and eternal life. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
852:Celia Wird, have you no shame? Standing out there half-naked, flashing those young boys like some kind of streetwalker!"

Aric's dark brows shot up to his crown. "What the fu--"

"Mind your own business, you goddamn raisin with legs!" Taran screamed from inside the house.

Mrs. Mancuso flipped me off, of course. Bren flashed her a panty-dropping grin. "It's okay, Mrs. M. I'll be sure to take Celia to confession later so Father O'Callaghan can slap the sin out of her."

"Be sure that you do." Mrs. Mancuso gave Bren an approving nod, and me another stiff one. Aric remained fixed to my front walkway. He may have been a guardian of the earth, but I doubted he'd ever encountered evil the likes of Mrs. Mancuso. ~ Cecy Robson,
853:Jennie
Some men affect a liking
For the prim in face and mind,
And some prefer the striking
And the loud in womankind;
Wee Madge is wooed of many,
And buxom Kate, as well,
And Jennie--charming Jennie-Ah, Jennie doesn't tell!
What eyes so bright as Daisy's,
And who as Maud so fair?
Who does not sing the praises
Of Lucy's golden hair?
There's Sophie--she is witty,
A very sprite is Nell,
And Susie's, oh, so pretty-But Jennie doesn't tell!
And now for my confession:
Of all the virtues rare,
I argue that discretion
Doth most beseem the fair.
And though I hear the many
Extol each other belle,
I--I pronounce for Jennie,
For Jennie doesn't tell!
~ Eugene Field,
854:I'll make you a little confession. I am not ashamed to use the word class. I will also plead guilty to another charge. The charge is that people belonging to my class think they're better than other people. You're damn right we're better. We're better because we do not shirk our obligations either to ourselves or to others. We do not whine. We do not organize a minority group and blackmail the government. We do not prize mediocrity for mediocrity's sake. Oh I am aware that we hear a great many flattering things nowadays about your great common man - you know, it has already been revealing to me that he is perfectly content so to be called, because that is exactly what he is: the common man and when I say common I mean common as hell. ~ Walker Percy,
855:This morning, before I left for the Pasteur I phoned the retirement home to ask after Jean-Lino's aunt. With the conversation finished, I think, You're really a good person, you're concerned for others. Two seconds later I tell myself, It's disgusting, this self-satisfaction over such an elementary deed. And immediately after that, Good, you keep a firm eye on your own motives, bravo. There's always some great congratulator who has the last word. When Denner, as a child, came out of confession, he used to stop in front of Saint Joseph, breathe deep, and say to himself, Now I'm a saint. And right afterward, going down the stairs: Oh shit-sin of pride. One way or another, virtue doesn't last. It can only exist if we're not aware of it. ~ Yasmina Reza,
856:Any honest evaluation of contemporary evangelicalism will acknowledge that there are many people walking the streets and sitting in pews who have “obtained like precious faith with us” as the demons (2 Peter 1:1).11 They know something of the person and work of Christ, and they will make something of a confession when it is convenient. However, there is little evidence of an ongoing reality of the saving work of Christ in their lives. Their hope of eternal salvation is founded upon a decision they made long ago, which they believed was sincere, to “accept Christ” by means of a simple prayer. Ministers of the gospel who should have known better confirmed their hope. Like demons, they are lost. Yet, unlike demons, they do not know it. ~ Paul David Washer,
857:I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this-- and I have, countless times, in just about every act I've committed-- and coming face to face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing... ~ Bret Easton Ellis,
858:Now because 18 months ago the first dawn, 3 months ago broad daylight but a very few days ago the full sun of the most highly remarkable spectacle has risen — nothing holds me back. I can give myself up to the sacred frenzy, I can have the insolence to make a full confession to mortal men that I have stolen the golden vessel of the Egyptians to make from them a tabernacle for my God far from the confines of the land of Egypt. If you forgive me I shall rejoice; if you are angry, I shall bear it; I am indeed casting the die and writing the book, either for my contemporaries or for posterity to read, it matters not which: let the book await its reader for a hundred years; God himself has waited six thousand years for his work to be seen. ~ Johannes Kepler,
859:how shall I get through the months or years of my future life, in company with that man -- my greatest enemy -- for none could injure me as he has done? Oh! when I think how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage, and how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation --crushed my hopes, destroyed my youth's best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless misery -- as far as man can do it -- it is not enough to say that I no longer love my husband -- I HATE him! The word stares me in the face like a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him -- I hate him! ~ Anne Bront,
860:For Christ says: 'I am the Way by which one comes to the Father; there is no other way. I and no one else am the Truth and the Life.' You must take this road in order to hold to this Man and to persevere in this faith and confession. You must travel it in suffering and death, saying: 'I know other help or counsel, no salvation or comfort, no way or path, except Christ my Lord alone, who suffered, died, rose, and ascended to heaven for me. I will stay on this road all the way, even though nothing but the devil, death, and hell were under and before me. For this is surely the right road and bridge; it is firmer and safer than any stone or iron structure. And heaven and earth would have to collapse before this road would ever deceive me or lead me astray. ~ Martin Luther,
861:The first element of prayer should be adoration, or praise. The Psalms, which are inspired samples of godly prayer, are heavily weighted on the side of adoration. I've noticed over many years that as we grow in the discipline and in the delight of prayer, it seems that
we naturally spend more and more of our time on this first element. Second, prayer should include confession of our sin; as we remember who we are when we come into God's presence, we see that we have come short of His holiness and have need of His forgiveness. Third, when we pray, we should always give thanks, remembering the grace and mercy God has shown toward us. Fourth, prayer rightly includes supplication or petition, bringing our requests for the needs of others and ourselves to God. ~ R C Sproul,
862:When you confess your sin to another Christian...The
expressed, acknowledged sin has lost all it's power...The
sinner is no longer alone with his evil for he has cast off his
sin in confession and handed it over to God. It has been
taken away from him. Now he stands in the fellowship of
sinners who live by the grace of God in the cross of Jesus
Christ. Now he can be a sinner and still enjoy the grace of
God. He can confess his sins and in his very act find
fellowship for the first time. The sin concealed separated
him from the fellowship, made all his apparent fellowship a
sham; the sin confessed has helped him to find true
fellowship with the brethren in Jesus Christ.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, life together ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
863:In 1862, the Scottish mathematician James Clerk Maxwell developed a set of fundamental equations that unified electricity and magnetism. On his deathbed, he coughed up a strange sort of confession, declaring that “something within him” discovered the famous equations, not he. He admitted he had no idea how ideas actually came to him—they simply came to him. William Blake related a similar experience, reporting of his long narrative poem Milton: “I have written this poem from immediate dictation twelve or sometimes twenty lines at a time without premeditation and even against my will.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe claimed to have written his novella The Sorrows of Young Werther with practically no conscious input, as though he were holding a pen that moved on its own. ~ David Eagleman,
864:So often in the church, being a pastor or a "spiritual leader" means being the example of  "godly living." A pastor is supposed to be the person who is really good at this Christianity stuff — the person others can look to as an example of righteousness. But as much as being the person who is the best Christian, who "follows Jesus" the most closely can feel a little seductive, it's simply never been who I am or who my parishioners need me to be. I'm not running after Jesus. Jesus is running my ass down. Yeah, I am a leader, but I'm leading them onto the street to get hit by the speeding bus of confession and absolution, sin and sainthood, death and resurrection — that is, the gospel of  Jesus Christ. I'm a leader, but only by saying, "Oh, screw it. I'll go first. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
865:But: all journeys were return journeys. The farther one traveled, the nakeder one got, until, towards the end, ceasing to be animated by any scene, one was most oneself, a man in a bed surrounded by empty bottles. The man who says, "I've got a wife and kids" is far from home; at home he speaks of Japan. But he does not know - how could he? - that the scenes changing in the train window from Victoria Station to Tokyo Central are nothing compared to the change in himself; and travel writing, which cannot but be droll at the outset, moves from journalism to fiction, arriving promptly as the Kodama Echo at autobiography. From there any further travel makes a beeline to confession, the embarrassed monologue in a deserted bazaar. The anonymous hotel room in a strange city... ~ Paul Theroux,
866:Have you ever given anyone a red rose?" Grant asked. I looked at him as if he was trying to force-feed me foxglove. "Moss rose? Myrtle? Pink?" he pressed.
"Confession of love? Love? Pure love?" I asked, to make sure we shared the same definitions. He nodded. "No, no, and no."
I picked a pale blush-colored bud and shredded the petals one at a time.
"I'm more of a thistle-peony-basil kind of girl," I said.
"Misanthropy-anger-hate," said Grant. "Hmm."
I turned away. "You asked," I said.
"It's kind of ironic, don't you think?" he asked, looking around us at the roses. They were all in bloom, and not one was yellow. "Here you are, obsessed with a romantic language- a language invented for expression between lovers- and you use it to spread animosity. ~ Vanessa Diffenbaugh,
867:No one has even begun to understand comradeship who does not accept with it a certain hearty eagerness in eating, drinking, or smoking, an uproarious materialism which to many women appears only hoggish. You may call the thing an orgy or a sacrament; it is certainly an essential. It is at root a resistance to the superciliousness of the individual. Nay, its very swaggering and howling are humble. In the heart of its rowdiness there is a sort of mad modesty; a desire to melt the separate soul into the mass of unpretentious masculinity. It is a clamorous confession of the weakness of all flesh. No man must be superior to the things that are common to men. This sort of equality must be bodily and gross and comic. Not only are we all in the same boat, but we are all seasick. ~ G K Chesterton,
868:The alternative connection to what is ultimate is, of course, revelation. In this view, it is not the human being reaching up to seize the meaning of life, or gazing into itself for that meaning, but God reaching down to explain life's meaning. In this understanding, there can be no speaking of God, no speaking of meaning, before his speaking to us is heard. This way was treated rudely by the Enlightenment luminaries because it both limited human freedom in shaping the meaning of reality and resorted to what was miraculous in the way revelation has been given. And it has not been treated any more kindly by the postmoderns for whom its grand, overarching Story is anathema and who do not believe that they can escape their own subjectivity. But this is the Christian confession. ~ John Piper,
869:Those who tread these paths should be informed of a matter respecting their confession in which they are apt to err. When they begin to give an account of their sins, instead of the regret and contrition they had been accustomed to feel, they find that love and tranquility sweetly pervade and take possession of their souls: now those who are not properly instructed are desirous of withdrawing from this sensation to form an act of contrition, because they have heard, and with truth, that it is requisite: but they are not aware that they lose thereby the genuine contrition, which is this Intuitive Love, infinitely surpassing any effect produced by self-exertion . . . Be not then troubled about other things when God acts so excellently in you and for you. ~ Jeanne Marie Bouvier de la Motte Guyon,
870:A strange thing happened then. The Speaker agreed with her that she had made a mistake that night, and she knew when he said the words that it was true, that his judgment was correct. And yet she felt strangely healed, as if simply saying her mistake were enough to purge some of the pain of it. For the first time, then, she caught a glimpse of what the power of speaking might be. It wasn’t a matter of confession, penance, and absolution, like the priests offered. It was something else entirely. Telling the story of who she was, and then realizing that she was no longer the same person. That she had made a mistake, and the mistake had changed her, and now she would not make the mistake again because she had become someone else, someone less afraid, someone more compassionate. ~ Orson Scott Card,
871:I don't have to worry about Madame Ouche! she'll still be robbing me blind when she's dead!...having made her last confession and received extreme unction...all the cataclysms will pass over her without harming a single gray hair on her head! it's a paradise here for scum like her, on earth as there is in heaven...they don't really die, the sluts, the hussies, the really awful ones, they just go from one paradise to another, with their money, servants, cars...just buy their cute little ticket and off they go! final absolution and see you later! they shit in your hands!...they're born to slip out of both hells - the one here and the one in the next world...all they do is fuck and whine...loads of cash! never broke!...cheers! here's to you! no regrets! you realize too late... ~ Louis Ferdinand C line,
872:Love is everything. So, for one who loves, everything has ceased to have meaning in itself and only means something through the interpretation love gives it. Thus if another betrothed became convinced there was some other girl he cared for, he would presumably stand there like a criminal and his fiancée be outraged. You, however, I know would see a tribute in such a confession; for me to be able to love another you know is an impossibility; it is my love for you casting its reflections over the whole of life. So when I care about someone else, it is not to convince myself that I do not love her but only you—that would be presumptuous; but since my whole soul is filled with you, life takes on another meaning for me: it becomes a myth about you."

—Johannes the Seducer, from Either/Or ~ S ren Kierkegaard,
873:She grabbed the door handle, but before she could pull it open, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her back into the seat. Why wouldn’t he let things be? She whipped around. “What?” Her tone was the snap of a whip in the quiet car as embarrassment turned to anger. “It’s time for me to go, Mitch.” A muscle ticked in his jaw and his eyes flashed fire. “I stopped,” he said through gritted teeth, “because I didn’t think your inner good girl would appreciate being fucked in a seedy motel parking lot in front of God and everyone.” She froze at his blunt words. The confession should have satisfied her, but it didn’t. She wrenched her wrist free. “Do me a favor. Take care of your own demons. I can manage my inner good girl just fine!” Not waiting for a response, she flung open the car door and jumped out. ~ Jennifer Dawson,
874:When we recognize that there are unbelievers in the visible church, there is a danger that we may become overly suspicious. We may begin to doubt the salvation of many true believers and thereby bring great confusion into the church. Calvin warned against this danger by saying that we must make a “charitable judgment” whereby we recognize as members of the church all who “by confession of faith, by example of life, and by partaking of the sacraments, profess the same God and Christ with us.”9 We should not try to exclude people from the fellowship of the church until they by public sin bring discipline upon themselves. On the other hand, of course, the church should not tolerate in its membership “public unbelievers” who by profession or life clearly proclaim themselves to be outside the true church. ~ Wayne Grudem,
875:Snow-flakes
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
            Silent, and soft, and slow
            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
      In the white countenance confession,
            The troubled sky reveals
            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
            Now whispered and revealed
            To wood and field. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
876:you foul disease called cancer, I speak to you. Go from this body in the Name of Jesus! I command you, cancerous cells, to wither and die at the roots in the Name of Jesus! Devil, I bind your power in this person's life, and I permit healing to come to them now, in the Name of Jesus! Father, I ask You to replace with new cells those that have been damaged by cancer or any other disease. God, You can do that, because what is impossible with man is possible with You. You are a God who cares, and we believe You will do it just because we have asked. You love us that much. Father, may strength and wholeness come into this person's body this very day. Thank You, Lord, for doing it. I thank You, Jesus, that we will hear good reports from people who have been healed because they held fast to their confession of 42 ~ Anonymous,
877:The priests will sell indulgence letters for fornication, for the breaking of vows, for shunning confession, for ignoring fasts, and, of course, for rescuing souls from purgatory. Purgatory,” he repeated with a sneer. “This dread place exists, the Church teaches, for the cleansing of sinful man’s soul after death, but the Church will gladly give you remission of years of your soul’s agony there—for a price. Now, tell me this. If the Pope has the power to deliver a soul out of purgatory, why then can he not deliver it without money? And if he can deliver one soul, then why does he not deliver a thousand? Why not all? Let loose all the poor, tortured souls, and thus destroy purgatory.” His fist punched the air. “I say the Pope is a tyrant if he keeps souls within purgatory’s prison until men give him money! ~ Barbara Kyle,
878:What lively lad most pleasured me
Of all that with me lay?
I answer that I gave my soul
And loved in misery,
But had great pleasure with a lad
That I loved bodily.

Flinging from his arms I laughed
To think his passion such
He fancied that I gave a soul
Did but our bodies touch,
And laughed upon his breast to think
Beast gave beast as much.

I gave what other women gave
That stepped out of their clothes.
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows,

And give his own and take his own
And rule in his own right;
And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight,
There's not a bird of day that dare
Extinguish that delight.

~ William Butler Yeats, A Last Confession
,
879:Hippolytus: Do you believe in God?
Priest: (Looks at him.)
Hippolytus: I know what I am. And always will be. But you. You sin knowing you'll confess. Then you're forgiven. And then you start all over again.
How do you dare mock a God so powerful? Unless you don't really believe.
Priest: This is your confession, not mine.
Hippolytus: Then why are you on your knees? God certainly is merciful. If I were him I'd despise you. I'd wipe you off the face of the earth for your dishonesty.
Priest: You're not God.
Hippolytus: No. A prince. God on earth. But not God. Fortunate for all concerned. I'd not allow you to sin knowing you'd confess and get away with it.
Priest: Heaven would be empty.
Hippolytus: A kingdom of honest men, honestly sinning. And death for those who try to cover their arse. ~ Sarah Kane,
880:I do not know why I have such a fancy for this little café. It's dirty and sad, sad. It's not as if it had anything to distinguish it from a hundred others–it hasn't; or as if the same strange types came here every day, whom one could watch from one's corner and recognize and more or less (with a strong accent on the less) get the hang of.
But pray don't imagine that those brackets are a confession of my humility before the mystery of the human soul. Not at all; I don't believe in the human soul. I never have. I believe that people are like portmanteaux–packed with certain things, started going, thrown about, tossed away, dumped down, lost and found, half emptied suddenly, or squeezed fatter than ever, until finally the Ultimate Porter swings them on to the Ultimate Train and away they rattle. . . . ~ Katherine Mansfield,
881:How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it except the pleasure of seeing it. Forty-two words. A long sentence by modern standards. I had to read Smith’s opening sentence twice before I understood what he was saying: that even though people can be pretty selfish, they do care about other people’s happiness. Makes sense. I kept reading. I read the first page. Then the second page and the third. I closed the book. A second confession—I had no idea what Smith was talking about. The book appeared to begin in midstream. Unlike The Wealth of Nations, which is delightful and engaging prose from the get-go, The Theory of Moral Sentiments is very slow going. ~ Russ Roberts,
882:If you're lucky, at the right time you come across music that is not only "great," or interesting, or "incredible," or fun, but actually sustaining. Though some elusive but tangible process, a piece of music cuts through all defenses and makes sense of every fear and desire you bring to it. As it does so, it exposes all you've held back, and then makes sense of that, too. Though someone else is doing the talking, the experience is like a confession. Your emotions shoot out to crazy extremes; you feel both ennobled and unworthy, saved and damned. You hear that this is what life is all about, that this is what it is for. Yet it is this recognition itself that makes you understand that life can never be this good, this whole. With a clarity life denies for its own good reasons, you see places to which you can never get. ~ Greil Marcus,
883:At the same time he could hardly believe what he had been reading. It struck him as verging on madness. This wild confession, this owing to a crime so outlandish, so totally different from the true ones of mating and theft of the negroes, outraged him with its insolence and perversity. In the conflict of these feelings Erasmus was swept by doubt and loneliness. His whole being seemed under threat of dissolution. What became of law, of legitimacy, of established order, if a man could assume such attitudes of private morality, decide for himself where his fault lay? It turned everything upside down. He could think of nothing more damnable. And yet… He remembered suddenly the second, rarer smile his cousin had, the one that came slowly, transforming his face. Briefly, unwillingly, Erasmus glimpsed the possibility of freedom. ~ Barry Unsworth,
884:When he unlocked the door, the smell of the building came at me like a shout: an old, elusive smell, damp and smoke and lemon, nothing like the antiseptic tang of DV in the new building up in Phoenix Park. I hate nostalgia, it’s laziness with prettier accessories, but every step hit me straight in the gut with something: me running down those stairs with a bunch of files in each hand and an apple caught between my teeth, my partner and me high-fiving each other outside that door after getting our first confession in that interview room; the two of us double-teaming the superintendent down that hallway, one in each ear, trying to hassle him into giving us more overtime. It seemed like the corridors had an Escher look, the walls all tilting in subtle, seasick ways, but I couldn’t focus my eyes enough to figure out exactly how. ~ Tana French,
885:Skepticism of the press and of academic experts has been a paramount fetish on the right for years, which effectively trained two generations of Americans to disbelieve facts at odds with their opinions. “For years, as a conservative radio talk show host,” Charlie Sykes wrote in early 2017, “I played a role in that conditioning by hammering the mainstream media for its bias and double standards. But the price turned out to be far higher than I imagined. The cumulative effect of the attacks was to…destroy much of the right’s immunity to false information.” The conservative talk-radio host John Ziegler made a similar confession in 2016: “We’ve effectively brainwashed the core of our audience. And now it’s gone too far. Because the gatekeepers have lost all credibility in the minds of consumers, I don’t see how you reverse it. ~ Kurt Andersen,
886:In confession occurs the break-through to the Cross. The root of all sin is pride, superbia. I want to be my own law, I have a right to my self, my hatred and my desires, my life and my death. The mind and flesh of man are set on fire by pride; for it is precisely in his wickedness that man wants to be as God. Confession in the presence of a brother is the profoundest kind of humiliation. It hurts, it cuts a man down, it is a dreadful blow to pride. To stand there before a brother as a sinner is an ignominy that is almost unbearable. In the confession of concrete sins the old man dies a painful, shameful death before the eyes of a brother. Because this humiliation is so hard we continually scheme to evade confessing to a brother. Our eyes are so blinded that they no longer see the promise and the glory in such abasement. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
887:I was baptized one foggy afternoon about four o'clock. I couldn't think of any names I particularly wanted, so I kept my old name. I was alone with the fat priest; it was all very quickly and formally done, while someone at a children's service muttered in another chapel. Then we shook hands and I went off to a salmon tea, and the dog which had been sick again on the mat. Before that I had made a general confession to another priest: it was like a life photographed as it came to mind, without any order, full of gaps, giving at best a general impression. I couldn't help feeling all the way to the newspaper office, past the Post Office, the Moroccan café, the ancient whore, that I had got somewhere new by way of memories I hadn't known I possessed. I had taken up the thread of life from very far back, from as far back as innocence. ~ Graham Greene,
888:She talks. People talk easily to me. They think a bald albino hunchback can’t hide anything. My worst is all out in the open. It makes it necessary for people to tell you about themselves. They begin out of simple courtesy. Just being visible is my biggest confession, so they try to set me at ease by revealing our equality, by dragging out their apparent deformities. That’s how it starts. But I am like a stranger on the bus and they get hooked on having a listener. They go too far because I am one listener who is in no position to judge or find fault. They stretch out their dampest secrets because a creature like me has no values or morals. If I am “good" (and they assume that I am), it’s obviously for lack of opportunity to be otherwise. And I listen. I listen eagerly, warmly, because I care. They tell me everything eventually. ~ Katherine Dunn,
889:In confession the break-through to community takes place. Sin demands to have a man by himself. It withdraws him from the community. The more isolated a person is, the more destructive will be the power of sin over him, and the more deeply he becomes involved in it, the more disastrous is his isolation. Sin wants to remain unknown. It shuns the light. In the darkness of the unexpressed it poisons the whole being of a person. This can happen even in the midst of a pious community. In confession the light of the Gospel breaks into the darkness and seclusion of the heart. The sin must be brought into the light. The unexpressed must be openly spoken and acknowledged. All that is secret and hidden is made manifest. It is a hard struggle until the sin is openly admitted. But God breaks gates of brass and bars of iron (Ps. 107.16). ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
890:First there was Caine’s patently false “confession.” Then there was the fact that the FAYZ Legal Defense Fund racked up three million dollars in its first two weeks. Then there was a judicial panel that took statements from eminent scientists and concluded that the FAYZ was in fact a separate universe and thus not covered under California law.
Finally, there was a shift in public opinion following the involvement of the two popular movie stars, the McDonald’s documentary starring Albert Hillsborough, the likelihood of a major Hollywood feature film, and the kiss seen round the world. Polls now showed 68 percent of Californians wanted no criminal charges brought against the FAYZ survivors.
The kiss alone would have wrecked the career of any prosecutor or politician who had anything bad to say about Astrid Ellison or Sam Temple. ~ Michael Grant,
891:Further expanding the already large class of Foucauldian apparatuses, I shall cal an apparatus literally anything that has in some way the capacity to capture, determine, intercept, model, control , or secure the gestures, behaviors, opinions, or discourses of living beings. Not only, therefore, prisons, madhouses, the panopticon, schools, confession, factories, disciplines, juridical measures, and so forth (whose connection with power is in a certain sense evident), but also the pen, writing, literature, philosophy, agriculture, cigarettes, navigation, computers, cellular telephones and - why not - language itself, which is perhaps the most ancient of apparatuses - one in which thousands and thousands of years ago a primitive inadvertently let himself be captured, probably without realizing the consequences that he was about to face. ~ Giorgio Agamben,
892:In confession the break-through to community takes place. Sin demands to have a man by himself. It withdraws him from the community. The more isolated a person is,
the more destructive will be the power of sin over him, and the more deeply he becomes involved in it, the more disastrous is his isolation. Sin wants to remain unknown. It
shuns the light. In the darkness of the unexpressed it poisons the whole being of a person. This can happen even in the midst of a pious community. In confession the light of the Gospel breaks into the darkness and seclusion of the heart. The sin must be brought into the light. The unexpressed
must be openly spoken and acknowledged. All that is secret and hidden is made manifest. It is a hard struggle until the sin is openly admitted. But God breaks gates of brass and bars of iron (Ps. 107: 16). ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
893:... 'You can't read everything. I've never got beyond the beginning of Proust. I love him, but I can't seem to get beyond about page three.'

They were comfortable in each other's company, and this confession seemed to accentuate the ease of their relationship. The confession itself was not entirely true; Isabel had read more Proust than that, but other people undoubtedly found it reassuring to think that one had only read a few pages. Certainly those who claimed to have read Proust in his entirety got scant sympathy from others. And yet, she suddenly wondered, should you actually lie about how much Proust you've read? Some politicians, she reminded herself, did that--or the equivalent--when they claimed to be down-to-earth, no-nonsense types, just like the voters, when all the time they were secretly delighting in Proust . . . ~ Alexander McCall Smith,
894:A poor man needs the escape far more than a wealthy man does."
"Escape," Amanda repeated, having never heard a book described in such a way.
"Yes, something to transport your mind from where and who and what you are. Everyone needs that. A time or two in my past, it seemed that a book was the only thing that stood between me and near insanity. I-"
He stopped suddenly, and Amanda realized that he had not meant to make such a confession. The room became uncomfortably quiet, with only the jaunty snap of the fire to intrude on the silence. Amanda felt as if the air were throbbing with some unexpressed emotion. She wanted to tell him that she understood exactly what he meant, that she, too, had experienced the utter deliverance that words on a page could provide. There had been times of desolation in her own life, and books had been her only pleasure. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
895:Plea
Secrets, you said, would hold us two apart;
You'd have me know of you your least transgression,
And so the intimate places of your heart,
Kneeling, you bared to me, as in confession.
Softly you told of loves that went beforeOf clinging arms, of kisses gladly given;
Luxuriously clean of heart once more,
You rose up, then, and stood before me, shriven.
When this, my day of happiness, is through,
And love, that bloomed so fair, turns brown and brittle,
There is a thing that I shall ask of youI, who have given so much, and asked so little.
Some day, when there's another in my stead,
Again you'll feel the need of absolution,
And you will go to her, and bow your head,
And offer her your past, as contribution.
When with your list of loves you overcome her,
For Heaven's sake, keep this one secret from her!
~ Dorothy Parker,
896:Lines that seemed unconnected gradually becomes part of a confession that had at its center rooms in the burning heat of August, where something has taken place, clearly sexual, but it is also the vacant streets of rural Texas, roads, forgotten friends, the slap of hands of rifle slings and forked pennants limp at parades. There are condoms, sun-faded cars, soiled menus with misspellings, a kind of pyre on which he had laid his life. That was why he seemed so pure – he had given all.

Everyone lies about their lives, but he had not lied about his.

He had made of it a noble lament, through it always running this thing you have had, that you will always have, but can never have. (There stood Erechteus, polished limbs and greaves....come to me, Hellas, I love for your touch.)

I had met him at a party and only managed to say, – I read your beautiful poem. ~ James Salter,
897:What a need we humans have for confession. To a priest, to a friend, to a psychoanalyst, to a relative, to an enemy, even to a torturer when there is no one else, it doesn't matter so long as we speak out what moves within us. Even the most secretive of us do it, if no more than writing in a private diary. And I have often thought as I read stories and novels and poems, especially poems, that they are no more than authors' confessions transformed by their art into something that confesses for us all. Indeed, looking back on my life-long passion for reading, the one activity that has kept me going and given me the most and only lasting pleasure, I think this is the reason that explains why it means so much to me. The books, the authors who matter the most are those who speak to me and speak for me all those things about life I most need to hear as the confession of myself. ~ Aidan Chambers,
898:fucking parking spot.” The woman hauled herself out of the front seat. Her face wrinkled with the effort and her small, old eyes leaked and blinked in the sun. Your father took a step back. He stood for a moment, shoved his hands in his pockets, and crossed the parking lot toward me, the rage fading and his face becoming again the mask it had been since I’d returned from London and, four days before, made my foolish confession—a mask I no longer had a right to question or remove. We exited the structure and pulled into a handicapped spot in front of the emergency room entrance and ran. I held my sunglasses in my left hand and clutched my purse with my right. I had forgotten my sweater. Your father flung his windbreaker over his shoulder and the zipper stung my cheek, the beginnings of retribution, perhaps, for a past that had long ago laid down the invisible blueprint of our future. ~ Jan Ellison,
899:A fact, once discovered, leads an existence of its own, and enters into relations with other facts of which their discoverers have never dreamt. Apollonius of Perga discovered the laws of the useless curves which emerge when a plane intersects a cone at various angles: these curves proved, centuries later, to represent the paths followed by planets, comets, rockets, and satellites.

One cannot escape the feeling [wrote Heinrich Herz] that these mathematical formulae have an independent existence and an intelligence of their own, that they are wiser than we are, wiser even than their discoverers, that we get more out of them than was originally put into them.

This confession of the discoverer of radio-waves sounds suspiciously like an echo of Kepler, echoing Plato, echoing Pythagoras: 'Methinks that all of nature and the graceful sky are set into symbols in geomatriam. ~ Arthur Koestler,
900:From the earliest centuries, the Church has understood that sin, or vice, has what are called opposing virtues: virtues that by their very nature counteract and weaken the influence of the sin in our lives. Following this tradition, St. Ignatius of Loyola recommended developing virtues that strike to the heart of our most troublesome sins. It goes something like this: we examine our consciences carefully. We go to Confession and get “swept clean and put in order.” Then we get to work refurnishing our house. We identify the virtue that will help us displace the sin. Chastity counteracts lust. Temperance uproots gluttony. Generosity counterbalances greed. Diligence displaces sloth. Forgiveness and meekness offset wrath or anger. Kindness replaces envy. And humility supplants pride. With each subsequent confession, the process continues on a deeper and deeper level until we find ourselves set free. ~ Anonymous,
901:His expression is inscrutable. His eyes look strange with their pulsing pupils. “You’re not like other girls. You’re special.”
Intoxicating warmth crawls over my cheeks. I’m glad at this confession. Glad that I’m as unique to him as he is to me. Back home, I only ever felt safe, protected, and revered. Even with Cassian, I never felt like he liked me for me, but rather for what I brought the pride.
Every moment with Will, I feel at risk, exposed. Danger hands close, as tangible as the heavy mists I’ve left behind. And I can’t get enough of it. Of him. I crave his nearness still. Like a drug needed to survive, to get by each day. An addiction. A powerful, consuming thing.
“I’ve tried to deny it,” he continues, “but it’s there, staring me in the face every time I see you. If you were like other girls . . .” He laughs hoarsely. “If you were like other girls I wouldn’t even be here. ~ Sophie Jordan,
902:• They travel in tight circles of likeminded people. • Their thinking is more likely based on what authorities have told them rather than on their own critical judgment, which results in their beliefs being filled with inconsistencies. • They harbor numerous double standards and hypocrisies. • They are hostile toward so many minorities they seem to be equal-opportunity bigots, yet they are generally unaware of their prejudices. • They see the world as a dangerous place, with society teetering on the brink of self-destruction from evil and violence, and when their fear conflates with their self-righteousness, they appoint themselves guardians of public morality, or God’s Designated Hitters. • They think of themselves as far more moral and upstanding than others—a self-deception aided by their religiosity (many are “born again”) and their ability to “evaporate guilt” (such as by going to confession). ~ John W Dean,
903:Ours is the only civilization in history which has enshrined mediocrity as its national ideal. Others have been corrupt, but leave it to us to invent the most undistinguished of corruptions. No orgies, no blood running in the street, no babies thrown off cliffs. No, we're sentimental people and we horrify easily. True, our moral fiber is rotten. Our national character stinks to high heaven. But we are kinder than ever. No prostitute ever responded with a quicker spasm of sentiment when our hearts are touched. Nor is there anything new about thievery, lewdness, lying, adultery. What is new is that in our time liars and thieves and whores and adulterers wish also to be congratulated by the great public, if their confession is sufficiently psychological or strikes a sufficiently heartfelt and authentic note of sincerity. Oh, we are sincere. I do not deny it. I don't know anybody nowadays who is not sincere. ~ Walker Percy,
904:Here is a “Confession of Love” that she drew up for a group of Indian girls who banded together to serve Christ. Perhaps it best says to us just what Amy Carmichael believed about Christian life and service. My Vow: Whatsoever Thou sayest unto me, by Thy grace I will do it. My Constraint: Thy love, O Christ, my Lord. My Confidence: Thou art able to keep that which I have committed unto thee. My Joy: To do Thy will, O God. My Discipline: That which I would not choose, but which Thy love appoints. My Prayer: Conform my will to Thine. My Motto: Love to live—live to love. My Portion: The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance. With that kind of devotion and dedication, is it any wonder that Amy Carmichael was misunderstood by believers, persecuted by unbelievers, attacked by Satan, and blessed by the Lord? Unpredictable? Yes—but not unblessable! We could use a few more like her in Christian service today. ~ Warren W Wiersbe,
905:Rather than pulling away to walk back to the counter, he brings both his hands to my face and holds me still while he looks at me in silence for several seconds. His thumbs brush lightly across my jaw, and he releases a soft breath. His brows furrow, and his eyes close. He presses his forehead to mine, still holding on to my face, and I can feel his internal struggle.

“Tate.”

He says my name so quietly I can feel his regret in the words he hasn’t even spoken yet. “I like…” He opens his eyes and looks at me. “I like kissing you, Tate.”

I don’t know why that sentence seemed hard for him to say, but his voice trailed off toward the end as though he was attempting to stop himself from finishing his words.

As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, he releases me and quickly steps around the partition as if he’s trying to escape from his own confession.

I like kissing you, Tate. ~ Colleen Hoover,
906:In Mexico he has only seen wild ones, and only far away. ‘I like to watch them because they are . . .’ And he makes a movement with one hand as if it were something lifting into the air. ‘Free,’ I say. He nods, and I do too, and in some wonder, because I am beginning to see that for some people a hawk on the hand of a stranger urges confession, urges confidences, lets you speak words about hope and home and heart. And I realise, too, that in all my days of walking with Mabel the only people who have come up and spoken to us have been outsiders: children, teenage goths, homeless people, overseas students, travellers, drunks, people on holiday. ‘We are outsiders now, Mabel,’ I say, and the thought is not unpleasant. But I feel ashamed of my nation’s reticence. Its desire to keep walking, to move on, not to comment, not to interrogate, not to take any interest in something peculiar, unusual, in anything that isn’t entirely normal. ~ Helen Macdonald,
907:10 August, 1939
 
Confession: I am nineteen years old, and I’ve been kissed many times. But I’ve never been kissed like that.
 
It felt like drowning but not needing to breathe. Like falling but never hitting the ground. Even now, my hands are shaking, and my heart is so swollen and fat it feels like it’s going to burst, or I’m going to burst. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to bury my head in my pillow and scream until I fall asleep, because maybe when I go to sleep I can relive it.
I can’t believe it happened, yet I think I’ve been waiting for it to happen for the last seven years, ever since I conned Angelo into kissing me the first time. I’ve been waiting for him for so long, and for a couple of hours tonight, in a little world that was only big enough for the two of us, he was mine.
But I don’t know if I will be able to keep him. I’m afraid when tomorrow comes, I’ll be waiting for him again.
Eva Rosselli ~ Amy Harmon,
908:DON Luigi Giussani used to quote this example from Bruce Marshall’s novel To Every Man a Penny. The protagonist of the novel, the abbot Father Gaston, needs to hear the confession of a young German soldier whom the French partisans are about to sentence to death. The soldier confesses his love of women and the numerous amorous adventures he has had. The young priest explains that he has to repent to obtain forgiveness and absolution. The soldier answers, “How can I repent? It was something that I enjoyed, and if I had the chance I would do it again, even now. How can I repent?” Father Gaston, who wants to absolve the man who has been marked by destiny and who’s about to die, has a stroke of inspiration and asks, “But are you sorry that you are not sorry?” The young man answers impulsively, “Yes, I am sorry that I am not sorry.” In other words, he apologizes for not repenting. The door was opened just a crack, allowing absolution to come in…. ~ Pope Francis,
909:Learning to praise, then, changes us. Lewis couldn’t help but notice that the humblest, and at the same time most balanced and capacious minds, praised most, while the cranks, misfits, and malcontents praised least. The good critics found something to praise in many imperfect works; the bad ones continually narrowed the list of books we might be allowed to read. The healthy and unaffected man, even if luxuriously brought up and widely experienced in good cookery, could praise a very modest meal: the dyspeptic and the snob found fault with all. Except where intolerably adverse circumstances interfere, praise almost seems to be inner health made audible.306  The Reordering of Our Loves Why would praise and adoration have such an effect on us? It is because, of the three kinds of prayer—adoration, confession, supplication—praise is the one that directly develops love for God, and if St. Augustine is right, what we love is basically what we are. ~ Timothy J Keller,
910:Confession is a difficult Discipline for us because we all too often view the believing community as a fellowship of saints before we see it as a fellowship of sinners. We feel that everyone else has advanced so far into holiness that we are isolated and alone in our sin. We cannot bear to reveal our failures and shortcomings to others. We imagine that we are the only ones who have not stepped onto the high road to heaven. Therefore, we hide ourselves from one another and live in veiled lies and hypocrisy.

But if we know that the people of God are first a fellowship of sinners, we are freed to hear the unconditional call of God's love and to confess our needs openly before our brothers and sisters. We know we are not alone in our sin. The fear and pride that cling to us like barnacles cling to others also. We are sinners together. In acts of mutual confession we release the power that heals. Our humanity is no longer denied, but transformed. ~ Richard J Foster,
911:It is a mortal sin to be a Jew?” I blurted out. His face softened as he stood there looking at me. When he finally spoke, he spoke very slowly and quietly: “No, son, it isn’t. It couldn’t be. You see a lot of us are prone to forget Jesus Christ was a Jew.” “But, Brother, if I’m a Jew and I live with my folks, I could not come here to church. And I would not attend confession and be absolved of my sins. Then when I die I would surely burn in hell.” He came back to me and took my arm. “Francis,” his voice was very low, “as much as we like to think it is, heaven is not a private preserve of us Catholics. It is a place where all good people are welcome. I like to believe that it is open to all mankind regardless of the manner in which they worship our Lord, as long as they do believe in Him and live according to His lights. Be a good lad, Francis, and love your people. Do what is right and ye’ll have naught to fear.” He smiled. “Do ye understand me, son? ~ Harold Robbins,
912:But it was the orangutan Mitra who stole my heart. In between takes Mitra would clamber across and casually sling his long arm over your shoulder like an old drinking buddy. He would take your hand in his and, his gentle gaze never leaving yours, lift it to his lips. Mitra was chivalrous. He was also an exceptional actor—far better than me. Acting is all about the eyes. Mitra’s eyes were sad and wise. He would look at you, his eyes blinking softly. There was no threat or challenge there. No judgment. It was as if he already knew everything about you anyway, like a wordless sacrament of confession and absolution. He knew exactly what was going on. He participated in this human nonsense, he knew we were fools. He knew he could crush me with one hand. Looking into those eyes there was no way you could doubt that he had a soul, an uncluttered soul that was millions of years old, that had travelled through many incarnations and forgotten none of the lessons. ~ Magda Szubanski,
913:Abby,” he signed.
“Hmm?”
“I have a confession to make.”
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“I love watching you dance,” he said.
Well… that wasn’t what she was expecting. At all. “Really?”
He nodded. “I’m actually a little in awe of the way you dance and move and …” He stopped.
Abby sat up a little and looked at him. “What? What were you going to say?”
“Never mind,” he said shyly and tried to pull her in for another kiss.
But her curiosity got the better of her. “Uh-uh. Come on. What were going to say?”
Dean signed. Loudly. Rolling onto his back, he flung an arm over his eyes as if he were embarrassed to look at her. “I kind of…dammit.” Another sigh. “I kind of fantasized about watching you dance. Just for me.”
Wow. That was totally unexpected too. “Like… a striptease?” she asked, slightly confused.
He shook his head. “No. More like just doing what you do in class. But… just for me. And maybe… just wearing something sexy. ~ Samantha Chase,
914:MAY I ask you about your experiences as confessor to homosexual people? During the press conference on your return flight from Rio de Janeiro you famously remarked, “Who am I to judge?”           On that occasion I said this: If a person is gay and seeks out the Lord and is willing, who am I to judge that person? I was paraphrasing by heart the Catechism of the Catholic Church where it says that these people should be treated with delicacy and not be marginalized. I am glad that we are talking about “homosexual people” because before all else comes the individual person, in his wholeness and dignity. And people should not be defined only by their sexual tendencies: let us not forget that God loves all his creatures and we are destined to receive his infinite love. I prefer that homosexuals come to confession, that they stay close to the Lord, and that we pray all together. You can advise them to pray, show goodwill, show them the way, and accompany them along it. ~ Pope Francis,
915:Would you say that you're a good man, Harry?"
He had to think about that. "No," he finally said. "In the fairy tale you mentioned last night, I would probably be the villain. But it's possible the villain would treat you far better than the prince would have."
Poppy wondered what was wrong with her, that she should be amused rather than frightened by his confession. "Harry. You're not supposed to court a girl by telling her you're the villain."
He gave her an innocent glance that didn't deceive her in the least. "I'm trying to be honest."
"Perhaps. But you're also making certain that whatever anyone says about you, you've already admitted it. Now you've made all criticism of you ineffectual."
Harry blinked as if she'd surprised him. "You think I'm that manipulative?"
She nodded.
Harry seemed stunned that she could see through him so easily. Instead of being annoyed, however, he stared at her with stark longing. "Poppy, I have to have you. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
916:Adam's reply reflects his fear, as well as a note of deep sorrow. But there's no confession. Adam seems to have realized that it was pointless to try to plead innocence, but neither did he make a full confession. What he did was try to pass off the blame. He immediately pointed the finger at the one closest to him: Eve.
Also implicit in Adam's words (The Woman whom YOU gave) was an accusation against God. So quickly did sin corrupt Adam's mind that in his blame shifting, he did not shy away from making God Himself an acessary to the crime. This is so typical of sinners seeking to exonerate themselves that the New Testament epistle of James expressly instructs us, "Let no one say when he is tempted, "I am tempted by God"; for God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does He Himself tempt anyone. But each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed"James 1:13. Adam, however, was subtly trying to put at least some of the blame on God himself. ~ John F MacArthur Jr,
917:Confession
'To take a homeopathic approach to the soul is to deal with
the darkness in ways that are in tune with the dark.'
---Thomas Moore
It’s taken time
to realise
no one survives.
Not even the ordinary.
Time to own up then
to blue throat
and gall bladder extraordinaire,
to rages pristine,
guilt unsmeared
by mediocrity,
separation traumas
subcontinental
and griefs that dare
to be primordial.
Time to iron out
a face corrugated
by perennial hope,
time to shrug off
the harlotry
and admit
there’s nothing hygienic
about this darkness –
no potted palms,
no elevator music.
I erupt from pillars,
half-lion half-woman.
The ?oor space index I demand
is nothing short
of epic.
I still wait sometimes
for a ?icker of revelation
but for the most part
I’m unbribable.
When I open the coffee percolator
the roof ?ies off.
~ Arundhathi Subramaniam,
918:When it is once admitted that a body of facts lies at the basis of the Christian religion, the efforts which past generations have made toward the classification of the facts will have to be treated with respect. In no branch of science would there be any real advance if every generation started fresh with no dependence upon what past generations have achieved. Yet in theology, vituperation of the past seems to be thought essential to progress. And upon what base slanders the vituperation is based! After listening to modern tirades against the great creeds of the Church, one receives rather a shock when one turns to the Westminster Confession, for example, or to that tenderest and most theological of books, the "Pilgrim's Progress" of John Bunyan, and discovers that in doing so one has turned from shallow modern phrases to a "dead orthodoxy" that is pulsating with life in every word. In such orthodoxy there is life enough to set the whole world aglow with Christian love. ~ J Gresham Machen,
919:Why is it that it is often easier for us to confess our sins to God than to a brother? God is holy and sinless, He is a just judge of evil and the enemy of all disobedience. But a brother is sinful as we are. He knows from his own experience the dark night of secret sin. Why should we not find it easier to go to a brother than to the holy God? But if we do, we must ask ourselves whether we have not often been deceiving ourselves with our confession of sin to God, whether we have not rather been confessing our sins to ourselves and also granting ourselves absolution...Who can give us the certainty that, in the confession and the forgiveness of our sins, we are not dealing with ourselves but with the living God? God gives us this certainty through our brother. Our brother breaks the circle of self-deception. A man who confesses his sins in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone with himself; he experiences the presence of God in the reality of the other person. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
920:Times were tough and the people were harsh and the clergy were cruel-cruel, and you know it! The most natural thing in the world is giving birth; you built your whole religion around it. And yet you poured pitch onto girls like me and sold us into slavery and took our humanity away from us twice, a third time, as often as you could. I was lucky, Father. I was only sent away. A decade earlier and where would I have been? I might have died in your asylums, me with the smart mouth. I killed one man but you would have killed me in the name of your god, wouldn't you? How many did you kill? How many lives did you destroy with your morality and your Seal of Confession and your lies? Now. For the absolution. Once God knows you're sorry he lets you off the hook, isn't that right?

Me? Oh, Father. I know I'm sorry. What about you? Bless me Ireland for I have sinned. Go on, boy. No wonder you say infinitely God is brimming with the clemency, for how else would any of you bastards sleep at night? ~ Lisa McInerney,
921:Confession time: I doubt I would ever have picked up one of Marjorie’s books, had I not met her in person. The reason is they’re categorized as Romances, which is where they are shelved in bookstores. Though I have no justification for avoiding it, the romance section is an area in bookstores I seldom wander into. Her novels also have traditional-looking romance book covers, which are occasionally a bit off-putting to us mighty manly men.

Then again, who knows? I don’t carry many biases where good storytelling is concerned. I’m willing to find it anywhere, as too many of my friends will attest, when I try to drag them to wonderful movies that they aren’t eager to go to, simply because they fall under the chick-flick rubric. So, in any case, I’m glad I did meet Marjorie Liu in person, because it would have been a shame to miss out on the work of an author this talented due to whatever degree of cultural prejudices I might still possess. I trust you who read this won’t make the same mistake. ~ Bill Willingham,
922:Thrift is the really romantic thing; economy is more romantic than extravagance... But the thing is true; economy, properly understood, is the more poetic. Thrift is poetic because it is creative; waste is unpoetic because it is waste. It is prosaic to throw money away, because it is prosaic to throw anything away; it is negative; it is a confession of indifference, that is, it is a confession of failure. The most prosaic thing about the house is the dustbin, and the one great objection to the new fastidious and aesthetic homestead is simply that in such a moral menage the dustbin must be bigger than the house. If a man could undertake to make use of all things in his dustbin he would be a broader genius than Shakespeare. When science began to use by-products; when science found that colors could be made out of coaltar, she made her greatest and perhaps her only claim on the real respect of the human soul. Now the aim of the good woman is to use the by-products, or, in other words, to rummage in the dustbin. ~ G K Chesterton,
923:The fury of confession, at first,
then the fury of clarity:
It was from you, Death, that such hypocritical
obscure feeling was born! And now
let them accuse me of every passion,
let them bad-mouth me, let them say I’m deformed,
impure, obsessed, a dilettante, a perjurer.
You isolate me, you give me the certainty of life,
I’m on the stake. I play the card of fire
and I win this little, immense goodness of mine.
I can do it, for I have suffered you too much!

I return to you as an émigré returns
to his own country and rediscovers it:
I made a fortune (in the intellect)
and I’m happy, as I once was,
destitute of any norm,
a black rage of poetry in my breast.
A crazy old-age youth.
Once your joy was confused with terror,
it’s true, and now almost with other joy,
livid and arid, my passion deluded.
Now you really frighten me,
for you are truly close to me,
part of my angry state, of obscure hunger,
of the anxiety almost of a new being. ~ Pier Paolo Pasolini,
924: “Jebediah has given up on you, but I never will. I can offer you the security you desire. If you’ll but be mine, your heart will forever be sheltered in my care. Yes, we will quarrel incessantly and fight for dominance. And yes, there will be ravishes of passion, but there will also be gentle lulls. That is who we are together. You’ll never need fear that your love is not reciprocated. For although you’ve made me feel things I am not equipped for . . . I cannot stop feeling them.” His chin quavers. “You opened Pandora’s box within me. Set loose the imaginings and emotions of a mortal man. And there is no closing it ever again.” The jewels under his eyes twitch between dark purple and blue. “As much as I abhor being anything akin to human, Alyssa, I wouldn’t dare try to close it. Because that would mean losing you.”
The confession is lovely and brutal—laced with honesty that I not only hear in the rasp of his voice, but feel in the quaking of his muscles as he holds my hands over my head. ~ A G Howard,
925:If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get my children to believe.”“I will discipline the hell out of my children.”“It’s my job to ensure that they do what is right.”“If I do nothing else, I will send children out into the world who are prepared to live right.”“After I’m done with him, he’ll never even think of doing that again.” The assessment in these statements that children need to change is right. The deep desire for that change which motivates a parent is right. The commitment to work for that change is right. Then what is wrong with each of these statements? Each of them assumes power on the part of parents that no parent has, and that assumption creates all kinds of parenting trouble. If you are going to be what God has designed you to be as a parent and do what he’s called you to do, you must confess one essential thing. This confession has the power to change much about the way you act and react toward your children. It is vital that you believe and admit that you have no power whatsoever to change your child. ~ Paul David Tripp,
926:You care about her," I say with unexpected twang of envy. In my long-lost memories of us as children, it was always just the two of us. We 'got' each other on every level. Morpheus made me feel adored, special, important. I never considered him doing the same for someone else as a man. "Morpheus, what is she to you?"

He doesn't answer. Not aloud, anyway. His expression is hazy and troubled, and the jewels around his eyes twinkle from silver to black, like stars peering down on a storm-swept night. Alice's confession from the trial comes back to me: "Ivory was, in fact, very fond of Mr. Caterpillar." Judging by how Morpheus looked at the queen just now, by how she looked at him, he returned to her castle after his metamorphosis.

I imagine his elegant fingers tracing her skin, his soft lips on hers. That stab of envy evolves to something much uglier—a covetous twist of emotion I can't even put a name to. What's wrong with me? Why should i care about Morpheus's love life, when I finally kissed Jeb after all these years? ~ A G Howard,
927:Is Mr. Huntley safe?” Bethany’s composed voice sounded through the connection.
“He is. Are you?”
“I’m fine. Jeff and I went for a drive around the block. I had to tell him to stay to the left twice.”
Liev laughed in spite of himself.
“Did you keep him close?”
Bethany’s question sent tight ropes of tension through Liev’s chest. “I did.”
“Why didn’t you answer the phone when I first rang?”
Because I was tongue-fucking our boss against a door.
The confession played through Liev’s mind like a wicked taunt. “I was dealing with the situation.”
“I want details later.”
He snorted at Bethany’s calm demand. “Tough. You’re not going to get them.”
Bethany chuckled. “Yes, I will,” she said, and then hung up.
Suppressing a growl, Liev shoved his phone back into his pocket. Chris’s P.A. was an enigma. A frustrating, feisty enigma who seemed to have an agenda regarding their boss that Liev couldn’t decipher but somehow seemed to be a part of.
Which made her his new favourite woman in the world.
Or his least. ~ Lexxie Couper,
928:I wanted her and I couldn’t have her, so I fed the temptation, I flooded the craving, I would’ve fucking nursed the obsession from my own tits if I could’ve. I made sure I got little doses of her here and there. Except something incredibly enlightening happens when you spend enough time in one woman’s company. You start noticing shit about her, little useless crap that actually begins to mean everything, like how she brushes the hair out her face—even if there isn’t any in her eyes—whenever she’s unsettled, or how she chews on the end of a pen during class whenever she’s listening to something that captures her attention. You learn all her different laughs and know what each one means. You learn what pisses her off the most, or what makes her the happiest. You discover how smart and witty and sarcastic she is, and that her mind is almost as dirty as yours. You see how passionate she becomes when she defends those she loves, and you start to fall. Hard.

So, this is my Pathetic Loser’s confession: I am Oren Tenning, and I have fallen. Hard. ~ Linda Kage,
929:Hinduism’ is thus the name that foreigners first applied to what they saw as the indigenous religion of India. It embraces an eclectic range of doctrines and practices, from pantheism to agnosticism and from faith in reincarnation to belief in the caste system. But none of these constitutes an obligatory credo for a Hindu: there are none. We have no compulsory dogmas. This is, of course, rather unusual. A Catholic is a Catholic because he believes Jesus was the Son of God who sacrificed himself for Man; a Catholic believes in the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth, offers confession, genuflects in church and is guided by the Pope and a celibate priesthood. A Muslim must believe that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is His Prophet. A Jew cherishes his Torah or Pentateuch and his Talmud; a Parsi worships at a Fire Temple; a Sikh honours the teachings of the Guru Granth Sahib above all else. There is no Hindu equivalent to any of these beliefs. There are simply no binding requirements to being a Hindu. Not even a belief in God. ~ Shashi Tharoor,
930:I don’t want to say it, I truly don’t, but if you’ve gone this far I suppose it’s obvious that what was ignited when I loved you continues to burn. But that’s of small importance to you now, and that’s how it should be. Everything is in its place. The past rests, breathing faintly in the darkness. It no longer holds me as it used to; now I must reach back to touch it. It is night and I am alone and there is still time, a moment more. I am standing on a long black stage, with a circle of light on me, which is my love for you, enduring. I have escaped—or have been expelled—from eternity and am back in time. But I step out once more to sing this aria, this confession, this testament without end. My arms open wide, not to embrace you but to embrace the world, the mystery we are caught in. There is no orchestra, no audience; it is an empty theater in the middle of the night and all the clocks in the world are ticking. And now for this last time, Jade, I don’t mind, or even ask if it is madness: I see your face, I see you, you; I see you in every seat. ~ Scott Spencer,
931:May I ask one more question?” He looked at her alertly and spread his hands as if to show he had nothing to hide. “Would you say that you’re a good man, Harry?” He had to think about that. “No,” he finally said. “In the fairy tale you mentioned last night, I would probably be the villain. But it’s possible the villain would treat you far better than the prince would have.” Poppy wondered what was wrong with her, that she should be amused rather than frightened by his confession. “Harry. You’re not supposed to court a girl by telling her you’re the villain.” He gave her an innocent glance that didn’t deceive her in the least. “I’m trying to be honest.” “Perhaps. But you’re also making certain that whatever anyone says about you, you’ve already admitted it. Now you’ve made all criticism of you ineffectual.” Harry blinked as if she’d surprised him. “You think I’m that manipulative?” She nodded. Harry seemed stunned that she could see through him so easily. Instead of being annoyed, however, he stared at her with stark longing. “Poppy, I have to have you. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
932:That’s the ground motive of Spirit-directed, Christ-mediated prayer—to simply know him better and enjoy his presence. Consider how different this is from the normal way we use prayer. In our natural state we pray to God to get things. We may believe in God, but our deepest hopes and happiness reside in things as in how successful we are or in our social relationships. We therefore pray mainly when our career or finances are in trouble, or when some relationship or social status is in jeopardy. When life is going smoothly, and our truest heart treasures seem safe, it does not occur to us to pray. Also, ordinarily our prayers are not varied—they consist usually of petitions, occasionally some confession (if we have just done something wrong). Seldom or never do we spend sustained time adoring and praising God. In short, we have no positive, inner desire to pray. We do it only when circumstances force us. Why? We know God is there, but we tend to see him as a means through which we get things to make us happy. For most of us, he has not become our happiness. ~ Timothy J Keller,
933:If you tell me Christian commitment is a kind of thing that has happened to you once and for all like some kind of spiritual plastic surgery, I say go to, go to, you're either pulling the wool over your own eyes or trying to pull it over mine. Every morning you should wake up in your bed and ask yourself: "Can I believe it all again today?" No, better still, don't ask it till after you've read The New York Times, till after you've studied that daily record of the world's brokenness and corruption, which should always stand side by side with your Bible. Then ask yourself if you can believe in the Gospel of Jesus Christ again for that particular day. If your answer's always Yes, then you probably don't know what believing means. At least five times out of ten the answer should be No because the No is as important as the Yes, maybe more so. The No is what proves you're human in case you should ever doubt it. And then if some morning the answer happens to be really Yes, it should be a Yes that's choked with confession and tears and. . . great laughter. ~ Frederick Buechner,
934:And they had no idea what lives inside me, what I can do.”
“I know what you do to me,” Kyle said, finding his eyes. “It’s everything right, honest, and good.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.
“Kyle, I’m intense and devoted, and I need a lot of direction just to get through my day.”
“Cole, I’m impulsive and devoted and hopeless. I have a filthy mouth, and I don’t see it cleaning up anytime soon.”
“I would like to make love to you. Here. Right now,” Cole said, continuing his confession. “But I’m afraid I’ll lose you, that you’ll leave your body and go somewhere else. Will you stay with me?”
“I’m your shadow now, Cole. I’ll be where you are.” Kyle set her jaw, determined.
“Okay,” he said. “This is how it’ll go. I’m going to give you pleasure. And you’re going to take it. No reciprocating.” He instantly saw doubt in her face. “Please, this time—which will be the first of so many—let me make you happy. Let my touch cleanse you. When I’m done, I want your body to belong just to us.” He could feel himself smiling, just thinking about it. ~ Debra Anastasia,
935:You’re afraid to count on me.” “I’m afraid of not being able to count on me.” There is a hint of emotion in his stare before his expression becomes unreadable. He drops his hand from my arm. “I understand,” he states, his voice monotone, his expression impassive. I think I’ve hurt him, and reality slaps me in the face. I’ve let myself think of him as some kind of demon, to avoid the real demons of my past. In two small steps I am in front of him, wrapping my arms around him, and pressing my cheek to his chest. “I don’t think you realize how much I care about you, or how easily and badly you could hurt me.” I lift my head and let him see the truth in my face. “So yes, I’m scared to count on you.” Tension eases from his body, his expression softening. He runs his hand over my hair and there is gentleness in his touch. “Then we’ll be scared together.” “You’re scared?” I ask, surprised by such a confession. “You’re the best adrenaline rush of my life, baby. Far better than the pain you replaced.” For the first time, I think that maybe, just maybe, I am all Chris needs. ~ Lisa Renee Jones,
936:It didn't take long. In that despondent changeless heat the entire human content of the ship congealed into a massive drunkenness. People moved flabbily about like squid in a tank of tepid smelly water. From that moment on we saw, rising to the surface, the terrifying nature of white men, exasperated, freed from constraint, absolutely unbuttoned, their true nature, same as in the war. That tropical steam bath called forth the instincts as August breeds toads and snakes on the fissured walls of prisons. In the European cold, under gray, puritanical northern skies, we seldom get to see our brothers' festering cruelty except in times of carnage, but when roused by the foul fevers of the tropics, their rottenness rises to the surface. That's when the frantic unbuttoning sets in, when filth triumphs and covers us entirely. It's a biological confession. Once work and cold weather cease to constrain us, once they relax their grip, the white man shows you the same spectacle as a beautiful beach when the tide goes out: the truth, fetid pools, crabs, carrion, and turds. ~ Louis Ferdinand C line,
937:He who for us is life itself descended here and endured our death and slew it by the abundance of his life. In a thunderous voice he called us to return to him, at that secret place where he came forth to us. First he came into the Virgin's womb where the human creation was married to him, so that mortal flesh should not for ever be mortal. Coming forth from thence 'as a bridegroom from his marriage bed, he bounded like a giant to run his course' (Ps 18:6). He did not delay, but ran crying out loud by his words, deeds, death, life, descent, and ascent—calling us to return to him. And he has gone from our sight that we should 'return to our heart' (Isa 46:8) and find him there. He went away and behold, here he is. He did not wish to remain long with us, yet he did not abandon us. He has gone to that place which he never left, 'for the world was made by him' (John 1:10); and he was in the world, and 'came into this world to save sinners' (1 Tim. 1:15). To him my soul is making confession, and 'he is healing it, because it was against him that it sinned' (Ps.40:5). ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,
938:Now this is prairie food. I’ve actually eaten biscuits and gravy from an authentic chuck wagon. I’d eat biscuits and gravy anytime, anywhere. Though if I did eat biscuits and gravy as often as I’d like, my rear end would be as wide as the prairie itself. I’ve included a recipe for from-scratch biscuits here, but true confession: I love the recipe from the Bisquick box. Serve this with fried eggs, if you like. Serves 8 to 10 in a normal home, but 4 to 6 with my dudes 12 ounces (340 g) hot bulk sausage 12 ounces (340 g) mild bulk sausage ¼ cup (30 g) all-purpose flour 2 quarts (2 L) milk Salt and freshly ground black pepper Stovetop Biscuits (recipe opposite) • Put both kinds of sausage in a large pot and cook over medium heat until browned and cooked through, 8 to 10 minutes. Drain the fat, and then add the flour to the sausage. Raise the heat to medium-high and cook until the sausage is well coated with the flour. Add the milk and cook, stirring, for 20 to 25 minutes, or until it reaches the desired thickness. • Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve over the biscuits. ~ Melissa Gilbert,
939:As early as 1921 interrogations usually took place at night. At that time, too, they shone automobile lights in the prisoner's face (the Ryazan Cheka—Stelmakh). And at the Lubyanka in 1926 (according to the testimony of Berta Gandal) they made use of the hot-air heating system to fill the cell first with icy-cold and then with stinking hot air. And there was an airtight cork-lined cell in which there was no ventilation and they cooked the prisoners. The poet Klyuyev was apparently confined in such a cell and Berta Gandal also. A participant in the Yaroslavl uprising of 1918, Vasily Aleksandrovich Kasyanov, described how the heat in such a cell was turned up until your blood began to ooze through your pores. When they saw this happening through the peephole, they would put the prisoner on a stretcher and take him off to sign his confession. The "hot" and "salty" methods of the "gold" period are well known. And in Georgia in 1926 they used lighted cigarettes to burn the hands of prisoners under interrogation. In Metekhi Prison they pushed prisoners into a cesspool in the dark. ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn,
940:ROM10.9 That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. ROM10.10 For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. ROM10.11 For the scripture saith, Whosoever believeth on him shall not be ashamed. ROM10.12 For there is no difference between the Jew and the Greek: for the same Lord over all is rich unto all that call upon him. ROM10.13 For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved. ROM10.14 How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher?  ROM10.15 And how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!  ROM10.16 But they have not all obeyed the gospel. For Esaias saith, Lord, who hath believed our report?  ROM10.17 So then faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. ~ Anonymous,
941:There is a kind of listening with half an ear that presumes already to know what the other person has to say. It is an impatient, inattentive listening, that despises the brother and is only waiting for a chance to speak and thus get rid of the other person. This is no fulfillment of our obligation, and it is certain that here too our attitude toward our brother only reflects our relationship to God. It is little wonder that we are no longer capable of the greatest service of listening that God has committed to us, that of hearing our brother's confession, if we refuse to give ear to our brother on lesser subjects. Secular education today is aware that often a person can be helped merely by having someone who will listen to him seriously, and upon this insight it has constructed its own soul therapy, which has attracted great numbers of people, including Christians. But Christians have forgotten that the ministry of listening has been committed to them by Him who is Himself the great listener and whose work they should share. We should listen with the ears of God that we may speak the Word of God. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
942:In addition to baptism, the tribes of Mexico, Central America and Peru resembled the nations of the old world in their rites of confession, absolution, fasting, and marriage before priests by joining hands. They had even a ceremony resembling the Eucharist, in which cakes marked with the Tau (an Egyptian form of cross) were eaten, the people calling them the flesh of their God. These exactly resemble the sacred cakes of Egypt and other eastern nations. Like these nations too, the people of the new world had monastic orders, male and female, in which broken vows were punished with death. Like the Egyptians they embalmed their dead, they worshipped sun, moon, and planets, but over and above these adored a Deity "omnipresent, who knoweth all things ... invisible, incorporeal, one God of perfect perfection" (see Sahagun's Historia de Nueva Espâna, lib. vi.). They too had their virgin-mother goddess, "Our Lady" whose son, the "Lord of Light," was called the "Saviour," bearing an accurate correspondence to Isis, Beltis and the many other virgin-goddesses of the east with their divine sons. Their rites of sun and ~ William Scott Elliot,
943:The testimony of Charles Spurgeon as to his own conversion illustrates what I have labored to explain: "One week-night, when I was sitting in the house of God, I was not thinking much about the preacher's sermon, for I did not believe it. The thought struck me, 'How did you come to be a Christian?' I sought the Lord. 'But how did you come to seek the Lord?' The truth flashed across my mind in a moment - I should not have sought Him unless there had been some previous influence in my mind to make me seek Him. I prayed, thought I, but then I asked myself, How came I to pray? I was induced to pray by reading the Scriptures. How came I to read the Scriptures? I did read them, but what led me to do so? Then, in a moment, I saw that God was at the bottom of it all, and that He was the Author of my faith, and so the whole doctrine of grace opened up to me, and from that doctrine I have not departed to this day, and I desire to make this my constant confession, 'I ascribe my change wholly to God'" (Charles H. Spurgeon, Autobiography, vol. 1, The Early Years, 1834-1859 [reprint ed.; Edinburgh: Banner of Truth Trust, 1973], p. 165). ~ Anonymous,
944:To care means first of all to empty our own cup and to allow the other to come close to us. It means to take away the many barriers which prevent us from entering into communion with the other. When we dare to care, then we discover that nothing human is foreign to us, but that all the hatred and love, cruelty and compassion, fear and joy can be found in our own hearts. When we dare to care, we have to confess that when others kill, I could have killed too. When others torture, I could have done the same. When others heal, I could have healed too. And when others give life, I could have done the same. Then we experience that we can be present to the soldier who kills, to the guard who pesters, to the young man who plays as if life has no end, and to the old man who stopped playing out of fear for death.

By the honest recognition and confession of our human sameness, we can participate in the care of God who came, not to the powerful but powerless, not to be different but the same, not to take our pain away but to share it. Through this participation we can open our hearts to each other and form a new community. ~ Henri J M Nouwen,
945:This, to me, is the point of the confession and absolution in the liturgy. When I first experienced it—the part where everyone in church stands up and says what bad people they are, and the pastor, from the distance of the chancel and the purity of her white robe says, “God forgives you”—I thought it was hogwash. Why should I care if someone says to me that some God I may or may not really believe in has erased the check marks against me for things I may or may not even think are so-called sins? This obviously is the problem with religion for so many: It makes you feel bad enough that you will need the religion to help you feel good again. But eventually the confession and absolution liturgy came to mean everything to me. It gradually began to feel like a moment when truth was spoken, perhaps for the only time all week, and it would crush me and then put me back together. One Sunday in 2006, after the last night I spent at Candace’s house, I stood in the blue-carpeted sanctuary at my husband’s church and for the first time I really paid attention to the confession. We have sinned by what we have done and by what we have left ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
946:At the height of the witch craze the Duke of Brunswick invited two learned and famous Jesuits—both of whom believed in witchcraft and in torture as a means of eliciting a confession—to join him in the Brunswick dungeon to witness the torture of a woman accused of witchcraft. Suspecting that people will say anything to stop the pain, the duke told the woman on the rack that he had reasons to believe that the two men accompanying him were warlocks and that he wanted to know what she thought, instructing her torturers to jack up the pain a little more. The woman promptly “confessed” that she had seen both men turn themselves into goats, wolves, and other animals, that they had sexual relations with other witches, and that they had fathered many children with heads like toads and legs like spiders. “The Duke of Brunswick led his astounded friends away,” MacKay narrates. “This was convincing proof to both of them that thousands of persons had suffered unjustly; they knew their own innocence, and shuddered to think what their fate might have been if an enemy instead of a friend had put such a confession into the mouth of a criminal. ~ Michael Shermer,
947:a. Seek to worship and preach in the vernacular. It is impossible to overstate how insular and subcultural our preaching can become. We often make statements that are persuasive and compelling to us, but they are based on all sorts of premises that a secular person does not hold. Preachers often use references, terms, and phrases that mean nothing outside of our Christian tribe. So we must intentionally seek to avoid unnecessary theological or evangelical jargon, carefully explaining the basic theological concepts behind confession of sin, praise, thanksgiving, and so on. In your preaching, always be willing to address the questions that the nonbelieving heart will ask. Speak respectfully and sympathetically to people who have difficulty with Christianity. As you prepare the sermon, imagine a particularly skeptical non-Christian sitting in the chair listening to you. Be sure to add the asides, the qualifiers, and the extra explanations that are necessary to communicate in a way that is comprehensible to them. Listen to everything that is said in the worship service with the ears of someone who has doubts or struggles with belief. ~ Timothy J Keller,
948:He asks me which of them two I liked best. Perhaps I liked Mr. Harry Carson once--I don't know--I've forgotten; but I loved James Wilson, that's now on trial, above what tongue can tell--above all else on earth put together; and I love him now better than ever, though he has never known a word of it till this minute... I never found out how dearly I loved another till one day, when James Wilson asked me to marry him, and I was very hard and sharp in my answer (for indeed, sir, I'd a deal to bear just then), and he took me at my word and left me; and from that day to this I've never spoken a word to him, or set eyes on him; though I'd fain have done so, to try and show him we had both been too hasty; for he'd not been gone out of my sight above a minute before I knew I loved--far above my life," said she, dropping her voice as she came to this second confession of the strength of her attachment. "But, if the gentleman asks me which I loved the best, I make answer, I was flattered by Mr. Carson, and pleased with his flattery; but James Wilson, I"--
She covered her face with her hands, to hide the burning scarlet blushes, which even dyed her fingers. ~ Elizabeth Gaskell,
949:Humility teaches us that God is actively redeeming the world. And because He is, we can experience the relief of confessing our brokenness—whether it is intentional sin, our natural limitations, or simply the weight of living under the curse. Humility teaches us to find rest in confession. Rest from the need to hide, the need to be perfect. We rest by saying, both to God and others, “I am not enough. I need help.” And ultimately, the humility that leads us to confess our brokenness, both within and without, also frees us to grieve it and throw ourselves on the mercy of God. And this, more than anything, leads to rest. When humility expresses itself in godly sorrow, we can finally break down; we can finally let it all out; we can finally have that “good” cry. Good, both because it is a weeping, breath-sucking catharsis, but also because it is legitimate. Good, because it honestly faces the brokenness of the world while resting in something—Someone—greater. Good, because it leads to surrender. To cry like Jesus as He looks over Jerusalem. To cry like Jesus as He stands at Lazarus’s tomb. To cry like Jesus as He endures the cross and entrusts Himself to the Father. ~ Hannah Anderson,
950:Slowly, he lifted her skirts, and her heart pounded an erratic rhythm as he slid his hand up her thigh, then across to the slit in her split drawers. He found the damp center between her legs.
She let out a gasp of both shock and delight. He stroked her with his open palm, and she became intoxicated by the hot, searing motion of his hand.
She opened her eyes and looked up at his handsome face against the blue sky, and discovered he was intently watching her expression.
"My husband never did anything like this to me," she told him, certain she had surprised him with the confession, which came completely unbidden.
"Then he didn't know how to love you properly."
He kissed her again and twirled his tongue inside her mouth, then kissed down the front of her gown to her quivering stomach.
"Oh, this is wicked," she whispered, knowing she should put a stop to it, but how could she when it was all so new and daring and exciting?
He grinned and slowly slid his finger inside her. She sucked in a breath and writhed in pleasure on the blanket, then groaned on the outstroke and licked her lips voraciously.
"It feels good," she whispered. "Too good. ~ Julianne MacLean,
951:Art has to be a kind of confession. I don't mean a true confession in the sense of that dreary magazine.The effort, it seems to me, is: if you can examine and face your life, you can discover the terms with which you are connected to other lives, and they can discover, too, the terms with which they are connected to other people.

This has happened to every one of us, I'm sure. You read something which you thought only happened to you, and you discovered it happened one hundred years ago to Dostoyevsky. This is a very great liberation for the suffering, struggling person, who always thinks that he is alone. This is why art is important. Art would not be important if life were not important, and life *is* important.

Most of us, no matter what we say, are walking in the dark, whistling in the dark. Nobody knows what is going to happen to him from one moment to the next, or how one will bear it. This is irreducible. And it's true for everybody. Now, it is true that the nature of society is to create, among its citizens, an illusion of safety; but it is also absolutely true that the safety is always necessarily an illusion. Artists are here to disturb the peace. ~ James Baldwin,
952:There were some books that reached through the noise of life to grab you by the collar and speak only of the truest things. A Confession was a book like that. In it, Tolstoy related a Russian fable about a man who, being chased by a monster, jumps into a well. As the man is falling down the well, however, he sees there's a dragon at the bottom, waiting to eat him. Right then, the man notices a branch sticking out of the wall, and he grabs on to it, and hangs. This keeps the man from falling into the dragon's jaws, or being eaten by the monster above, but it turns out there's another little problem. Two mice, one black and one white, are scurrying around and around the branch, nibbling it. It's only a matter of time before they will chew through the branch, causing the man to fall. As the man contemplates his inescapable fate, he notices something else: from the end of the branch he's holding, a few drops of honey are dripping. The man sticks out his tongue to lick them. This, Tolstoy says, is our human predicament: we're the man clutching the branch. Death awaits us. There is no escape. And so we distract ourselves by licking whatever drops of honey come within our reach. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,
953:The Torah, like other ancient law codes, assigns the death penalty to many proscribed behaviors besides murder—including adultery, rape of a betrothed woman, giving insult or injury to one’s parents, witchcraft, male homosexuality, and public profanation of the Sabbath. By the second century C.E., however, the Talmudic rabbis, whose debates and rulings constitute the main body of Halakha, had virtually nullified the death penalty. The Mishnah (the codification of law that forms the core text of the Talmud) states, “A Sanhedrin [governing council] that puts a man to death once in seven years is called destructive. Rabbi Eliezer ben Azariah says: even once in seventy years. Rabbi Akiba and Rabbi Tarfon say: had we been in the Sanhedrin none would ever have been put to death” (Makkot 7A). Even in murder cases, the Torah’s requirement of two eyewitnesses for a sentence of death was interpreted by the Talmudic rabbis to make capital punishment highly unlikely: the murderer’s own confession could not be accepted as evidence, and the two eyewitnesses were required also to have warned the criminal beforehand that he would be executed! Justice tempered by mercy thus became the Jewish ideal. ~ Leo Rosten,
954:Thank you for coming after me,” she said softly, her mind beginning to comprehend the magnitude of what he’d done and the risks he’d taken—even putting his own life in jeopardy—to find her. “I don’t know what I would have done without your help.” “You’re welcome.” A slow smile worked its way up his lips. The flames from the fire reflected on his face, highlighting his pleasure at her words. “After all the times I’ve had to bail you out of trouble, I have to admit, it’s kind of nice to hear you finally admit you needed my help.” “All the times?” “Yes, all the times.” His grinned widened. “Starting from the first night you stepped into the Northern Hotel.” “If I remember right, I didn’t do such a bad job taking care of myself.” A smile twitched her lips. “But I suppose if it makes you feel like a knight in shining armor, I’ll let you take the credit for saving me from doom.” “Oh, come on, admit it.” His voice was low and edged with laughter. “You know for a fact I’m your knight in shining armor.” Her heart swelled. “Since you’re forcing a confession out of me,” she bantered, “then yes, I admit you’re my hero.” Little did he know just how much he was winning her heart. “Well, then that’s settled. ~ Jody Hedlund,
955:Oh, ta ra,” Clarissa said lightly. “In retrospect I suppose it is all rather funny—though I doubt that Lydia would agree.”
Adrian’s humor ended there, and he arched one eyebrow in displeasure, though she could not see it. “Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but your stepmother sounds to be a rather nasty old cow.”
“Oh!” Clarissa said, dismayed. “Oh, you must not say that. Ever.”
“Why not?” he asked with careless amusement. “I am not afraid of her.”
“No, but…She would be furious. And she would not like you were she to hear you say such things about her.”
“I could not care less if she likes me or not—,” Adrian began, but Clarissa cut him off.
“Oh, but you must care. If she does not like you, then she will not allow me to dance with you anymore, and…and…I do quite like it,” she finished with some embarrassment.
The look of scorn on Adrian’s face melted away at her confession, and his annoyance softened slightly. “Well, then, I shall have to be sure to treat her with the utmost respect.” He watched her pink, embarrassed face for a moment, then added, “Because I quite like dancing with you, too.”
Clarissa turned to him and beamed brightly.

-Clarissa & Adrian ~ Lynsay Sands,
956:MEDITATION:

The practice of making offerings is followed by confession, rejoicing, requesting teachings, beseeching the Buddhas not to enter parinirvana, and dedication.
He should confess his misdeeds and rejoice in the merit of all other beings.


Then, he should sit in the full lotus posture of Vairochana, or the halflotus posture, on a comfortable cushion. The eyes should not be too widely opened or too tightly closed. Let them focus on the tip of the nose. The body should not be bent forward or backward. Keep it straight and turn the attention inwards. The shoulders should rest in their natural position and the head should not lean back, forward, or to either side. The nose should be in line with the navel. The teeth and lips should rest in their natural state with the tongue touching the upper palate. Breathe very gendy and softly without causing any noise, without laboring, and without unevenness. Inhale and exhale natu- rally, slowly, and unnoticeably.


Meditators need to pay special attention to the way they breathe. Breathing should be free of any noise or congestion. Violent breathing is harmful. Breathe gently and deeply. Inhale and exhale calmly and evenly. ~ Dalai Lama XIV,
957:Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh have promised to continue to fund efforts to prove the convicted men’s innocence, including more scientific “evidence testing and further investigation which will hopefully lead to the unmasking of the actual killer.”246 Because the West Memphis Three were released before the evidentiary hearing could be held, the new evidence already gathered was never given its day in court. This evidence, in addition to the evidence that Misskelley’s confession was false, now constitutes the bulk of the West Memphis Three’s case for exoneration. Despite all of the new scientific evidence, which wholly discredits the Salem Witch Trial–like “evidence” used to convict them, Echols, Baldwin, and Misskelley remain convicted murderers today. They are free of their prison cells, yet they remain imprisoned by their legal status as convicted murderers. Jason Baldwin once said, “I know one thing, and that is how long is too long to keep an innocent person in prison: one minute! One minute is too long to deny an innocent person his freedom.”247 When they were finally released, on August 19, 2011, eighteen years and seventy-eight days after they were arrested, Echols, Baldwin, and Misskelley had each ~ Damien Echols,
958:Art has to be a kind of confession. I don’t mean a true confession in the sense of that dreary magazine. The effort it seems to me, is: if you can examine and face your life, you can discover the terms with which you are connected to other lives, and they can discover them, too — the terms with which they are connected to other people. This has happened to every one of us, I’m sure. You read something which you thought only happened to you, and you discovered it happened 100 years ago to Dostoyevsky. This is a very great liberation for the suffering, struggling person, who always thinks that they are alone. This is why art is important. Art would not be important if life were not important, and life is important. Most of us, no matter what we say, are walking in the dark, whistling in the dark. Nobody knows what is going to happen to them from one moment to the next, or how one will bear it. This is irreducible. And it’s true for everybody. Now, it is true that the nature of society is to create, among its citizens, an illusion of safety; but it is also absolutely true that the safety is always necessarily an illusion. Artists are here to disturb the peace. They have to disturb the peace. Otherwise, chaos. ~ James Baldwin,
959:The inner history of the Magian religion ends with Justinian’s time, as truly as that of the Faustian ends with Charles V and the Council of Trent. Any book on religious history shows “the”Christian religion as having had two ages of grand thought movements — 0-500 in the East and 1000-1500 in the West.61 But these are two springtimes of two Cultures, and in them are comprised also the non-Christian forms which belong to each religious development. The closing of the University of Athens by Justinian in 529 was not, as is always stated, the end of Classical philosophy — there had been no Classical philosophy for centuries. What he did, forty years before the birth of Mohammed, was to end the theology of the Pagan Church by closing this school and — as the historians forget to add — to end the Christian theology also by closing those of Antioch and Alexandria. Dogma was complete, finished — just as it was in the West with the Council of Trent (1564) and the Confession of Augsburg (1540), for with the city and intellectualism religious creative force comes to an end. So also in Jewry and in Persia, the Talmud was concluded about 500, and when Chosroes Nushirvan in 529 bloodily suppressed the Reformation of Mazdak. ~ Oswald Spengler,
960:Because of some little vexation or trouble do not thou neglect Holy Communion, but rather hasten to confess it, and forgive freely all offences committed against thee. And if thou hast offended any man, humbly beg for pardon, and God shall freely forgive thee. 4. What profiteth it to put off for long time the confession of thy sins, or to defer Holy Communion? Cleanse thyself forthwith, spit out the poison with all speed, hasten to take the remedy, and thou shalt feel thyself better than if thou didst long defer it. If to-day thou defer it on one account, to-morrow perchance some greater obstacle will come, and so thou mayest be long time hindered from Communion and become more unfit. As soon as thou canst, shake thyself from thy present heaviness and sloth, for it profiteth nothing to be long anxious, to go long on thy way with heaviness of heart, and because of daily little obstacles to sever thyself from divine things: nay it is exceeding hurtful to defer thy Communion long, for this commonly bringeth on great torpor. Alas! there are some, lukewarm and undisciplined, who willingly find excuses for delaying repentance, and desire to defer Holy Communion, lest they should be bound to keep stricter watch upon themselves. ~ Thomas Kempis,
961:And what thoughts or memories, would you guess, were passing through my mind on this extraordinary occasion? Was I thinking of the Sibyl's prophecy, of the omen of the wolf-cub, of Pollio's advice, or of Briseis's dream? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my grandfather and liberty? Of my three Imperial predecessors, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, their lives and deaths? Of the great danger I was still in from the conspirators, and from the Senate, and from the Gaurds battalions at the Camp? Of Messalina and our unborn child? Of my grandmother Livia and my promise to deify her if I ever became Emperor? Of Postumus and Germanicus? Of Agrippina and Nero? Of Camilla? No, you would never guess what was passing through my mind. But I shall be frank and tell you what it was, though the confession is a shameful one. I was thinking, 'So, I'm Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I'll be able to make people read my books now. Public recitals to large audiences. And good books too, thirty-five years' hard work in them. It wont be unfair. Pollio used to get attentive audiences by giving expensive dinners. He was a very sound historian, and the last of the Romans. My history of Carthage is full of amusing anecdotes. I'm sure that they'll enjoy it. ~ Robert Graves,
962:We need to incorporate the Word into our prayers, confessing it over every circumstance and situation. The word confess means “to say the same thing as,” so when we confess the Word, we are saying the same things God says; we are putting ourselves in agreement with Him. If we really want a deep and vibrant relationship with God, we need to agree with Him and nothing will help us do that like confessing the Word. Our confession strengthens our knowledge of the Word and our faith in God, which increases the accuracy and effectiveness of our prayers. In order to confess the Word, we need to know the Word, because we can agree with God only when we know what He has done and what He has said. I often encounter people who are asking God to give them something they already have or to make them something they already are, and I want to say, “Stop praying that way! God has already finished the work you are asking Him to do.” There is no need to ask God to bless you because He already has. It would be better to say, “God, thank You that according to Your Word I am blessed.” Prayers that ask God for something that He has already given us are totally unnecessary. When we pray God’s Word back to Him or put Him in remembrance of it, we are honoring His Word ~ Joyce Meyer,
963:I can never be interested in an idea to the same extent. I could never shoot myself.

In spite of which, he commits suicide, although he has no hopes from suicide:

I know it will be another delusion, a delusion in an infinite series of delusions.

Nothing is real—consequently he has nothing to live for and no reason for dying:

My love will be as petty as I am myself.... I know I ought to kill myself, to brush myself off the earth like some loathsome insect....
Always in Dostoevsky there is this comparison of men to insects: half a dozen passages spring to mind. It is the Hemingway position, ‘Most men ... die like animals’, or the comparison of Catherine Barkely’s death with that of ants on a burning log. There is no belief. Men’s lives are futile, and they die ‘not with a bang but a whimper’. And when they are inspired by a belief, it depends on their blinding themselves with their emotions. This is Stavrogin’s position, and he hates it. He would like to breathe clean air and feel a sensation of power. But how? To do good? That is out of the question; he sees it as a game of emotional profit, self-flattery, nothing more. Then evil ? His ‘confession’ is an account of his attempt to do evil. It is a deliberate sensation-seeking ~ Colin Wilson,
964:It was the first time the chief of police, a kindly family man whose name was Hook, had ever been required to visit a girls' camp; his daughters had not gone in much for that sort of thing, and Mrs. Hook distrusted night air; it was also the first time that Chief Hook had ever been required to determine facts. He had been allowed to continue in office this long because his family was popular in town and the young men at the local bar liked him, and because his record for twenty years, of drunks locked up and petty thieves apprehended upon confession, had been immaculate. In a small town such as the one lying close to the Phillips Education Camp for Girls Twelve to Sixteen, crime is apt to take its form from the characters of the inhabitants, and a stolen dog or broken nose is about the maximum to be achieved ordinarily in the sensational line. No one doubted Chief Hook's complete inability to cope with the disappearance of a girl from the camp.

'You say she was going somewhere?' he asked Betsy, having put out his cigar in deference to the camp nurse, and visibly afraid that his questions would sound foolish to Old Jane; since Chief Hook was accustomed to speaking around his cigar, his voice without it was malformed, almost quavering.

("The Missing Girl") ~ Shirley Jackson,
965:The curate called everything Helen's. He
had a great contempt for the spirit of men who
marry rich wives and then lord it over their
money, as if they had done a fine thing in get-
ting hold of it, and the wife had been but
keeping it from its rightful owner. They do
not know what a confession their whole bear-
ing is, that but for their wives' money, they
would be the merest, poorest nobodies. So
small are they that even that suffices to make
them feel big ! But Helen did not like it,
especially when he would ask her if he might
have this or that, or do so and so. Any com-
mon man who heard him would have thought
him afraid of his wife; but a large-hearted
woman would at once have understood, as did
Helen, that it came all of his fine sense of truth,
and reality, and obligation. Still Helen would
have had him forget all such matters in con-
nection with her. They were one beyond
obligation. She had given him herself, and
what were bank-notes after that ? But he
thought of her always as an angel who had taken
him in, to comfort, and bless, and cherish him
with love, that he might the better do the work
of his God and hers ; therefore his obligation to
her was his glory. ~ George MacDonald,
966:There is a boy in the neighborhood...whom I have defended in some of his troubles with the law. He used to stop in often on Saturday mornings to shave and wash up, after having spent the week on the streets. He has been addicted for a long time. His father threw him out three years ago, when he was first arrested. He has contrived so many stories to induce clergy and social workers to give him money to support his habit that he is no longer believed when he asks for help...He is dirty, ignorant, arrogant, dishonest, unemployable, broken, unreliable, ugly, rejected, alone. And he knows it. He knows at last that he has nothing to offer. There is nothing about him that permits the love of another person for him. He is unlovable. Yet it is in his own confession that he does not deserve the love of another that he represents all the rest of us in this regard. We are all unlovable. More tan that, the action of this boy's life points beyond itself, it points to the Gospel, to God who loves us though we hate Him, who loves us though we do not please Him, who loves us not for our sake but for His own sake, who loves us freely, who accepts us though we have nothing acceptable to offer him. Hidden in the obnoxious existence of this boy is the scandalous secret of the Word of God. ~ William Stringfellow,
967:There once was a woman who woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and noticed she had only three hairs on her head. “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll braid my hair today.” So she did and she had a wonderful day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror, and saw that she had only two hairs on her head. “Hmmm,” she said, “I think I’ll part my hair down the middle today.” So she did and she had a grand day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror, and noticed that she had only one hair on her head. “Well,” she said, “Today I’m going to wear my hair in a ponytail.” So she did, and she had a fun, fun day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror, and noticed that there wasn’t a single hair on her head. “YAY!” she exclaimed. “I don’t have to fix my hair today!” This is a woman who understood the power of a good attitude. Her attitude, her confession, and her choice to rest allowed her to see life differently. They allowed her to enjoy her life regardless of the situation she faced. I don’t know what circumstances you face today, but I want you to know that a new beginning awaits you. And God allows you to play a vital role in that new beginning. Your attitude, your confessions, and your choice to rest will greatly affect your life, today and each day moving forward. ~ Joyce Meyer,
968:The third operation in any magical ceremony is the oath or proclamation. The Magician, armed and ready, stands in the centre of the Circle, and strikes once upon the bell as if to call the attention of the Universe. He then declares who he is, reciting his magical history by the proclamation of the grades which he has attained, giving the signs and words of those grades. He then states the purpose of the ceremony, and proves that it is necessary to perform it and to succeed in its performance. He then takes an oath before the Lord of the Universe (not before the particular Lord whom he is invoking) as if to call Him to witness the act. He swears solemnly that he will perform it-that nothing shall prevent him from performing it-that he will not leave the operation until it is successfully performed-and once again he strikes upon the bell. Yet, having demonstrated himself in that position at once infinitely lofty and infinitely unimportant, the instrument of destiny, he balances this by the Confession, in which there is again an infinite exaltation harmonised with an infinite humility. He admits himself to be a weak human being humbly aspiring to something higher; a creature of circumstance utterly dependent-even for the breath of life-upon a series of fortunate accidents.
   ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,
969:It was all Vianne could do not to say, I’m different now, Papa. I am helping to hide Jewish children. She wanted to see herself reflected in his gaze, wanted just once to make him proud of her. Do it. Tell him. How could she? He looked so old sitting there, old and broken and lost. There was only the barest hint of the man he’d been. He didn’t need to know that Vianne was risking her life, too, couldn’t worry that he would lose both his daughters. Let him think she was as safe as one could be. A coward. “Isabelle will need you to come home to when this is over. You will tell her that she did the right thing. She will worry about that one day. She will think she should have stayed with you, protected you. She will remember leaving you with the Nazi, risking your lives, and she will agonize over her choice.” Vianne heard the confession that lay beneath. He was telling her his own story in the only way he could, cloaked in Isabelle’s. He was saying that he had worried about his choice to join the army in the Great War, that he had agonized over what his fighting had done to his family. He knew how changed he’d been on his return, and instead of pain drawing him closer to his children and wife, it had separated them. He regretted pushing them away, leaving them with Madame Dumas all those years ago. ~ Anonymous,
970:Hebrews 4:12–16: For the Word that God speaks is alive and full of power—making it active, operative, energizing and effective; it is sharper than any two-edged sword, penetrating to the dividing line of the breath of life (soul) and [the immortal] spirit, and of joints and marrow [of the deepest parts of our nature], exposing and sifting and analyzing and judging the very thoughts and purposes of the heart. And not a creature exists that is concealed from His sight, but all things are open and exposed, naked and defenseless to the eyes of Him with Whom we have to do. Inasmuch then as we have a great High Priest Who has [already] ascended and passed through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession [of faith in Him], For we do not have a High Priest Who is unable to understand and sympathize and have a fellow feeling with our weaknesses and infirmities and liability to the assaults of temptation, but One Who has been tempted in every respect as we are, yet without sinning. Let us then fearlessly and confidently and boldly draw near to the throne of grace—the throne of God's unmerited favor [to us sinners]; that we may receive mercy [for our failures] and find grace to help in good time for every need—appropriate help and well-timed help, coming just when we need it. (AMP) ~ Beth Moore,
971:Race and culture. The moralist/conservative bias is to use truth to evaluate cultures. Feeling superior to others in the impulse of self-justifying pride, moralists idolize their culture as supreme. The relativist/liberal approach is to relativize all cultures (“We can all get along because there is no truth”). The gospel leads us, on the one hand, to be somewhat critical of all cultures, including our own (since truth is objective and real). On the other hand, it leads us to recognize we are morally superior to no one, since we are saved by grace alone. In this instance, the gospel is the grand leveler. Both sin and grace strip everyone of every boast. “All have sinned” (Rom 3:23, emphasis added); “there is no one righteous, not even one” (Rom 3:10, emphasis added; cf. Ps 143:2); therefore, “whoever believes in [Jesus] shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16, emphasis added; cf. Mark 16:16; John 3:36; 5:24; 7:38; 11:26). For in Christ “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female” (Gal 3:28, emphasis added). Christianity is universal in that it welcomes everybody, but it is also particular in its confession that Jesus is Lord, and culture and ethnicity (or whatever other identity) are not. Gospel-relying Christians will exhibit both moral conviction and compassion with flexibility. ~ Timothy J Keller,
972:I have just reread The Age of Innocence. Poor Countess Olenska, so much more alive than everyone in New York. She was better than Newland Archer, to whom she couldn’t give herself because she was married. It didn’t matter to society that she had been wronged by her husband. They felt her life was over. Thanks to the modern age of divorce, my life is not. I am coming to see that as a blessing and not something to be ashamed of. I am starting to think that my life is a good thing to have. I do not believe that there were more happy marriages before divorce became socially acceptable, that people tried harder, got through their rough times, and were better off. I believe that more people suffered. Divorce is in the machine now, like love and birth and death. Its possibility informs us, even when it goes untouched. And if we fail at marriage, we are lucky we don’t have to fail with the force of our whole life. I would like there to be an eighth sacrament: the sacrament of divorce. Like Communion, it is a slim white wafer on the tongue. Like confession, it is forgiveness. Forgiveness is important not so much because we’ve done wrong as because we feel we need to be forgiven. Family, friends, God, whoever loves us forgives us, takes us in again. They are thrilled by our life, our possibilities, our second chances. They weep with gladness that we did not have to die. ~ Ann Patchett,
973:Well, good morning, sleepyhead!” As Miranda shuffled drowsily into the kitchen, Aunt Teeta met her with a big hug. “Your mama already left for work, but look who’s decided to grace us with their presence!”
Startled, Miranda saw Gage and Etienne sitting at the table, both help heaping plates of food in front of them. Gage wiped his mouth quickly on a napkin; Etienne watched her over the rim of his coffee cup.
Her mind spun back to last night, cheeks flaming at the memory. What was I thinking? I should know better! When everything about Etienne Boucher screams GUARANTEED HEARTBREAK--and even though nothing really serious happened--I should definitely know better!
Halfway standing, Gage pulled out a chair for her. “We thought maybe you’d like a ride to school.”
Oh yes…and now here was Gage. With that face and that smile and those big brown eyes that just melted her heart whenever she looked at him. And especially since Roo’s candid confession--“He was amazing”--how could a girl not imagine other secrets behind the shyness?
Still flustered, Miranda turned and bumped into her aunt, upsetting the coffeepot, splashing the floor, nearly burning her arm in the process. As Gage and Etienne exchanged glances, she had a second of panic. What if Etienne had said something about last night? What if Gage suspected? Did she look guilty? ~ Richie Tankersley Cusick,
974:Describe for me, if you can, the nature of this wisdom.’

Anomander snorted impatiently. ‘Wisdom is surrender.’

‘To what?’

‘Complexity.’

‘To what end?’

‘Swallow it down, spit it out in small measures, to make palatable what many may not otherwise comprehend.’

‘An arrogant pose, First Son.’

‘I do not claim it, Azathanai, just as I refuse for myself the notion of rule. And, in the name of worship, I am lost in doubt, if not outright disbelief.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Power does not confer wisdom, nor rightful authority, nor faith in either of the two. If it offers a caress, so too can it by force make one kneel. The former is by nature suspect, while the latter — well, it can at least be said that it does not disguise its truth.’

‘You learn for liberty.’

‘If I do, then I am the greater fool, because liberty is not in itself a virtue. It wins nothing but the false belief in one's own utterly unassailable independence. even the beasts will not plunge to that depth. No, if I yearn for anything, it is for responsibility. An end to the evasions, the lies spoken in the mind and the lies spoken to others, the endless game of deeds without blame, and all the causes of seeming justice behind which hide venal desires. I yearn for the coward's confession, and understand me well here, Caladan: we are all cowards. ~ Steven Erikson,
975:Pedro Algorta, a lawyer, showed me the fat dossier about the murder of two women. The double crime had been committed with a knife at the end of 1982, in a Montevideo suburb.

The accused, Alma Di Agosto, had confessed. She had been in jail more than a year, and was apparently condemned to rot there for the rest of her life.

As is the custom, the police had raped and tortured her. After a month of continuous beatings they had extracted several confessions. Alma Di Agosto's confessions did not much resemble each other, as if she had committed the same murder in many different ways. Different people appeared in each confession, picturesque phantoms without names or addresses, because the electric cattle prod turns anyone into a prolific storyteller. Furthermore, the author demonstrated the agility of an Olympic athlete, the strength of a fairground Amazon, and the dexterity of a professional matador. But the most surprising was the wealth of detail: in each confession, the accused described with millimetric precision clothing, gestures, surroundings, positions, objects.....

Alma Di Agosto was blind.
Her neighbours, who knew and loved her, were convinced she was guilty:
'Why?' asked the lawyer.
'Because the papers say so.'
'But the papers lie,' said the lawyer.
'But the radio said so too,' explained the neighbours.
'And the TV! ~ Eduardo Galeano,
976:Towards the end of our conversation in the churchyard today I got the impression that pastor Jón thinks that all gods that men worship are equally good. In the Bhagavad Gita, which pastor Jón cites, Krishna is reported as saying, as I recall: You are free to address your prayers to any god at all; but the one who answers the prayers, I am he. Is this what pastor Jón means when he says that all gods are equally good except the god that answers the prayers, because he is nowhere? Neither of these two standpoints can be accommodated within the framework of our confession of faith. The god who speaks through Krishna's words isn't particularly pleasant, either, because he alone controls the card-game and the other gods are only dummies and he is the one who declares on their cards. At any rate this god is rather far removed from the seventy-year-old grandfather with the large beard who came to breakfast with the farmer Abraham of Ur accompanied by two angels, his attendants, and settled in with him, and whom the Jews inherited and thereafter the pope and finally the Saxons. When Krishna says he is the one god who answers prayers, then this is actually just our orthodox god of the catechism, the one who says: I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt have no other gods before me. Pastor Jón says, on the other hand, Thou shalt have all other gods before the Lord thy God. What is the answer to that? ~ Halld r Kiljan Laxness,
977:Hosea 14 Come Back! Return to Your GOD! 1-3 O Israel, come back! Return to your GOD! You’re down but you’re not out. Prepare your confession and come back to GOD. Pray to him, “Take away our sin, accept our confession. Receive as restitution our repentant prayers. Assyria won’t save us; horses won’t get us where we want to go. We’ll never again say ‘our god’ to something we’ve made or made up. You’re our last hope. Is it not true that in you the orphan finds mercy?” + + + 4-8 “I will heal their waywardness. I will love them lavishly. My anger is played out. I will make a fresh start with Israel. He’ll burst into bloom like a crocus in the spring. He’ll put down deep oak tree roots, he’ll become a forest of oaks! He’ll become splendid—like a giant sequoia, his fragrance like a grove of cedars! Those who live near him will be blessed by him, be blessed and prosper like golden grain. Everyone will be talking about them, spreading their fame as the vintage children of God. Ephraim is finished with gods that are no-gods. From now on I’m the one who answers and satisfies him. I am like a luxuriant fruit tree. Everything you need is to be found in me.” + + + 9 If you want to live well, make sure you understand all of this. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll learn this inside and out. GOD’s paths get you where you want to go. Right-living people walk them easily; wrong-living people are always tripping and stumbling. ~ Anonymous,
978:What frightens you?
What makes the hair on your arms rise, your palms sweat, the breath catch in your chest like a wild thing caged?
Is it the dark? A fleeting memory of a bedtime story, ghosts and goblins and witches hiding in the shadows? Is it the way the wind picks up just before a storm, the hint of wet in the air that makes you want to scurry home to the safety of your fire?
Or is it something deeper, something much more frightening, a monster deep inside that you've glimpsed only in pieces, the vast unknown of your own soul where secrets gather with a terrible power, the dark inside?
If you will listen I will tell you a story-one whose ghost cannot be banished by the comfort of a roaring fire, I will tell you the story of how we found ourselves in a realm where dreams are formed, destiny is chosen, and magic is as real as your handprint in the snow. I will tell you how we unlocked the Pandora's box of ourselves, tasted freedom, stained our souls with blood and choice, and unleashed a horror on the world that destroyed its dearest Order. These pages are a confession of all that has led to this cold, gray dawn. What will be now, I cannot say.
Is your heart beating faster?
Do the clouds seem to be gathering on the horizons?
Does the skin on your neck feel stretched tight, waiting for a kiss you both fear and need?
Will you be scared?
Will you know the truth?
Mary Dowd, April 7, 1871 ~ Libba Bray,
979:Because I see that the mobs are always growing, the number of errors are always increasing and Satan's rage and ruin have no end, I wish to confess with this work my faith before God and the whole world, point by point. I am doing this, lest certain people cite me or my writings, while I am alive or after I am dead, to support their errors, as those fanatics, the Sacramentarians and the Anabaptists, have begun to do. I will remain in this confession until my death (God help me!), will depart from this world in it, and appear before the Judgment Seat of our Lord Jesus Christ. So that no one will say after my death, ``If Luther was alive, he would teach and believe this article differently, because he did not think it through sufficiently,'' I state the following, once and for all: I, by God's grace, I have diligently examined these articles in the light of passages throughout the Scriptures. I have worked on them repeatedly and you can be sure that I want to defend them, in the same way that I have just defended the
Sacrament of the Altar.

No, I'm not drunk or impulsive. I know what I am saying and understand fully what this will mean for me as I stand before the Lord Jesus Christ on the Last Day. No one should think that I am joking or rambling. I'm serious! By God's grace, I know Satan very well. If Satan can turn God's Word upside down and pervert the Scriptures, what will he do with my words -- or the words of others?" - Martin Luther ~ Martin Luther,
980:In this noble ring to-day

Let my warning shame ye!
Listen to my solemn voice,--

Seldom does it name ye.
Many a thing have ye intended,

Many a thing have badly ended,
And now I must blame ye.

At some moment in our lives

We must all repent us!
So confess, with pious trust,

All your sins momentous!
Error's crooked pathways shunning.

Let us, on the straight road running,
Honestly content us!

Yes! we've oft, when waking, dream'd,

Let's confess it rightly;
Left undrain'd the brimming cup,

When it sparkled brightly;
Many a shepherd's-hour's soft blisses,

Many a dear mouth's flying kisses
We've neglected lightly.

Mute and silent have we sat,

Whilst the blockheads prated,
And above e'en song divine

Have their babblings rated;
To account we've even call'd us

For the moments that enthrall'd us,
With enjoyment freighted.

If thou'lt absolution grant

To thy true ones ever,
We, to execute thy will,

Ceaseless will endeavour,
From half-measures strive to wean us,

Wholly, fairly, well demean us,
Resting, flagging never.

At all blockheads we'll at once

Let our laugh ring clearly,
And the pearly-foaming wine

Never sip at merely.
Ne'er with eye alone give kisses,

But with boldness suck in blisses
From those lips loved dearly.
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, General Confession
,
981:You should’ve told us!”

“You wouldn’t have let me help!” Ben shot back. “This whole nightmare was my fault. I needed to find that psycho and stop him. If I’d told you guys the truth, you’d have shut me out. Then we found the corpse, and … and …” He shook his head. “It was too late. Things were crazy. All I could do was try to prevent whatever evil Rome had planned.”

I held up a hand. Couldn’t handle any more of his confession.

Unwittingly or not, Ben had assisted a monster. A killer. He’d known the truth for days, and never told us. He’d lied. Even when The Game had threatened our lives.

“Tell me why, Ben. Why would you want to trick us in the first place?”

Ben stopped pacing. Looked directly at me. “Don’t you know?”

I shook my head, confused.

“To impress you, Victoria Brennan.” His voice cracked. “I wanted you to think I was special.”

The words rocked me.

Oh, Ben.

He’d started this madness … for me?

“You were spending all that time with Jason,” Ben said softly, staring at his shoes. “Skipping around town with your new perfect guy. Cotillion this. Fund-raiser that. I hated it. Hated him. When I finally told Rome, he said I needed to amaze you. Said I needed to figure out a way to make you see me.”

“I see you, Ben.” I rose and grabbed his hand. “I always have. You’re in my pack.”

He pulled away. “What if being packmates isn’t enough for me?”

I was speechless.

-Code, Reichs ~ Kathy Reichs,
982:You should’ve told us!”

“You wouldn’t have let me help!” Ben shot back. “This whole nightmare was my fault. I needed to find that psycho and stop him. If I’d told you guys the truth, you’d have shut me out. Then we found the corpse, and … and …” He shook his head. “It was too late. Things were crazy. All I could do was try to prevent whatever evil Rome had planned.”

I held up a hand. Couldn’t handle any more of his confession.

Unwittingly or not, Ben had assisted a monster. A killer. He’d known the truth for days, and never told us. He’d lied. Even when The Game had threatened our lives.

“Tell me why, Ben. Why would you want to trick us in the first place?”

Ben stopped pacing. Looked directly at me. “Don’t you know?”

I shook my head, confused.

“To impress you, Victoria Brennan.” His voice cracked. “I wanted you to think I was special.”

The words rocked me.

Oh, Ben.

He’d started this madness … for me?

“You were spending all that time with Jason,” Ben said softly, staring at his shoes. “Skipping around town with your new perfect guy. Cotillion this. Fund-raiser that. I hated it. Hated him. When I finally told Rome, he said I needed to amaze you. Said I needed to figure out a way to make you see me.”

“I see you, Ben.” I rose and grabbed his hand. “I always have. You’re in my pack.”

He pulled away. “What if being packmates isn’t enough for me?”

I was speechless.

Code, Kathy Reichs ~ Kathy Reichs,
983:If anyone insists on his own goodness and despises others . . . let him look into himself when this petition confronts him. He will find he is no better than others and that in the presence of God everyone must duck his head and come into the joy of forgiveness only through the low door of humility.210 Luther adds that this petition is not only a challenge to our pride but a test of spiritual reality. If we find confession and repentance intolerably traumatic or demeaning, it means “the heart is not right with God and cannot draw . . . confidence from his Gospel.” If regular confession does not produce an increased confidence and joy in your life, then you do not understand the salvation by grace, the essence of the faith. Jesus tightly links our relationship with God to our relationship with others. It works two ways. If we have not seen our sin and sought radical forgiveness from God, we will be unable to forgive and to seek the good of those who have wronged us. So unresolved bitterness is a sign that we are not right with God. It also means that if we are holding a grudge, we should see the hypocrisy of seeking forgiveness from God for sins of our own. Calvin puts it vividly: If we retain feelings of hatred in our hearts, if we plot revenge and ponder any occasion to cause harm, and even if we do not try to get back into our enemies’ good graces, by every sort of good office deserve well of them, and commend ourselves to them, by this prayer we entreat God not to forgive our sins.211 ~ Timothy J Keller,
984:No one has better attempted to explain the seeming paradox of a Christian involved in a plot to assassinate a head of state than Eberhard Bethge. He helps show that Bonhoeffer’s steps toward political resistance were not some unwarranted detour from his previous thinking, but were a natural and inevitable outworking of that thinking. Bonhoeffer always sought to be brave and to speak the truth—to “confess”—come what may; but at some point merely speaking the truth smacked of cheap grace. Bethge explained: Bonhoeffer introduced us in 1935 to the problem of what we today call political resistance. The levels of confession and of resistance could no longer be kept neatly apart. The escalating persecution of the Jews generated an increasingly intolerable situation, especially for Bonhoeffer himself. We now realized that mere confession, no matter how courageous, inescapably meant complicity with the murderers, even though there would always be new acts of refusing to be co-opted and even though we would preach “Christ alone” Sunday after Sunday. During the whole time the Nazi state never considered it necessary to prohibit such preaching. Why should it? 361 Thus we were approaching the borderline between confession and resistance; and if we did not cross this border, our confession was going to be no better than cooperation with the criminals. And so it became clear where the problem lay for the Confessing Church: we were resisting by way of confession, but we were not confessing by way of resistance. ~ Eric Metaxas,
985:I want to find you, where you don't know your own existence, the you that your common self denies utterly. But I don't want your good looks, and I don't want your womanly feelings, and I don't want your thoughts nor opinions nor your ideas -- they are all bagatelles to me.'

`You are very conceited, Monsieur,' she mocked. `How do you know what my womanly feelings are, or my thoughts or my ideas? You don't even know what I think of you now.'

`Nor do I care in the slightest.'

`I think you are very silly. I think you want to tell me you love me, and you go all this way round to do it.'

`All right,' he said, looking up with sudden exasperation. `Now go away then, and leave me alone. I don't want any more of your meretricious persiflage.'

`Is it really persiflage?' she mocked, her face really relaxing into laughter. She interpreted it, that he had made a deep confession of love to her. But he was so absurd in his words, also.

They were silent for many minutes, she was pleased and elated like a child. His concentration broke, he began to look at her simply and naturally.

`What I want is a strange conjunction with you --' he said quietly; `not meeting and mingling -- you are quite right -- but an equilibrium, a pure balance of two single beings -- as the stars balance each other.'

She looked at him. He was very earnest, and earnestness was always rather ridiculous, commonplace, to her. It made her feel unfree and uncomfortable. Yet she liked him so much. But why drag in the stars. ~ D H Lawrence,
986:The Confession
I HAVEN'T always acted good:
I've taken things not meant for me;
Not other people's drink and food,
But things they never seemed to see.
I haven't done the way I ought
If all they say in church is true,
But all I've had I've fairly bought,
And paid for pretty heavy too.
For days and weeks are very long
If you get nothing new and bright,
And if you never do no wrong
Somehow you never do no right.
The chap that daresent go a yard
For fear the path should lead astray
May be a saint--though that seems hard,
But he's no traveller, any way.
Some things I can't be sorry for,
The things that silly people hate:
But some I did I do deplore,
I knew, inside, they wasn't straight.
And when my last account is filed,
And stuck-up angels stop their song,
I'll ask God's pardon like a child
For what I really knew was wrong.
If you've a child, you'd rather see
A bit of temper, off and on,
A greedy grab, a silly spree-And then a brave thing said or done
Than hear your boy whine all day long
About the things he musn't do:
Just doing nothing, right or wrong:
And God may feel the same as you.
For God's our Father, so they say,
He made His laws and He made me;
He'll understand about the way
267
Me and His laws could not agree.
He might say, 'You're worth more, My son,
Than all My laws since law began.
Take good with bad--here's something done-And I'm your God, and you're My man.'
~ Edith Nesbit,
987:On a Sunday this January, probably of whatever year it is when you read this (at least as long as I’m living), I will probably be preaching somewhere in a church on “Sanctity of Human Life Sunday.” Here’s a confession: I hate it. Don’t get me wrong. I love to preach the Bible. And I love to talk about the image of God and the protection of all human life. I hate this Sunday not because of what we have to say, but that we have to say it at all. The idea of aborting an unborn child or abusing a born child or starving an elderly person or torturing an enemy combatant or screaming at an immigrant family, these ought all to be so self-evidently wrong that a “Sanctity of Human Life Sunday” ought to be as unnecessary as a “Reality of Gravity Sunday.” We shouldn’t have to say that parents shouldn’t abort their children, or their fathers shouldn’t abandon the mothers of their babies, or that no human life is worthless regardless of age, skin color, disability, or economic status. Part of my thinking here is, I hope, a sign of God’s grace, a groaning by the Spirit at this world of abortion clinics and torture chambers (Rom. 8:22–23). But part of it is my own inability to see the spiritual combat zone that the world is, and has been from Eden onward. This dark present reality didn’t begin with the antebellum South or with the modern warfare state, and it certainly didn’t begin with the Roe v. Wade Supreme Court decision. Human dignity is about the kingdom of God, and that means that in every place and every culture human dignity is contested. ~ Russell D Moore,
988:How does one transcend himself; how does he open himself to new possibility? By realizing the truth of his situation, by dispelling the lie of his character, by breaking his spirit out of its conditioned prison. The enemy, for Kierkegaard as for Freud, is the Oedipus complex. The child has built up strategies and techniques for keeping his self-esteem in the face of the terror of his situation. These techniques become an armor that hold the person prisoner. The very defenses that he needs in order to move about with self-confidence and self-esteem become his life-long trap. In order to transcend himself he must break down that which he needs in order to live. Like Lear he must throw off all his "cultural lendings" and stand naked in the storm of life. Kierkegaard had no illusions about man's urge to freedom. He knew how comfortable people were inside the prison of their character defenses. Like many prisoners they are comfortable in their limited and protected routines, and the idea of a parole into the wide world of chance, accident, and choice terrifies them. We have only to glance back at Kierkegaard's confession in the epigraph to this chapter to see why. In the prison of one's character one can pretend and feel that he is somebody, that the world is manageable, that there is a reason for one's life, a ready justification for one's action. To live automatically and uncritically is to be assured of at least a minimum share of the programmed cultural heroics-what we might call "prison heroism": the smugness of the insiders who "know. ~ Ernest Becker,
989:…there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing…. ~ Bret Easton Ellis,
990:No one has expressed what is needed better than Abdel Rahman al-Rashed, the general manager of the London-based al-Arabiya news channel. One of the best-known and most respected Arab journalists working today, he wrote the following, in Al-Sharq Al-Awsat (September 6, 2004), after a series of violent incidents involving Muslim extremist groups from Chechnya to Saudi Arabia to Iraq: "Self-cure starts with self-realization and confession. We should then run after our terrorist sons, in the full knowledge that they are the sour grapes of a deformed culture... The mosque used to be a haven, and the voice of religion used to be that of peace and reconciliation. Religious sermons were warm behests for a moral order and an ethical life. Then came the neo-Muslims. An innocent and benevolent religion, whose verses prohibit the felling of trees in the absence of urgent necessity, that calls murder the most heinous of crimes, that says explicitly that if you kill one person you have killed humanity as a whole, has been turned into a global message of hate and a universal war cry... We cannot clear our names unless we own up to the shameful fact that terrorism has become an Islamic enterprise; an almost exclusive monopoly, implemented by Muslim men and women. We cannot redeem our extremist youth, who commit all these heinous crimes, without confronting the Sheikhs who thought it ennobling to reinvent themselves as revolutionary ideologues, sending other people's sons and daughters to certain death, while sending their own children to European and American schools and colleges. ~ Thomas L Friedman,
991:5. The reading of the Scriptures with godly fear, the sound preaching, and conscionable hearing of the Word, in obedience unto God, with understanding, faith, and reverence; singing of psalms with grace in heart; as also the due administration and worthy receiving of the sacraments instituted by Christ, are all parts of the ordinary religious worship of God: besides religious oaths, vows solemn fastings, and thanksgivings upon special occasions, which are, in their several times and seasons, to be used in a holy and religious manner.

Another element of true worship is the "signing of psalms with grace in the heart." It will be observed that the Confession does not acknowledge the legitimacy of the use of modern hymns in the worship of God, but rather only the psalms of the Old Testament. It is not generally realized today that Presbyterian (and many other Reformed) churches originally used only the inspired psalms, hymns and songs of the biblical Psalter in divine worship, but such is the case. The Westminster Assembly not only expressed the conviction that the psalms should be sung in divine worship, but implemented it by preparing a metrical version of the Psalter for use in the churches. This is not the place to attempt a consideration of this question. But we must record our conviction that the Confession is correct at this point. It is correct, we believe, because it has never been proved that God has commanded his Church to sing the uninspired compositions of men rather than or along with the inspired songs, hymns, and psalms of the Psalter in divine worship. ~ G I Williamson,
992:What sin have you committed for which you seek absolution, mon fils?" the priest said, then added, "This time." "Father..." "Did you act in anger?" the hermit asked this according to ancient tradition, urging a confession from the sinner through questioning. During the two years Vitor had lived in a hilltop monastery in the Serra dal Estrela, he'd read everything in the library of the Benedictine brothers, including confessor manuals. This hermit not did not fix upon the sin of anger at whim. He knew Vitor's special interest in it.
"No," he replied, his throat dry. "Not anger." Not this time.
"Greed?"
"No."
"Pride?"
"No."
"Envy?"
"No."
"It could not have been sloth." The hermit's voice gentled. "You've never slept a full night in your life, young vagabond."
"No." Get to the relevant sin.
"Did you lie?"
"No."
"Did you steal?"
A case could be made for it. "Not quite."
"Did you covet your neighbor's goods?"
Momentarily, though "goods" didn't quite express it, really. "No."
"Son-"
"Father..." Vitor pressed his brow into his knuckles.
The priest paused for a moment that stretched in the chill air. "Did you commit murder again?"
"No."
The Frenchman's breath of relief whispered across the chancel. He sat back on his heels and folded his arms within voluminous sleeves.
"Then what did you do that brings you from the gathering at the house where your half brother needs you now?"
"I kissed a girl."
Silence.
"Father?"
"Vitor, you are bound for the madhouse."

-Denis & Vitor ~ Katharine Ashe,
993:Confession
Life returned with a cause-the way
Some strange chance once interrupted it.
Just as on that distant summer day,
I am standing in the same old street.
People are the same, and people's worries,
And the sunset's still a fireball,
Just the way death's night once in a hurry
Nailed it to the ancient mansion's wall.
Women, in the same cheap clothes attired,
Are still wearing down their shoes at night.
Afterwards, against the roofing iron
They are by the garrets crucified.
Here is one of them. She looks so weary
As she steps across the threshold, and
Rising from the basement, drab and dreary,
Walks across the courtyard on a slant.
And again I'm ready with excuses,
And again it's all the same to me.
And the neighbour in the backyard pauses,
Then goes out of sight, and leaves us be.
_____
Don't cry, do not purse your lips up,
They're puffy as it is, dear.
Mind you don't break the drying scab
Of smouldering spring fever.
Your hand is on my breast. Let go!
We are like two live wires.
If we aren't careful, we'll be thrown
Together unawares.
The years will pass, you'll marry yet
40
And you'll forget this squalor.
To be a woman is a feat,
To drive men mad, that's valour.
And as for me, I've been in thrall
For ages-begged like alms,
And worshipped the great miracle
Of woman's neck, back, arms.
Though bound tight, at the end of day,
By the anguished darkness' loop,
I'm ever lured to get awayI long to break things up.
~ Boris Pasternak,
994:I believe you write the book you want to read. As a reader what I craved was some recognition, however refracted, of the tumult of lived experience, of the pain and absurdity of trying to reach other human beings with some modicum of honesty and openness. And so without quite realizing what I was doing, over the course of the next few years, I wrote a series of stories that eventually became my first book, each of which dramatized in one way or another this struggle: how to find intimacy in a culture that has hollowed out the very language we use to describe it. How to capture the experience of grief when our terms for it have been overrun by the commercialization of confession. The enemy wasn’t New Criticism. It was cliché.

I was trying to write prose whose rhythm created an atmosphere, a music, that allowed the nuances of human isolation, the desire to overcome it, and what it felt like to fail or sometimes briefly succeed in defying that isolation rise into the consciousness of a reader. What I believed then, and still do, is that in a violent, distracted, media-saturated world the most needed artistic resource is no longer a critique of the possibility of meaning—mass culture itself has become that critique. What is needed, rather, is the production of meaning that resists distraction. Consumer capitalism thrives by simultaneously creating human loneliness and commodifying a thousand cures for it. One form of resistance to it is the experience in art and life of a human intimacy achieved through sustained attention to what lies beyond and outside the sphere of the market. ~ Adam Haslett,
995:Treason the only crime defined in the Constitution. Tyranny as under the Stuart and Tudor kings characterized by the elimination of political dissent under the laws of treason. Treason statutes which were many and unending, the instrument by which the monarch eliminated his opposition and also added to his wealth. The property of the executed traitor forfeited by his heirs because of the loathsomeness of his crime. The prosecution of treason, like witchcraft, an industry. Founding Fathers extremely sensitive to the establishment of a tyranny in this country by means of ambiguous treason law. Themselves traitors under British law. Under their formulation it became possible to be guilty of treason only against the nation, not the individual ruler or party. Treason was defined as an action rather than thought or speech. "Treason against the US shall consist only in levying war against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid & Comfort...No person shall be convicted of treason unless on the testimony of two witnesses to the same Overt act, or on Confession in Open Court." This definition, by members of the constitutional convention, intended that T could not be otherwise defined short of constitutional amendment. "The decision to impose constitutional safeguards on treason prosecutions formed part of a broad emerging American tradition of liberalism...No American has ever been executed for treason against his country," says Nathaniel Weyl, Treason the story of disloyalty and betrayal in American history, published in the year 1950. I say if this be treason make the most of it. ~ E L Doctorow,
996:Calling Him Back From Layoff
I called a man today. After he said
hello and I said hello came a pause
during which it would have been
confusing to say hello again so I said
how are you doing and guess what, he said
fine and wondered aloud how I was
and it turns out I’m OK. He
was on the couch watching cars
painted with ads for Budweiser follow cars
painted with ads for Tide around an oval
that’s a metaphor for life because
most of us run out of gas and settle
for getting drunk in the stands
and shouting at someone in a t-shirt
we want kraut on our dog. I said
he could have his job back and during
the pause that followed his whiskers
scrubbed the mouthpiece clean
and his breath passed in and out
in the tidal fashion popular
with mammals until he broke through
with the words how soon thank you
ohmyGod which crossed his lips and drove
through the wires on the backs of ions
as one long word as one hard prayer
of relief meant to be heard
by the sky. When he began to cry I tried
with the shape of my silence to say
I understood but each confession
of fear and poverty was more awkward
11
than what you learn in the shower.
After he hung up I went outside and sat
with one hand in the bower of the other
and thought if I turn my head to the left
it changes the song of the oriole
and if I give a job to one stomach other
forks are naked and if tonight a steak
sizzles in his kitchen do the seven
other people staring at their phones
hear?
~ Bob Hicok,
997:He sat on the edge of the mattress, his nerves sizzling as Daisy gathered up the loose folds of her nightgown. She crawled into his lap with the delicacy of a cat. The scent of sweet female skin filled his nostrils, and her weight settled on his thighs. Linking her slender arms around his neck, she said gravely, “I missed you.”
His palms charted the shape of her body; the tender curves, the slender waist, the firm heart-shaped bottom. But as enchanting as he found Daisy’s physical charms, they didn’t affect him a fraction as intensely as the warm, lively intelligence of her nature.
“I missed you too.”
Daisy’s fingers played in his hair, the delicate touch sending jolts of pleasure from the base of his skull to his groin. Her voice turned provocative. “Did you meet many women in Bristol? Westcliff mentioned something about a dinner, and a soirée given by your host—”
“I didn’t notice any women.” Matthew found it hard to think over the exquisite writhing desire. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”
She touched the tip of her nose to his in a playful nudge. “You weren’t celibate in the past, however.”
“No,” Matthew admitted, closing his eyes as he felt the caress of her breath against his skin. “It’s a lonely feeling, wishing the woman in your arms was someone else. Not long before I left New York, I realized that every woman I’d been with in the past seven years had resembled you in some way. One would have your eyes, another your hands, or your hair…I thought I would spend the rest of my life searching for little reminders of you. I thought—”
Her mouth pressed against his, absorbing the raw confession. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
998:I’ve been trying to think of a solution,” Reinhold said, “and I could come up with only one idea.” “What?” “Marry me.” A burst of laughter tumbled out of her. At the flash of hurt on Reinhold’s face, she cut the laughter short. “You’re serious?” “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” he responded. “Because that would be really awkward.” “It wouldn’t have to be.” His brows came together in a scowl. “I’d make a good husband, Elise.” Seeing he was, in fact, being serious, all the humor she’d found in his suggestion fell away. She studied his profile for a moment, the rippling muscles of his jaw, the maturity that had developed in his face in recent months. He’d been the man of his house for the past year, shouldering more responsibility than most other young men his age. Not only was he faithful and hardworking, but he was tender and kind. She’d seen the sweet way he treated his younger siblings, the same way he did Nicholas and Olivia and Sophie. He’d not only make a good husband, but he’d make a good father too. But marry him? She couldn’t imagine it. “You’ll make an excellent husband,” she said cautiously. “But you’re my brother and friend. It would seem strange—” “You mean more to me than a sister.” His voice cracked over his raw confession. “Reinhold, please don’t.” She didn’t want to hear that he had feelings for her. If he admitted he liked her beyond friendship, things would become uncomfortable between them, and she couldn’t bear that. “It doesn’t matter how either of us feel,” he said quickly, changing his tone back to the brotherly one she needed. “The fact is, if we get married, then my mother can’t say no to you coming to live with us. ~ Jody Hedlund,
999:The dance began. Caran remained silent the entire time.
When the instruments slowed to an end, a lute picking a light tune downward until there was no more music, Kestrel broke away. Caran gave her an awkward bow and left.
“Well, that didn’t look very fun,” said a voice behind her. Kestrel turned. Gladness washed over her.
It was Ronan. “I’m ashamed of myself,” he said. “Heartily ashamed, to be so late that you had to dance with such a boring partner as Caran. How did that happen?”
“I blackmailed him.”
“Ah.” Ronan’s eyes grew worried. “So things aren’t going well.”
“Kestrel!” Jess threaded through milling people and came close. “We didn’t think you’d come. You should have told us. If we’d known, we’d have been here from the first.” Jess took Kestrel’s hand and drew her to the edge of the dance floor. Ronan followed. Behind them, dancers began the second round. “As it was,” Jess continued, “we barely made it into the carriage. Ronan was so listless, saying he saw no point in coming if he couldn’t be with you.”
“Sweet sister,” said Ronan, “is it now my turn to share private things about you?”
“Silly. I have no secrets. Neither do you, where Kestrel is concerned. Well?” Jess looked triumphantly between them. “Do you, Ronan?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and thumb, brows rumpling into a pained expression. “Not anymore.”
“You look lovely, Kestrel,” Jess said. “Wasn’t I right about the dress? And the color will go perfectly with the iced apple wine.”
Kestrel felt giddy, whether form the relief of seeing her friends or because of Ronan’s forced confession, she wasn’t sure. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
1000:Confession

I love you – I love you, e’en as I
Rage at myself for this obsession,
And as I make my shamed confession,
Despairing at your feet I lie.
I know, I know – It ill becomes me,
I am too old, time to be wise …
But how? … This love – it overcomes me,
A sickness this in passion’s guise.
When you are near I’m filled with sadness,
When far, I yawn, for life’s a bore.
I must pour out this love, this madness,
There’s nothing that I long for more!
When your shirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlour – strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
Your frown – and I’m in pain, I languish;
You smile – and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day’s anguish
Comes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss.
When you sit, bent over your sewing,
Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing.
About your face, with tenderness
I like childlike watch, my heart o’erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving
Weep and in silence, pass the day?
Alina! Pray relent have mercy!
I dare not ask for love – with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!
But if feigned love, if you would
Pretend, you’d easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could! ~ Alexander Pushkin,
1001:Confession


I love you – I love you, e’en as I
Rage at myself for this obsession,
And as I make my shamed confession,
Despairing at your feet I lie.
I know, I know – It ill becomes me,
I am too old, time to be wise …
But how? … This love – it overcomes me,
A sickness this in passion’s guise.
When you are near I’m filled with sadness,
When far, I yawn, for life’s a bore.
I must pour out this love, this madness,
There’s nothing that I long for more!
When your shirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlour – strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
Your frown – and I’m in pain, I languish;
You smile – and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day’s anguish
Comes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss.
When you sit, bent over your sewing,
Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing.
About your face, with tenderness
I like childlike watch, my heart o’erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving
Weep and in silence, pass the day?
Alina! Pray relent have mercy!
I dare not ask for love – with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!
But if feigned love, if you would
Pretend, you’d easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could! ~ Alexander Pushkin,
1002:Then I understood. Yeshua’s teaching: If anyone comes to me and does not hate their father and mother, their wife… I removed my hand. “I’m not your wife. And if I was, what does it mean to hate?” “To let go,” he said. “To make of no account…He speaks of the chains of affection for this world.” “Then you would make me of no account?” I had been so enraptured with Yeshua’s promise to save Talya that I’d given little thought to this difficult teaching. And thinking of it now, I was sure that Saba must be wrong. I was also hearing his confession that he found himself enslaved by affection for me. The former nagged at my mind; the latter did not bother me. “You are my closest companion, Saba, not my husband.” He glanced at me. “Yes…” But there was some pain in his eyes, and I regretted being so blunt. My words didn’t properly express my own affection for him. He was struggling with his emotions for me, thinking they distracted him from seeing Yeshua’s kingdom clearly. And had not my own desperate need to save Talya made me blind too? Yes, but there had to be another way of seeing such bonds. “Stephen says you cannot truly love someone unless you also hate them,” Saba said. “Only when you release all expectation of them can you love them without condition, as the Father loves all.” These teachings cut at my heart. You could not serve both the system of the world and the Father, Yeshua said. But wife and son? This was impossible. The teaching was opposite the way of the world—and my way as well. “You would hate me so you can love me,” I said, aggravated. He hesitated, then rose. “I don’t know…” He remained still for a moment, then turned. “I must leave. ~ Ted Dekker,
1003:There is humility in confession. A recognition of flaws. To hear myself say out loud these shameful secrets meant I acknowledged my flaws. I also for the first time was given the opportunity to contextualize anew the catalogue of beliefs and prejudices, simply by exposing them to another, for the first time hearing the words ‘Yes, but have you looked at it this way?’ This was a helpful step in gaining a new perspective on my past, and my past was a significant proportion of who I believed myself to be. It felt like I had hacked into my own past. Unravelled all the erroneous and poisonous information I had unconsciously lived with and lived by and with necessary witness, the accompaniment of another man, reset the beliefs I had formed as a child and left unamended through unnecessary fear. Suddenly my fraught and freighted childhood became reasonable and soothed. ‘My mum was doing her best, so was my dad.’ Yes, people made mistakes but that’s what humans do, and I am under no obligation to hoard these errors and allow them to clutter my perception of the present. Yes, it is wrong that I was abused as a child but there is no reason for me to relive it, consciously or unconsciously, in the way I conduct my adult relationships. My perceptions of reality, even my own memories, are not objective or absolute, they are a biased account and they can be altered. It is possible to reprogram your mind. Not alone, because a tendency, a habit, an addiction will always reassert by its own invisible momentum, like a tide. With this program, with the support of others, and with this mysterious power, this new ability to change, we achieve a new perspective, and a new life. ~ Russell Brand,
1004:prevent any man from pretending ignorance, has endued all men with some idea of his Godhead, the memory of which he constantly renews and occasionally enlarges, that all to a man being aware that there is a God, and that he is their Maker, may be condemned by their own conscience when they neither worship him nor consecrate their lives to his service. Certainly, if there is any quarter where it may be supposed that God is unknown, the most likely for such an instance to exist is among the dullest tribes farthest removed from civilisation. But, as a heathen tells us[1], there is no nation so barbarous, no race so brutish, as not to be imbued with the conviction that there is a God. Even those who, in other respects, seem to differ least from the lower animals, constantly retain some sense of religion; so thoroughly has this common conviction possessed the mind, so firmly is it stamped on the breasts of all men. Since, then, there never has been, from the very first, any quarter of the globe, any city, any household even, without religion, this amounts to a tacit confession, that a sense of Deity is inscribed on every heart. Nay, even idolatry is ample evidence of this fact. For we know how reluctant man is to lower himself, in order to set other creatures above him. Therefore, when he chooses to worship wood and stone rather than be thought to have no God, it is evident how very strong this impression of a Deity must be; since it is more difficult to obliterate it from the mind of man, than to break down the feelings of his nature, - these certainly being broken down, when, in opposition to his natural haughtiness, he spontaneously humbles himself before the meanest object as an act of reverence to God. ~ John Calvin,
1005:THINGS I DON'T LIKE TO SEE. I'm a modest young man, I'd have you all know,
And I can't bear to hear or to see anything low;
From a child all my friends could not fail to detect,
That my notions were moral and strictly correct. Now some of you, doubtless, may think me an ass,
And declare my confession is naught for a farce;
Still, to what I have said I'll religiously stick,
And, to use a low phrase, stand my ground like a brick. Stop, a few minutes you are able to spare,
A bit of my mind I intend to lay bare;
Tho' with my way of thinking you'll p'raps not agree,
I'll tell you a few things I don't like to see. I don't like to see vulgar girls in the town
Pull their clothes up, and stand to be goosed for a crown;
Nor a man with light trousers, of decency shorn,
Stop and talk to young ladies while having the horn. I don't like to see women wear dirty smocks,
Nor a boy of fifteen laid' up with the pox;
And I don't like to see, it's a fact by my life—
A married man grinding another man's wife. Nor I don't like to see - you'll not doubt it, I beg,
A large linseed poultice slip down a man's leg;
Nor a gray-headed sinner that's fond of a find.
When a girl under twelve he is able to grind. In church, too, believe me, I don't like to see
A chap grope a girl while she sits on his knee;
Nor a lady whose visage is allover scabs,
Nor a young married lady troubled with crabs. Nor I don't like to see, through it's really a lark,
A clergyman poking a girl in the park;
Nor a young lady, wishing to be thought discreet,
Looking in print-shops in Holywell Street. I don't like to see, coming out of Cremorne,
A girl with her muslin much crumpled and torn; ~ Anonymous,
1006:Dear Mr. Chance and Ms. Brattle. Sorry about the mess. Great bed. Loved it. As a matter of fact, loved the whole house. Actually, I tried to kill your kids when I found them here. Yeah, funny story. Maybe not funny, hah hah.’”
Astrid heard nervous laughter from the media people, or maybe just from the hotel staff who were hovering around the edges grabbing a glimpse of the Hollywood royalty.
“‘Anyway, I missed and they got away. I don’t know what will happen to Sanjit and that stick-up-his butt Choo and the rest, but whatever happens next, it’s not on me. However . . .’”
Astrid took a dramatic pause.
“‘However, the rest of what happened was on me. Me, Caine Soren. You’ll probably be hearing a lot of crazy stories from kids. But what they didn’t know was that it was all me. Me. Me me. See, I had a power I never told anyone about. I had the power to make people do bad things. Crimes and whatnot. Especially Diana, who never did anything wrong on her own, by her own will, I mean. She—and the rest of them—were under my control. The responsibility is on me. I confess. Haul me away, officers.’”
Astrid suddenly felt her throat tightening, although she’d read the letter many times already, and knew what it said. Rotten son of a . . . And then this.
Redemption. Not a bad concept.
Well, partial redemption.
“It’s signed Caine Soren. And below that, ‘King of the FAYZ.’”
It was a full confession. A lie: a blatant, not-very-convincing lie. But it would be just enough to make prosecutions very difficult. Caine’s role in the FAYZ, and the reality that strange powers had actually existed in that space, were widely known and accepted.
Of course Caine had enjoyed writing it. It was his penultimate act of control. He was manipulating from beyond the grave. ~ Michael Grant,
1007:A country has seldom produced so many different kinds of people as has the Catholic church. With admirable power, it has understood how to maintain unity in diversity, to gain the love and respect of the masses, and to foster a strong sense of community. . . . But it is exactly because of this greatness that we have serious reservations. Has this world [of the Catholic church] really remained the church of Christ? Has it not perhaps become an obstruction blocking the path to God instead of a road sign on the path to God? Has it not blocked the only path to salvation? Yet no one can ever obstruct the way to God. The church still has the Bible, and as long as she has it we can still believe in the holy Christian church. God’s word will never be denied (Isa. 55:11), whether it be preached by us or by our sister church. We adhere to the same confession of faith, we pray the same Lord’s Prayer, and we share some of the same ancient rites. This binds us together, and as far as we are concerned we would like to live in peace with our disparate sister. We do not, however, want to deny anything that we have recognized as God’s word. The designation Catholic or Protestant is unimportant. The important thing is God’s word. Conversely, we will never violate anyone else’s faith. God does not desire reluctant service, and God has given everyone a conscience. We can and should desire that our sister church search its soul and concentrate on nothing but the word [1 Cor. 2:12– 13]. Until that time, we must have patience. We will have to endure it when, in false darkness, the “only holy church” pronounces upon our church the “anathema” (condemnation). She doesn’t know any better, and she doesn’t hate the heretic, only the heresy. As long as we let the word be our only armor we can look confidently into the future. ~ Eric Metaxas,
1008:My own walls caved. Tears trickled from the corner of my eyes.
Then strong arms enveloped me.
“Don’t cry.” Ben’s hot breath on my cheek. “We’ll find her. And the twins. I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I hiccupped. “People always do that.”
“I mean it.” Firmly spoken. “I won’t let us fail. Not at this.”
The sobs broke free. I burrowed into Ben’s chest, letting everything go. I cried and cried and cried, unthinking, releasing a week’s worth of pent-up emotion in a few hot seconds.
Ben held me, silent, softly rubbing my back.
A thought floated from somewhere far away.
This isn’t so bad.
I pushed away, gently breaking Ben’s embrace. Looked into his eyes. His face was a whisper from mine.
I thought of Ben’s confession during the hurricane. How he’d wanted to be more than just packmates. Emotions swirled in my chest, making me dizzy. Off balance.
“Ben . . . I . . .”
“Tory?”
My father’s voice sent us flying apart as if electroshocked.
Kit was descending the steps, an odd look on his face.
“Yes?” Discreetly wiping away tears.
I saw a thousand questions fill Kitt’s eyes, but, thankfully, he kept them shelved.
“I hate to do this, kiddo, but Whitney’s party starts in an hour. She’s trying to be patient, but, frankly, that isn’t her strong suit.”
“No. Right.” I stood, smoothing clothes and hair. “Mustn’t keep the Duchess waiting.”
Kit frowned. “Say the word, and we cancel right now. No question.”
“No, sorry. I was just being flip. It’s really fine.” Forced smile. “Might be just the thing.”
“All right, then. We need to get moving.”
Kit glanced at Ben, still sitting on the bench, striving for invisible.
A smile quirked my father’s lips. “And you, Mr. Blue? Ready for a good ol’-fashioned backyard barbeque? My daughter will be there.”
Ben’s uneasy smile was his only response. ~ Kathy Reichs,
1009:Anybody who lives beneath the Cross and who has discerned in the Cross of Jesus the utter wickedness of all men and of his own heart will find there is no sin that can ever be alien to him. Anybody who has once been horrified by the dreadfulness of his own sin that nailed Jesus to the Cross will no longer be horrified by even the rankest sins of a brother. Looking at the Cross of Jesus, he knows the human heart. He knows how utterly lost it is in sin and weakness, how it goes astray in the ways of sin, and he also knows that it is accepted in grace and mercy. Only the brother under the Cross can hear a confession. It is not experience of life but experience of the Cross that makes one a worthy hearer of confessions. The most experienced psychologist or observer of human nature knows infinitely less of the human heart than the simplest Christian who lives beneath the Cross of Jesus. The greatest psychological insight, ability, and experience cannot grasp this one thing: what sin is. Worldly wisdom knows what distress and weakness and failure are, but it does not know the godlessness of men. And so it also does not know that man is destroyed only by his sin and can be healed only by forgiveness. Only the Christian knows this. In the presence of a psychiatrist I can only be a sick man; in the presence of a Christian brother I can dare to be a sinner. The psychiatrist must first search my heart and yet he never plumbs its ultimate depth. The Christian brother knows when I come to him: here is a sinner like myself, a godless man who wants .to confess and yearns for God’s forgiveness. The psychiatrist views me as if there were no God. The brother views me as I am before the judging and merciful God in the Cross of Jesus Christ. It is not lack of psychological knowledge but lack of love for the crucified Jesus Christ that makes us so poor and inefficient in brotherly confession. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
1010:Parks waits a long while, until he’s absolutely certain that Justineau’s monologue is finished. The truth is, for most of the time he’s been trying to figure out what it is exactly that she’s trying to tell him. Maybe he was right the first time about where they were heading, and Justineau airing her ancient laundry is just a sort of palate-cleanser before they have sex. Probably not, but you never know. In any case, the countermove to a confession is an absolution, unless you think the sin is unforgivable. Parks doesn’t.

“It was an accident,” he tells her, pointing out the obvious. “And probably you would have ended up doing the right thing. You don’t strike me as the sort of person who just lets shit slide.” He means that, as far as it goes. One of the things he likes about Justineau is her seriousness. He frigging flat-out hates frivolous, thoughtless people who dance across the surface of the world without looking down.

“Yeah, but you don’t get it,” Justineau says. “Why do you think I’m telling you all this?”

“I don’t know,” Parks admits. “Why are you telling me?”

Justineau steps away from the parapet wall and squares off against him – range, zero metres. It could be erotic, but somehow it’s not.

“I killed that boy, Parks. If you turn my life into an equation, the number that comes out is minus one. That’s my lifetime score, you understand me? And you … you and Caldwell, and Private Ginger f**king Rogers … my God, whether it means anything or not, I will die my own self before I let you take me down to minus two.”

She says the last words right into his face. Sprays him with little flecks of spit. This close up, dark as it is, he can see her eyes. There’s something mad in them. Something deeply afraid, but it’s damn well not afraid of him.

She leaves him with the bottle. It’s not what he was hoping for, but it’s a pretty good consolation prize. ~ M R Carey,
1011:I opened the curtain and entered the confessional, a dark wooden booth built into the side wall of the church. As I knelt on the small worn bench, I could hear a boy's halting confession through the wall, his prescribed penance inaudible as the panel slid open on my side and the priest directed his attention to me.

"Yes, my child," he inquired softly.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my First Confession."

"Yes, my child, and what sins have you committed?"
....

"I talked in church twenty times, I disobeyed my mother five times, I wished harm to others several times, I told a fib three times, I talked back to my teacher twice." I held my breath.

"And to whom did you wish harm?"

My scheme had failed. He had picked out the one group of sins that most troubled me. Speaking as softly as I could, I made my admission.

"I wished harm to Allie Reynolds."

"The Yankee pitcher?" he asked, surprise and concern in his voice. "And how did you wish to harm him?"

"I wanted him to break his arm."

"And how often did you make this wish?"

"Every night," I admitted, "before going to bed, in my prayers."

"And were there others?"

"Oh, yes," I admitted. "I wished that Robin Roberts of the Phillies would fall down the steps of his stoop, and that Richie Ashburn would break his hand."

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes, I wished that Enos Slaughter of the Cards would break his ankle, that Phil Rizzuto of the Yanks would fracture a rib, and that Alvin Dark of the Giants would hurt his knee." But, I hastened to add, "I wished that all these injuries would go away once the baseball season ended."
...

"Are there any other sins, my child?"

"No, Father."

"For your penance, say two Hail Mary's, three Our Fathers, and," he added with a chuckle, "say a special prayer for the Dodgers. ... ~ Doris Kearns Goodwin,
1012:Dear Net-Mail User [ EweR-635-78-2267-3 aSp]: Your mailbox has just been rifled by EmilyPost, an autonomous courtesy-worm chain program released in October 2036 by an anonymous group of net subscribers in western Alaska. [ ref: sequestered confession 592864-2376298.98634, deposited with Bank Leumi 10/23/36:20:34:21. Expiration-disclosure 10 years.] Under the civil disobedience sections of the Charter of Rio, we accept in advance the fines and penalties that will come due when our confession is released in 2046. However we feel that’s a small price to pay for the message brought to you by EmilyPost. In brief, dear friend, you are not a very polite person. EmilyPost’s syntax analysis subroutines show that a very high fraction of your Net exchanges are heated, vituperative, even obscene. Of course you enjoy free speech. But EmilyPost has been designed by people who are concerned about the recent trend toward excessive nastiness in some parts of the Net. EmilyPost homes in on folks like you and begins by asking them to please consider the advantages of politeness. For one thing, your credibility ratings would rise. (EmilyPost has checked your favorite bulletin boards, and finds your ratings aren’t high at all. Nobody is listening to you, sir!) Moreover, consider that courtesy can foster calm reason, turning shrill antagonism into useful debate and even consensus. We suggest introducing an automatic delay to your mail system. Communications are so fast these days, people seldom stop and think. Some Net users act like mental patients who shout out anything that comes to mind, rather than as functioning citizens with the human gift of tact. If you wish, you may use one of the public-domain delay programs included in this version of EmilyPost, free of charge. Of course, should you insist on continuing as before, disseminating nastiness in all directions, we have equipped EmilyPost with other options you’ll soon find out about… ~ David Brin,
1013:Or when you keep a sex-addiction meeting under surveillance because they’re the best places to pick up chicks.” Serge looked around the room at suspicious eyes. “Okay, maybe that last one’s just me. But you should try it. They keep the men’s and women’s meetings separate for obvious reasons. And there are so many more opportunities today because the whole country’s wallowing in this whiny new sex-rehab craze after some golfer diddled every pancake waitress on the seaboard. That’s not a disease; that’s cheating. He should have been sent to confession or marriage counseling after his wife finished chasing him around Orlando with a pitching wedge. But today, the nation is into humiliation, tearing down a lifetime of achievement by labeling some guy a damaged little dick weasel. The upside is the meetings. So what you do is wait on the sidewalk for the women to get out, pretending like you’re loitering. And because of the nature of the sessions they just left, there’s no need for idle chatter or lame pickup lines. You get right to business: ‘What’s your hang-up?’ And she answers, and you say, ‘What a coincidence. Me, too.’ Then, hang on to your hat! It’s like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. Most people are aware of the obvious, like foot fetish or leather. But there are more than five hundred lesser-known but clinically documented paraphilia that make no sexual sense. Those are my favorites . . .” Serge began counting off on his fingers. “This one woman had Ursusagalmatophilia, which meant she got off on teddy bears—that was easily my weirdest three-way. And nasophilia, which meant she was completely into my nose, and she phoned a friend with mucophilia, which is mucus. The details on that one are a little disgusting. And formicophilia, which is being crawled on by insects, so the babe bought an ant farm. And symphorophilia—that’s staging car accidents, which means you have to time the air bags perfectly ~ Tim Dorsey,
1014:She moved, opening to him, her thighs widening, the cool air of the room rushing through the slit in her pantalettes. Her cheeks burned and she moved her hands to block his view.
He was watching them, and he made a low sound of approval. "That's where my hands would be as well. Can you feel why? Can you feel the heat? The temptation?"
Her eyes were closed now. She couldn't look at him. But she nodded.
"Of course you can... I can almost feel it myself." The words were hypnotic, all temptation, soft and lyric and wonderful. "And tell me, my little anatomist, have you explored that particular location, before?"
Her cheeks burned.
"Don't start lying now, Pippa. We've come so far."
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I've explored it before." The confession was barely sound, but he heard it. When he groaned, she opened her eyes to find him pressed back against the desk once more. "Did I say the wrong thing?"
He shook his head, his hand rising to his mouth once more, stroking across firm lips. "Only in that you made me burn with jealousy."
Her brows furrowed. "Of whom?"
"Of you, lovely." His grey gaze flickered to the place she hid from him. "Of your perfect hands. Tell me what you found."
She couldn't. While she might know the clinical words for all the things she had touched and discovered, she could not speak them to him. She shook her head. "I cannot."
"Did you find pleasure?"
She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together.
"Did you?" he whispered, the sound loud as a gunshot in this dark, wicked room.
She shook her head. Once, so small it was barely a movement.
He exhaled, the sound long and lush in the room, as though he'd been holding his breath... and he moved. "What a tragedy."
Her eyes snapped open at the sound of him- of trouser against carpet as he crawled toward her, eyes narrow and filled with wicked, wonderful promise.
He was coming for her. Predator stalking prey.
And she could not wait to be caught. ~ Sarah MacLean,
1015:I’d like you to come to Kauai with me,” I say. “And Scottie. I think it would be good to get her away from the hospital for a day. We can leave in the morning, find him, and be home tomorrow night. If it takes us a day longer, that’s fine, but we won’t stay more than two nights. That’s our deadline. If we don’t find him, then at least we know we tried.”

“And this will make you feel better somehow?”

“It’s for her,” I say. “Not for him or me.”

“What if he’s a wreck? What if he loses his shit?”

“Then I’ll take care of him.” I imagine Brian Speer wailing on my shoulder. I imagine him and my daughters by Joanie’s bed, her lover and his loud sobs shaming us. “Just so you know, I am angry. I’m not this pure and noble guy. I want to do this for her, but I also want to see who he is. I want to ask him a few things.”

“Just call him. Tell his office it’s an emergency. They’ll have him call you.”

“I want to tell him in person. I haven’t told anyone over the phone, and I don’t want to start now.”

“You told Troy.”

“Troy doesn’t count. I just need to do this. On the phone he can escape. If I see him in person, he’ll have nowhere to go.”

We both look away when our eyes meet. She hasn’t crossed the border into my room. She never does during her nighttime doorway chats.

“Were you guys having trouble?” Alex asks. “Is that why she cheated?”

“I didn’t think we were having trouble,” I say. “I mean, it was the same as always.”

This was the problem, that our marriage was the same as always. Joanie needed bumps. She needed rough terrain. It’s funny that I can get lost in thoughts about her, but when she was right in front of me, I didn’t think much about her at all.

“I wasn’t the best husband,” I say.

Alex looks out the window to avoid my confession. “If we go on this trip, what will we tell Scottie?”

“She’ll think we’re going on a trip of some sort. I want to get her away from here. ~ Kaui Hart Hemmings,
1016:The Wind
(THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing-Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession.
"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses-Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing;
Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes-She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!"
"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!"
"Straight from my wooing I come--my lips are bedewed with her kisses-My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!"
(THE SONG)
The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose,
And he wooeth his love to wed:
Sweet is his song
The Summer long
As he kisseth her lips so red;
And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought
When the Summer of love is sped!
(AGAIN THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter.
"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamentations?"
Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate garden
Come I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!"
"Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and loving,
It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing
displeasure."
The Wind maketh ever more moan and ever it giveth this answer:
390
"My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of the
Summer-I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow of Winter;
I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her loveliness
lieth
And the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that forever
outcrieth!"
(AGAIN THE SONG)
The Wind he waileth the red, red Rose
When the Summer of love is sped-He waileth above
His lifeless love
With her shroud of snow o'erspread-Crieth such things as a true heart brings
To the grave of its precious dead.
~ Eugene Field,
1017:To The Reader
Folly, depravity, greed, mortal sin
Invade our souls and rack our flesh; we feed
Our gentle guilt, gracious regrets, that breed
Like vermin glutting on foul beggars' skin.
Our sins are stubborn; our repentance, faint.
We take a handsome price for our confession,
Happy once more to wallow in transgression,
Thinking vile tears will cleanse us of all taint.
On evil's cushion poised, His Majesty,
Satan Thrice-Great, lulls our charmed soul, until
He turns to vapor what was once our will:
Rich ore, transmuted by his alchemy.
He holds the strings that move us, limb by limb!
We yield, enthralled, to things repugnant, base;
Each day, towards Hell, with slow, unhurried pace,
We sink, uncowed, through shadows, stinking, grim.
Like some lewd rake with his old worn-out whore,
Nibbling her suffering teats, we seize our sly
delight, that, like an orange—withered, dry—
We squeeze and press for juice that is no more.
Our brains teem with a race of Fiends, who frolic
thick as a million gut-worms; with each breath,
Our lungs drink deep, suck down a stream of Death—
Dim-lit—to low-moaned whimpers melancholic.
If poison, fire, blade, rape do not succeed
In sewing on that dull embroidery
Of our pathetic lives their artistry,
It's that our soul, alas, shrinks from the deed.
And yet, among the beasts and creatures all—
Panther, snake, scorpion, jackal, ape, hound, hawk—
Monsters that crawl, and shriek, and grunt, and squawk,
In our vice-filled menagerie's caterwaul,
490
One worse is there, fit to heap scorn upon—
More ugly, rank! Though noiseless, calm and still,
yet would he turn the earth to scraps and swill,
swallow it whole in one great, gaping yawn:
Ennui! That monster frail!—With eye wherein
A chance tear gleams, he dreams of gibbets, while
Smoking his hookah, with a dainty smile. . .
—You know him, reader,—hypocrite,—my twin!
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1018:I gesture with the jacket. “Do you want me to leave this somewhere?” I only ask it because it’s polite. I don’t want him to say yes. I don’t know what exactly it is I want him to say, only for it to be something that gives me an excuse to stay here watching him for a few more minutes. Admitting this to myself is a sharp blow to my pride, as, with the exception of my six-year-old self’s desire to marry Dr. Halsal, I’d always thought I was above being fascinated by anyone but myself.

On the other side of the stall door, Sean looks up and down the aisle, as if he’s scouting for a place for me to hang the jacket, but then he frowns at me as if that wasn’t what he was looking for at all. “I’m nearly done. Can you wait?”

I try not to stare at where his hand rests on the red stallion’s neck. It’s a warning, the way his fingers lean into his skin, telling Corr to keep his distance, but it’s a comfort as well, the way that I would touch Dove to remind her just that I’m there. The difference, though, is that Corr killed a man yesterday morning.

I say, “I suppose I have one minute or two to put together.”

Sean does the sweep of his eyes that he does, the one that goes from my head to my toes and back again and makes me feel that he’s scanning the depths of my soul and teasing out my motivations and sins. It’s worse than confession with Father Mooneyham. At the end of it, he says, “If you help, this will go faster.”

There is a little narrowing to his eyes at the end of it that makes me understand that this is a test. Whether or not I’m brave enough to go into the stall with Corr after yesterday morning, after I’ve had time to think about what happened. The thought of it makes my pulse trip. The question is not if I trust Corr. The question is if I trust Sean.

“What would helping look like?” I answer, and Sean’s face clears like a fair day over Skarmouth. He spits on his fingers again and pushes Corr toward the back wall of the stall to give me room to open the door. I stand inside the stall. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
1019:Cheap grace means grace sold on the market like cheapjacks' wares. The sacraments, the forgiveness of sin, and the consolations of religion are thrown away at cut prices. Grace is represented as the Church's inexhaustible treasury, from which she showers blessings with generous hands, without asking questions or fixing limits. Grace without price; grace without cost! The essence of grace, we suppose, is that the account has been paid in advance; and, because it has been paid, everything can be had for nothing. Since the cost was infinite, the possibilities of using and spending it are infinite. What would grace be if it were not cheap?...

Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession, absolution without personal confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.

Costly grace is the treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it a man will go and sell all that he has. It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods. It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble; it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows him.

Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock.

Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin, and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all, it is costly because it cost God the life of his Son: "ye were bought at a price," and what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us. Above all, it is grace because God did not reckon his Son too dear a price to pay for our life, but delivered him up for us. Costly grace is the Incarnation of God. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
1020:Did I tell you about what happened last week with Marco?”
Cass shook her head.
“Well,” Mada began coyly, leaning in close to Cass and speaking quietly, “Father was out of town, you know, on business. But still, I can’t just have Marco over to the house, because one of the servants will tattle on me, guaranteed.”
“So what did you do?” Cass played with a strand of hair that had escaped from her bonnet.
Madalena lowered her voice even more. “I didn’t do anything. It was all Marco. He climbed the ivy vines from the canal to my window. I’m lucky he didn’t fall and drown.” She smiled dreamily. “I woke up in the middle of the night. I don’t know why. I just did. And Marco was sitting next to my bed, watching me sleep.” Madalena giggled. “At first I was mad at him for scaring me.”
Cass couldn’t keep her jaw from dropping a little. She tried to imagine a boy sneaking into her own room to watch her sleep. Immediately, it was the face of the artist Falco she saw. Bright blue eyes. Crooked smile. She struggled to push his image from her mind. “And then?”
Mada paused just long enough to allow the suspense to build. “And then he sat down next to me and took me in his arms. And we kissed until sunrise.”
“Madalena Rambaldo! In your father’s house?” Cass made a pretend-scandalized face.
Madalena giggled again. “Marco snuck back out--through the house, thankfully--just before first light, when the servants begin to go about their chores. A few minutes later and he might have gotten caught.”
At that moment, the gardener, a stern-faced old man, appeared around a column in the courtyard with a large pot of water in his arms. Ignoring the girls, he began to water the rosebushes, which were still awaiting their first buds. Madalena and Cass bent their heads close together and laughed.
“Let’s just say last week’s confession was interesting,” Madalena finished. “I think I made the priest blush.”
Cass took a sip of her wine, savoring its sweetness. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss someone all night. Falco’s face materialized in her head again and she felt her cheeks redden. ~ Fiona Paul,
1021:And then I saw it. My father's wood: thick by then with twenty years' growth, but still not fully mature. A half-grown wood of oak trees around that little clearing, which, with my new perspective, I could see made the shape of a heart.
I stared down at the clearing. The heart was unmistakable; tapered at the base with the strawberry field in the centre; a stand of trees to form the cleft. How long had it taken my father, I thought, to plan the formation, to plant out the trees? How many calculations had he made to create this God's-eye view? I thought of the years I had been at school; the years I had felt his absence. I remembered the contempt I'd felt at his little hobby. And finally I understood what he'd tried to say to me on the night of my wedding.
'Love is the thing that only God sees.'
I'd wondered at the time what he meant. My father seldom spoke of love; rarely showed affection. Perhaps that was Tante Anna's influence, or maybe the few words he'd had were all spent on Naomi. But here it was at last, I saw: the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, a silent testament to grief; a last, enduring promise.
Love is the thing that only God sees. I suppose
you'dsay that's because he sees into our hearts. Well, if he ever looks in mine, he'll see no more than I've told you. Confession may be good for the soul. But love is even better. Love redeems us even when we think ourselves irredeemable. I never really loved my wife- not in the way that she deserved. My children and I were never close. Perhaps that was my fault, after all. But Mimi- yes, I loved Mimi. And I loved Rosette Rocher, who was so very like her. One day I hope Rosette will see the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, and know that love surrounds her, whether see can see it or not. And you, Reynaud. I hope one day you can feel what only God sees, but which grows from the hearts of people like us: the flawed; the scarred; the broken. I hope you find it one day, Reynaud. Till then, look after Rosette for me. Make sure she knows my story. Tell her to take care of my wood. And keep picking the strawberries. ~ Joanne Harris,
1022:And then I saw it. My father's wood: thick by then with twenty years' growth, but still not fully mature. A half-grown wood of oak trees around that little clearing, which, with my new perspective, I could see made the shape of a heart.
I stared down at the clearing. The heart was unmistakable; tapered at the base with the strawberry field in the centre; a stand of trees to form the cleft. How long had it taken my father, I thought, to plan the formation, to plant out the trees? How many calculations had he made to create this God's-eye view? I thought of the years I had been at school; the years I had felt his absence. I remembered the contempt I'd felt at his little hobby. And finally I understood what he'd tried to say to me on the night of my wedding.
'Love is the thing that only God sees.'
I'd wondered at the time what he meant. My father seldom spoke of love; rarely showed affection. Perhaps that was Tante Anna's influence, or maybe the few words he'd had were all spent on Naomi. But here it was at last, I saw: the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, a silent testament to grief; a last, enduring promise.
Love is the thing that only God sees. I suppose
you'd say that's because he sees into our hearts. Well, if he ever looks in mine, he'll see no more than I've told you. Confession may be good for the soul. But love is even better. Love redeems us even when we think ourselves irredeemable. I never really loved my wife- not in the way that she deserved. My children and I were never close. Perhaps that was my fault, after all. But Mimi- yes, I loved Mimi. And I loved Rosette Rocher, who was so very like her. One day I hope Rosette will see the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, and know that love surrounds her, whether see can see it or not. And you, Reynaud. I hope one day you can feel what only God sees, but which grows from the hearts of people like us: the flawed; the scarred; the broken. I hope you find it one day, Reynaud. Till then, look after Rosette for me. Make sure she knows my story. Tell her to take care of my wood. And keep picking the strawberries. ~ Joanne Harris,
1023:No settled family or community has ever called its home place an “environment.” None has ever called its feeling for its home place “biocentric” or “anthropocentric.” None has ever thought of its connection to its home place as “ecological,” deep or shallow. The concepts and insights of the ecologists are of great usefulness in our predicament, and we can hardly escape the need to speak of “ecology” and “ecosystems.” But the terms themselves are culturally sterile. They come from the juiceless, abstract intellectuality of the universities which was invented to disconnect, displace, and disembody the mind. The real names of the environment are the names of rivers and river valleys; creeks, ridges, and mountains; towns and cities; lakes, woodlands, lanes roads, creatures, and people.

And the real name of our connection to this everywhere different and differently named earth is “work.” We are connected by work even to the places where we don’t work, for all places are connected; it is clear by now that we cannot exempt one place from our ruin of another. The name of our proper connection to the earth is “good work,” for good work involves much giving of honor. It honors the source of its materials; it honors the place where it is done; it honors the art by which it is done; it honors the thing that it makes and the user of the made thing. Good work is always modestly scaled, for it cannot ignore either the nature of individual places or the differences between places, and it always involves a sort of religious humility, for not everything is known. Good work can be defined only in particularity, for it must be defined a little differently for every one of the places and every one of the workers on the earth.

The name of our present society’s connection to the earth is “bad work” – work that is only generally and crudely defined, that enacts a dependence that is ill understood, that enacts no affection and gives no honor. Every one of us is to some extent guilty of this bad work. This guilt does not mean that we must indulge in a lot of breast-beating and confession; it means only that there is much good work to be done by every one of us and that we must begin to do it. ~ Wendell Berry,
1024:The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
Though beautiful, cold- strange- as in a dream
I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won
From winter's ague for one hour's gleam;
Through sapphire warm their stars do never beam:
All is cold Beauty; pain is never done.
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
  Sickly imagination and sick pride
Cast wan upon it? Burns! with honour due
  I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide
Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.
'This sonnet, with which the poems of the Scotch tour with Brown begins, was not a very "prosperous opening." It seems to have been written on the 2nd of July 1818, and was first given by Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters &c. in 1848 as part of a letter to Tom Keats, wherein the poet sufficiently explains the comparative poverty of the production, thus: --

"You will see by this sonnet that I am at Dumfries. We have dined in Scotland. Burns's tomb is in the church-yard corner, not very much to my taste, though on a scale large enough to show they wanted to honour him. Mrs. Burns lives in this place; most likely we shall see her to-morrow. This sonnet I have written in a strange mood, half-asleep. I know not how it is, the clouds, the sky, the houses, all seem anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish. I will endeavour to get rid of my prejudices and tell you fairly about the Scotch."

It is well to say at once that the precise dates assigned to this series of poems are not absolutely certain; for Keats himself was notoriously inexact about dates, and, according to his own confession, "never knew." Thus the next published letter, containing the Meg Merrilies poem, is dated "Auchtercairn, 3rd July;" and in it we read "yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright," without any fresh date, though probably this statement belongs to the day on which Keats was at Newton Stewart.'
~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
~ John Keats, On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns
,
1025:French said: “It’s like this with us, baby. We’re coppers and everybody hates our guts. And as if we didn’t have enough trouble, we have to have you. As if we didn’t get pushed around enough by the guys in the corner offices, the City Hall gang, the day chief, the night chief, the Chamber of Commerce, His Honor the Mayor in his paneled office four times as big as the three lousy rooms the whole homicide staff has to work out of. As if we didn’t have to handle one hundred and fourteen homicides last year out of three rooms that don’t have enough chairs for the whole duty squad to sit down in at once. We spend our lives turning over dirty underwear and sniffing rotten teeth. We go up dark stairways to get a gun punk with a skinful of hop and sometimes we don’t get all the way up, and our wives wait dinner that night and all the other nights. We don’t come home any more. And nights we do come home, we come home so goddam tired we can’t eat or sleep or even read the lies the papers print about us. So we lie awake in the dark in a cheap house on a cheap street and listen to the drunks down the block having fun. And just about the time we drop off the phone rings and we get up and start all over again. Nothing we do is right, not ever. Not once. If we get a confession, we beat it out of the guy, they say, and some shyster calls us Gestapo in court and sneers at us when we muddle our grammar. If we make a mistake they put us back in uniform on Skid Row and we spend the nice cool summer evenings picking drunks out of the gutter and being yelled at by whores and taking knives away from greaseballs in zoot suits. But all that ain’t enough to make us entirely happy. We got to have you.” He stopped and drew in his breath. His face glistened a little as if with sweat. He leaned forward from his hips. “We got to have you,” he repeated. “We got to have sharpers with private licenses hiding information and dodging around corners and stirring up dust for us to breathe in. We got to have you suppressing evidence and framing set-ups that wouldn’t fool a sick baby. You wouldn’t mind me calling you a goddam cheap double-crossing keyhole peeper, would you, baby?” “You want me to mind?” I asked him. He straightened up. “I’d love it,” he said. “In spades redoubled. ~ Raymond Chandler,
1026:Haven’t I tired you out yet, darling?” Ian whispered several hours later.
“Yes,” she said with an exhausted laugh, her cheek nestled against his shoulder, her hand drifting over his chest in a sleepy caress. “But I’m too happy to sleep for a while yet.”
So was Ian, but he felt compelled to at least suggest that she try. “You’ll regret it in the morning when we have to appear for breakfast,” he said with a grin, cuddling her closer to his side.
To his surprise, the remark made her smooth forehead furrow in a frown. She tipped her face up to his, opened her mouth as if to ask him a question, then she changed her mind and hastily looked away.
“What is it?” he asked, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifting her face up to his.
“Tomorrow morning,” she said with a funny, bemused expression on her face. “When we go downstairs…will everyone know what we have done tonight?”
She expected him to try to evade the question.
“Yes,” he said.
She nodded, accepting that, and turned into his arms. “Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said with a sigh of contentment and gratitude.
“I’ll always tell you the truth,” he promised quietly, and she believed him.
It occurred to Elizabeth that she could ask him now, when he’d given that promise, if he’d had anything to do with Robert’s disappearance. And as quickly as the thought crossed her mind, she pushed it angrily away. She would not defame their marriage bed by voicing ugly, unfounded suspicions carried to her by a man who obviously had a grudge against all Scots.
This morning, she had made a conscious decision to trust him and marry him; now, she was bound by her vows to honor him, and she had absolutely no intention of going back on her own decision or on the vow she made to him in church.
“Elizabeth?”
“Mmmm?”
“While we’re on the subject of truth, I have a confession to make.”
Her heart slammed into her ribs, and she went rigid. “What is it?” she asked tautly.
“The chamber next door is meant to be used as your dressing room and withdrawing room. I do not approve of the English custom of husband and wife sleeping in separate beds.” She looked so pleased that Ian grinned. “I’m happy to see,” he chuckled, kissing her forehead, “we agree on that. ~ Judith McNaught,
1027:Will you dare to say so?–Have you never erred?–Have you never felt one impure sensation?–Have you never indulged a transient feeling of hatred, or malice, or revenge?–Have you never forgot to do the good you ought to do,–or remembered to do the evil you ought not to have done?–Have you never in trade overreached a dealer, or banquetted on the spoils of your starving debtor?–Have you never, as you went to your daily devotions, cursed from your heart the wanderings of your heretical brethren,–and while you dipped your fingers in the holy water, hoped that every drop that touched your pores, would be visited on them in drops of brimstone and sulphur?–Have you never, as you beheld the famished, illiterate, degraded populace of your country, exulted in the wretched and temporary superiority your wealth has given you,–and felt that the wheels of your carriage would not roll less smoothly if the way was paved with the heads of your countrymen? Orthodox Catholic–old Christian–as you boast yourself to be,–is not this true?–and dare you say you have not been an agent of Satan? I tell you, whenever you indulge one brutal passion, one sordid desire, one impure imagination–whenever you uttered one word that wrung the heart, or embittered the spirit of your fellow-creature–whenever you made that hour pass in pain to whose flight you might have lent wings of down–whenever you have seen the tear, which your hand might have wiped away, fall uncaught, or forced it from an eye which would have smiled on you in light had you permitted it–whenever you have done this, you have been ten times more an agent of the enemy of man than all the wretches whom terror, enfeebled nerves, or visionary credulity, has forced into the confession of an incredible compact with the author of evil, and whose confession has consigned them to flames much more substantial than those the imagination of their persecutors pictured them doomed to for an eternity of suffering! Enemy of mankind!' the speaker continued,–'Alas! how absurdly is that title bestowed on the great angelic chief,–the morning star fallen from its sphere! What enemy has man so deadly as himself? If he would ask on whom he should bestow that title aright, let him smite his bosom, and his heart will answer,–Bestow it here! ~ Charles Robert Maturin,
1028:This Thing
<i>For/with Penny </i>
How to begin to define it
this momentous thing
between us? A monosyllable
rhyming with “dove”
and “above”, so dull
and dubiously religious
compared to the spirit
of our connection. Not that
talk of the numinous
wouldn’t apply. Your penchant
for the Tarot, mine
for the Sufis, altogether
I suspect more transcendental
than the babble
of necessity and hope
desired by our former selves. Now
I can’t say if “love” ever
belonged to my former lexicon
of merely being
with someone. A confession?
That wouldn’t become
my professed agnosticism; but
fate always the star
of your astrological ciphers
and my horoscope
no doubt a serendipity
99
in the house of your heart. Mine,
(forgive the war metaphors)
a fortress reigned by
the tyrant of solipsism until
your ram battered the gates
and your vanguard scaled
the ramparts. Now the untied
captives laze on the fields
of your victory. The tyrant
a cross between theologian
and troubadour, no longer a threat
to my peasants. But what
have you gained
from this conquest? Do I
make you happy? What do you call
this earth-shaking thing
between us? I suspect
your images altogether sharper
than my medievalist detours, say
animals—am I
salamander to your unicorn
or you a yellow crane
perched on my tortoise? Or
fairytale: you see
yourself as a compassionate
Little Red Riding Hood
to my repentant wolf? Not
very likely. I’ve never really
100
queried eating you; but
you must’ve glanced
the dangers of sharing life
with a confused and brooding
loner. A person of your insight
doesn’t mess around
in Blue Beard’s chamber.
And I’m frankly just
a diffused dragon. So do we
call this thing
domestication? What about
the euphoria of escaping
our house together
and boarding planes? Am I
your accomplice
or live cargo? Does it sound
like complaint? It’s in fact
a celebration of the ecstatic
thing between us. I ask you
to comment. You say:
“It’s a magical
ever-changing intertwining
of two lives on levels
mundane and divine.”
~ Ali Alizadeh,
1029:Kiril glanced around the darkened room. He walked to a leather chair and sat, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. “Did you know that during the Fae Wars the Dark took two Dragon Kings? At different times, of course.”

“I suppose they escaped as well? Are you telling me we don’t know how to hold a Dragon King?”

“The Dark did . . . things to my brethren. One completely lost his mind and attacked us, which is what the Dark wanted. He had to be killed. The other King knew what was happening to him, but he couldna stop it. He came to us and begged to be killed before he could harm one of us.”

Shara sipped her whisky before she said, “You lost two Kings and I lost seven siblings.”

“And the Light the Dark took?”

“The Dark take the Light and the Light take the Dark.”

Kiril let his gaze drift down her body. How he itched to have her long legs wrapped around him. Things would be so much easier if he didn’t desire her as he did, but there wasn’t a switch he could flip and turn off his body’s reaction. The more he tried to ignore the growing desire, the more it raged uncontrollably within him.

He gave himself a mental shake and returned to their conversation. “What’s the plan, then? Will the Dark storm in here and try to capture me?”

Shara walked around the room, her hand skimming along the backs of the chairs. “No.”

“No?” Kiril set aside his glass on the table next to him and silently rose to his feet. He followed her as if a string tied them together. “What then?”

“You don’t really want to know.”

Kiril spun her around so hard that her glass flew from her hand and landed upon a rug, spilling the whisky but not breaking the crystal. “Tell me,” he demanded in a soft, deadly voice.

“My job is to seduce you.” She held her stance for a heartbeat before she retreated, taking two steps back.

He tracked her until she was once more in the entryway. The shadows darkened everything, and yet the smallest sliver of moonlight found her, illuminating her in a pale blue glow.

No longer could he deny what he wanted. Perhaps it was her confession. Maybe it was because he hadn’t taken to the skies in weeks. Whatever it was, all he knew was that he had to have her or go up in flames.

“Then seduce me. ~ Donna Grant,
1030:The Hands Of The Betrothed
Her tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness,
Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty;
Yea, and her mouth’s prudent and crude caress
Means even less than her many words to me.
Though her kiss betrays me also this, this only
Consolation, that in her lips her blood at climax clips
Two wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonely
Fruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips.
I know from her hardened lips that still her heart is
Hungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breast
She puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart is
Endangered by the pilferer on his quest.
But her hands are still the woman, the large, strong hands
Heavier than mine, yet like leverets caught in steel
When I hold them; my still soul understands
Their dumb confession of what her sort must feel.
For never her hands come nigh me but they lift
Like heavy birds from the morning stubble, to settle
Upon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shift
Uneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle.
How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee,
How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinks
In my flesh and bone and forages into me,
How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever she thinks!
And often I see her clench her fingers tight
And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her skirt;
And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with her bright
Big hands, as if surely her arms did hurt.
And I have seen her stand all unaware
Pressing her spread hands over her breasts, as she
Would crush their mounds on her heart, to kill in there
The pain that is her simple ache for me.
139
Her strong hands take my part, the part of a man
To her; she crushes them into her bosom deep
Where I should lie, and with her own strong span
Closes her arms, that should fold me in sleep.
Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall,
Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands,
Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fall
About her from her maiden-folded bands.
And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hair
Dreaming—God knows of what, for to me she’s the same
Betrothed young lady who loves me, and takes care
Of her womanly virtue and of my good name.
~ David Herbert Lawrence,
1031:Dear Kai,
The sun is probably streaming in through the big barn windows now, which means you're awake. And if you're awake, it means you're wondering where I went.
I haven't run away from you, I promise. But I knew that today of all days, they'd need me in the house. Tatiana may be the head of our household now, but she's not the one our staff will look to in my mother's absence. And there is so much to do to prepare for the funeral. Also, I have to go tell my grandfather what has happened to his daughter. I don't want him to hear of her death from anyone but me.
Thank you for last night. I wish I could say I don't know why you re the one I ran to,- you, Kai, not Tatiana or my father or even my grandfather. But I know why. And I have a confession to make.
After you let me cry, after you let me sob and shout and choke on all that pain-after you did all that, and didn't say a word-I didn't fall asleep like you thought. Not right away. I lay there, wadded up into a ball, and you curved your body behind mine. You were barely touching me-your thigh against the edge of my hip, your arm draped lightly across my waist, your fingers entwined with mine. How many times have our hands touched, when we were passing each other tools or helping each other in and out of machines? Hundreds of times. Thousands.
But last night was different. You cradled my hand in yours, palms up, our fingers curled in like a pair of fallen leaves. Fallen, maybe, but not dead. My hand never felt so alive. Every place you touched me sparked with energy. I couldn't sleep. Not like that.
And so I bent my head, just the slightest bit, until my mouth reached our hands. I smelled the oil you never quite get off your fingers. I breathed in the scent of your skin. And then, as if that was all I was doing, just breathing, I let my bottom lip brush against your knuckle.
Time stopped, I was sure you'd see through my ruse and pull away. I was sure you'd know that I was not asleep, that I was not just breathing. But you didn't move, so I did it again. And again. And in the third time, I let my top lip join my bottom.
I kissed your hand, Kai. I didn't do it to thank you for letting me cry. For letting me sleep in your arms. I thought you should know.
Yours,
Elliot

Dear Elliot,
I know. When will I see you again?
Yours,
Kai ~ Diana Peterfreund,
1032:He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes—he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying—he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person—he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword—he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love—he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void— he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds—he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni—he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face—and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness above the thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely the same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with great respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones are smiling. ~ Hermann Hesse,
1033:You wrote to me. Do not deny it. I’ve read your words and they evoke My deep respect for your emotion, Your trusting soul… and sweet devotion. Your candour has a great appeal And stirs in me, I won’t conceal, Long dormant feelings, scarce remembered. But I’ve no wish to praise you now; Let me repay you with a vow As artless as the one you tendered; Hear my confession too, I plead, And judge me both by word and deed. 13 ’Had I in any way desired To bind with family ties my life; Or had a happy fate required That I turn father, take a wife; Had pictures of domestication For but one moment held temptation- Then, surely, none but you alone Would be the bride I’d make my own. I’ll say without wrought-up insistence That, finding my ideal in you, I would have asked you—yes, it’s true— To share my baneful, sad existence, In pledge of beauty and of good, And been as happy … as I could! 14 ’But I’m not made for exaltation: My soul’s a stranger to its call; Your virtues are a vain temptation, For I’m not worthy of them all. Believe me (conscience be your token): In wedlock we would both be broken. However much I loved you, dear, Once used to you … I’d cease, I fear; You’d start to weep, but all your crying Would fail to touch my heart at all, Your tears in fact would only gall. So judge yourself what we’d be buying, What roses Hymen means to send— Quite possibly for years on end! 15 ’In all this world what’s more perverted Than homes in which the wretched wife Bemoans her worthless mate, deserted— Alone both day and night through life; Or where the husband, knowing truly Her worth (yet cursing fate unduly) Is always angry, sullen, mute— A coldly jealous, selfish brute! Well, thus am I. And was it merely For this your ardent spirit pined When you, with so much strength of mind, Unsealed your heart to me so clearly? Can Fate indeed be so unkind? Is this the lot you’ve been assigned? 16 ’For dreams and youth there’s no returning; I cannot resurrect my soul. I love you with a tender yearning, But mine must be a brother’s role. So hear me through without vexation: Young maidens find quick consolation— From dream to dream a passage brief; Just so a sapling sheds its leaf To bud anew each vernal season. Thus heaven wills the world to turn. You’ll fall in love again; but learn … To exercise restraint and reason, For few will understand you so, And innocence can lead to woe. ~ Alexander Pushkin,
1034:You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” Ezmia said. “Perhaps this will humble you.” Ezmia placed the glass jar she had been carrying on a small table close to Charlotte’s cage. Charlotte was horrifed to see a miniature ghostly version of the Fairy Godmother trapped inside. “That’s my… my… grandmother!” Charlotte said, almost forgetting she was still pretending to be her own daughter. “What have you done to her?” A smile appeared on Ezmia’s face, matching the satisfaction in her eyes. “I captured her soul,” she said. The thought almost made Charlotte sick. She’d had no idea such a thing was possible, even in the fairy-tale world. “What do you want with her soul?” Charlotte asked. “It’s a bit of a hobby of mine, actually,” Ezmia said and walked to her fireplace. Displayed proudly on the mantel were five other turquoise jars, each containing a ghostly substance. “You’re a soul collector?” Charlotte asked. “Is it to make up for being soulless?” “What a clever play on words,” Ezmia said mockingly. “You know that phrase forgive and forget? Well, I always disagreed with it—I found it impossible, actually. People would do me wrong and then forget about me, as if their actions didn’t matter—because I didn’t matter. How was I supposed to forgive people like that?” “So you imprisoned their souls instead of forgiving?” Charlotte said. “Precisely,” Ezmia said. “I found taking away their life force to be much more appealing than simply forgiving. To forgive would be to allow them to continue living their lives, free of consequence. But by taking their souls and preventing them from all future happiness, I could heal and find peace.” Charlotte couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Do you honestly expect anyone to sympathize with that?” Charlotte asked her. Ezmia stared into the fire at the burning skulls, almost in a trance. “I don’t want the world to understand; I want it to grovel,” she said. The confession made Charlotte’s heart heavier. She wondered if she would ever escape the clutches of a person who thought like this. But thinking about her children, Bob, and the life she had been stolen from gave Charlotte the strength to survive the Enchantress’s imprisonment. “I find it hard to believe that the Fairy Godmother, who is known for her generosity, would harm you in any way,” Charlotte said. “Sometimes help can be just as destructive as harm,” Ezmia said. “But I imagine someone who helps for a ~ Chris Colfer,
1035:It is hard to overestimate the importance of the Catholic church’s value for European culture and for the whole world. It Christianized and civilized barbaric peoples and for a long time was the only guardian of science and art. Here the church’s cloisters were preeminent. The Catholic church developed a spiritual power unequaled anywhere, and today we still admire the way it combined the principle of catholicism with the principle of one sanctifying church, as well as tolerance with intolerance. It is a world in itself. Infinite diversity flows together, and this colorful picture gives it its irresistible charm (Complexio oppositorum). A country has seldom produced so many different kinds of people as has the Catholic church. With admirable power, it has understood how to maintain unity in diversity, to gain the love and respect of the masses, and to foster a strong sense of community. . . . But it is exactly because of this greatness that we have serious reservations. Has this world [of the Catholic church] really remained the church of Christ? Has it not perhaps become an obstruction blocking the path to God instead of a road sign on the path to God? Has it not blocked the only path to salvation? Yet no one can ever obstruct the way to God. The church still has the Bible, and as long as she has it we can still believe in the holy Christian church. God’s word will never be denied (Isa. 55:11), whether it be preached by us or by our sister church. We adhere to the same confession of faith, we pray the same Lord’s Prayer, and we share some of the same ancient rites. This binds us together, and as far as we are concerned we would like to live in peace with our disparate sister. We do not, however, want to deny anything that we have recognized as God’s word. The designation Catholic or Protestant is unimportant. The important thing is God’s word. Conversely, we will never violate anyone else’s faith. God does not desire reluctant service, and God has given everyone a conscience. We can and should desire that our sister church search its soul and concentrate on nothing but the word [1 Cor. 2:12– 13]. Until that time, we must have patience. We will have to endure it when, in false darkness, the “only holy church” pronounces upon our church the “anathema” (condemnation). She doesn’t know any better, and she doesn’t hate the heretic, only the heresy. As long as we let the word be our only armor we can look confidently into the future. ~ Eric Metaxas,
1036:SAID lady once to lover,
"None can rely upon
A love that lacks its proper food;
And if your love were gone
How could you sing those songs of love?
I should be blamed, young man.
O my dear, O my dear.

Have no lit candles in your room,'
That lovely lady said,
"That I at midnight by the clock
May creep into your bed,
For if I saw myself creep in
I think I should drop dead.'
O my dear, O my dear.

"I love a man in secret,
Dear chambermaid,' said she.
"I know that I must drop down dead
If he stop loving me,
Yet what could I but drop down dead
If I lost my chastity?
O my dear, O my dear.

"So you must lie beside him
And let him think me there.
And maybe we are all the same
Where no candles are,
And maybe we are all the same
That stip the body bare.'
O my dear, O my dear.
But no dogs barked, and midnights chimed,
And through the chime she'd say,
"That was a lucky thought of mine,
My lover. looked so gay';
But heaved a sigh if the chambermaid
Looked half asleep all day.
O my dear, O my dear.

"No, not another song,' said he,
"Because my lady came
A year ago for the first time
At midnight to my room,
And I must lie between the sheets
When the clock begins to chime.'
O my dear, O my d-ear.

"A laughing, crying, sacred song,
A leching song,' they said.
Did ever men hear such a song?
No, but that day they did.
Did ever man ride such a race?
No, not until he rode.
O my dear, O my dear.

But when his horse had put its hoof
Into a rabbit-hole
He dropped upon his head and died.
His lady saw it all
And dropped and died thereon, for she
Loved him with her soul.
O my dear, O my dear.
The chambermaid lived long, and took
Their graves into her charge,
And there two bushes planted
That when they had grown large
Seemed sprung from but a single root
So did their roses merge.
O my dear, O my dear.

When she was old and dying,
The priest came where she was;
She made a full confession.
Long looked he in her face,
And O he was a good man
And understood her case.
O my dear, O my dear.

He bade them take and bury her
Beside her lady's man,
And set a rose-tree on her grave,
And now none living can,
When they have plucked a rose there,
Know where its roots began.
O my dear, O my dear.

~ William Butler Yeats, The Three Bushes
,
1037:Science writers Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman have found that ethnic pride is an important element of self-esteem for other races but they draw the line at whites: “It’s horrifying to imagine kids being ‘proud to be white’. ”
Many intellectuals believe whites are collectively guilty. As James Traub of The New Yorker wrote, when it comes to any discussion about race, whites must acknowledge that they are the offending party: “One’s hand is stayed by the knowledge of innumerable past hurts and misdeeds. The recognition of those wrongs, along with the acceptance of the sense of collective responsibility—guilt—that comes with recognition is a precondition to entering the discussion [about race].”
Joe Klein, in New York Magazine, wrote that any conversation about race must begin with a confession: “It’s our fault; we’re racists.”
“Black anger and white surrender have become a staple of contemporary racial discourse,” writes another commentator. Most blacks endorse this view. James Baldwin wrote that any real dialogue between the races requires a confession from whites that is nothing less than “a cry for help and healing.”
Popular culture casually denigrates whites. Jay Blumenfield, an executive producer for the Showtime cable network, was working in 2004 on a reality program tentatively titled “Make Me Cool,” in which a group of blacks were to give “hipness makeovers” to a series of “desperately dweebie” whites. Why whites? Mr. Blumenfield explained that the purpose of the program was to correct “uncoolness,” and that “the easiest way to express that is they’ll be white.”
Gary Bassell, head of an advertising agency that specializes in reaching Hispanics explained that “we’ve been shaped by an American pop culture today that increasingly proves that color is cool and white is washed out.”
Miss Gallagher noted above that there are “few things more degrading than being proud to be white.” The United States Patent and Trademark Office (USPTO) agrees. In 2005, it refused to grant a trademark on the phrase “White Pride Country Wide.” It explained that “the ‘white pride’ element of the proposed mark is considered offensive and therefore scandalous.” The USPTO has nevertheless trademarked “Black Power” and “Black Supremacy,” and apparently finds nothing scandalous in “African Pride,” “Native Pride!” “Asian Pride,” “Black Pride,” “Orgullo Hispano” (Hispanic Pride), “Mexican Pride,” and “African Man Pride,” all of which have been trademarked. ~ Jared Taylor,
1038:You’ve been spending a great deal of time with my sister, Lord Ashton. I hope you realize that the servants are gossiping.” He sent Rose a conspiratorial look. “Are they? I suppose they think I am intent upon debauchery and ruining your sister.” “Indeed.” Lily planted her hands upon her hips and waited for him to offer an excuse. “I told her that I was teaching you about London,” Rose interjected. “She can’t seem to understand why I wouldn’t do so in a drawing room with chaperones present.” He turned to Lily and met her gaze evenly. “Your sister is lying.” “I am not.” “Yes, you are. You know full well that not only am I forcing you to kiss me, but we are committing fornication in broad daylight. Which would not be proper in the drawing room.” He lifted his own eyebrow and shot Lily a dark smile. At that, Rose stood up and glared at him. Her knees were shaking, but she would not stand back and listen to this. Already her face was crimson at his insinuation. “Lily, don’t you dare believe his lies!” “Why? It’s only now becoming interesting.” But the faint smile on Lily’s mouth revealed that she didn’t believe him at all. “You are a wretch, when we’ve done no such thing.” He only winked, and puckered his lips. She couldn’t believe his audacity. “If I had a rake right now, I would beat you senseless with it.” “It’s a good thing you don’t.” He smiled again at Lily and said, “The truth is, I am teaching your sister to walk.” His confession deflated her spirits. Why would he tell her sister that when she wanted it to remain a secret? How could he ruin her surprise? “She’s made very little progress and has fallen several times,” he continued. “She did not want to alarm any of you. Especially the servants, who would accuse me of trying to harm her.” Some of her anger dissipated, for he’d not mentioned her steps at all. “Rose, no.” Lily urged her to sit back on the bench. “You’re going to hurt yourself. You’ve stood, and that in itself is a tremendous accomplishment. But walking?” “We have made an agreement,” Rose said. “Lord Ashton has promised to catch me before I fall on my face. And I, in return, am teaching him about the complexity of forks.” Lord Ashton joined in, nodding in agreement. “They are quite impossible. Why anyone would need three forks at any meal is wasteful, indeed. It’s grateful I am that your sister is helping me to navigate cutlery.” Lily glanced at Rose and then back at Lord Ashton. “Well. That’s not quite what I was expecting.” “And ~ Michelle Willingham,
1039:La différence entre la psychologie moderne et la psychologie sacrée apparaît déjà dans le fait que, pour la plupart des psychologues modernes, la morale n'a plus rien à faire avec la psychologie. Généralement, ils réduisent l'éthique à la morale sociale, plus ou moins forgée par de simples habitudes et la considèrent comme une sorte de barrage psychique, utile à l'occasion, mais le plus souvent contraignant, voire néfaste, pour l'épanouissement « normale » de la psychè individuelle. Cette conception a surtout été propagée par la psychanalyse freudienne, qui, comme on le sait, est devenu d'un usage courant dans certains pays, où elle joue pratiquement le rôle qui revient ailleurs au sacrement de la confession. Le psychiatre remplace le prêtre et l'éclatement des instincts refoulés sert d'absolution. Dans la confession sacramentelle, le prêtre n'est que le représentant impersonnel – et donc tenu au secret – de la Vérité divine, qui à la fois juge et pardonne ; en confessant ses fautes, le pécheur transforme les tendances qui les sous-tendent en quelque chose qui n'est plus « lui-même » ; il les « objectivise » ; en se repentant, il s'en détache, et en recevant l'absolution, son âme retrouve son équilibre initial, centré sur son axe divin. Dans le cas de la psychanalyse freudienne, en revanche (1), l'homme met à nu ses entrailles psychiques non pas devant Dieu, mais devant son prochain ; il ne prend pas de recul par rapport aux fonds chaotiques et obscurs de son âme que l'analyse lui dévoile, mais au contraire se les approprie, puisqu'il doit se dire à lui-même : « C'est ainsi que je suis fait en réalité ». Et s'il ne parvient pas à surmonter cette désillusion avilissante grâce à quelque influence salutaire, il en conserve comme une souillure intérieure. Dans la plupart des cas, il tente de se sauver en se plongeant dans la médiocrité psychique du plus grand nombre, car on supporte mieux son propre avilissement en le partageant avec autrui. Quelle que puisse être l'utilité occasionnelle et partielle d'une telle analyse, son résultat est généralement celui-là, étant donné les prémisses dont elle part.(2)

(1) Cette précision est nécessaire dans la mesure où il existe également aujourd'hui des formes plus inoffensives de psychanalyse, ce qui ne veut pas dire que nous entendons par là justifier une forme quelconque de psychanalyse.

(2) Il y a une règle selon laquelle quiconque pratique la psychanalyse doit auparavant avoir subi lui-même la psychanalyse. D'où la question de savoir qui a inauguré cette série, qui imite étrangement la « succession apostolique ». ~ Titus Burckhardt,
1040:Preference
NOT in scorn do I reprove thee,
Not in pride thy vows I waive,
But, believe, I could not love thee,
Wert thou prince, and I a slave.
These, then, are thine oaths of passion ?
This, thy tenderness for me ?
Judged, even, by thine own confession,
Thou art steeped in perfidy.
Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me !
Thus I read thee long ago;
Therefore, dared I not deceive thee,
Even with friendship's gentle show.
Therefore, with impassive coldness
Have I ever met thy gaze;
Though, full oft, with daring boldness,
Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise.
Why that smile ? Thou now art deeming
This my coldness all untrue,­
But a mask of frozen seeming,
Hiding secret fires from view.
Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver,
Nay­be calm, for I am so:
Does it burn ? Does my lip quiver ?
Has mine eye a troubled glow ?
Canst thou call a moment's colour
To my forehead­to my cheek ?
Canst thou tinge their tranquil pallor
With one flattering, feverish streak?
Am I marble ? What ! no woman
Could so calm before thee stand ?
Nothing living, sentient, human,
Could so coldly take thy hand ?
Yes­a sister might, a mother:
My good-will is sisterly:
Dream not, then, I strive to smother
Fires that inly burn for thee.
Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless,
Fury cannot change my mind;
I but deem the feeling rootless
52
Which so whirls in passion's wind.
Can I love ? Oh, deeply­truly­
Warmly­fondly­but not thee;
And my love is answered duly,
With an equal energy.
Wouldst thou see thy rival ? Hasten,
Draw that curtain soft aside,
Look where yon thick branches chasten
Noon, with shades of eventide.
In that glade, where foliage blending
Forms a green arch overhead,
Sits thy rival thoughtful bending
O'er a stand with papers spread­
Motionless, his fingers plying
That untired, unresting pen;
Time and tide unnoticed flying,
There he sits­the first of men !
Man of conscience­man of reason;
Stern, perchance, but ever just;
Foe to falsehood, wrong, and treason,
Honour's shield, and virtue's trust !
Worker, thinker, firm defender
Of Heaven's truth­man's liberty;
Soul of iron­proof to slander,
Rock where founders tyranny.
Fame he seeks not­but full surely
She will seek him, in his home;
This I know, and wait securely
For the atoning hour to come.
To that man my faith is given,
Therefore, soldier, cease to sue;
While God reigns in earth and heaven,
I to him will still be true !
~ Charlotte Brontë,
1041:As if I didn't have enough to worry about. My kingdom is threatened by war, extinction, or both, and the only way to solve it is to give up the only thing I've ever really wanted. Then Toraf pulls something like this. Betrays me and my sister. Galen cant imagine how things could get worse. So he's not expecting it when Emma giggles.
He turns on her. "What could be funny?"
She laughs so hard she has to lean into him for support. He stiffens against the urge to wrap his arms around her. Wiping tears from her eyes, she says, "He kissed me!" The confession makes her crack up all over again.
"And you think that's funny?"
"You don't understand, Galen," she says, the beginnings of hiccups robbing her of breath.
"Obviously."
"Don't you see? It worked!"
"All I saw was Toraf, my sister's mate, my best friend, kissing my...my..."
"Your what?"
"Student." Obsession.
"Your student. Wow." Emma shakes her head then hiccups. "Well, I know you're mad about what he did to Rayna, but he did it to make her jealous."
Galen tries to let that sink in, but it stays on the surface like a bobber. "You're saying he kissed you to make Rayna jealous?"
She nods, laugher bubbling up again. "And it worked! Did you see her face?"
"You're saying he set Rayna up." Instead of me? Galen shakes his head. "Where would he get an idea like that?"
"I told him to do it."
Galen's fists ball against his will. "You told him to kiss you?"
"No! Sort of. Not really though."
"Emma-"
"I told him to play hard to get. You know, act uninterested. He came up with kissing me all on his own. I'm so proud of him!"
She thinks Toraf is a genius for kissing her. Great. "Did...did you like it?"
"I just told you I did, Galen."
"Not his plan. The kiss."
The delight leaves her face like a receding tide. "That's none of your business, Highness."
He runs a hand through his hair to keep from shaking her. And kissing her.
"Triton's trident, Emma. Did you like it or not?"
Taking several steps back, she throws her hands on her hips. "Do you remember Mr. Pinter, Galen? World history?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Tomorrow is Monday. When I walk into Mr. Pinter's class, he won't ask me how I liked Toraf's kiss. In fact, he won't care what I did for the entire weekend. Because I'm his student. Just like I'm your student, remember?" Her hair whips to the side as she turns and walks away with that intoxicating saunter of hers. She picks up her towel and steps into her flip-flops before heading up the hill to the house.
"Emma, wait."
"I'm tired of waiting, Galen. Good night. ~ Anna Banks,
1042:When I Find It Difficult to Trust Him Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. PROVERBS 3:5 HAS YOUR HUSBAND ever done something you feel has violated your trust in him? It doesn’t have to be anything as terrible as infidelity. It could be financial irresponsibility, or some kind of lie or deception, or hurtful treatment of you, or a confidence he shared with someone else. Whatever it is, you can find yourself wary—always suspecting he may do the same thing again. Yet there must be trust in your marriage relationship or you can never move forward. Living in such a close relationship without trust is not living at all. It’s remarkably sad to not be able to trust the one we are supposed to trust the most. If this has happened to you, it must be remedied, rectified, and resolved. Only God can truly restore the kind of trust you need to have. If your husband has done something to lose your trust, pray that God will lead him to complete repentance. Pray also that your heart will be willing to forgive him. This can be especially hard if he is a repeat offender, but it is not too hard for God to work forgiveness in your heart if you are willing. Ask God to set you free of all anger, frustration, disappointment, fear, and resentment. The most important thing to do after you have prayed for your husband’s repentance and your forgiveness is to pray you will trust God to work a miracle in your husband’s heart and yours as well. You have to first decide that You will trust God with all your heart and not lean on your own understanding. Then He will enable you to trust your husband again. My Prayer to God LORD, I confess any time when I have lost faith in my husband and don’t have full trust in him. I know that is not the way You want me to live. Help us both to have faith in each other and not live in constant distrust, bracing ourselves for what violation of trust is going to happen next. Where my distrust is unfounded, I pray You would help me to see that and enable me to step out in trust of him again. Where my distrust is legitimate because he has truly violated that trust, I ask for a miracle of restoration. First of all, I pray You would lead my husband to total repentance. Bring him to his knees before You in confession so he can be restored. I pray he will be sincerely apologetic to me as well. Second, help me to forgive him so completely that I can trust him fully without reservation again. And last, but most important of all, help me to trust You with all my heart to rectify this situation. Work powerfully in my husband to make him trustworthy, and do a work in me to make me trusting. Help me to not depend on my own reasoning, but rather to depend on Your ability to transform us both. In Jesus’ name I pray. ~ Stormie Omartian,
1043:At the heart of God is the desire to give and to forgive. Because of this, he set into motion the entire redemptive process that culminated in the cross and was confirmed in the resurrection. The usual notion of what Jesus did on the cross was something like this: people were so bad and so mean and God was so angry with them that he could not forgive them unless somebody big enough took the rap for the whole lot of them. Nothing could be further from the truth. Love, not anger, brought Jesus to the cross. Golgotha came as a result of God’s great desire to forgive, not his reluctance. Jesus knew that by his vicarious suffering he could actually absorb all the evil of humanity and so heal it, forgive it, redeem it. This is why Jesus refused the customary painkiller when it was offered him. He wanted to be completely alert for this greatest work of redemption. In a deep and mysterious way he was preparing to take on the collective sin of the human race. Since Jesus lives in the eternal now, this work was not just for those around him, but he took in all the violence, all the fear, all the sin of all the past, all the present, and all the future. This was his highest and most holy work, the work that makes confession and the forgiveness of sins possible…Some seem to think that when Jesus shouted “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” it was a moment of weakness (Mark 15:34). Not at all. This was his moment of greatest triumph. Jesus, who had walked in constant communion with the Father, now became so totally identified with humankind that he was the actual embodiment of sin. As Paul writes, “he made him to be sin who knew no sin (2 Cor. 5:21). Jesus succeeded in taking into himself all of the dark powers of this present evil age and defeated every one of them by the light of his presence. He accomplished such a total identification with the sin of the race that he experienced the abandonment of God. Only in that way could he redeem sin. It was indeed his moment of greatest triumph. Having accomplished this greatest of all his works, Jesus then took refreshment. “It is finished,” he announced. That is, this great work of redemption was completed. He could feel the last dregs of the misery of humankind flow through him and into the care of the Father. The last twinges of evil, hostility, anger, and fear drained out of him, and he was able to turn again into the light of God’s presence. “It is finished.” The task is complete. Soon after, he was free to give up his spirit to the father. …Without the cross the Discipline of confession would be only psychologically therapeutic. But it is so much more. It involves and objective change in our relationship with God and a subjective change in us. It is a means of healing and transforming the inner spirit. ~ Richard J Foster,
1044:Which reminds me that you’ve never said how you dueled at Needles against the city’s finest fighter and won.”
It would be a mistake to tell him. It would defy the simplest rule of warfare: to hide one’s strengths and weaknesses for as long as possible. Yet Kestrel told Arin the story of how she had beaten Irex.
Arin covered his face with one floured hand and peeked at her between his fingers. “You are terrifying. Gods help me if I cross you, Kestrel.”
“You already have,” she pointed out.
“But am I your enemy?” Arin crossed the space between them. Softly, he repeated, “Am I?”
She didn’t answer. She concentrated on the feel of the table’s edge pressing into the small of her back. The table was simple and real, joined wood and nails and right corners. No wobble. No give.
“You’re not mine,” Arin said.
And kissed her.
Kestrel’s lips parted. This was real, yet not simple at all. He smelled of woodsmoke and sugar. Sweet beneath the burn. He tasted like the honey he’d licked off his fingers minutes before. Her heartbeat skidded, and it was she who leaned greedily into the kiss, she who slid one knee between his legs. Then his breath went ragged and the kiss grew dark and deep. He lifted her up onto the table so that her face was level with his, and as they kissed it seemed that words were hiding in the air around them, that they were invisible creatures that feathered against her and Arin, then nudged, and buzzed, and tugged.
Speak, they said.
Speak, the kiss answered.
Love was on the tip of Kestrel’s tongue. But she couldn’t say that. How could she ever say that, after everything between them, after fifty keystones paid into the auctioneer's hand, after hours of Kestrel secretly wondering what it would sound like if Arin sang while she played, after wrists bound together and the crack of her knee under a boot and Arin confessing in the carriage on Firstwinter night.
It had felt like a confession. But it wasn’t. He had said nothing of the plot. Even if he had, it still would have been too late, with everything to his advantage.
Kestrel remembered again her promise to Jess.
If she didn’t leave this house now, she would betray herself. She would give herself to someone whose Firstwinter kiss had led her to believe she was all that he wanted, when he had hoped to flip the world so that he was at its top and she was at its bottom.
Kestrel pulled away.
Arin was apologizing. He was asking what he had done wrong. His face was flushed, mouth swollen. He was saying something about how maybe it was too soon, but that they could have a life here. Together.
“My soul is yours,” he said. “You know that it is.”
She lifted a hand, as much to block his face from her sight as to stop those words.
She walked out of the kitchen.
It took all of her pride not to run. ~ Marie Rutkoski,
1045:The Boy And The Skylark
A FABLE.
'A wicked action fear to do,
When you are by yourself; for though
You think you can conceal it,
A little bird that's in the air
The hidden trespass shall declare,
And openly reveal it.'
Richard this saying oft had heard,
Until the sight of any bird
Would set his heart a-quaking;
He saw a host of wingëd spies
For ever o'er him in the skies,
Note of his actions taking.
This pious precept, while it stood
In his remembrance, kept him good
When nobody was by him;
For though no human eye was near,
Yet Richard still did wisely fear
The little bird should spy him.
But best resolves will sometimes sleep;
Poor frailty will not always keep
From that which is forbidden;
And Richard, one day, left alone,
Laid hands on something not his own,
And hoped the theft was hidden.
His conscience slept a day or two,
As it is very apt to do
When we with pains suppress it:
And though at times a slight remorse
Would raise a pang, it had not force
To make him yet confess it.
123
When on a day, as he abroad
Walked by his mother, in their road
He heard a skylark singing;
Smit with the sound, a flood of tears
Proclaimed the superstitious fears
His inmost bosom wringing.
His mother, wondering, saw him cry,
And fondly asked the reason why;
Then Richard made confession,
And said, he feared the little bird
He singing in the air had heard
Was telling his transgression.
The words which Richard spoke below,
As sounds by nature upwards go,
Were to the skylark carried;
The airy traveller with surprise
To hear his sayings, in the skies
On his mid journey tarried.
His anger then the bird exprest:
'Sure, since the day I left the nest,
I ne'er heard folly uttered
So fit to move a skylark's mirth,
As what this little son of earth
Hath in his grossness muttered.
'Dull fool! to think we sons of air
On man's low actions waste a care,
His virtues or his vices;
Or soaring on the summer gales,
That we should stoop to carry tales
Of him or his devices!
124
'Our songs are all of the delights
We find in our wild airy flights,
And heavenly exaltation;
The earth you mortals have at heart
Is all too gross to have a part
In skylark's conversation.
'Unless it be in what green field
Or meadow we our nest may build,
Midst flowering broom, or heather;
From whence our new-fledged offspring may
With least obstruction wing their way
Up to the walks of ether.
'Mistaken fool! man needs not us
His secret merits to discuss,
Or spy out his transgression;
When once he feels his conscience stirred,
That voice within him is the bird
That moves him to confession.'
~ Charles Lamb,
1046:When the psalmist saw the transgression of the wicked his heart told him how it could be. ”There is no fear of God before his eyes,” he explained, and in so saying revealed to us the psychology of sin. When men no longer fear God, they transgress His laws without hesitation. The fear of consequences is not deterrent when the fear of God is gone. In olden days men of faith were said to ”walk in the fear of God” and to ”serve the Lord with fear.” However intimate their communion with God, however bold their prayers, at the base of their religious life was the conception of God as awesome and dreadful. This idea of God transcendent rims through the whole Bible and gives color and tone to the character of the saints. This fear of God was more than a natural apprehension of danger; it was a nonrational dread, an acute feeling of personal insufficiency in the presence of God the Almighty. Wherever God appeared to men in Bible times the results were the same - an overwhelming sense of terror and dismay, a wrenching sensation of sinfulness and guilt. When God spoke, Abram stretched himself upon the ground to listen. When Moses saw the Lord in the burning bush, he hid his face in fear to look upon God. Isalah’s vision of God wrung from him the cry, ”Woe is me!” and the confession, ”I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips.” Daniel’s encounter with God was probably the most dreadful and wonderful of them all. The prophet lifted up his eyes and saw One whose ”body also was like the beryl, and his face as the appearance of lightning, and his eyes as lamps of fire, and his arms and his feet like in colour to polished brass, and the voice of his words like the voice of a multitude.” ”I Daniel alone saw the vision” he afterwards wrote, ”for the men that were with me saw not the vision; but a great quaking fell upon them, so that they fled to hide themselves. Therefore I was left alone, and saw this great vision, and there remained no strength in me: for my comeliness was turned in me into corruption, and I retained no strength. Yet heard I the voice of his words: and when I heard the voice of his words, then was I in a deep sleep on my face, and my face toward the ground.” These experiences show that a vision of the divine transcendence soon ends all controversy between the man and his God. The fight goes out of the man and he is ready with the conquered Saul to ask meekly, ”Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?”  Conversely, the self-assurance of modern Christians, the basic levity present in so many of our religious gatherings, the shocking disrespect shown for the Person of God, are evidence enough of deep blindness of heart.  Many call themselves by the name of Christ, talk much about God, and pray to Him sometimes, but evidently do not know who He is. ”The fear of the Lord is a fountain of life,” but this healing fear is today hardly found among Christian men. ~ A W Tozer,
1047:He swore sharply, David Jones’s still-so-familiar voice coming out of that stranger’s body. “Do you have any idea how unbelievably hard it’s been to get you alone?”
Had she finally started hallucinating?
But he took off his glasses, and she could see his eyes more clearly and . . . “It’s you,” she breathed, tears welling. “It’s really you.” She reached for him, but he stepped back.
Sisters Helen and Grace were hurrying across the compound, coming to see what the ruckus was, shading their eyes and peering so they could see in through the screens.
“You can’t let on that you know me,” Jones told Molly quickly, his voice low, rough. “You can’t tell anyone—not even your friend the priest during confession, do you understand?”
“Are you in some kind of danger?” she asked him. Dear God, he was so thin. And was the cane necessary or just a prop? “Stand still, will you, so I can—”
“No. Don’t. We can’t . . .” He backed away again. “If you say anything, Mol, I swear, I’ll vanish, and I will not come back. Unless . . . if you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—”
“No!” was all she managed to say before Sister Helen opened the door and looked from the mess on the floor to Molly’s stricken expression.
“Oh, dear.”
“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Jones said in a British accent, in a voice that was completely different from his own, as Helen rushed to Molly’s side. “My fault entirely. I brought Miss Anderson some bad news. I didn’t realize just how devastating it would be.”
Molly started crying. It was more than just a good way to hide her laughter at that accent—those were real tears streaming down her face and she couldn’t stop them. Helen led her to one of the tables, helped her sit down.
“Oh, my dear,” the nun said, kneeling in front of her, concern on her round face, holding her hand. “What happened?”
“We have a mutual friend,” Jones answered for her. “Bill Bolten. He found out I was heading to Kenya, and he thought if I happened to run into Miss Anderson that she would want to know that a friend of theirs recently . . . well, passed. Cat’s out of the bag, right? Fellow name of Grady Morant, who went by the alias of Jones.”
“Oh, dear,” Helen said again, hand to her mouth in genuine sympathy.
Jones leaned closer to the nun, his voice low, but not low enough for Molly to miss hearing. “His plane went down—burned—gas tank exploded . . . Ghastly mess. Not a prayer that he survived.”
Molly buried her face in her hands, hardly able to think.
“Bill was worried that she might’ve heard it first from someone else,” he said. “But apparently she hadn’t.”
Molly shook her head, no. News did travel fast via the grapevine. Relief workers tended to know other relief workers and . . . She could well have heard about Jones’s death without him standing right in front of her.
Wouldn’t that have been awful? ~ Suzanne Brockmann,
1048:Listening and Answering Throughout most of the great Old Testament book that bears his name, Job cries out to God in agonized prayer. For all his complaints, Job never walks away from God or denies his existence—he processes all his pain and suffering through prayer. Yet he cannot accept the life God is calling him to live. Then the skies cloud over and God speaks to Job “out of the whirlwind” (Job 38:1). The Lord recounts in vivid detail his creation and sustenance of the universe and of the natural world. Job is astonished and humbled by this deeper vision of God (Job 40:3–5) and has a breakthrough. He finally prays a mighty prayer of repentance and adoration (Job 42:1–6). The question of the book of Job is posed in its very beginning. Is it possible that a man or woman can come to love God for himself alone so that there is a fundamental contentment in life regardless of circumstances (Job 1:9)?97 By the end of the book we see the answer. Yes, this is possible, but only through prayer. What had happened? The more clearly Job saw who God was, the fuller his prayers became—moving from mere complaint to confession, appeal, and praise. In the end he broke through and was able to face anything in life. This new refinement and level of character came through the interaction of listening to God’s revealed Word and answering in prayer. The more true his knowledge of God, the more fruitful his prayers became, and the more sweeping the change in his life. The power of our prayers, then, lies not primarily in our effort and striving, or in any technique, but rather in our knowledge of God. You may respond, “But God spoke audible words to Job out of a storm. I wish God spoke to me like that.” The answer is—we have something better, an incalculably clearer expression of God’s character. “In the past God spoke to our ancestors through the prophets at many times and in various ways, but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son . . . the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of his being” (Heb 1:1–3). Jesus Christ is the Word of God (John 1:1–14) because no more comprehensive, personal, and beautiful communication of God is possible. We cannot look directly at the sun with our eyes. The glory of it would immediately overwhelm and destroy our sight. We have to look at it through a filter, and then we can see the great flames and colors of it. When we look at Jesus Christ as he is shown to us in the Scriptures, we are looking at the glory of God through the filter of a human nature. That is one of the many reasons, as we shall see, that Christians pray “in Jesus’ name.” Through Christ, prayer becomes what Scottish Reformer John Knox called “an earnest and familiar talking with God,” and John Calvin called an “intimate conversation” of believers with God, or elsewhere “a communion of men with God”—a two-way communicative interaction.98 “For through [Christ] we . . . have access to the Father by one Spirit” (Eph 2:18). ~ Timothy J Keller,
1049:Queen Eleanor's Confession
Queene Elianor was a sicke woman,
And afraid that she should dye;
Then she sent for two fryars of France,
To speke with her speedilye.
The king called downe his nobles all,
By one, by two, by three,
'Earl Marshall, Ile go shrive the queene,
And thou shalt wend with mee.'
'A boone, a boone;' quoth Earl Marshall,
And fell on his bended knee;
'That whatsoever Queene Elianor saye,
No harme therof may bee.'
'Ile pawne my landes,' the king then cryd,
'My sceptre, crowne, and all,
That whatsoere Queen Elianor sayes,
No harme therof shall fall.
'Do thou put on a fryars coat,
And Ile put on another;
And we will to Queen Elianor goe,
Like fryar and his brother.'
Thus both attired then they goe:
When they came to Whitehall,
The bells did ring, and the quiristers sing,
And the torches did lighte them all.
When that they came before the queene,
They fell on their bended knee;
'A boone, a boone, our gracious queene,
That you sent so hastilee.'
'Are you two fryars of France,' she sayd,
'As I suppose you bee?
But if you are two Englishe fryars,
You shall hang on the gallowes tree.'
543
'We are two fryars of France,' they sayd,
'As you suppose we bee;
We have not been at any masse
Sith we came from the sea.'
'The first vile thing that ever I did,
I will to you unfolde;
Earl Marshall had my maidenhed,
Beneath this cloth of golde.'
'Thats a vile sinne,' then sayd the king;
'May God forgive it thee!'
'Amen, amen,' quoth Earl Marshall,
With a heavye heart spake hee.
'The next vile thing that ever I did,
To you Ile not denye;
I made a boxe of poyson strong,
To poison King Henrye.'
'Thats a vile sinne,' then sayd the king,
'May God forgive it thee!'
'Amen, amen,' quoth Earl Marshall;
'And I wish it so may bee.'
'The next vile thing that ever I did,
To you I will discover;
I poysoned fair Rosamonde,
All in fair Woodstocke bower.'
'Thats a vile sinne,' then sayd the king;
'My God forgive it thee!'
'Amen, amen,' quoth Earl Marshall;
'And I wish it so may bee.'
'Do you see yonders little boye,
A tossing of the balle?
That is Earl Marshalls eldest sonne,
And I love him the best of all.
'Do you see yonders little boye,
544
A catching of the balle?
That is King Henryes youngest sonne,
And I love him the worst of all.
'His head is fashyon'd like a bull,
His nose is like a boare, --'
'No matter for that,' King Henrye cry'd,
'I love him the better therfore.'
The king pulled off his fryars coate,
And appeared all in redde;
She shrieked, and cryd, and wrung her hands,
And sayd she was betrayde.
The king lookt over his left shoulder,
And a grimme look looked hee;
'Earl Marshall,' he sayd, 'but for my oathe,
Or hanged thou shouldst bee.'
~ Anonymous Olde English,
1050:Her whole body shook as big, fat drops slid down her cheeks. Mortified, she covered her face as though she could hide her wailing. Strong arms enveloped her and Mitch pulled her close. She gave one thought to protest, and then sank into the warm, solid strength of his chest. He was big and broad, so different from what she was used to. The thought made her cry harder. She should push him away, but instead she curled closer. Needing him. She was the most wicked kind of woman. There’d be no escaping hell now. All those years of penance washed away by one night of rash behavior. Mitch kissed her temple, rubbing his hands over her bare skin. That he let her cry, and didn’t start lecturing her on emotional outbursts, made her want to crawl into him and never let go. He swayed them both, murmuring nonsense and tracing slow, soothing circles over her back. “Come on now, Princess. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.” She hiccupped into his shirt while she clung to him as though he were her life vest on a sinking ship. A great gush of air was followed by a hiccup. She blurted her very pressing and very embarrassing need. “I-I h-have to go to the b-b-bathroom.” The gentle sway stopped. A rumble in his chest was followed by a cough. He was trying not to laugh. The jerk. She sobbed harder: great heaping wails straight from the pit of her stomach. Now that she was on a roll, she keened pitifully, “A-and m-m-y f-feet hurt.” “It’s okay.” His tone was most definitely amused. “Why didn’t you go?” Now came the worst confession. “M-my dress i-is too b-big.” “Well, take it off.” Did he think she was an idiot? “I c-can’t get it off.” With a fresh batch of hysterics, her shoulders trembled as she buried her face in his T-shirt, now wet with tears. No one at the store had mentioned she’d need a crew of people to go to the bathroom, and now a stranger had to undress her. She hiccupped. They really should mention these kinds of details at the time of purchase. He ran his fingers down a million tiny buttons from the blades of her shoulders to the curve of her ass. “It’s okay. We can take care of this.” “B-but,” she cried. The thought almost unbearable. She was being tested. How was she supposed to be good when she had to disrobe in front of the most gorgeous man alive? “You’ll s-see me almost n-naked.” When he said nothing, fresh tears welled in her eyes. He probably thought she was propositioning him. Surely women threw themselves at him all the time. He rubbed her bare arms. “I’m thirty-four, Princess. I’ve seen a naked woman before.” “But you haven’t seen me.” No one had seen her—well, except Steve, but he hardly even counted. “I’m twenty-eight, and only one guy has seen me. And he isn’t like you. Why can’t you be someone else?” “Like who?” He trailed a path over her bare skin, creating a rush of tingles up and down her spine. She burrowed closer, some of her hysterics finally calming as his soothing but intoxicating presence worked its charm. “You’re not Mister Rogers, you know.” “You can trust me, Maddie. I won’t attack.” Ha! ~ Jennifer Dawson,
1051:Two hours I’ve been searching for you boys. Having fun?” The captain was irked, but that didn’t forestall Galen.
“Yes, sir,” he declared, with an impudent grin.
Cannan almost rolled his eyes, then he dropped his volume. “The manor house, half an hour. Understood?”
Steldor and Galen nodded, then Cannan’s eyes fell on me.
“Shaselle, you should go back to the faire,” he decreed, a warning underlying his tone.
I knew I should obey, and I certainly knew Cannan wasn’t likely to give me permission to remain with Steldor and Galen. Still, something was up, and I wanted to be a part of it. I stayed put, peering sheepishly up at him.
“Shaselle,” he prompted.
“I’d like to come,” I murmured, fearful of his reaction. “I’ll stay out of the way and won’t cause any trouble.”
The captain crossed his arms. “No, there is too much at risk.”
“Uncle, please! I may be able to help. Perhaps messages need to be delivered. You might all be under surveillance, but no one would be watching me.”
“She already knows where we’re meeting,” Steldor pointed out, an argument that had not yet come to me.
“So there’s not much point in trying to keep her away,” Galen finished, looking at me with understanding in his eyes. He had heard my confession about Saadi and probably wanted to show that he still trusted me.
Cannan glared at his son by blood and his son by familiarity and responsibility. To my astonishment, he relented.
“She can come, but one of you takes her when we split up. I don’t want her getting lost.”
I bounced on the balls of my feet, exhilarated by the captain’s decision, then froze when his stern eyes fell on me. He did not see this as cause for celebration.
“Half an hour,” he grumbled in reminder, walking away.
I went with Steldor, and we surreptitiously departed the festival grounds, heading up the hillside and stopping a few times to talk with folks. I worried we would be late, but my cousin was not bothered.
“Trust me, stealth is much more important here than punctuality,” he told me with a smirk.
When the crowd began to thin, my heartbeat calmed, for we were making better progress. We passed through the Market District only to be slowed once more when we reached the thoroughfare.
“We are late by now,” I harassed.
“My father will either assume we’re dead or that I’m up to my usual tricks. If I’m not worried, you shouldn’t be.”
His eyes glinted wickedly, suggesting he enjoyed needling his father, perhaps even to the same extent he enjoyed his popularity.
I shrugged, keeping my silence the rest of the trek to Cannan’s manor house, where Steldor had grown up. He rapped four times on the door and we were ushered inside by Galen, who locked the door before heading through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs into a cellar. Only a single torch was lit in the small, clammy space, making it difficult to distinguish the faces of the men who had gathered.
“Delayed?” Cannan asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“Come now, Father. I had baggage,” Steldor shot back, and I shoved him, not appreciating his gibe. ~ Cayla Kluver,
1052:It was then that I noticed the canvas bag at Saadi’s feet. He must have seen flight in my eyes, for he started running at almost the same moment I did. He caught me before I passed the next shop, snatching my upper arm just as the butcher had. I cried out, hoping he would think me in pain and let me go, but he did not, cocking an eyebrow and strengthening his grip.
“I take it you’re responsible for this?” he said, hauling the bag of fruit, which he had slung over his shoulder, up to eye level with his other hand.
I kept my mouth shut.
“Despite the fact that you’re breaking the law, you’re lucky. The evidence you left at your previous site of conquest sent me on a search for you.”
“Lucky, because you did a lot of saving,” I scoffed.
Releasing me, he smoothed his bronze hair forward, but it stuck up at the center of his hairline, which I suspected was the opposite of his intention.
“I was getting there.”
He was mumbling, disagreeable, an attitude I did not expect. Why was he bothering to make conversation with a Hytanican criminal? And why did he keep smoothing that stupid hair of his?
“I haven’t done anything,” I said, inching backward in preparation for my grand escape, the details of which I was sure would come to me at any moment. Motioning to the bag, I lied again. “That’s not mine.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But it is.”
No, it isn’t.”
“You know, the more you deny it, the more likely I am to arrest you.”
I stared wide-eyed at him. “You weren’t planning to?”
“No, it doesn’t look like you’ve caused any real harm--a couple of coins in payment for the broken lock should resolve the problem. I have a feeling if I arrested you, you wouldn’t make it out this time, not with what your uncle and cousin are guilty of.”
“Bravery?”
“Corza spends an hour terrifying you and I get a confession after a few minutes.”
Shocked and annoyed, I exclaimed, “I didn’t confess anything!”
Saadi smirked. “Nothing I’m going to share. Women and men shouldn’t be killed for bravery.”
“I suppose you condone the pranks and riots then?” I challenged. He was unbelievable--making things up to manipulate me.
“I don’t condone them,” he said more seriously. “I have a different idea of what bravery is.”
“What--compliance?”
“In a sense. Acceptance, resiliency. How strong must one be to throw a temper tantrum?”
“Is that what you’d call this? You and your people storm our homeland, take us all prisoner and any form of resistance is a temper tantrum in your eyes?”
He pondered this for a moment, his freckled nose crinkling. “Yes.”
I threw up my hands, not sure exactly what was going on or why I was still here with my enemy, but not willing to let this go.
“How do you justify that?”
“Well, for a century, our takeover of your kingdom has been inevitable. You should have acclimated yourselves to the idea by now.”
“You’re right. This is our fault, really. We’ve never been superb at preparation here in Hytanica.”
Saadi shrugged, and I thought for one stunned moment that he had taken my statements to be sincere. ~ Cayla Kluver,
1053:Constancy In Inconstancy
An Old Man’s Confession
SHE has a large still heart--this lady of mine,
(Not mine, i'faith! nor would I that she were
She walks this world of ours like Grecian nymph,
Pure with a marble pureness, moving on
Among the herd of men, environed round
With native airs of deep Olympian calm.
I have a great love for that lady of mine:
I like to watch her motions, trick of face,
And turn of thought, when speaking high and wise
The tongue of gods, not men. Ay, every day,
And twenty times a day, I start to catch
Some look or gesture of familiar mould,
And then my panting soul leans forth to her
Like some sick traveller who astonied sees
Gliding across the distant twilight fields-His lovely, lost, beloved memory-fields-The shadowy people of an earlier world.
I have a friend, how dearly liked, heart-warm,
Did I confess, sure she and all would smile:
I watch her as she steals in some dull room
That brightens at her entrance--slow lets fall
A word or two of wise simplicity,
Then goes, and at her going all seems dark.
Little she knows this: little thinks each brow
Lightens, each heart grows purer with her eyes,
Good, honest eyes--clear, upward, righteous eyes,
That look as if they saw the dim unseen,
And learnt from thence their deep compassionate calm.
Why do I precious hold this friend of mine?
Why in our talks, our quiet fireside talks,
When we, two earnest travellers through the dark,
Grasp at the guiding threads that homeward lead,
Seems it another soul than hers looks out
From these her eyes?--until I ofttimes start
And quiver, as when some soft ignorant hand
Touches the barb hid in a long-healed wound/
Yet still no blame, but thanks to thee, dear friend,
73
Ay, even when we wander back at eve,
They careless arm loose linked within my own-The same height as I gaze down--nay, the hair
Her very color--fluttering 'neath the stars-The same large stars which lit that earlier world.
I have another love--whose dewy looks
Are fresh with life's young dawn. I prophesy
The streak of light now trembling on the hills
Will broaden out into a glorious day.
Thou sweet one, meek as good, and good as fair,
Wise as a woman, harmless as a child,
I love thee well! And yet not thee, not thee,
God knows--they know who sit among the stars.
As one whose sun was darkened before noon,
Creeps patiently along the twilight lands,
Sees glow-worms, meteors, or tapers kind
Of an hour's burning, stops awhile to mark,
Thanks heaven for them, but never calls them day-So love I these, and more. Yet thou, my sun,
Who rose, leaped to thy zenith, sat there throned,
And made the whole earth day--look, if thou canst,
Out of thy veilèd glory, and behold
How all these lesser lights but come and go,
Mere reflexes of thee. Be it so! I keep
My face unto the eastward, where thou stand'st-I know thou stand'st--behind the purpling hills,
And I shall wake and find morn in the world.
~ Dinah Maria Mulock Craik,
1054:It’s my turn next, and I realize then that I never turned in the name of my escort--because I hadn’t planned on being here. I glance around wildly for Ryder, but he’s nowhere to be seen, swallowed up by the sea of people in cocktail dresses and suits.
Crap. I thought he realized that escorting me on court was part of the deal, once I’d agreed to go. I guess he’d figured it’d be easier on me, what with the whole Patrick thing, if I was alone onstage. But I don’t want to be alone. I want Ryder with me. By my side, supporting me.
Always.
I finally spot him in the crowd--it’s not too hard, since he’s a head taller than pretty much everyone else--and our eyes meet. My stomach drops to my feet--you know, that feeling you get on a roller coaster right after you crest that first hill and start plummeting toward the ground.
Oh my God, this can’t be happening. I’ve fallen in love with Ryder Marsden, the boy I’m supposed to hate. And it has nothing to do with his confession, his declaration that he loves me. Sure, it might have forced me to examine my feelings faster than I would have on my own, but it was there all along, taking root, growing, blossoming.
Heck, it’s a full-blown garden at this point.
“Our senior maid is Miss Jemma Cafferty!” comes the principal’s voice. “Jemma is a varsity cheerleader, a member of the Wheelettes social sorority, the French Honor Club, the National Honor Society, and the Peer Mentors. She’s escorted tonight by…ahem, sorry. I’m afraid there’s no escort, so we’ll just--”
“Ryder Marsden,” I call out as I make my way across the stage. “I’m escorted by Ryder Marsden.”
The collective gasp that follows my announcement is like something out of the movies. I swear, it’s just like that scene in Gone with the Wind where Rhett offers one hundred and fifty dollars in gold to dance with Scarlett, and she walks through the scandalized bystanders to take her place beside Rhett for the Virginia reel.
Only it’s the reverse. I’m standing here doing the scandalizing, and Ryder’s doing the walking.
“Apparently, Jemma’s escort is Ryder Marsden,” the principal ad-libs into the microphone, looking a little frazzled. “Ryder is…um…the starting quarterback for the varsity football team, and, um…in the National Honor Society and…” She trails off helplessly.
“A Peer Mentor,” he adds helpfully as he steps up beside me and takes my hand. The smile he flashes in my direction as Mrs. Crawford places the tiara on my head is dazzling--way more so than the tiara itself. My knees go a little weak, and I clutch him tightly as I wobble on my four-inch heels.
But here’s the thing: If the crowd is whispering about me, I don’t hear it. I’m aware only of Ryder beside me, my hand resting in the crook of his arm as he leads me to our spot on the stage beside the junior maid and her escort, where we wait for Morgan to be crowned queen.
Oh, there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow. I have no idea what we’re going to tell our parents. Right now I don’t even care. Just like Scarlett O’Hara, I’m going to enjoy myself tonight and worry about the rest later.
After all, tomorrow is another…Well, you know how the saying goes. ~ Kristi Cook,
1055:LEAD PEOPLE TO COMMITMENT We have seen that nonbelievers in worship actually “close with Christ” in two basic ways: some may come to Christ during the service itself (1 Cor 14:24 – 25), while others must be “followed up with” by means of after-service meetings. Let’s take a closer look at both ways of leading people to commitment. It is possible to lead people to a commitment to Christ during the service. One way of inviting people to receive Christ is to make a verbal invitation as the Lord’s Supper is being distributed. At our church, we say it this way: “If you are not in a saving relationship with God through Christ today, do not take the bread and the cup, but as they come around, take Christ. Receive him in your heart as those around you receive the food. Then immediately afterward, come up and tell an officer or a pastor about what you’ve done so we can get you ready to receive the Supper the next time as a child of God.” Another way to invite commitment during the service is to give people a time of silence or a period of musical interlude after the sermon. This affords people time to think and process what they have heard and to offer themselves to God in prayer. In many situations, it is best to invite people to commitment through after-meetings. Acts 2 gives an example. Inverses 12 and 13 we are told that some folks mocked after hearing the apostles praise and preach, but others were disturbed and asked, “What does this mean?” Then, we see that Peter very specifically explained the gospel and, in response to the follow-up question “What shall we do?” (v. 37), he explained how to become a Christian. Historically, many preachers have found it effective to offer such meetings to nonbelievers and seekers immediately after evangelistic worship. Convicted seekers have just come from being in the presence of God and are often the most teachable and open at this time. To seek to “get them into a small group” or even to merely return next Sunday is asking a lot. They may also be “amazed and perplexed” (Acts 2:12), and it is best to strike while the iron is hot. This should not be understood as doubting that God is infallibly drawing people to himself (Acts 13:48; 16:14). Knowing the sovereignty of God helps us to relax as we do evangelism, knowing that conversions are not dependent on our eloquence. But it should not lead us to ignore or minimize the truth that God works through secondary causes. The Westminster Confession (5.2 – 3), for example, tells us that God routinely works through normal social and psychological processes. Therefore, inviting people into a follow-up meeting immediately after the worship service can often be more conducive to conserving the fruit of the Word. After-meetings may take the shape of one or more persons waiting at the front of the auditorium to pray with and talk with seekers who wish to make inquiries right on the spot. Another way is to host a simple Q&A session with the preacher in or near the main auditorium, following the postlude. Or offer one or two classes or small group experiences targeted to specific questions non-Christians ask about the content, relevance, and credibility of the Christian faith. Skilled lay evangelists should be present who can come alongside newcomers, answer spiritual questions, and provide guidance for their next steps. ~ Timothy J Keller,
1056:Charlotte’s disheveled blond head was buried in his chest. It took him too long, floating in the blissful aftermath, to realize that she was crying. Horror blasted his satisfaction to ash. He reared back and placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her face up until he could see her eyes. “Mo leannan, mo chridhe, I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry. I tried to be gentle, but you were like fire in my arms. I acted like a damn barbarian. Will you ever forgive me?” She regarded him with drenched eyes as a frown drew her brows together. “Ewan, what on earth are you talking about?” He dug his fingers into her thick, warm hair. “You’re crying,” he said flatly, sick with guilt. Her lips turned down in disapproval. “I suppose you expect me to tell you why.” “For God’s sake, just tell me I didn’t hurt you.” He leaned forward and traced kisses across her brow and down her temple where he felt the deep beat of her blood. “You didn’t.” Her hands encircled his wrists. “Well, a little. At first. But then…” “Thank heaven,” he breathed, kissing the salty moisture from her fluttering eyelashes. Under his wandering lips, he felt warmth flood her cheeks. “Then it was wonderful.” “Nonetheless you cried.” He drew back to stare into her face, trying to see past her beauty to what went on in her mind. “Are you lying to make me feel better?” She released a choked laugh and tried to avoid his gaze. “When have I ever tried to make you feel better?” “When have you ever cried?” “Oh, curse you, Ewan. Can’t you leave it alone?” With some difficulty, she tugged free and sat up. “Not when you’re unhappy.” He rose until he sat in front of her. She scowled. “You’re going to make me admit it, aren’t you?” By the second, guilt and worry faded. In their place came a great happiness that turned the whole world golden. “Admit what, Charlotte?” he asked, hoping like hell he hadn’t mistaken where she was going. She swallowed, her slender throat working. Her voice was low and vibrant with emotion. “I had no idea it could be like that. You made me feel things I never imagined were possible.” “Good things?” “Now you’re just looking for compliments.” “Charlotte,” he said warningly. Her lips curved. “Marvelous, wondrous, extraordinary things.” Lyle should be happy. After all, not long ago, the thought that she wouldn’t have him under any circumstances had tormented him. Hell, not much more than a day ago, she’d baulked at letting him into the house. Now she’d given him a promise of marriage and commended his lovemaking. He was a fool to want more, but for one luminous moment, he’d hoped she might declare her love. “It’s your first time,” he said in a gloomy voice. “I’m not surprised you’re feeling a wee bit floaty.” She stared hard at him. “First time or hundredth time, I believe it’s something remarkable between us that made it like that.” “Like what?” “Like the beauty tore my soul into pieces.” Her voice was husky. His heart crashed against his ribs at her confession. Surely that was enough. Why couldn’t he accept what she offered? She told him everything he wanted to hear—except the most important words of all. “That’s just pleasure.” She gave him the familiar unimpressed look. “I’m no expert, Ewan, but I’m pretty sure that pleasure alone wouldn’t make me cry.” She bit her lip, and her eyes deepened to dark honey. “Only love could make me cry. ~ Anna Campbell,
1057:Equal protection under the law is not a hard principle to convince Americans of. The difficulty comes in persuading them that it has been violated in particular cases, and of the need to redress the wrong. Prejudice and indifference run deep. Education, social reform, and political action can persuade some. But most people will not feel the sufferings of others unless they feel, even in an abstract way, that 'it could have been me or someone close to me'. Consider the astonishingly rapid transformation of American attitudes toward homosexuality and even gay marriage over the past decades. Gay activism brought these issues to public attention but attitudes were changed during tearful conversations over dinner tables across American when children came out to their parents (and, sometimes, parents came out to their children). Once parents began to accept their children, extended families did too, and today same-sex marriages are celebrated across the country with all the pomp and joy and absurd overspending of traditional American marriages. Race is a wholly different matter. Given the segregation in American society white families have little chance of seeing and therefore understanding the lives of black Americans. I am not black male motorist and never will be. All the more reason, then, that I need some way to identify with one if I am going to be affected by his experience. And citizenship is the only thing I know we share. The more differences between us are emphasized, the less likely I will be to feel outrage at his mistreatment.

Black Lives Matter is a textbook example of how not to build solidarity. There is no denying that by publicizing and protesting police mistreatment of African-Americans the movement mobilized supporters and delivered a wake-up call to every American with a conscience. But there is also no denying that the movement's decision to use this mistreatment to build a general indictment of American society, and its law enforcement institutions, and to use Mau-Mau tactics to put down dissent and demand a confession of sins and public penitence (most spectacularly in a public confrontation with Hillary Clinton, of all people), played into the hands of the Republican right.

As soon as you cast an issue exclusively in terms of identity you invite your adversary to do the same. Those who play one race card should be prepared to be trumped by another, as we saw subtly and not so subtly in the 2016 presidential election. And it just gives that adversary an additional excuse to be indifferent to you. There is a reason why the leaders of the civil rights movement did not talk about identity the way black activists do today, and it was not cowardice or a failure to be "woke". The movement shamed America into action by consciously appealing to what we share, so that it became harder for white Americans to keep two sets of books, psychologically speaking: one for "Americans" and one for "Negroes". That those leaders did not achieve complete success does not mean that they failed, nor does it prove that a different approach is now necessary. No other approach is likely to succeed. Certainly not one that demands that white Americans agree in every case on what constitutes discrimination or racism today. In democratic politics it is suicidal to set the bar for agreement higher than necessary for winning adherents and elections. ~ Mark Lilla,
1058:The Day Of Wrath / Dies Iræ
Day of Satan's painful duty! Dies iræ! dies illa!
Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; Solvet sæclum in favilla
So says Virtue, so says Beauty. Teste David cum Sibylla.
Ah! what terror shall be shaping Quantus tremor est futurus,
When the Judge the truth's undraping- Quando Judex est venturus.
Cats from every bag escaping! Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Now the trumpet's invocation Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Calls the dead to condemnation; Per sepulchra regionem,
All receive an invitation. Coget omnes ante thronum
Death and Nature now are quaking, Mors stupebit, et Natura,
And the late lamented, waking, Quum resurget creatura
In their breezy shrouds are shaking. Judicanti responsura.
Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, Liber scriptus proferetur,
And the Clerk, to them referring, In quo totum continetur,
Makes it awkward for the erring. Unde mundus judicetur.
When the Judge appears in session, Judex ergo quum sedebit,
We shall all attend confession, Quicquid latet apparebit,
Loudly preaching non-suppression. Nil inultum remanebit.
How shall I then make romances Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,
Mitigating circumstances? Quem patronem rogaturus,
Even the just must take their chances. Quum vix justus sit securus?
King whose majesty amazes, Rex tremendæ majestatis,
Save thou him who sings thy praises; Qui salvandos salvas gratis;
Fountain, quench my private blazes. Salva me, Fons pietatis.
Pray remember, sacred Saviour, Recordare, Jesu pie,
Mine the playful hand that gave your Quod sum causa tuæ viæ;
Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. Ne me perdas illa die.
Seeking me, fatigue assailed thee, Quærens me sedisti lassus
Calvary's outlook naught availed thee; Redemisti crucem passus,
Now 'twere cruel if I failed thee. Tantus labor non sit cassus.
Righteous judge and learnèd brother, Juste Judex ultionis,
Pray thy prejudices smother Donum fac remissionis
Ere we meet to try each other. Ante diem rationis.
Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, Ingemisco tanquam reus,
And my face vermilion flushes; Culpa rubet vultus meus;
Spare me for my pretty blushes. Supplicanti parce, Deus.
Thief and harlot, when repenting, Qui Mariam absolvisti,
Thou forgavest-complimenting Et latronem exaudisti,
Me with sign of like relenting. Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
464
If too bold is my petition Preces meæ non sunt dignæ,
I'll receive with due submission Sed to bonus fac benigne
My dismissal-from perdition. Ne perenni cremer igne.
When thy sheep thou hast selected Inter oves locum præsta.
From the goats, may I, respected, Et ab hædis me sequestra,
Stand amongst them undetected. Statuens in parte dextra.
When offenders are indited, Confutatis maledictis,
And with trial-flames ignited, Flammis acribus addictis,
Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. Voca me cum benedictis.
Ashen-hearted, prone and prayerful, Oro supplex et acclinis,
When of death I see the air full, Cor contritum quasi cinis;
Lest I perish too be careful. Gere curam mei finis.
On that day of lamentation, Lacrymosa dies illa
When, to enjoy the conflagration, Qua resurget et favilla,
Men come forth, O be not cruel: Judicandus homo reus,
Spare me, Lord-make them thy fuel. Huic ergo parce, Deus!
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1059:Darwin singled out the eye as posing a particularly challenging problem: 'To suppose that the eye with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest degree.' Creationists gleefully quote this sentence again and again. Needless to say, they never quote what follows. Darwin's fulsomely free confession turned out to be a rhetorical device. He was drawing his opponents towards him so that his punch, when it came, struck the harder. The punch, of course, was Darwin's effortless explanation of exactly how the eye evolved by gradual degrees. Darwin may not have used the phrase 'irreducible complexity', or 'the smooth gradient up Mount Improbable', but he clearly understood the principle of both. 'What is the use of half an eye?' and 'What is the use of half a wing?' are both instances of the argument from 'irreducible complexity'. A functioning unit is said to be irreducibly complex if the removal of one of its parts causes the whole to cease functioning. This has been assumed to be self-evident for both eyes and wings. But as soon as we give these assumptions a moment's thought, we immediately see the fallacy. A cataract patient with the lens of her eye surgically removed can't see clear images without glasses, but can see enough not to bump into a tree or fall over a cliff. Half a wing is indeed not as good as a whole wing, but it is certainly better than no wing at all. Half a wing could save your life by easing your fall from a tree of a certain height. And 51 per cent of a wing could save you if you fall from a slightly taller tree. Whatever fraction of a wing you have, there is a fall from which it will save your life where a slightly smaller winglet would not. The thought experiment of trees of different height, from which one might fall, is just one way to see, in theory, that there must be a smooth gradient of advantage all the way from 1 per cent of a wing to 100 per cent. The forests are replete with gliding or parachuting animals illustrating, in practice, every step of the way up that particular slope of Mount Improbable. By analogy with the trees of different height, it is easy to imagine situations in which half an eye would save the life of an animal where 49 per cent of an eye would not. Smooth gradients are provided by variations in lighting conditions, variations in the distance at which you catch sight of your prey—or your predators. And, as with wings and flight surfaces, plausible intermediates are not only easy to imagine: they are abundant all around the animal kingdom. A flatworm has an eye that, by any sensible measure, is less than half a human eye. Nautilus (and perhaps its extinct ammonite cousins who dominated Paleozoic and Mesozoic seas) has an eye that is intermediate in quality between flatworm and human. Unlike the flatworm eye, which can detect light and shade but see no image, the Nautilus 'pinhole camera' eye makes a real image; but it is a blurred and dim image compared to ours. It would be spurious precision to put numbers on the improvement, but nobody could sanely deny that these invertebrate eyes, and many others, are all better than no eye at all, and all lie on a continuous and shallow slope up Mount Improbable, with our eyes near a peak—not the highest peak but a high one. ~ Richard Dawkins,
1060:STREET

FAUST MARGARET (passing by)

FAUST

Fair lady, let it not offend you,
That arm and escort I would lend you!

MARGARET

I'm neither lady, neither fair,
And home I can go without your care.

[She releases herself, and exit.

FAUST

By Heaven, the girl is wondrous fair!
Of all I've seen, beyond compare;
So sweetly virtuous and pure,
And yet a little pert, be sure!
The lip so red, the cheek's clear dawn,
So sweetly virtuous and pure, and yet a little pert be sure.

I'll not forget while the world rolls on!
How she cast down her timid eyes,
Deep in my heart imprinted lies:
How short and sharp of speech was she,
Why, 'twas a real ecstasy!

(MEPHISTOPHELES enters)

FAUST

Hear, of that girl I'd have possession!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Which, then?

FAUST

The one who just went by.

MEPHISTOPHELES

She, there? She's coming from confession,
Of every sin absolved; for I,
Behind her chair, was listening nigh.
So innocent is she, indeed,
That to confess she had no need.
I have no power o'er souls so green.

FAUST

And yet, she's older than fourteen.

MEPHISTOPHELES

How now! You're talking like Jack Rake,
Who every flower for himself would take,
And fancies there are no favors more,
Nor honors, save for him in store;
Yet always doesn't the thing succeed.

FAUST

Most Worthy Pedagogue, take heed!
Let not a word of moral law be spoken!
I claim, I tell thee, all my right;
And if that image of delight
Rest not within mine arms to-night,
At midnight is our compact broken.

MEPHISTOPHELES

But think, the chances of the case!
I need, at least, a fortnight's space,
To find an opportune occasion.

FAUST

Had I but seven hours for all,
I should not on the Devil call,
But win her by my own persuasion.

MEPHISTOPHELES

You almost like a Frenchman prate;
Yet, pray, don't take it as annoyance!
Why, all at once, exhaust the joyance?
Your bliss is by no means so great
As if you'd use, to get control,
All sorts of tender rigmarole,
And knead and shape her to your thought,
As in Italian tales 'tis taught.

FAUST

Without that, I have appetite.

MEPHISTOPHELES

But now, leave jesting out of sight!
I tell you, once for all, that speed
With this fair girl will not succeed;
By storm she cannot captured be;
We must make use of strategy.

FAUST

Get me something the angel keeps!
Lead me thither where she sleeps!
Get me a kerchief from her breast,
A garter that her knee has pressed!

MEPHISTOPHELES

That you may see how much I'd fain
Further and satisfy your pain,
We will no longer lose a minute;
I'll find her room to-day, and take you in it.

FAUST

And shall I seepossess her?

MEPHISTOPHELES

No!
Unto a neighbor she must go,
And meanwhile thou, alone, mayst glow
With every hope of future pleasure,
Breathing her atmosphere in fullest measure.

FAUST

Can we go thither?

MEPHISTOPHELES

'Tis too early yet.

FAUST

A gift for her I bid thee get!
[Exit.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Presents at once? That's good: he's certain to get at her!
Full many a pleasant place I know,
And treasures, buried long ago:
I must, perforce, look up the matter. [Exit.
Faust

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, A STREET
,
1061:Normally, Bentner would have beamed approvingly at the pretty portrait the girls made, but this morning, as he put out butter and jam, he had grim news to impart and a confession to make. As he swept the cover off the scones he gave his news and made his confession.
“We had a guest last night,” he told Elizabeth. “I slammed the door on him.”
“Who was it?”
“A Mr. Ian Thornton.”
Elizabeth stifled a horrified chuckle at the image that called to mind, but before she could comment Bentner said fiercely, “I regretted my actions afterward! I should have invited him inside, offered him refreshment, and slipped some of that purgative powder into his drink. He’d have had a bellyache that lasted a month!”
“Bentner,” Alex sputtered, “you are a treasure!”
“Do not encourage him in these fantasies,” Elizabeth warned wryly. “Bentner is so addicted to mystery novels that he occasionally forgets that what one does in a novel cannot always be done in real life. He actually did a similar thing to my uncle last year.”
“Yes, and he didn’t return for six months,” Bentner told Alex proudly.
“And when he does come,” Elizabeth reminded him with a frown to sound severe, “he refuses to eat or drink anything.”
“Which is why he never stays long,” Bentner countered, undaunted. As was his habit whenever his mistress’s future was being discussed, as it was now, Bentner hung about to make suggestions as they occurred to him. Since Elizabeth had always seemed to appreciate his advice and assistance, he found nothing odd about a butler sitting down at the table and contributing to the conversation when the only guest was someone he’d known since she was a girl.
“It’s that odious Belhaven we have to rid you of first,” Alexandra said, returning to their earlier conversation. “He hung about last night, glowering at anyone who might have approached you.” She shuddered. “And the way he ogles you. It’s revolting. It’s worse than that; he’s almost frightening.”
Bentner heard that, and his elderly eyes grew thoughtful as he recalled something he’d read about in one of his novels. “As a solution it is a trifle extreme,” he said, “but as a last resort it could work.”
Two pairs of eyes turned to him with interest, and he continued, “I read it in The Nefarious Gentleman. We would have Aaron abduct this Belhaven in our carriage and bring him straightaway to the docks, where we’ll sell him to the press gangs.”
Shaking her head in amused affection, Elizabeth said, “I daresay he wouldn’t just meekly go along with Aaron.”
“And I don’t think,” Alex added, her smiling gaze meeting Elizabeth’s, “a press gang would take him. They’re not that desperate.”
“There’s always black magic,” Bentner continued. “In Deathly Endeavors there was a perpetrator of ancient rites who cast an evil spell. We would require some rats’ tails, as I recall, and tongues of-“
“No,” Elizabeth said with finality.
“-lizards,” Bentner finished determinedly.
“Absolutely not,” his mistress returned.
“And fresh toad old, but procuring that might be tricky. The novel didn’t say how to tell fresh from-“
“Bentner!” Elizabeth exclaimed, laughing. “You’ll cast us all into a swoon if you don’t desist at once.”
When Bentner had padded away to seek privacy for further contemplation of solutions, Elizabeth looked at Alex. “Rats’ tails and lizards’ tongues,” she said, chuckling. “No wonder Bentner insists on having a lighted candle in his room all night.”
“He must be afraid to close his eyes after reading such things,” Alex agreed. ~ Judith McNaught,
1062:Thank you so much for coming,” I said to my mother. “It was right that you were there.”
“I enjoyed myself very much, and would like to extend an invitation of my own. Would you join me in my quarters for tea?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be lovely, and warm.” Her cheeks were rosy from the day’s activity, and mine were no doubt a match.
“Shall we say a half hour? And, Alera, please ask Narian to escort you.”
My eyebrows rose dramatically.
“I don’t know if that would be best,” I hedged, for I had no idea how Narian would react to her invitation.
She drew me away from the Cokyrian sentries stationed by the door and dropped her volume. “Alera, if you’re going to marry this man, he’s going to be my son. I want to know him better.”
“Yes, but…I don’t know if he’d be comfortable. He’s very reserved, and probably wouldn’t say much.”
“Then those are things I’ll learn about him. It can’t hurt to ask him, can it? If he prefers not to come, I’ll accept his decision.”
My mother was full of subtlety. She did not say that she would understand his decision, only that she would accept it. And her phrasing wasn’t really chosen with Narian in mind--it was to let me know that this was important, and that I should do all I could to ensure he would be there.
“I’ll do my best,” I agreed, thinking that this would be the quietest tea I had ever attended.
Leaving my mother behind, I walked through the antechamber and across the Hearing Hall to reach Narian’s headquarters, which was situated in the former strategy room between Cannan’s office and mine. As always, there was much activity in the partitioned room; I also could not simply knock on the door to his private office, for a Cokyrian sentry prevented access to him without an appointment. In the end, I directed one of Narian’s officers to inform him that I wished to speak with him about an “urgent provincial matter.”
“Shall we go to your study?” Narian asked when he emerged from his office, knowing full well I had no political matters to address.
“Yes, I think that would be best.” I couldn’t repress a smile, for his eyes sparkled with curiosity.
As soon as we had closed the door to my study, and before I could speak, Narian kissed me, catching me by surprise.
“I’ve wanted to do that all afternoon, Alera. I’m not particularly fond of the gowns Hytanican women wear, but I’m willing to make an exception for this one.”
I laughed, my head spinning, and he took hold of my hands.
“Now, what’s this about?”
“My mother has invited me to tea, and we would be pleased to have you join us.”
Despite how casual I was trying to sound, Narian stiffened, and I could feel him pulling away. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“You both would like me to join you?”
“Yes, she suggested it.” I took a deep breath and made my confession. “She knows that we’re betrothed, that we’re in love.”
I couldn’t gauge his reaction from his face, but the fact that he released my hands suggested he was disturbed, piqued--not an encouraging sign. I waited, giving him a chance to straighten out his thoughts, then tried again.
“I know we agreed not to tell anyone--”
“Yes, we did,” he snapped, walking over to my desk, not meeting my eyes. This was so uncharacteristic of him that I knew I had to proceed very carefully.
“Please listen. We agreed not to tell anyone, but she’s my mother. She won’t breathe a word.”
“How can you be sure?”
I almost laughed, confused as to how he could question that. “Because she’s my mother! She raised me, Narian. I’ve always been able to trust her. Just believe me. ~ Cayla Kluver,
1063:I struggle with an embarrassing affliction, one that as far as I know doesn’t have a website or support group despite its disabling effects on the lives of those of us who’ve somehow contracted it. I can’t remember exactly when I started noticing the symptoms—it’s just one of those things you learn to live with, I guess. You make adjustments. You hope people don’t notice. The irony, obviously, is having gone into a line of work in which this particular infirmity is most likely to stand out, like being a gimpy tango instructor or an acrophobic flight attendant. The affliction I’m speaking of is moral relativism, and you can imagine the catastrophic effects on a critic’s career if the thing were left to run its course unfettered or I had to rely on my own inner compass alone. To be honest, calling it moral relativism may dignify it too much; it’s more like moral wishy-washiness. Critics are supposed to have deeply felt moral outrage about things, be ready to pronounce on or condemn other people’s foibles and failures at a moment’s notice whenever an editor emails requesting twelve hundred words by the day after tomorrow. The severity of your condemnation is the measure of your intellectual seriousness (especially when it comes to other people’s literary or aesthetic failures, which, for our best critics, register as nothing short of moral turpitude in itself). That’s how critics make their reputations: having take-no-prisoners convictions and expressing them in brutal mots justes. You’d better be right there with that verdict or you’d better just shut the fuck up. But when it comes to moral turpitude and ethical lapses (which happen to be subjects I’ve written on frequently, perversely drawn to the topics likely to expose me at my most irresolute)—it’s like I’m shooting outrage blanks. There I sit, fingers poised on keyboard, one part of me (the ambitious, careerist part) itching to strike, but in my truest soul limply equivocal, particularly when it comes to the many lapses I suspect I’m capable of committing myself, from bad prose to adultery. Every once in a while I succeed in landing a feeble blow or two, but for the most part it’s the limp equivocator who rules the roost—contextualizing, identifying, dithering. And here’s another confession while I’m at it—wow, it feels good to finally come clean about it all. It’s that … once in a while, when I’m feeling especially jellylike, I’ve found myself loitering on the Internet in hopes of—this is embarrassing—cadging a bit of other people’s moral outrage (not exactly in short supply online) concerning whatever subject I’m supposed to be addressing. Sometimes you just need a little shot in the arm, you know? It’s not like I’d crib anyone’s actual sentences (though frankly I have a tough time getting as worked up about plagiarism as other people seem to get—that’s how deep this horrible affliction runs). No, it’s the tranquillity of their moral authority I’m hoping will rub off on me. I confess to having a bit of an online “thing,” for this reason, about New Republic editor-columnist Leon Wieseltier—as everyone knows, one of our leading critical voices and always in high dudgeon about something or other: never fearing to lambaste anyone no matter how far beneath him in the pecking order, never fearing for a moment, when he calls someone out for being preening or self-congratulatory, as he frequently does, that it might be true of himself as well. When I’m in the depths of soft-heartedness, a little dose of Leon is all I need to feel like clambering back on the horse of critical judgment and denouncing someone for something. ~ Laura Kipnis,
1064:Know Your Father’s Heart Today’s Scripture Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. 1 JOHN 4:10 KJV Today, I want you to reread the parable of the father of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32). As you read, keep in mind that this son utterly rejected and completely humiliated and dishonored his father, then only returned home when he remembered that even his father’s hired servants had more food than he did! It was not the son’s love for his father that made him journey home; it was his stomach. In his own self-absorbed pride, he wanted to earn his own keep as a hired servant rather than to receive his father’s provision by grace or unmerited favor. God wants us to know that even when our motivations are wrong, even when we have a hidden (usually self-centered) agenda and our intentions are not completely pure, He still runs to us in our time of need and showers His unmerited, undeserved, and unearned favor upon us. Oh, how unsearchable are the depths of His love and grace toward us! It will never be about our love for God. It will always be about His magnificent love for us. The Bible makes this clear: “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins” (1 John 4:10 KJV). Some people think that fellowship with God can only be restored when you are perfectly contrite and have perfectly confessed all your sins. Yet we see in this parable that it was the father who was the initiator, it was the father who had missed his son, who was already looking out for him, and who had already forgiven him. Before the son could utter a single word of his rehearsed apology, the father had already run to him, embraced him, and welcomed him home. Can you see how it’s all about our Father’s heart of grace, forgiveness, and love? Our Father God swallows up all our imperfections, and true repentance comes because of His goodness. Do I say “sorry” to God and confess my sins when I have fallen short and failed? Of course I do. But I do it not to be forgiven because I know that I am already forgiven through Jesus’ finished work. The confession is out of the overflow of my heart because I have experienced His goodness and grace and because I know that as His son, I am forever righteous through Jesus’ blood. It springs from being righteousness-conscious, not sin-conscious; from being forgiveness-conscious, not judgment-conscious. There is a massive difference. If you understand this and begin practicing this, you will begin experiencing new dimensions in your love walk with the Father. You will realize that your Daddy God is all about relationship and not religious protocol. He just loves being with you. Under grace, He doesn’t demand perfection from you; He supplies perfection to you through the finished work of His Son, Jesus Christ. So no matter how many mistakes you have made, don’t be afraid of Him. He loves you. Your Father is running toward you to embrace you! Today’s Thought My Father God runs to me in my time of need and showers His unmerited, undeserved, and unearned favor upon me. Today’s Prayer Father, thank You that I can experience Your love even when I have failed. No matter how many mistakes I may have made, I don’t have to be afraid to come to You. I am still Your beloved child, and I always have fellowship with You because of the finished work of Jesus. I thank You that You don’t demand perfection from me, but You supply perfection to me through the cross. It blesses my heart to know that You just love being with me. Thank You for running to embrace me. Amen. ~ Joseph Prince,
1065:She locked herself in her room. She needed time to get used to her maimed consciousness, her poor lopped life, before she could walk steadily to the place allotted her. A new searching light had fallen on her husband's character, and she could not judge him leniently: the twenty years in which she had believed in him and venerated him by virtue of his concealments came back with particulars that made them seem an odious deceit. He had married her with that bad past life hidden behind him, and she had no faith left to protest his innocence of the worst that was imputed to him. Her honest ostentatious nature made the sharing of a merited dishonor as bitter as it could be to any mortal.
But this imperfectly taught woman, whose phrases and habits were an odd patchwork, had a loyal spirit within her. The man whose prosperity she had shared through nearly half a life, and who had unvaryingly cherished her—now that punishment had befallen him it was not possible to her in any sense to forsake him. There is a forsaking which still sits at the same board and lies on the same couch with the forsaken soul, withering it the more by unloving proximity. She knew, when she locked her door, that she should unlock it ready to go down to her unhappy husband and espouse his sorrow, and say of his guilt, I will mourn and not reproach. But she needed time to gather up her strength; she needed to sob out her farewell to all the gladness and pride of her life. When she had resolved to go down, she prepared herself by some little acts which might seem mere folly to a hard onlooker; they were her way of expressing to all spectators visible or invisible that she had begun a new life in which she embraced humiliation. She took off all her ornaments and put on a plain black gown, and instead of wearing her much-adorned cap and large bows of hair, she brushed her hair down and put on a plain bonnet-cap, which made her look suddenly like an early Methodist.
Bulstrode, who knew that his wife had been out and had come in saying that she was not well, had spent the time in an agitation equal to hers. He had looked forward to her learning the truth from others, and had acquiesced in that probability, as something easier to him than any confession. But now that he imagined the moment of her knowledge come, he awaited the result in anguish. His daughters had been obliged to consent to leave him, and though he had allowed some food to be brought to him, he had not touched it. He felt himself perishing slowly in unpitied misery. Perhaps he should never see his wife's face with affection in it again. And if he turned to God there seemed to be no answer but the pressure of retribution.
It was eight o'clock in the evening before the door opened and his wife entered. He dared not look up at her. He sat with his eyes bent down, and as she went towards him she thought he looked smaller—he seemed so withered and shrunken. A movement of new compassion and old tenderness went through her like a great wave, and putting one hand on his which rested on the arm of the chair, and the other on his shoulder, she said, solemnly but kindly—
"Look up, Nicholas."
He raised his eyes with a little start and looked at her half amazed for a moment: her pale face, her changed, mourning dress, the trembling about her mouth, all said, "I know;" and her hands and eyes rested gently on him. He burst out crying and they cried together, she sitting at his side. They could not yet speak to each other of the shame which she was bearing with him, or of the acts which had brought it down on them. His confession was silent, and her promise of faithfulness was silent. Open-minded as she was, she nevertheless shrank from the words which would have expressed their mutual consciousness, as she would have shrunk from flakes of fire. She could not say, "How much is only slander and false suspicion?" and he did not say, "I am innocent. ~ George Eliot,
1066:The Goal of Pleasing God by Obeying His Commands (4: 1-2)American culture is caught up with the grand goal of enjoying life and pleasing oneself. For example, a recent magazine article discussing vacation homes as investments led with the caption: "The No. 1 reason to build a vacation home is to enjoy yourself. " Today more than ever society is caught up in concern for health and personal well-being. Churches sometimes try to attract people to their services by advertising that what goes on at church will be enjoyable to them. Some churches advertise that contemporary music and coffee will be served throughout the service. One can even enjoy breakfast beforehand at a church cafeteria or be entertained by "sitcom-like" plays. Some of these things may not be bad in themselves, but the impression is that of the church attempting to attract people by dangling before them the kinds of pleasures that they can find outside the church. If a church does this too consistently, then what it may have to offer may be no different, ultimately, than what the world offers. We must not fool ourselves and think that things were radically different in the first century. A few years ago I went to Turkey (old Asia Minor) to see the ancient sites of the towns where the seven churches of Revelation were located. At Pergamum I visited the ruins of an ancient Roman health spa, where, among other things, people would go to be rejuvenated emotionally because of depression. There were even rooms where a patient could rest; in the ceiling were little holes through which the priestly attendants of the spa would whisper encouraging things to help the victims recuperate psychologically. Whether in the ancient world or today, the chief end of humanity has often been to take pleasure in this life. In contrast, our passage begins by affirming the opposite: humanity's chief goal ought to be to take pleasure in pleasing God. Such passages in Scripture as this fueled the great confession, "The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. " Granted, Christians enjoy the material pleasures of this life, but only as a gift from the gracious God whom they serve (1 Tim 4: 4). This world is not an end in itself to be enjoyed. On the basis that God has begun to work in the readers and that they are beginning to live in order to please God, Paul appeals to them to excel in this: we ask you and urge you in the Lord Jesus to do this more and more. The main point of 4: 1 is that the ultimate purpose of living as a Christian is not to please oneself but increasingly to please God (Rom 8: 8; 15: 1-6). This develops further the earlier reference to pleasing God (2: 4) and walking worthily for the goal of achieving God's glory for which they have been called (2: 12). The Greek text of 4: 1 reads "just as you received from us how it is necessary for you to walk so as to please God. " Although the NIV leaves out "it is necessary" (dei; so also Moffatt 1970 and NLT), most other translations attempt to express it, typically by "you must" or "you ought. " Some readers may understand this to mean that Christians should live in the way Paul had instructed, but if they do not they will not experience the full blessing they could otherwise. Paul's urging of them to excel, however, suggests that there is a necessity that his readers live this lifestyle and that such living is not optional for less seriously minded Christians. Indeed, this necessity is heightened by the fact that such a lifestyle is a divine commandment (4: 2), that God has called believers to this conduct (4: 7), that God has given true believers the power to fulfill this commandment (3: 12-13) and that to reject living in this manner is tantamount to rejecting God (4: 8). Consequently, it is necessary that God's true people live this way if they want to avoid the inevitable last judgment (4: 6). Paul says the basis for his appeal that they please God is grounded in the authority of the Lord Jesus ~ G K Beale,
1067:It was worse than she’d expected.
“None?” she asked.
“No fresh boot prints anywhere around the perimeter of the house,” Sheriff Coughlin confirmed.
“It was windy last night. Maybe the drifting snow filled in the prints?” Even before she finished speaking, the sheriff was shaking his head.
“With the warm temperatures we’ve been having, the snow is either frozen or wet and heavy. If someone had walked through that yard last night, there would’ve been prints.”
Daisy hid her wince at his words, even though they hit as hard as an elbow to the gut, and struggled to keep her voice firm. “There was someone walking around the outside of that house last night, Sheriff. I don’t know why there aren’t any boot prints, but I definitely saw someone.”
He was giving her that look again, but it was worse, because she saw a thread of pity mixed in with the condescension. “Have you given more thought to starting therapy again?”
The question surprised her. “Not really. What does that have to do…?” As comprehension dawned, a surge of rage shoved out her bewilderment. “I didn’t imagine that I saw someone last night. There really was a person there, looking in the side window.”
All her protest did was increase the pity in his expression. “It must get lonely here by yourself.”
“I’m not making things up to get attention!” Her voice had gotten shrill, so she took a deep breath. “I even said there was no need for you to get involved. I only suggested one of the on-duty deputies drive past to scare away the kid.”
“Ms. Little.” His tone made it clear that impatience had drowned out any feelings of sympathy. “Physical evidence doesn’t lie. No one was in that yard last night.”
“I know what I saw.”
The sheriff took a step closer. Daisy hated how she had to crane her neck back to look at him. It made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Do you really?” he asked. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Even people without your issues misinterpret what they see all the time. The brain is a tricky thing.”
Daisy set her jaw as she stared back at the sheriff, fighting the urge to step back, to retreat from the man looming over her. There had been someone there, footprints or no footprints. She couldn’t start doubting what she’d witnessed the night before. If she did, then that meant she’d gone from mildly, can’t-leave-the-house crazy, to the kind of crazy that involved hallucinations, medications, and institutionalization. There had to be some other explanation, because she wasn’t going to accept that. Not when her life was getting so much better.
She could tell by looking at his expression that she wasn’t going to convince Coughlin of anything. “Thank you for checking on it, Sheriff. I promise not to bother you again.”
Although he kept his face impassive, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you…see anything else, Ms. Little, please call me.”
That wasn’t going to happen, especially when he put that meaningful pause in front of “see” that just screamed “delusional.” Trying to mask her true feelings, she plastered on a smile and turned her body toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave. “Of course.”
Apparently, she needed some lessons in deception, since the sheriff frowned, unconvinced. Daisy met his eyes with as much calmness as she could muster, dropping the fake smile because she could feel it shifting into manic territory. She’d lost enough credibility with the sheriff as it was.
The silence stretched until Daisy wanted to run away and hide in a closet, but she managed to continue holding his gaze. The memory of Chris telling her about the sheriff using his “going to confession” stare-down on suspects helped her to stay quiet.
Finally, Coughlin turned toward the door. Daisy barely managed to keep her sigh of relief silent.
“Ms. Little,” he said with a short nod, which she returned.
“Sheriff.”
Only when he was through the doorway with the door locked behind him did Daisy’s knees start to shake. ~ Katie Ruggle,
1068:Confiteor
The shore-boat lies in the morning light,
By the good ship ready for sailing ;
The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright,
Tho' the bar of the bay is fleck'd with white,
And the wind is fitfully wailing ;
Near the tiller stands the prit, and the knight
Leans over the quarter-railing.
'There is time while the vessel tarries still,
There is time while her shrouds are slack,
There is time ere her sails to the west-wind fill,
Ere her tall masts vanish from town and from hill,
Ere cleaves to her keel the track ;
There is time for confession to those who will,
To those who may never come back.'
'Sir priest, you can shrive these men of mine,
And, I pray you, shrive them fast,
And shrive those hardy sons of the brine,
Captain and mates of the Eglantine,
And sailors before the mast ;
Then pledge me a cup of the Cyprus wine,
For I fain would bury the past.'
'And hast thou naught to repent, my son ?
Dost thou scorn confession and shrift ?
Ere thy sands from the glass of time shall run
Is there naught undone that thou should'st have done,
Naught done that thou should'st have left ?
The guiltiest soul may from guilt be won,
And the stoniest heart may be cleft.'
'Have my ears been closed to the prayer of the poor,
Or deaf to the cry of distress ?
Have I given little, and taken more ?
Have I brought a curse to the widow's door ?
Have I wrong'd the fatherless ?
Have I steep'd my fingers in guiltless gore,
That I must perforce confess ?'
128
'Have thy steps been guided by purity
Through the paths with wickedness rife ?
Hast thou never smitten thine enemy ?
Hast thou yielded naught to the lust of the eye,
And naught to the pride of life ?
Hast thou pass'd all snares of pleasure by ?
Hast thou shunn'd all wrath and strife ?'
'Nay, certes ! a sinful life I've led,
Yet I've suffer'd, and lived in hope ;
I may suffer still, but my hope has fled,—
I've nothing now to hope or to dread,
And with fate I can fairly cope ;
Were the waters closing over my head,
I should scarcely catch at a rope.'
'Dost suffer ? thy pain may be fraught with grace,
Since never by works alone
We are saved ;—the penitent thief may trace
The wealth of love in the Saviour's face
To the Pharisee rarely shown ;
And the Magdalene's arms may yet embrace
The foot of the jasper throne.'
'Sir priest, a heavier doom I dree,
For I feel no quickening pain,
But a dull dumb weight, when I bow my knee,
And (not with the words of the Pharisee)
My hard eyes heavenward strain,
Where my dead darling prayeth for me !
Now, I wot, she prayeth in vain !
'Still I hear it over the battle's din,
And over the festive cheer,—
So she pray'd with clasp'd hands, white and thin,—
The prayer of a soul absolved from sin,
For a soul that is dark and drear,
For the light of repentance bursting in,
And the flood of the blinding tear.
'Say, priest ! when the saint must vainly plead,
129
Oh ! how shall the sinner fare ?
I hold your comfort a broken reed ;
Let the wither'd branch for itself take heed,
While the green shoots wait your care ;
I've striven, though feebly, to grasp your creed,
And I've grappled my own despair.'
'By the little within thee, good and brave,
Not wholly shattered, though shaken ;
By the soul that crieth beyond the grave,
The love that He once in His mercy gave,
In His mercy since retaken,
I conjure thee, oh sinner ! pardon crave !
I implore thee, oh sleeper, waken !'
'Go to ! shall I lay my black soul bare
To a vain, self-righteous man ?
In my sin, in my sorrow, you may not share,
And yet, could I meet with one who must bear
The load of an equal ban,
With him I might strive to blend one prayer,
The wail of the Publican.'
'My son, I too am a withered bough,
My place is to others given ;
Thou hast sinn'd, thou sayest ; I ask not how,
For I too have sinn'd, even as thou,
And I too have feebly striven,
And with thee I must bow, crying, 'Shrive us now !
Our Father which art in heaven !' '
~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,
1069:L'Irrémédiable (The Irremediable)
Une Idée, une Forme, un Etre
Parti de l'azur et tombé
Dans un Styx bourbeux et plombé
Où nul oeil du Ciel ne pénètre;
Un Ange, imprudent voyageur
Qu'a tenté l'amour du difforme,
Au fond d'un cauchemar énorme
Se débattant comme un nageur,
Et luttant, angoisses funèbres!
Contre un gigantesque remous
Qui va chantant comme les fous
Et pirouettant dans les ténèbres;
Un malheureux ensorcelé
Dans ses tâtonnements futiles
Pour fuir d'un lieu plein de reptiles,
Cherchant la lumière et la clé;
Un damné descendant sans lampe
Au bord d'un gouffre dont l'odeur
Trahit l'humide profondeur
D'éternels escaliers sans rampe,
Où veillent des monstres visqueux
Dont les larges yeux de phosphore
Font une nuit plus noire encore
Et ne rendent visibles qu'eux;
Un navire pris dans le pôle
Comme en un piège de cristal,
Cherchant par quel détroit fatal
Il est tombé dans cette geôle;
— Emblèmes nets, tableau parfait
D'une fortune irrémédiable
374
Qui donne à penser que le Diable
Fait toujours bien tout ce qu'il fait!
II
Tête-à-tête sombre et limpide
Qu'un coeur devenu son miroir!
Puits de Vérité, clair et noir
Où tremble une étoile livide,
Un phare ironique, infernal
Flambeau des grâces sataniques,
Soulagement et gloire uniques,
— La conscience dans le Mal!
Beyond Redemption
An Idea, a Form, a Being
Which left the azure sky and fell
Into a leaden, miry Styx
That no eye in Heaven can pierce;
An Angel, imprudent voyager
Tempted by love of the deformed,
In the depths of a vast nightmare
Flailing his arms like a swimmer,
And struggling, mortal agony!
Against a gigantic whirlpool
That sings constantly like madmen
And pirouettes in the darkness;
An unfortunate, enchanted,
Outstretched hands groping futilely,
Looking for the light and the key,
To flee a place filled with reptiles;
A damned soul descending endless stairs
Without banisters, without light,
375
On the edge of a gulf of which
The odor reveals the humid depth,
Where slimy monsters are watching,
Whose eyes, wide and phosphorescent,
Make the darkness darker still
And make visible naught but themselves;
A ship caught in the polar sea
As though in a snare of crystal,
Seeking the fatal strait through which
It came into that prison;
— Patent symbols, perfect picture
Of an irremediable fate
Which makes one think that the Devil
Always does well whatever he does!
II
Somber and limpid tête-à-tête —
A heart become its own mirror!
Well of Truth, clear and black,
Where a pale star flickers,
A hellish, ironic beacon,
Torch of satanical blessings,
Sole glory and only solace
— The consciousness of doing evil.
— Translated by William Aggeler
The Irremediable
A Form, Idea, or Essence, chased
Out of the azure sky, and shot
Into a leaden Styx where not
A star can pierce the muddy waste:
376
An angel, rash explorer, who,
Tempted by love of strange deformity,
Caught in a nightmare of enormity,
Fights like a swimmer, wrestling through
A monstrous whorl of eddying spume,
In deathly anguish, from him flinging
The wave that, like an idiot singing,
Goes pirouetting through the gloom:
A wretch enchanted, who, to flee
A den of serpents, gropes about
In desperation vain, without
Discovering a match or key:
A damned soul, who, with no lamp,
Stands by a gulf, whose humid scent
Betrays the depth of the descent
Of endless stairs without a ramp,
Where slimy monsters watch the track
Whose eyeballs phosphoresce and glow
Only to make the night more black
And nought except themselves to show:
A vessel that the pole betrays,
Caught in a crystal trap all round,
And seeking by what fatal sound
It ever entered such a maze: —
Clear emblems! measuring the level
Of irremediable dooms,
Which make us see bow well the Devil
Performs whatever he presumes!
II
Strange tête-à-tête! the heart, its own
Mirror, its own confession hears!
Deep well where Truth is trembling shown
377
And like a livid star appears,
Ironic beacon and infernal
Torch of satanic grace, but still
Sole glory and relief eternal,
— Conscience that operates in Ill!
— Translated by Roy Campbell
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1070:Confession
Une fois, une seule, aimable et douce femme,
À mon bras votre bras poli
S'appuya (sur le fond ténébreux de mon âme
Ce souvenir n'est point pâli);
II était tard; ainsi qu'une médaille neuve
La pleine lune s'étalait,
Et la solennité de la nuit, comme un fleuve,
Sur Paris dormant ruisselait.
Et le long des maisons, sous les portes cochères,
Des chats passaient furtivement
L'oreille au guet, ou bien, comme des ombres chères,
Nous accompagnaient lentement.
Tout à coup, au milieu de l'intimité libre
Eclose à la pâle clarté
De vous, riche et sonore instrument où ne vibre
Que la radieuse gaieté,
De vous, claire et joyeuse ainsi qu'une fanfare
Dans le matin étincelant
Une note plaintive, une note bizarre
S'échappa, tout en chancelant
Comme une enfant chétive, horrible, sombre, immonde,
Dont sa famille rougirait,
Et qu'elle aurait longtemps, pour la cacher au monde,
Dans un caveau mise au secret.
Pauvre ange, elle chantait, votre note criarde:
«Que rien ici-bas n'est certain,
Et que toujours, avec quelque soin qu'il se farde,
Se trahit l'égoïsme humain;
Que c'est un dur métier que d'être belle femme,
Et que c'est le travail banal
De la danseuse folle et froide qui se pâme
Dans son sourire machinal;
155
Que bâtir sur les coeurs est une chose sotte;
Que tout craque, amour et beauté,
Jusqu'à ce que l'Oubli les jette dans sa hotte
Pour les rendre à l'Eternité!»
J'ai souvent évoqué cette lune enchantée,
Ce silence et cette langueur,
Et cette confidence horrible chuchotée
Au confessionnal du coeur.
Confession
One time, once only, sweet, amiable woman,
On my arm your smooth arm
Rested (on the tenebrous background of my soul
That memory is not faded);
It was late; like a newly struck medal
The full moon spread its rays,
And the solemnity of the night streamed
Like a river over sleeping Paris.
And along the houses, under the porte-cocheres,
Cats passed by furtively,
With ears pricked up, or else, like beloved shades,
Slowly escorted us.
Suddenly, in the midst of that frank intimacy
Born in the pale moonlight,
From you, sonorous, rich instrument which vibrates
Only with radiant gaiety,
From you, clear and joyful as a fanfare
In the glistening morning light,
A plaintive note, a bizarre note
Escaped, faltering
Like a puny, filthy, sullen, horrible child,
Who would make his family blush,
And whom they have hidden for a long time
In a secret cellar.
156
Poor angel, it sang, your discordant note:
'That naught is certain here below,
That always, though it paint its face with utmost care
Man's selfishness reveals itself,
That it's a hard calling to be a lovely woman,
And that it is the banal task
Of the cold and silly danseuse who faints away
With a mechanical smile,
That to build on hearts is a foolish thing,
That all things break, love, and beauty,
Till Oblivion tosses them into his dosser
To give them back to Eternity!'
I've often evoked that enchanted moon,
The silence and the languidness,
And that horrible confidence whispered
In the heart's confessional.
— William Aggeler
Confession
Once, and once only, kind and gentle lady,
Your polished arm on mine you placed
(Deep down within my spirit, dark and shady,
I keep the memory uneffaced).
A medal, newly-coined, of flashing silver,
The full moon shone. The night was old.
Its solemn grandeur, like a mighty river,
Through sleeping Paris softly rolled.
Along the streets, by courtyard doors, cats darted
And passed in furtive, noiseless flight
With cars pricked; or, like shades of friends departed,
Followed us slowly through the night.
Cutting this easy intimacy through,
157
That hatched from out that pearly light —
O rich resounding instrument, from you,
Who'd always thrilled with loud delight,
From you, till then as joyful as a peal
Of trumpets on a sparkling morn,
A cry so plaintive that it seemed unreal,
Was staggeringly torn.
Like some misborn, deformed, and monstrous kid
Who puts his family to the blush,
Whose presence in a cellar must be hid
And his existence in a hush!
Poor angel! that harsh note was meant to sing
'That nothing in this world is certain,
And human egotism is the thing
Which all existence serves to curtain.
That it's an irksome task to be a beauty,
A boring job one has to face —
Like frigid dancers, smiling as a duty
With hard, mechanical grimace:
That building upon hearts is idiotic:
All cracks, love, beauty, and fraternity
Until Oblivion puts them in his pocket
To pawn them on to old Eternity!'
I often have recalled that moon of magic,
That languid hush on quays and marts,
And then this confidence, so grim and tragic,
In the confessional of hearts.
— Translated by Roy Campbell
~ Charles Baudelaire,
1071:I.

Christ God who savest man, save most
Of men Count Gismond who saved me!
Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,
Chose time and place and company
To suit it; when he struck at length
My honour, 'twas with all his strength.

II.

And doubtlessly ere he could draw
All points to one, he must have schemed!
That miserable morning saw
Few half so happy as I seemed,
While being dressed in queen's array
To give our tourney prize away.

III.

I thought they loved me, did me grace
To please themselves; 'twas all their deed;
God makes, or fair or foul, our face;
If showing mine so caused to bleed
My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped
A word, and straight the play had stopped.

IV.

They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen
By virtue of her brow and breast;
Not needing to be crowned, I mean,
As I do. E'en when I was dressed,
Had either of them spoke, instead
Of glancing sideways with still head!

V.

But no: they let me laugh, and sing
My birthday song quite through, adjust
The last rose in my garland, fling
A last look on the mirror, trust
My arms to each an arm of theirs,
And so descend the castle-stairs-

VI.

And come out on the morning-troop
Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,
And called me queen, and made me stoop
Under the canopy-(a streak
That pierced it, of the outside sun,
Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)-

VII.

And they could let me take my state
And foolish throne amid applause
Of all come there to celebrate
My queen's-day-Oh I think the cause
Of much was, they forgot no crowd
Makes up for parents in their shroud!

VIII.

However that be, all eyes were bent
Upon me, when my cousins cast
Theirs down; 'twas time I should present
The victor's crown, but there, 'twill last
No long time the old mist again
Blinds me as then it did. How vain!

IX,

See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk
With his two boys: I can proceed.
Well, at that moment, who should stalk
Forth boldly-to my face, indeed-
But Gauthier, and he thundered ``Stay!''
And all stayed. ``Bring no crowns, I say!

X.

``Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet
``About her! Let her shun the chaste,
``Or lay herself before their feet!
``Shall she whose body I embraced
``A night long, queen it in the day?
``For honour's sake no crowns, I say!''

XI.

I? What I answered? As I live,
I never fancied such a thing
As answer possible to give.
What says the body when they spring
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole
Strength on it? No more says the soul.

XII.

Till out strode Gismond; then I knew
That I was saved. I never met
His face before, but, at first view,
I felt quite sure that God had set
Himself to Satan; who would spend
A minute's mistrust on the end?

XIII.

He strode to Gauthier, in his throat
Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth
With one back-handed blow that wrote
In blood men's verdict there. North, South,
East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,
And damned, and truth stood up instead.

XIV.

This glads me most, that I enjoyed
The heart of the joy, with my content
In watching Gismond unalloyed
By any doubt of the event:
God took that on him-I was bid
Watch Gismond for my part: I did.

XV.

Did I not watch him while he let
His armourer just brace his greaves,
Rivet his hauberk, on the fret
The while! His foot my memory leaves
No least stamp out, nor how anon
He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

XVI.

And e'en before the trumpet's sound
Was finished, prone lay the false knight,
Prone as his lie, upon the ground:
Gismond flew at him, used no sleight
O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,
Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

XVII.

Which done, he dragged him to my feet
And said ``Here die, but end thy breath
``In full confession, lest thou fleet
``From my first, to God's second death!
``Say, hast thou lied?'' And, ``I have lied
``To God and her,'' he said, and died.

XVIII.

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked
-What safe my heart holds, though no word
Could I repeat now, if I tasked
My powers forever, to a third
Dear even as you are. Pass the rest
Until I sank upon his breast.

XIX.

Over my head his arm he flung
Against the world; and scarce I felt
His sword (that dripped by me and swung)
A little shifted in its belt:
For he began to say the while
How South our home lay many a mile.

XX.

So 'mid the shouting multitude
We two walked forth to never more
Return. My cousins have pursued
Their life, untroubled as before
I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place
God lighten! May his soul find grace!

XXI.

Our elder boy has got the clear
Great brow; tho' when his brother's black
Full eye slows scorn, it . . . Gismond here?
And have you brought my tercel*
back?
I just was telling Adela
How many birds it struck since May.
*
A male of the peregrine falcon.


~ Robert Browning, Aix In Provence
,
1072:The Journey
Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose
All, who, not daring to appear my foes,
Feign great good-will, and not more full of spite
Than full of craft, under false colours fight)
Some of my friends (so lavishly I print)
As more in sorrow than in anger, hint
(Tho' that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)
That I shall run my stock of genius out,
My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,
Must needs become a bankrupt at the last.
Recover'd from the vanity of youth,
I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,
Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,
And am, if not too late, resolv'd to mend,
Resolv'd to give some respite to my pen,
Apply myself once more to books and men,
View what is present, what is past review,
And my old stock exhausted, lay in new.
For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear
This oath to Heav'n), for twice six moons, I swear,
No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay,
Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way;
Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend,
Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend.
It cannot be--Whether I will, or no,
Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow.
Convinc'd, determin'd, I in prose begin,
But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,
And taints me thro' and thro': by this good light,
In verse I talk by day, I dream by night;
If now and then I curse, my curses chime,
Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme,
E'en now I err, in spite of common-sense,
And my confession doubles my offence.
Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force;
Mean are the words, and such as come of course,
The subject not less simple than the lay;
A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a day.
Far from me now be ev'ry tuneful Maid,
241
I neither ask, nor can receive their aid.
Pegasus turn'd into a common hack,
Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track,
Nor would I have the Sisters of the Hill
Behold their bard in such a dishabille.
Absent, but only absent for a time,
Let them caress some dearer son of rhyme;
Let them, as far as decency permits,
Without suspicion, play the fool with wits,
'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule,
Wits are false things, there's danger in a fool.
Let them, tho' modest, Gray more modest woo;
Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo;
Let them with Franklin, proud of some small Greek,
Make Sophocles disguis'd, in English speak;
Let them with Glover o'er Medea doze;
Let them with Dodsley wail Cleone's woes,
Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,
Melts, as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;
Let them with simple Whitehead, taught to creep
Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep;
Let them with Browne contrive, to vulgar trick,
To cure the dead, and make the living sick;
Let them in charity to Murphy give
Some old French piece, that he may steal and live;
Let them with antic Foote subscriptions get,
And advertise a Summer-house of Wit.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed;
I on my Journey all alone proceed.
If fashionable grown, and fond of pow'r,
With hum'rous Scots let them disport their hour:
Let them dance, fairy-like, round Ossian's tomb;
Let them forge lies, and histories for Hume;
Let them with Home, the very prince of verse,
Make something like a Tragedy in Erse;
Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil
Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale
Of rueful length; Let them plain things obscure,
Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor
Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth;
242
With ev'ry pert, prim prettiness of youth
Born of false Taste, with Fancy (like a child
Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,
With bloated style, by affectation taught,
With much false colouring, and little thought,
With phrases strange, and dialect decreed
By reason never to have pass'd the Tweed,
With words which Nature meant each other's foe,
Forc'd to compound whether they will or no;
With such materials let them, if they will,
To prove at once their pleasantry and skill,
Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common-Sense,
By way of compliment to Providence;
Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of Sense,
Read musty lectures on Benevolence,
Or con the pages of his gaping Day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all but barren labour was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness; when the night
Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes,
When for our past misdoings Conscience takes
A deep revenge, when by Reflection led,
She draws his curtain, and looks Comfort dead,
Let ev'ry Muse be gone; in vain he turns
And tries to pray for sleep; an Etna burns,
A more than Etna in his coward breast,
And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest:
Tho' soft as plumage from young zephyr's wing,
His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring.
Ingratitude hath planted daggers there,
No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed
I on my Journey all alone proceed.
~ Charles Churchill,
1073: XVI - MARTHA'S GARDEN

MARGARET FAUST

MARGARET

Promise me, Henry!

FAUST

What I can!

MARGARET

How is't with thy religion, pray?
Thou art a dear, good-hearted man,
And yet, I think, dost not incline that way.

FAUST

Leave that, my child! Thou know'st my love is tender;
For love, my blood and life would I surrender,
And as for Faith and Church, I grant to each his own.

MARGARET

That's not enough: we must believe thereon.

FAUST

Must we?

MARGARET

Would that I had some influence!
Then, too, thou honorest not the Holy Sacraments.

FAUST

I honor them.

MARGARET

Desiring no possession
'Tis long since thou hast been to mass or to confession.
Believest thou in God?

FAUST

My darling, who shall dare
"I believe in God!" to say?
Ask priest or sage the answer to declare,
And it will seem a mocking play,
A sarcasm on the asker.

MARGARET

Then thou believest not!

FAUST

Hear me not falsely, sweetest countenance!
Who dare express Him?
And who profess Him,
Saying: I believe in Him!
Who, feeling, seeing,
Deny His being,
Saying: I believe Him not!
The All-enfolding,
The All-upholding,
Folds and upholds he not
Thee, me, Himself?
Arches not there the sky above us?
Lies not beneath us, firm, the earth?
And rise not, on us shining,
Friendly, the everlasting stars?
Look I not, eye to eye, on thee,
And feel'st not, thronging
To head and heart, the force,
Still weaving its eternal secret,
Invisible, visible, round thy life?
Vast as it is, fill with that force thy heart,
And when thou in the feeling wholly blessed art,
Call it, then, what thou wilt,
Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God!
I have no name to give it!
Feeling is all in all:
The Name is sound and smoke,
Obscuring Heaven's clear glow.

MARGARET

All that is fine and good, to hear it so:
Much the same way the preacher spoke,
Only with slightly different phrases.

FAUST

The same thing, in all places,
All hearts that beat beneath the heavenly day
Each in its languagesay;
Then why not I, in mine, as well?

MARGARET

To hear it thus, it may seem passable;
And yet, some hitch in't there must be
For thou hast no Christianity.

FAUST

Dear love!

MARGARET

I've long been grieved to see
That thou art in such company.

FAUST

How so?

MARGARET

The man who with thee goes, thy mate,
Within my deepest, inmost soul I hate.
In all my life there's nothing
Has given my heart so keen a pang of loathing,
As his repulsive face has done.

FAUST

Nay, fear him not, my sweetest one!

MARGARET

I feel his presence like something ill.
I've else, for all, a kindly will,
But, much as my heart to see thee yearneth,
The secret horror of him returneth;
And I think the man a knave, as I live!
If I do him wrong, may God forgive!

FAUST

There must be such queer birds, however.

MARGARET

Live with the like of him, may I never!
When once inside the door comes he,
He looks around so sneeringly,
And half in wrath:
One sees that in nothing no interest he hath:
'Tis written on his very forehead
That love, to him, is a thing abhorrd.
I am so happy on thine arm,
So free, so yielding, and so warm,
And in his presence stifled seems my heart.

FAUST

Foreboding angel that thou art!

MARGARET

It overcomes me in such degree,
That wheresoe'er he meets us, even,
I feel as though I'd lost my love for thee.
When he is by, I could not pray to Heaven.
That burns within me like a flame,
And surely, Henry, 'tis with thee the same.

FAUST

There, now, is thine antipathy!

MARGARET

But I must go.

FAUST

Ah, shall there never be
A quiet hour, to see us fondly plighted,
With breast to breast, and soul to soul united?

MARGARET

Ah, if I only slept alone!
I'd draw the bolts to-night, for thy desire;
But mother's sleep so light has grown,
And if we were discovered by her,
'Twould be my death upon the spot!

FAUST

Thou angel, fear it not!
Here is a phial: in her drink
But three drops of it measure,
And deepest sleep will on her senses sink.

MARGARET

What would I not, to give thee pleasure?
It will not harm her, when one tries it?

FAUST

If 'twould, my love, would I advise it?

MARGARET

Ah, dearest man, if but thy face I see,
I know not what compels me to thy will:
So much have I already done for thee,
That scarcely more is left me to fulfil.

(Enter MEPHISTOPHELES.)  [Exit.

MEPHISTOPHELES

The monkey! Is she gone?

FAUST

Hast played the spy again?

MEPHISTOPHELES

I've heard, most fully, how she drew thee.
The Doctor has been catechised, 'tis plain;
Great good, I hope, the thing will do thee.
The girls have much desire to ascertain
If one is prim and good, as ancient rules compel:
If there he's led, they think, he'll follow them as well.

FAUST

Thou, monster, wilt nor see nor own
How this pure soul, of faith so lowly,
So loving and ineffable,
The faith alone
That her salvation is,with scruples holy
Pines, lest she hold as lost the man she loves so well!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thou, full of sensual, super-sensual desire,
A girl by the nose is leading thee.

FAUST

Abortion, thou, of filth and fire!

MEPHISTOPHELES

And then, how masterly she reads physiognomy!
When I am present she's impressed, she knows not how;
She in my mask a hidden sense would read:
She feels that surely I'm a genius now,
Perhaps the very Devil, indeed!
Well, well,to-night?

FAUST

What's that to thee?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Yet my delight 'twill also be!
Faust

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, MARTHAS GARDEN
,
1074:I
FATHER AND CHILD
SHE hears me strike the board and say
That she is under ban
Of all good men and women,
Being mentioned with a man
That has the worst of all bad names;
And thereupon replies
That his hair is beautiful,
Cold as the March wind his eyes.

II
BEFORE THE WORLD WAS MADE

IF I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.
What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.

III
A FIRST CONFESSION

I ADMIT the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.
I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.
Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?

IV
HER TRIUMPH

I DID the dragon's will until you came
Because I had fancied love a casual
Improvisation, or a settled game
That followed if I let the kerchief fall:
Those deeds were best that gave the minute wings
And heavenly music if they gave it wit;
And then you stood among the dragon-rings.
I mocked, being crazy, but you mastered it
And broke the chain and set my ankles free,
Saint George or else a pagan Perseus;
And now we stare astonished at the sea,
And a miraculous strange bird shrieks at us.

V

CONSOLATION

O BUT there is wisdom
In what the sages said;
But stretch that body for a while
And lay down that head
Till I have told the sages
Where man is comforted.
How could passion run so deep
Had I never thought
That the crime of being born
Blackens all our lot?
But where the crime's committed
The crime can be forgot.

VI
CHOSEN

THE lot of love is chosen. I learnt that much
Struggling for an image on the track
Of the whirling Zodiac.
Scarce did he my body touch,
Scarce sank he from the west
Or found a subtetranean rest
On the maternal midnight of my breast
Before I had marked him on his northern way,
And seemed to stand although in bed I lay.
I struggled with the horror of daybreak,
I chose it for my lot! If questioned on
My utmost pleasure with a man
By some new-married bride, I take
That stillness for a theme
Where his heart my heart did seem
And both adrift on the miraculous stream
Where wrote a learned astrologer
The Zodiac is changed into a sphere.

VII
PARTING
i{He.} Dear, I must be gone
While night Shuts the eyes
Of the household spies;
That song announces dawn.
She. No, night's bird and love's
Bids all true lovers rest,
While his loud song reproves
The murderous stealth of day.
He. Daylight already flies
From mountain crest to crest
She. That light is from the moon.
He. That bird
She. Let him sing on,
I offer to love's play
My dark declivities.

VIII
HER VISION IN THE WOOD

DRY timber under that rich foliage,
At wine-dark midnight in the sacred wood,
Too old for a man's love I stood in rage
Imagining men. Imagining that I could
A greater with a lesser pang assuage
Or but to find if withered vein ran blood,
I tore my body that its wine might cover
Whatever could recall the lip of lover.
And after that I held my fingers up,
Stared at the wine-dark nail, or dark that ran
Down every withered finger from the top;
But the dark changed to red, and torches shone,
And deafening music shook the leaves; a troop
Shouldered a litter with a wounded man,
Or smote upon the string and to the sound
Sang of the beast that gave the fatal wound.
All stately women moving to a song
With loosened hair or foreheads grief-distraught,
It seemed a Quattrocento painter's throng,
A thoughtless image of Mantegna's thought
Why should they think that are for ever young?
Till suddenly in grief's contagion caught,
I stared upon his blood-bedabbled breast
And sang my malediction with the rest.
That thing all blood and mire, that beast-torn wreck,
Half turned and fixed a glazing eye on mine,
And, though love's bitter-sweet had all come back,
Those bodies from a picture or a coin
Nor saw my body fall nor heard it shriek,
Nor knew, drunken with singing as with wine,
That they had brought no fabulous symbol there
But my heart's victim and its torturer.

IX
A LAST CONFESSION

WHAT lively lad most pleasured me
Of all that with me lay?
I answer that I gave my soul
And loved in misery,
But had great pleasure with a lad
That I loved bodily.
Flinging from his arms I laughed
To think his passion such
He fancied that I gave a soul
Did but our bodies touch,
And laughed upon his breast to think
Beast gave beast as much.
I gave what other women gave
"That stepped out of their clothes.
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows,
And give his own and take his own
And rule in his own right;
And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight,
There's not a bird of day that dare
Extinguish that delight.

X
MEETING

HIDDEN by old age awhile
In masker's cloak and hood,
Each hating what the other loved,
Face to face we stood:
"That I have met with such,' said he,
"Bodes me little good.'
"Let others boast their fill,' said I,
"But never dare to boast
That such as I had such a man
For lover in the past;
Say that of living men I hate
Such a man the most.'
'A loony'd boast of such a love,'
He in his rage declared:
But such as he for such as me
Could we both discard
This beggarly habiliment
Had found a sweeter word.

XI
FROM THE 'ANTIGONE'

OVERCOME O bitter sweetness,
Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl
The rich man and his affairs,
The fat flocks and the fields' fatness,
Mariners, rough harvesters;
Overcome Gods upon Parnassus;
Overcome the Empyrean; hurl
Heaven and Earth out of their places,
That in the Same calamity
Brother and brother, friend and friend,
Family and family,
City and city may contend,
By that great glory driven wild.
Pray I will and sing I must,
And yet I weep Oedipus' child
Descends into the loveless dust.

~ William Butler Yeats, A Woman Young And Old
,
1075:A Pangyre
On the happy entrace of Iames, our Soveraigne, to His first high Session of
Parliament in this his Kingdome, the 19 of March, 1603.
Licet toto nunc Helicone frui.
Mart.
Heav'n now not strives, alone, our breasts to fill
With joyes: but urgeth his full favors still.
Againe, the glory of our Westerne World
Unfolds himselfe: and from his eyes are hoorl'd
(To day) a thousand radiant lights, that streame
To every nook and angle of his Realme.
His former rayes did only cleare the sky;
But these his searching beams are cast, to pry
Into those dark and deep concealed vaults,
Where men commit black incest with their faults;
And snore supinely in the stall of sin:
Where Murder, Rapine, Lust, do sit within,
Carowsing humane blood in yron bowles,
And make their den the slaughter-house of soules:
From whose foule reeking cavernes first arise
Those damps, that so offend all good mens eyes,
And would (if not dispers'd) infect the Crown,
And in their vapor her bright metall drown.
To this so cleare and sanctified an end,
I saw, when reverend Themis did descend
Upon his State; let down in that rich chaine,
That fastneth heavenly power to earthly raigne:
Beside her, stoup't on either hand, a maid,
Faire Dice, and Eunomia; who were said
To be her daughters: and but faintly known
On earth, till now, they came to grace his throne.
Her third, Irene, help'd to beare his traine;
And in her office vow'd she would remaine,
Till forraine malice, or unnaturall spight
(Which Fates avert) should force her from her right.
16
With these he pass'd, and with his peoples hearts
Breath'd in his way; and soules (their better parts)
Hasting to follow forth in shouts, and cryes.
Upon his face all threw their covetous eyes,
As on a wonder: some amazed stood,
As if they felt, but had not known their good
Others would faine have shew'n it in their words:
But, when their speech so poore, a help affords
Unto their zeals expression; they are mute:
And only with red silence him salute.
Some cry from tops of houses; thinking noyse
The fittest herald to proclaime true joyes:
Others on ground run gazing by his side,
All, as unwearied, as unsatisfied:
And every windore griev'd it could not move
Along with him, and the same trouble prove.
They that had seen, but foure short dayes before,
His gladding look, now long'd to see it more.
And as of late, when he through London went,
The amorous City spar'd no ornament,
That might her beauties heighten; but so drest,
As our ambitious Dames, when they make feast,
And would be courted: so this Town put on
Her brightest tyre; and, in it, equall shone
To her great sister: save that modesty,
Her place, and yeares, grave her precedency.
The joy of either was alike, and full;
No age, nor sexe, so weak, or strongly dull,
That did not beare a part in this consent
Of hearts, and voyces. All the aire was rent,
As with the murmure of a moving wood;
The ground beneath did seeme a moving flood:
Wals, windores, roofs, towers, steeples, all were set
With severall eyes, that in this object met.
Old men were glad, their fates till now did last;
And infants, that the houres had made such hast
To bring them forth: Whil'st riper age'd, and apt
To understand the more, the more were rapt.
This was the peoples love, with which did strive
The Nobles zeale, yet either kept alive
17
The others flame, as doth the wike and waxe,
That friendly temper'd, one pure taper makes.
Meane while, the reverend Themis draws aside
The Kings obeying will, from taking pride
In these vaine stirs, and to his mind suggests
How he may triumph in his Subjects brests,
'With better pomp. She tels him first, that Kings
'Are here on earth the most conspicuous things:
'That they, by Heaven, are plac'd upon his throne,
'To rule like Heaven; and have no more their own,
'As they are men, then men. That all they do
'Though hid at home, abroad is search'd into:
'And being once found out, discover'd lyes
'Unto as many envies, there, as eyes.
'That Princes, since they know it is their fate,
'Oft-times, to have the secrets of their State
'Betraid to fame, should take more care, and feare
'In publique acts what face and forme they beare.
'She then remembred to his thought the place
'Where he was going; and the upward race
'Of Kings, præceding him in that high Court;
'Their laws, their ends; the men she did report:
'And all so justly, as his eare was joy'd
'To heare the truth, from spight of flattery voyd.
'She shewd him, who made wise, who honest Acts;
'Who both, who neither: all the cunning tracts,
'And thrivings statutes she could promptly note;
'The bloody, base, and barbarous she did quote;
'Where laws were made to serve the tyran' will;
'Where sleeping they could save, and waking kill;
'Where acts gave licence to impetuous lust
'To bury Churches, in forgotten dust,
'And with their ruines raise the panders bowers:
'When, publique justice borrow'd all her powers
'From private chambers; that could then create
'Laws, Judges, Consellors, yea Prince, and State.
'All this she told, and more, with bleeding eyes;
'For Right is as compassionate as wise.
Nor did he seeme their vices so to love,
As once defend, what Themis did reprove.
For though by right, and benefit of Times,
He ownde their crowns, he would not so their crimes.
18
He knew that Princes, who had sold their fame
To their voluptuous lusts, had lost their name;
And that no wretch was more unblest than he,
Whose necessary good 'twas now to be
An evill King: And so must such be still,
Who once have got the habit to do ill.
One wickednesse another must defend;
For vice is safe, while she hath vice to friend.
He knew, that those, who would, with love, command,
Must with a tender (yet a stedfast) hand
Sustaine the reynes, and in the check forbeare
To offer cause of injury, or feare.
That Kings, by their example, more do sway
Than by their power; and men do more obay
When they are led, than when they are compell'd.
In all these knowing Arts our Prince excell'd.
And now the dame had dried her dropping eyne,
When, like an April Iris, flew her shine
About the streets, as it would force a spring
From out the stones, to gratulate the King.
She blest the people, that in shoales did swim
To heare her speech; which still began in him,
And ceas'd in them. She told them, what a fate
Was gently falne from Heaven upon this State;
How deare a father they did now enjoy
That came to save, what discord would destroy:
And entring with the power of a King,
The temp'rance of a private man did bring,
That wan affections, ere his steps wan ground;
And was not hot, or covetous to be crown'd
Before mens hearts had crown'd him. Who (unlike
Those greater bodies of the sky, that strike
The lesser fiers dim) in his accesse
Brighter than all, hath yet made no one lesse;
Though many greater: and the most, the best.
Wherein, his choice was happy with the rest
Of his great actions, first to see, and do
What all mens wishes did aspire unto.
19
Hereat, the people could no longer hold
Their bursting joyes; but through the ayre was rol'd
The length'ned showt, as when th'artillery
Of Heaven is discharg'd along the sky:
And this confession flew from every voyce,
Never had Land more reason to rejoyce,
Nor to her blisse, could ought now added bee,
Save, that she might the same perpetuall see.
Which when Time, Nature, and the Fates deny'd,
With a twice louder shoute again they cry'd,
Yet, let blest Brittaine aske (without your wrong)
Still to have such a King, and this King long.
Solus Rex, & Poeta non quotannis nascitur.
~ Ben Jonson,
1076:(PETER RONSARD loquitur.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~ Robert Browning, The Glove
,
1077:Here, my dear friend, is a new book for you;
I have already dedicated two
To other friends, one female and one male,--
What you are, is a thing that I must veil;
What can this be to those who praise or rail?
I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is that each one should select
Out of the world a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivionthough 'tis in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread
Who travel to their home among the dead
By the broad highway of the worldand so
With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.
Free love has this, different from gold and clay,
That to divide is not to take away.
Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks
Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes
A mirror of the moon -- like some great glass,
Which did distort whatever form might pass,
Dashed into fragments by a playful child,
Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild;
Giving for one, which it could ne'er express,
A thousand images of loveliness.
If I were one whom the loud world held wise,
I should disdain to quote authorities
In commendation of this kind of love:--
Why there is first the God in heaven above,
Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be
Reviewed, I hear, in the next Quarterly;
And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece,
And Jesus Christ Himself, did never cease
To urge all living things to love each other,
And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother
The Devil of disunion in their souls.
. . .

I love you!-- Listen, O embodied Ray
Of the great Brightness; I must pass away
While you remain, and these light words must be
Tokens by which you may remember me.
Start notthe thing you are is unbetrayed,
If you are human, and if but the shade
Of some sublimer spirit . . .
. . .

And as to friend or mistress, 'tis a form;
Perhaps I wish you were one. Some declare
You a familiar spirit, as you are;
Others with a . . . more inhuman
Hint that, though not my wife, you are a woman;
What is the colour of your eyes and hair?
Why, if you were a lady, it were fair
The world should knowbut, as I am afraid,
The Quarterly would bait you if betrayed;
And if, as it will be sport to see them stumble
Over all sorts of scandals, hear them mumble
Their litany of cursessome guess right,
And others swear you're a Hermaphrodite;
Like that sweet marble monster of both sexes,
Which looks so sweet and gentle that it vexes
The very soul that the soul is gone
Which lifted from her limbs the veil of stone.
. . .

It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm,
A happy and auspicious bird of calm,
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean;
A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion;
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are,
Lifts its bold head into the world's frore air,
And blooms most radiantly when others die,
Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity;
And with the light and odour of its bloom,
Shining within the dungeon and the tomb;
Whose coming is as light and music are
'Mid dissonance and gloom -- a star
Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone--
A smile among dark frownsa gentle tone
Among rude voices, a belovd light,
A solitude, a refuge, a delight.
If I had but a friend! Why, I have three
Even by my own confession; there may be
Some more, for what I know, for 'tis my mind
To call my friends all who are wise and kind,--
And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few;
But none can ever be more dear than you.
Why should they be? My muse has lost her wings,
Or like a dying swan who soars and sings,
I should describe you in heroic style,
But as it is, are you not void of guile?
A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless:
A well of sealed and secret happiness;
A lute which those whom Love has taught to play
Make music on to cheer the roughest day,
And enchant sadness till it sleeps? . . .
. . .

To the oblivion whither I and thou,
All loving and all lovely, hasten now
With steps, ah, too unequal! may we meet
In one Elysium or one winding-sheet!
If any should be curious to discover
Whether to you I am a friend or lover,
Let them read Shakespeare's sonnets, taking thence
A whetstone for their dull intelligence
That tears and will not cut, or let them guess
How Diotima, the wise prophetess,
Instructed the instructor, and why he
Rebuked the infant spirit of melody
On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke
Was as the lovely star when morn has broke
The roof of darkness, in the golden dawn,
Half-hidden, and yet beautiful.
                 I'll pawn
My hopes of Heavenyou know what they are worth--
That the presumptuous pedagogues of Earth,
If they could tell the riddle offered here
Would scorn to be, or being to appear
What now they seem and are -- but let them chide,
They have few pleasures in the world beside;
Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden,
Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden.
Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love.
. . .

Farewell, if it can be to say farewell
To those who . . .
. . .

I will not, as most dedicators do,
Assure myself and all the world and you,
That you are faultless -- would to God they were
Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear
These heavy chains of life with a light spirit,
And would to God I were, or even as near it
As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds
Driven by the wind in warring multitudes,
Which rain into the bosom of the earth,
And rise again, and in our death and birth,
And through our restless life, take as from heaven
Hues which are not our own, but which are given,
And then withdrawn, and with inconstant glance
Flash from the spirit to the countenance.
There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a God
Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode,
A Pythian exhalation, which inspires
Love, only love -- a wind which o'er the wires
Of the soul's giant harp
There is a mood which language faints beneath;
You feel it striding, as Almighty Death
His bloodless steed . . .
. . .

And what is that most brief and bright delight
Which rushes through the touch and through the sight,
And stands before the spirit's inmost throne,
A naked Seraph? None hath ever known.
Its birth is darkness, and its growth desire;
Untameable and fleet and fierce as fire,
Not to be touched but to be felt alone,
It fills the world with glory -- and is gone.
. . .

It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream
Of life, which flows, like a . . . dream
Into the light of morning, to the grave
As to an ocean . . .
. . .

What is that joy which serene infancy
Perceives not, as the hours content them by,
Each in a chain of blossoms, yet enjoys
The shapes of this new world, in giant toys
Wrought by the busy . . . ever new?
Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, to show
These forms more . . . sincere
Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were.
When everything familiar seemed to be
Wonderful, and the immortality
Of this great world, which all things must inherit,
Was felt as one with the awakening spirit,
Unconscious of itself, and of the strange
Distinctions which in its proceeding change
It feels and knows, and mourns as if each were
A desolation . . .
. . .

Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily,
For all those exiles from the dull insane
Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain,
For all that band of sister-spirits known
To one another by a voiceless tone?
. . .

If day should part us night will mend division
And if sleep parts us -- we will meet in vision
And if life parts us -- we will mix in death
Yielding our mite [?] of unreluctant breath
Death cannot part us -- we must meet again
In all in nothing in delight in pain:
How, why or when or whereit matters not
So that we share an undivided lot . . .
. . .

And we will move possessing and possessed
Wherever beauty on the earth's bare [?] breast
Lies like the shadow of thy soul -- till we
Become one being with the world we see . . .

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Epipsychidion - Passages Of The Poem, Or Connected Therewith
,
1078:Love Sonnets
I.
HOW beautiful doth the morning rise
O’er the hills, as from her bower a bride
Comes brightened—blushing with the shame-faced pride
Of love that now consummated supplies
All her full heart can wish, and to the eyes
Dear are the flowers then, in their green haunts spied,
Glist ning with dew: pleasant at noon the side
Of shadowy mountains ridging to the skies:
At eve ’tis sweet to hear the breeze advance
Through the responding forest dense and tall;
And sweeter in the moonlight is the dance
And natural music of the waterfall:
And yet we feel not the full charm of all,
Till love be near us with his magic glance.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
II.

WHY tower my spirits, and what means this wild

Commotion at my heart—this dreamy chase

Of possible joys that glow like stars in space?

Now feel I even to all things reconciled,

As all were one in spirit. Rudely up-piled

Brown hills grow beautiful; a novel grace

Exalts the moorland’s once unmeaning face;

The river that, like a pure mind beguiled,

Grows purer for its errors, and the trees

That fringe its margin with a dusky shade,

Seem robed in fairy wonder; and are these

Exalted thus because with me surveyed

By one sweet sould whom well they seem to please

Here at my side—an almost stranger maid?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
92

III.

NOW sunny, as the noontide heavens, are

The eyes of my sweet friend, and now serene

And chastely shadowy in their maiden mien;

Or dream-power, sparkling like a brilliant star

Fills all their blue depths, taking me afar

To where, in the rich past, through song is seen

Some sovereign beauty, knighthood’s mystic queen,

Pluming with love the iron brows of war!

Bright eyes before, with subtle lightning glance

Have kindled all my being into one

Wild tumult; but a charm thus to enhance

My heart’s love-loyalty till now had none!

And can this witchery be the work of chance?

I know not—I but know my rest is gone.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IV.

A VAST and shadowy hope breaks up my rest

Unspoken; nor dares even my pen to write

How my pent spirit pineth day and night

For one fair love with whom I might be blest!

And ever with vague jealousies possessed

The more I languish, feeling these may so

Oppress affection that for very woe

She longs at last to die deep buried in my breast!

O for a beaker of the wine of love,

Or a deep draught of the Lethèan wave!

The power a mutual passion to emove,

Or that repose which sealeth up the grave!

Yet these my bonds are blameless; one more wise

Had dreamt away his freedom, dreaming of her eyes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
V.

93

HER image haunts me! Lo! I muse at even,

And straight it gathers from the gloom, to make

My soul its mirror; which (as some still lake

Holds pictured in its depths the face of heaven)

Through the hushed night retains it: when ’tis given

To take a warmer presence and incline

A glowing cheek burning with love to mine,

Saying—“The heart for which thou long hast stiven

With looks so fancy-pale, I grant thee now;

And if for ruth, yet more for love’s sweet sake,

My lips shall seal this promise on thy brow. ”

Thus blest in sleep—oh! Who would care to wake,

When the cold real from his belief must shake

Such vows, like blossoms from a shattered bough?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
VI.

SHE loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips

The live confession came, like rich perfume

From crimson petals bursting into bloom!

And still my heart at the remembrance skips

Like a young lion, and my tongue too trips

As drunk with joy! While very object seen

In life’s diurnal round wears in its mien

A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse.

And if the common things of nature now

Are like old faces flushed with new delight,

Much more the consciousness of that rich vow

Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright,

While throned I seem on love’s divinest height

Mid all the glories glowing round its brow.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
VII.

FAIR as the day—a genial day serene

Of early summer, when the vital air

94

Breathes as ’twere God’s own breath, and blossoms rare

Fill many a bush, or nestle in between

The heapy folds of nature’s mantle green,

As they were happier for the joint joy there

Of birds and bees;—so genial, and so fair

And rich in pleasure, is my life’s sole queen.

My spirit in the sunshine of her grace

Glows with intenser being, and my veins

Fill as with nectar! In your pride of place

Ye mighty, boast! Ye rich, heap gold space!

I envy nor your grandeur nor your gains,

Thus gazing at the heaven of her face!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
VIII.

FAIR as the night—when all the astral fires

Of heaven are burning in the clear expanse,

My love is, and her eyes like star-depths glance

Lustrous with glowing thoughts and pure desires,

And that mysterious pathos which inspires

All moods divine in mortal passion’s trance—

All that its earthly music doth enhance

As with the rapture of seraphic lyres!

I gaze upon her till the atmosphere

Sweetens intensely, and to my charmed sight

All fair associated forms appear

Swimming in joy, as swim yon orbs in light—

And all sweet sounds, though common, to mine ear

Chime up like silver-winged dreams in flight.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IX.

TO-DAY we part! I far away to dwell

From this the scene that saw our bud of love

Bloom into rosehood. The blue heavens above—

These hills and valleys, with each rocky dell,

95

Echo’s dim hold,—shall these retain no spell

Of foregone passion? Shall they speak no tale

Of grief they shrouded in this shaded vale?

Shall they of all our joy the story tell?

To-morrow—and the sun shall climb yon hill

Bright as before; all winged things shall wake

To song as glad as if we listened still;

The stream as mirthfully its wild way make.

But I, pursuing fortune’s wandering star,

Shall see and hear them not—from thee and them afar.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
X.

ABSENCE

NIGHTLY I watch the moon with silvery sheen

Flaking the city house-tops—till I feel

Thy memory, dear one, like a presence steal

Down in her light; for always in her mien

Thy soul’s similitude my soul hath seen!

And as she seemeth now—a guardian seal

On heaven’s far bliss, upon my future weal

Even such thy truth is—radiantly serene.

But long my fancy may not entertain

These bright resemblances—for lo! A cloud

Blots her away! And in my breast the pain

Of absent love recurring pines aloud!

When shall I look in thy bright eyes again?

O my beloved with like sadness bowed!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
XI.

THERE is a trying spirit in the drift

Of human life, apportioning the prize

(In that true quality wherein it lies)

That each one seeketh, to that seeker’s gift.

Hence must he suffer many a perilous shift

96

Who unto fame by martial deeds would rise;

Hence look at liberty with lion-eyes

Must he who’d make the march of man more swift:

Hence heaven’s best crown, more glorious than the sun,

Is only gained by dying for our kind;

And hence, too, true love’s highest meed is won

Only through agonies of heart and mind.

Such, dear one, is the fate (and therefore ours)

Of all whom love would crown with faith’s divinest flowers.

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XII.

THE VOYAGE to that haven of true love

Was ever stormy since the world began,

Or story from its earliest fountain ran;

Teaching us truly that the gods approve,

In the superior destinies of man,

Only what most the noblest hearts shall move:

Hence was Leander’s life so brief a span,

Who, weltering a mortal while above

The bursting wave, sent on his soul to where

The Maid of Sestos from her watch-tower’s height

Looked for his coming through the troubled air,

Nor knew that he had died for her that night!

Hence Sappho’s fatal leap! (The cause the same)

Hence too was Petrarch’s heart the martyr of his flame!

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XIII.

LOSS follows gain, and sadness waits on mirth,

And much is wasted where too much is given;

We cannot fully have our joy on earth

Without diminishing our joy in heaven.

Envy dogs merit; madness neighbours wit;

Stale is their gladness who were never sad;

And Dives in this fleshly life, ’tis writ,

97

Received his good things, Lazarus his bad.

Thus, dearest, o’er the waves of many things

My troubled mind, even like a ship, is tossed,

And from the quest this only inference brings:

That true love in its earthly course is crossed,

Lest by dull worldly usage it should be

Too worldly cramped to soar in large eternity.

~ Charles Harpur,
1079:The Enchanted Ring
A Tale of Halloween
You ask me for a tale of Halloween?
'Tis well. I lately read a treasure tome
Within whose legend-haunted lone demesne
The free, wild Fancy finds herself at home.
Now, while the night wind wings the starlit dome,
And while the dead leaves eerie converse hold,
Through the rich Conjurer's Kingdom with me roam;
And, wandering there, the story shall be told
Of what befell in Leinster in the days of old.
II
In Leinster in the days of old, I wis,
There was no maiden of the countryside
But on All Hallows (such a night as this!)
In Love's dim chancery her fortune tried.
The bursting nut upon the hearth she plied;
Or, while a lighted candle she would bear,
Gazed in her glass with eyes intent and wide;
Or, with weird mutterings, like a witch's prayer,
She sowed three rows of nothing on the empty air!
III
All rites had little Barbara performed,
Yet nothing did she see, and nothing hear;
Her busy thoughts soon into dreamland swarmed.
The rosy apple lay, untasted, near
For him who, ere another rounded year,
Should taste Love's feast with her. And now the wind
(As on this very night) with sighings drear,
Spake close beneath her latticed window-blind
Such dreamwise things as it hath spoke time out of mind.
IV
16
Why moans our little sister? 'Rest thee, rest!
Fear naught.' Soon careful arms have clasp'd her round,
And a soft cheek against her own is pressed.
For thus, since childhood, Barbara hath found
In mother-love with sister's love upbound,
Swift respite from the terrors of the night.
But now, what sleep so restless, yet so sound,
That not for touch or tone will take its flight,
Or aught at all except the broadcast morning light!
'My precious one, such troubled dreams were thine;
Yet, though I strove, I could not waken thee.'
'Dear mother-sister- dearest sister mineMethought an unknown guide did beckon me
Far, far from here. My will I could not free;
I needs must follow through weald and waste.
Outworn I reached a manor fair to see;
Outworn, alone, through a long hall I paced,
That was with many a speaking, stately portrait graced.
VI
'Then, stilly as a spirit loosed from earth,
I climbed a stair, and to a chamber came,
Rich hung with broidered cloths. Upon the hearth
Dull embers held a little fitful flame.
A sudden trembling ran through all my frame,
When, from amidst those silken hangings rare,
A voice pronounced: 'Reveal thy face and name,
I conjure thee! At least, some token spare
That I may trace thee when thou goest I know not where!'
VII
'It was a grievous and a sinful thingBut over me was sovereign, stern command
I must obey. Thy gift, the birthday ring,
With my own name engraved within the bandThe ring, alas! I drew it from my hand,
17
And laid it on the marble mantel high.
Then died the flame from out the falling brand,
Then were the four walls darkling earth and sky;
And, once again, till dawn a wanderer was I.
VIII
'But, Agatha, thou art not vexed at me?
Thou dost not mourn the ring? 'Twas mine last eve,
This morning it is gone, as thou canst see!'
'Nay, darling, thou no reason hast to grieve:
I may not tell thee why, but I believe
That ere another wingèd year is flown
Some brightest threads for thee will Fortune weave.'
So spake her sister, sage of look and tone,
And held the little, fevered hand within her own.
IX
The Winter long is over in the land,
And mellow is the furrowed soil, and quick
With hopeful promise to the toiler's hand.
He, too, that toils not, leaning on his stick,
Is cheered to see the bean-flowers set so thick,
And thick the blossoms on the orchard bough.
How sweet the air! Hath any soul been sick?
Oh, let that soul drink health from beauty now;
Stand forth beneath the sky; unknit the careworn brow!
'Say, children, if ye guess, what aileth himThe stranger who oft leans beyond the hedge
To see our budding roses? Yet so dim
His eye, he knows them not from ragged sedge!
The black ox's hoof hath trod on him, I pledge
My hopes beyond the grave, he seeketh aye
For that which flees him to the world's far edge!
Come, children, tell me what the gossips say:
Your grandsire nothing hears- the old at home must stay!'
XI
18
Good Agatha replies with playful look:
'Let Barbara speak. And if she be the rose
(To us the sweetest flower in any nookOr tame or wild- that in our Leinster grows)
Hath drawn the stranger to our garden-close,
With what true eye hath he the best discerned.'
(A blush-rose, on the moment, springs and blows!)
'Ay, sister, grandsire, all that I have learned,
I freely tell you; since deceit I always spurned.
XII
'But twice have I had speech with him- no more,
First time he asked a rose, and spake me fair,
I gave it him, so sad a look he wore;
And on he passed, as one who doth not care.
Again, as I was searching everywhere
My bracelet that had fallen to the ground,
He leaped the hedge-row ere I was aware;
And he it was that, searching, quickly found
My bracelet. Surely, I to courtesy was bound.'
XIII
'Ay, surely, child. Your grandsire taught you that,
What said you then?' 'I bade him stay and rest;
And down upon the old oak bench we sat.
He spake of losses- how another's quest
'Twas ever his to aid, for he was blest
With wizard sight, save for the thing he soughtA thing not lost, since never yet possessed;
He had but dreamed of it! I answered naught;
But much, in truth, since then of what he said have thought.'
XIV
By this time closed are the ears of age,
And lid-fast are the eyes. And now, alone,
Spake carelessly good Agatha the sage:
'Great prudence, little Barbe, thou hast shown;
But I have heard the stranger well is known,
19
That gentle is his birth, and the estate
Is broad and fair, which singly he doth own.
'Tis said his health hath suffered much of late;
Wholesome this air; so he prolongs his visit's date.'
XV
Then subtly did fond Agatha contrive:
'Thou dost but a charitable deed,
If from his soul this withering gloom thou drive.
Lightly along the self-same channel lead
Thy talk. Say that thou gav'st his words good heed;
Since back to thee thy bracelet he could bring,
Thou would'st, once more, consult his wizard rede,
For thou hast lost a yet more precious thingThy sister's gift to thee- the name, too, on the ring!'
XVI
'That dare I not- !' broke in the little maid;
'For well thou knowest how the ring was lost,
And all the tricks at Halloween I played.
Alas, those charms were wrought at heavy cost,
To be, as I have been, a homeless ghostA shadow of myself- of self bereft!'
'Then, child, tell only what importeth mostA ring of thine was somewhere lost, or left;
And thou, once more, art fain to seek his counsel deft.'
XVII
The Rose sends challenge to the flower-world all:
What bloom like mint- at once both proud and sweet?
Unstored to the Rose's burning accents fall
Upon the twain within the garden-seat.
Yet, what can make the Rose's color fleet
From a young maiden's cheek- what sudden stress?
What words are these a young man may repeat,
While light springs up in eyes long lustreless?
But come, let us o'erhear- 'twere idle, still to guess?
XVIII
20
It thus had chanced: when came the moment fit,
Full simply little Barbara broached the theme
Directed by her sister's subtler wit:
Since he had found her bracelet, it would seem
A yet mor precious loss he might redeem:
A ring of hers had vanished- left no trace.
So great a wizard might some potent scheme
Devise, to bring it from its hiding-place.'
She lightly spake. Intent, her comrade scanned her face.
XIX
'Speak thou the truth, no word from me withhold;
Lift up thine eyes, and they the truth shall speak,
For it must be that slender ring of gold
Bounds the whole world of happiness I seek.
Tell me when thou this ring didst lose, and eke
All circumstance that did the time attend.'
'Twas then the Rose's color fled her cheek;
But since her tongue to guile she could not lend,
She told straightforwardly her story to the end.
XX
'As thou hast spoken truth, and naught beside'
He said, 'I'll speak the living truth to thee.
That night some charms of Halloween I tried,
Dared thus to do by a blithe company
In mine old hall, far in the West Country.
The charms performed, I thought of them no more;
Yet deemed it strange that sleep came not to me;
And as the rising wind shook blind and door,
I watched with half-shut eyes the firelight on the floor.
XXI
'Then glidingly, and noiseless as a dream,
A figure stoled in white, with floating hair,
Touched faintly by the embers' fitful gleam,
Approached the fireplace and stood wavering thereStood piteously, with tender feet all bare,
21
And tender palms reached out above the coals
(As they had borne too long the frosty air).
Then, I remembered me the time- All Souls,
When visions vanish as the hour of midnight tolls!
XXII
'Already was the clock upon the stroke,
Already had the vision turned to go
When, in a voice I scarcely knew, I spoke,
Desiring that the presence should bestow
Some sign, or constant pledge of truth, to show
When daylight should to disbelief incline.
The vision faded. On the mantel, lo!
This ring I found. And surely, it is thine,
And surely, maiden, both the ring and thou art mine!'
XXIII
Needs not to say what afterwards befellHow smiled the mother-sister sage and dear,
When came the fine confession, guessed full well;
Or how, before the rounding of the year,
She saw- through many a rainbow-lighted tearHer darling pace the aisle, a happy bride!
Nay!- rather must I counsel all who hear
Leave juggling wiles of Halloween untried,
Lest no such powers benign your doubtful venture guide!
~ Edith Matilda Thomas,
1080:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxv
KULLERVO'S EVIL DEEDS.
Kullerwionen, youthful wizard,
In his blue and scarlet stockings,
Henceforth lingered with his parents;
But he could not change his nature,
Could not gain a higher wisdom,
Could not win a better judgment;
As a child he was ill-nurtured,
Early rocked in stupid cradles,
By a nurse of many follies,
By a minister of evil.
To his work went Kullerwoinen,
Strove to make his labors worthy;
First, Kullervo went a-fishing,
Set his fishing-nets in ocean;
With his hands upon the row-locks,
Kullerwoinen spake as follows:
'Shall I pull with all my forces,
Pull with strength of youthful heroes,
Or with weakness of the aged?'
From the stern arose a gray-beard,
And he answered thus Kullervo:
'Pull with all thy youthful vigor;
Shouldst thou row with magic power,
Thou couldst not destroy this vessel,
Couldst not row this boat to fragments.'
Thereupon the youth, Kullervo,
Rowed with all his youthful vigor,
With the mighty force of magic,
Rowed the bindings from the vessel,
Ribs of juniper he shattered,
Rowed the aspen-oars to pieces.
When the aged sire, Kalervo,
Saw the work of Kullerwoinen,
He addressed his son as follows:
'Dost not understand the rowing;
Thou hast burst the bands asunder,
544
Bands of juniper and willow,
Rowed my aspen-boat to pieces;
To the fish-nets drive the salmon,
This, perchance, will suit thee better.'
Thereupon the son, Kullervo,
Hastened to his work as bidden,
Drove the salmon to the fish-nets,
Spake in innocence as follows:
'Shall I with my youthful vigor
Scare the salmon to the fish-nets,
Or with little magic vigor
Shall I drive them to their capture?
Spake the master of the fish-nets:
'That would be but work of women,
Shouldst thou use but little power
In the frighting of the salmon!'
Kullerwoinen does as bidden,
Scares the salmon with the forces
Of his mighty arms and shoulders,
With the strength of youth and magic,
Stirs the water thick with black-earth,
Beats the scare-net into pieces,
Into pulp he beats the salmon.
When the aged sire, Kalervo,
Saw the work of Kullerwoinen,
To his son these words he uttered:
'Dost not understand this labor,
For this work thou art not suited,
Canst not scare the perch and salmon
To the fish-nets of thy father;
Thou hast ruined all my fish-nets,
Torn my scare-net into tatters,
Beaten into pulp the whiting,
Torn my net-props into fragments,
Beaten into bits my wedges.
Leave the fishing to another;
See if thou canst pay the tribute,
Pay my yearly contribution;
See if thou canst better travel,
On the way show better judgment!'
Thereupon the son, Kullervo,
Hapless youth in purple vestments,
545
In his magic shoes of deer-skin,
In his locks of golden color,
Sallied forth to pay the taxes,
Pay the tribute for his people.
When the youth had paid the tribute,
Paid the yearly contribution,
He returned to join the snow-sledge,
Took his place upon the cross-bench,
Snapped his whip above the courser,
And began his journey homeward;
Rattled on along the highway,
Measured as he galloped onward
Wainamoinen's hills and valleys,
And his fields in cultivation.
Came a golden maid to meet him,
On her snow-shoes came a virgin,
O'er the hills of Wainamoinen,
O'er his cultivated lowlands.
Quick the wizard-son, Kullervo,
Checked the motion of his racer,
Thus addressed the charming maiden
'Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge,
In my fur-robes rest and linger!'
As she ran, the maiden answered:
'Let the Death-maid sit beside thee,
Rest and linger in thy fur-robes!'
Thereupon the youth, Kullervo,
Snapped his whip above the courser;
Fleet as wind he gallops homeward,
Dashes down along the highway;
With the roar of falling waters,
Gallops onward, onward, onward,
O'er the broad-back of the ocean,
O'er the icy plains of Lapland.
Comes a winsome maid to meet him,
Golden-haired, and wearing snow-shoes,
On the far outstretching ice-plains;
Quick the wizard checks his racer,
Charmingly accosts the maiden,
Chanting carefully these measures:
'Come, thou beauty, to my snow-sledge,
Hither come, and rest, and linger!
546
Tauntingly the maiden answered:
'Take Tuoni to thy snow-sledge,
At thy side let Manalainen
Sit with thee, and rest, and linger!'
Quick the wizard, Kullerwoinen,
Struck his fiery, prancing racer,
With the birch-whip of his father.
Like the lightning flew the fleet-foot,
Galloped on the highway homeward;
O'er the hills the snow-sledge bounded,
And the coming mountains trembled.
Kullerwoinen, wild magician,
Measures, on his journey homeward,
Northland's far-extending borders,
And the fertile plains of Pohya.
Comes a beauteous maid to meet him,
With a tin-pin on her bosom,
On the heather of Pohyola,
O'er the Pohya-hills and moorlands.
Quick the wizard son, Kullervo,
Holds the bridle of his courser,
Charmingly intones these measures:
'Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge,
In these fur-robes rest, and linger;
Eat with me the golden apples,
Eat the hazel-nut in joyance,
Drink with me the beer delicious,
Eat the dainties that I give thee.'
This the answer of the maiden
With the tin-pin on her bosom:
'I have scorn to give thy snow-sledge,
Scorn for thee, thou wicked wizard;
Cold is it beneath thy fur-robes,
And thy sledge is chill and cheerless.
Thereupon the youth, Kullervo,
Wicked wizard of the Northland,
Drew the maiden to his snow-sledge,
Drew her to a seat beside him,
Quickly in his furs enwrapped her;
And the tin-adorned made answer,
These the accents of the maiden:
'Loose me from thy magic power,
547
Let me leave at once thy presence,
Lest I speak in wicked accents,
Lest I say the prayer of evil;
Free me now as I command thee,
Or I'll tear thy sledge to pieces,
Throw these fur-robes to the north-winds.'
Straightway wicked Kullerwoinen,
Evil wizard and magician,
Opens all his treasure-boxes,
Shows the maiden gold and silver,
Shows her silken wraps of beauty,
Silken hose with golden borders,
Golden belts with silver buckles,
Jewelry that dims the vision,
Blunts the conscience of the virgin.
Silver leads one to destruction,
Gold entices from uprightness.
Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard,
Flatters lovingly the maiden,
One hand on the reins of leather,
One upon the maiden's shoulder;
Thus they journey through the evening,
Pass the night in merry-making.
When the day-star led the morning,
When the second day was dawning,
Then the maid addressed Kullervo,
Questioned thus the wicked wizard:
'Of what tribe art thou descended,
Of what race thy hero-father?
Tell thy lineage and kindred.`
This, Kullervo's truthful answer:
'Am not from a mighty nation,
Not the greatest, nor the smallest,
But my lineage is worthy:
Am Kalervo's son of folly,
Am a child of contradictions,
Hapless son of cold misfortune.
Tell me of thy race of heroes,
Tell thine origin and kindred.'
This the answer of the maiden:
'Came not from a race primeval,
Not the largest, nor the smallest,
548
But my lineage is worthy;
Am Kalervo's wretched daughter,
Am his long-lost child of error,
Am a maid of contradictions,
Hapless daughter of misfortune.
'When a child I lived in plenty
In the dwellings of my mother;
To the woods I went for berries,
Went for raspberries to uplands,
Gathered strawberries on mountains,
Gathered one day then a second;
But, alas! upon the third day,
Could not find the pathway homeward,
Forestward the highways led me,
All the footpaths, to the woodlands.
Long I sat in bitter weeping,
Wept one day and then a second,
Wept the third from morn till even.
Then I climbed a. lofty mountain,
There I called in wailing accents,
And the woodlands gave this answer,
Thus the distant hills re-echoed:
'Call no longer, foolish virgin,
All thy calls and tears are useless;
There is none to give thee answer,
Far away, thy home and people.'
'On the third and on the fourth days,
On the fifth, and sixth, and seventh,
Constantly I sought to perish;
But in vain were all my efforts,
Could not die upon the mountains.
If this wretched maid had perished,
In the summer of the third year,
She had fed earth's vegetation,
She had blossomed as a flower,
Knowing neither pain nor sorrow.'
Scarcely had the maiden spoken,
When she bounded from the snow-sledge,
Rushed upon the rolling river,
To the cataract's commotion,
To the fiery stream and whirlpool.
Thus Kullervo's lovely sister
549
Hastened to her own destruction,
To her death by fire and water,
Found her peace in Tuonela,
In the sacred stream of Mana.
Then the wicked Kullerwoinen
Fell to weeping, sorely troubled,
Wailed, and wept, and heavy-hearted,
Spake these words in bitter sorrow:
'Woe is me, my life hard-fated!
I have slain my virgin-sister,
Shamed the daughter of my mother;
Woe to thee, my ancient father!
Woe to thee, my gray-haired mother!
Wherefore was I born and nurtured,
Why this hapless child's existence?
Better fate to Kullerwoinen,
Had he never seen the daylight,
Or, if born, had never thriven
In these mournful days of evil!
Death has failed to do his duty,
Sickness sinned in passing by me,
Should have slain me in the cradle,
When the seventh day had ended!'
Thereupon he slips the collar
Of his prancing royal racer,
Mounts the silver-headed fleet-foot,
Gallops like the lightning homeward;
Gallops only for a moment,
When he halts his foaming courser
At the cabin of his father.
In the court-yard stood the mother,
Thus the wicked son addressed her:
'Faithful mother, fond and tender,
Hadst thou slain me when an infant,
Smoked my life out in the chamber,
In a winding-sheet hadst thrown me
To the cataract and whirlpool,
In the fire hadst set my cradle,
After seven nights had ended,
Worthy would have been thy service.
Had the village-maidens asked thee:
'Where is now the little cradle,
550
Wherefore is the bath-room empty?'
This had been a worthy answer:
'I have burned the wizard's cradle,
Cast the infant to the fire-dogs;
In the bath-room corn is sprouting,
From the barley malt is brewing.''
Thereupon the aged mother
Asks her wizard-son these questions:
'What has happened to my hero,
What new fate has overcome thee?
Comest thou as from Tuoni,
From the castles of Manala?'
This, Kullervo's frank confession:
'Infamous the tale I bring thee,
My confession is dishonor:
On the way I met a maiden,
Met thy long-lost, wayward daughter,
Did not recognize my sister,
Fatal was the sin committed!
When the taxes had been settled,
When the tribute had been gathered,
Came a matchless maid to meet me,
Whom I witless led to sorrow,
This my mother's long-lost daughter.
When she saw in me her brother,
Quick she bounded from the snow-sledge,
Hastened to the roaring waters,
To the cataract's commotion,
To the fiery stream and whirlpool,
Hastened to her full destruction.
'Now, alas! must I determine,
Now must find a spot befitting,
Where thy sinful son may perish;
Tell me, all-forgiving mother,
Where to end my life of trouble;
Let me stop the black-wolf's howling,
Let me satisfy the hunger
Of the vicious bear of Northland;
Let the shark or hungry sea-dog
Be my dwelling-place hereafter!'
This the answer of the mother:
'Do not go to stop the howling
551
Of the hungry wolf of Northland;
Do not haste to still the black-bear
Growling in his forest-cavern;
Let not shark, nor vicious sea-dog
Be thy dwelling-place hereafter.
Spacious are the rooms of Suomi,
Limitless the Sawa-borders,
Large enough to hide transgression,
Man's misdeeds to hide for ages,
With his sins and evil actions.
Six long years man's sins lie hidden
In the border-land of Kalma,
Even nine for magic heroes,
Till the years bring consolation,
Till they quiet all his mourning.'
Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard,
Answers thus his grieving mother:
'I can never hide from sorrow,
Cannot flee from my misconduct;
To the jaws of death I hasten,
To the open courts of Kalma,
To the hunting-grounds of Pohya,
To the battle-fields of heroes.
Untamoinen still is living,
Unmolested roams the wicked,
Unavenged my father's grievance,
Unavenged my mother's tortures,
Unavenged the wrongs I suffer!'
~ Elias Lönnrot,
1081:Prince Dorus
In days of yore, as Ancient Stories tell,
A King in love with a great Princess fell.
Long at her feet submiss the Monarch sigh'd,
While she with stern repulse his suit denied.
Yet was he form'd by birth to please the fair,
Dress'd, danc'd, and courted, with a Monarch's air;
But Magic Spells her frozen breast had steel'd
With stubborn pride, that knew not how to yield.
This to the King a courteous Fairy told,
And bade the Monarch in his suit be bold;
For he that would the charming Princess wed,
Had only on her cat's black tail to tread,
When straight the Spell would vanish into air,
And he enjoy for life the yielding fair.
He thank'd the Fairy for her kind advice.Thought he, 'If this be all, I'll not be nice;
Rather than in my courtship I will fail,
I will to mince-meat tread Minon's black tail.'
To the Princess's court repairing strait,
He sought the cat that must decide his fate;
But when he found her, how the creature stared!
How her back bristled, and her great eyes glared!
That tail, which he so fondly hop'd his prize,
Was swell'd by wrath to twice its usual size;
And all her cattish gestures plainly spoke,
She thought the affair he came upon, no joke.
With wary step the cautious King draws near,
And slyly means to attack her in her rear;
But when he thinks upon her tail to pounce,
Whisk-off she skips-three yards upon a bounceAgain he tries, again his efforts fail-
96
Minon's a witch-the deuce is in her tail.-
The anxious chase for weeks the Monarch tried,
Till courage fail'd, and hope within him died.
A desperate suit 'twas useless to prefer,
Or hope to catch a tail of quicksilver.When on a day, beyond his hopes, he found
Minon, his foe, asleep upon the ground;
Her ample tail hehind her lay outspread,
Full to the eye, and tempting to the tread.
The King with rapture the occasion bless'd,
And with quick foot the fatal part he press'd.
Loud squalls were heard, like howlings of a storm,
And sad he gazed on Minon's altered form,No more a cat, but chang'd into a man
Of giant size, who frown'd, and thus began:
'Rash King, that dared with impious design
To violate that tail, that once was mine;
What tho' the spell be broke, and burst the charms,
That kept the Princess from thy longing arms,Not unrevenged shalt thou my fury dare,
For by that violated tail I swear,
From your unhappy nuptials shall be born
A Prince, whose Nose shall be thy subjects' scorn.
Bless'd in his love thy son shall never be,
Till he his foul deformity shall see,
Till he with tears his blemish shall confess,
Discern its odious length, and wish it less!'
This said, he vanish'd; and the King awhile
Mused at his words, then answer'd with a smile,
'Give me a child in happy wedlock born,
And let his Nose be made like a French horn;
His knowledge of the fact I ne'er can doubt,If he have eyes, or hands, he'll find it out.'
So spake the King, self-flatter'd in his thought,
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Then with impatient step the Princess sought;
His urgent suit no longer she withstands,
But links with him in Hymen's knot her hands.
Almost as soon a widow as a bride,
Within a year the King her husband died;
And shortly after he was dead and gone
She was deliver'd of a little son,
The prettiest babe, with lips as red as rose,
And eyes like little stars-but such a noseThe tender Mother fondly took the boy
Into her arms, and would have kiss'd her joy;
His luckless nose forbade the fond embraceHe thrust the hideous feature in her face.
Then all her Maids of Honour tried in turn,
And for a Prince's kiss in envy burn;
By sad experience taught, their hopes they miss'd,
And mourn'd a Prince that never could be kiss'd.
In silent tears the Queen confess'd her grief,
Till kindest Flattery came to her relief.
Her maids, as each one takes him in her arms,
Expatiate freely o'er his world of charmsHis eyes, lips, mouth-his forehead was divineAnd for the nose-they call'd it AquilineDeclared that Cæsar, who the world subdued,
Had such a one-just of that longitudeThat Kings like him compell'd folks to adore them,
And drove the short-nos'd sons of men before themThat length of nose portended length of days,
And was a great advantage many waysTo mourn the gifts of Providence was wrongBesides, the Nose was not so very long.-
These arguments in part her grief redrest,
A mother's partial fondness did the rest;
And Time, that all things reconciles by use,
Did in her notions such a change produce,
That, as she views her babe, with favour blind,
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She thinks him handsomest of human kind.
Meantime, in spite of his disfigured face,
Dorus (for so he's call'd) grew up a pace;
In fair proportion all his features rose,
Save that most prominent of all-his Nose.
That Nose, which in the infant could annoy,
Was grown a perfect nuisance in the boy.
Whene'er he walk'd, his Handle went before,
Long as the snout of Ferret, or Wild Boar;
Or like the Staff, with which on holy day
The solemn Parish Beadle clears the way.
But from their cradle to their latest year,
How seldom Truth can reach a Prince's ear!
To keep the unwelcome knowledge out of view,
His lesson well each flattering Courtier knew;
The hoary Tutor, and the wily Page,
Unmeet confederates! dupe his tender age.
They taught him that whate'er vain mortals boastStrength, Courage, Wisdom-all they value mostWhate'er on human life distinction throwsWas all comprized-in what?-a length of nose!
Ev'n Virtue's self (by some suppos'd chief merit)
In short-nosed folks was only want of spirit.
While doctrines such as these his guides instill'd,
His Palace was with long-nosed people fill'd;
At Court whoever ventured to appear
With a short nose, was treated with a sneer.
Each courtier's wife, that with a babe is blest,
Moulds its young nose betimes; and does her best,
By pulls, and hauls, and twists, and lugs, and pinches,
To stretch it to the standard of the Prince's.
Dup'd by these arts, Dorus to manhood rose,
Nor dream'd of ought more comely than his Nose;
Till Love, whose power ev'n Princes have confest,
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Claim'd the soft empire o'er his youthful breast.
Fair Claribel was she who caus'd his care;
A neighb'ring Monarch's daughter, and sole heir.
For beauteous Claribel his bosom burn'd;
The beauteous Claribel his flame return'd;
Deign'd with kind words his passion to approve,
Met his soft vows, and yielded love for love.
If in her mind some female pangs arose
At sight (and who can blame her?) of his Nose,
Affection made her willing to be blind;
She loved him for the beauties of his mind;
And in his lustre, and his royal race,
Contented sunk-one feature of his face.
Blooming to sight, and lovely to behold,
Herself was cast in Beauty's richest mould;
Sweet female majesty her person deck'dHer face an angel's-save for one defectWise Nature, who to Dorus over kind,
A length of nose too liberal had assign'd,
As if with us poor mortals to make sport,
Had given to Claribel a nose too short:
But turn'd up with a sort of modest grace;
It took not much of beauty from her face;
And subtle Courtiers, who their Prince's mind
Still watch'd, and turn'd about with every wind,
Assur'd the Prince, that though man's beauty owes
Its charms to a majestic length of nose,
The excellence of Woman (softer creature)
Consisted in the shortness of that feature.
Few arguments were wanted to convince
The already more than half persuaded Prince;
Truths, which we hate, with slowness we receive,
But what we wish to credit, soon believe.
The Princess's affections being gain'd,
What but her Sire's approval now remain'd?
Ambassadors with solemn pomp are sent
To win the aged Monarch to consent
(Seeing their States already were allied)
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That Dorus might have Claribel to bride.
Her Royal Sire, who wisely understood
The match propos'd was for both kingdoms' good,
Gave his consent; and gentle Claribel
With weeping bids her father's court farewell.
With gallant pomp, and numerous array,
Dorus went forth to meet her on her way;
But when the Princely pair of lovers met,
Their hearts on mutual gratulations set,
Sudden the Enchanter from the ground arose,
(The same who prophesied the Prince's nose)
And with rude grasp, unconscious of her charms,
Snatch'd up the lovely Princess in his arms,
Then bore her out of reach of human eyes,
Up in the pathless regions of the skies.
Bereft of her that was his only care,
Dorus resign'd his soul to wild despair;
Resolv'd to leave the land that gave him birth,
And seek fair Claribel throughout the earth.
Mounting his horse, he gives the beast the reins,
And wanders lonely through the desert plains;
With fearless heart the savage heath explores,
Where the wolf prowls, and where the tiger roars,
Nor wolf, nor tiger, dare his way oppose;
The wildest creatures see, and shun, his Nose.
Ev'n lions fear! the elephant alone
Surveys with pride a trunk so like his own.
At length he to a shady forest came,
Where in a cavern lived an aged dame;
A reverend Fairy, on whose silver head
A hundred years their downy snows had shed.
Here ent'ring in, the Mistress of the place
Bespoke him welcome with a cheerful grace;
Fetch'd forth her dainties, spread her social board
With all the store her dwelling could afford.
The Prince, with toil and hunger sore opprest,
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Gladly accepts, and deigns to be her guest.
But when the first civilities were paid,
The dishes rang'd, and Grace in order said;
The Fairy, who had leisure now to view
Her guest more closely, from her pocket drew
Her spectacles, and wip'd them from the dust,
Then on her nose endeavour'd to adjust;
With difficulty she could find a place
To hang them on in her unshapely face;
For, if the Princess's was somewhat small,
This Fairy scarce had any nose at all.
But when by help of spectacles the Crone
Discern'd a Nose so different from her own,
What peals of laughter shook her aged sides!
While with sharp jests the Prince she thus derides.
FAIRY.
'Welcome, great Prince of Noses, to my cell;
'Tis a poor place,-but thus we Fairies dwell.
Pray, let me ask you, if from far you comeAnd don't you sometimes find it cumbersome?'
PRINCE.
'Find what?'
FAIRY.
'Your Nose-'
PRINCE.
'My Nose, Ma'am!'
FAIRY.
'No offenceThe King your Father was a man of sense,
A handsome man (but lived not to be old)
And had a Nose cast in the common mould.
Ev'n I myself, that now with age am grey,
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Was thought to have some beauty in my day,
And am the Daughter of a King.-Your Sire
In this poor face saw something to admireAnd I to shew my gratitude made shiftHave stood his friend-and help'd him at a lift'Twas I that, when his hopes began to fail,
Shew'd him the spell that lurk'd in Minon's tailPerhaps you have heard-but come, Sir, you don't eatThat Nose of yours requires both wine and meatFall to, and welcome, without more adoYou see your fare-what shall I help you to?
This dish the tongues of nightingales contains;
This, eyes of peacocks; and that, linnets' brains;
That next you is a Bird of ParadiseWe Fairies in our food are somewhat nice.And pray, Sir, while your hunger is supplied,
Do lean your Nose a little on one side;
The shadow, which it casts upon the meat,
Darkens my plate, I see not what I eat-'
The Prince, on dainty after dainty feeding,
Felt inly shock'd at the old Fairy's breeding,
But held it want of manners in the Dame,
And did her country education blame.
One thing he only wonder'd at,-what she
So very comic in his Nose could see.
Hers, it must be confest, was somewhat short,
And time and shrinking age accounted for't;
But for his own, thank heaven, he could not tell
That it was ever thought remarkable;
A decent nose, of reasonable size,
And handsome thought, rather than otherwise.
But that which most of all his wonder paid,
Was to observe the Fairy's waiting Maid;
How at each word the aged Dame let fall;
She curtsied low, and smil'd assent to all;
But chiefly when the rev'rend Grannam told
Of conquests, which her beauty made of old.He smiled to see how Flattery sway'd the Dame,
Nor knew himself was open to the same!
He finds her raillery now increase so fast,
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That making hasty end of his repast,
Glad to escape her tongue, he bids farewell
To the old Fairy, and her friendly cell.
But his kind Hostess, who had vainly tried
The force of ridicule to cure his pride,
Fertile in plans, a surer method chose,
To make him see the error of his Nose;
For, till he view'd that feature with remorse,
The Enchanter's direful spell must be in force.
Midway the road by which the Prince must pass,
She rais'd by magic art a House of Glass;
No mason's hand appear'd, nor work of wood;
Compact of glass the wondrous fabric stood.
Its stately pillars, glittering in the sun,
Conspicuous from afar, like silver, shone.
Here, snatch'd and rescued from th' Enchanter's might,
She placed the beauteous Claribel in sight.
The admiring Prince the chrystal dome survey'd,
And sought access unto his lovely Maid:
But, strange to tell, in all that mansion's bound,
Nor door, nor casement, was there to be found.
Enrag'd he took up massy stones, and flung
With such a force, that all the palace rung;
But made no more impression on the glass,
Than if the solid structure had been brass.
To comfort his despair, the lovely maid
Her snowy hand against her window laid;
But when with eager haste he thought to kiss,
His Nose stood out, and robb'd him of the bliss.
Thrice he essay'd th' impracticable feat;
The window and his lips can never meet.
The painful Truth, which Flattery long conceal'd,
Rush'd on his mind, and 'O!' he cried, 'I yield;
Wisest of Fairies, thou wert right, I wrong-
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I own, I own, I have a Nose too long.'
The frank confession was no sooner spoke,
But into shivers all the palace broke.
His Nose of monstrous length, to his surprise
Shrunk to the limits of a common size:
And Claribel with joy her Lover view'd,
Now grown as beautiful as he was good.
The aged Fairy in their presence stands,
Confirms their mutual vows, and joins their hands.
The Prince with rapture hails the happy hour,
That rescued him from self-delusion's power;
And trains of blessings crown the future life
Of Dorus, and of Claribel, his wife.
THE END
~ Charles Lamb,
1082:Isaac And Archibald
(To Mrs. Henry Richards)
Isaac and Archibald were two old men.
I knew them, and I may have laughed at them
A little; but I must have honored them
For they were old, and they were good to me.
I do not think of either of them now,
Without remembering, infallibly,
A journey that I made one afternoon
With Isaac to find out what Archibald
Was doing with his oats. It was high time
Those oats were cut, said Isaac; and he feared
That Archibald—well, he could never feel
Quite sure of Archibald. Accordingly
The good old man invited me—that is,
Permitted me—to go along with him;
And I, with a small boy’s adhesiveness
To competent old age, got up and went.
I do not know that I cared overmuch
For Archibald’s or anybody’s oats,
But Archibald was quite another thing,
And Isaac yet another; and the world
Was wide, and there was gladness everywhere.
We walked together down the River Road
With all the warmth and wonder of the land
Around us, and the wayside flash of leaves,—
And Isaac said the day was glorious;
But somewhere at the end of the first mile
I found that I was figuring to find
How long those ancient legs of his would keep
The pace that he had set for them. The sun
Was hot, and I was ready to sweat blood;
But Isaac, for aught I could make of him,
Was cool to his hat-band. So I said then
With a dry gasp of affable despair,
Something about the scorching days we have
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In August without knowing it sometimes;
But Isaac said the day was like a dream,
And praised the Lord, and talked about the breeze.
I made a fair confession of the breeze,
And crowded casually on his thought
The nearness of a profitable nook
That I could see. First I was half inclined
To caution him that he was growing old,
But something that was not compassion soon
Made plain the folly of all subterfuge.
Isaac was old, but not so old as that.
So I proposed, without an overture,
That we be seated in the shade a while,
And Isaac made no murmur. Soon the talk
Was turned on Archibald, and I began
To feel some premonitions of a kind
That only childhood knows; for the old man
Had looked at me and clutched me with his eye,
And asked if I had ever noticed things.
I told him that I could not think of them,
And I knew then, by the frown that left his face
Unsatisfied, that I had injured him.
“My good young friend,” he said, “you cannot feel
What I have seen so long. You have the eyes—
Oh, yes—but you have not the other things:
The sight within that never will deceive,
You do not know—you have no right to know;
The twilight warning of experience,
The singular idea of loneliness,—
These are not yours. But they have long been mine,
And they have shown me now for seven years
That Archibald is changing. It is not
So much that he should come to his last hand,
And leave the game, and go the old way down;
But I have known him in and out so long,
And I have seen so much of good in him
That other men have shared and have not seen,
And I have gone so far through thick and thin,
Through cold and fire with him, that now it brings
To this old heart of mine an ache that you
Have not yet lived enough to know about.
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But even unto you, and your boy’s faith,
Your freedom, and your untried confidence,
A time will come to find out what it means
To know that you are losing what was yours,
To know that you are being left behind;
And then the long contempt of innocence—
God bless you, boy!—don’t think the worse of it
Because an old man chatters in the shade—
Will all be like a story you have read
In childhood and remembered for the pictures.
And when the best friend of your life goes down,
When first you know in him the slackening
That comes, and coming always tells the end,—
Now in a common word that would have passed
Uncaught from any other lips than his,
Now in some trivial act of every day,
Done as he might have done it all along
But for a twinging little difference
That nips you like a squirrel’s teeth—oh, yes,
Then you will understand it well enough.
But oftener it comes in other ways;
It comes without your knowing when it comes;
You know that he is changing, and you know
That he is going—just as I know now
That Archibald is going, and that I
Am staying.… Look at me, my boy,
And when the time shall come for you to see
That I must follow after him, try then
To think of me, to bring me back again,
Just as I was to-day. Think of the place
Where we are sitting now, and think of me—
Think of old Isaac as you knew him then,
When you set out with him in August once
To see old Archibald.”—The words come back
Almost as Isaac must have uttered them,
And there comes with them a dry memory
Of something in my throat that would not move.
If you had asked me then to tell just why
I made so much of Isaac and the things
He said, I should have gone far for an answer;
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For I knew it was not sorrow that I felt,
Whatever I may have wished it, or tried then
To make myself believe. My mouth was full
Of words, and they would have been comforting
To Isaac, spite of my twelve years, I think;
But there was not in me the willingness
To speak them out. Therefore I watched the ground;
And I was wondering what made the Lord
Create a thing so nervous as an ant,
When Isaac, with commendable unrest,
Ordained that we should take the road again—
For it was yet three miles to Archibald’s,
And one to the first pump. I felt relieved
All over when the old man told me that;
I felt that he had stilled a fear of mine
That those extremities of heat and cold
Which he had long gone through with Archibald
Had made the man impervious to both;
But Isaac had a desert somewhere in him,
And at the pump he thanked God for all things
That He had put on earth for men to drink,
And he drank well,—so well that I proposed
That we go slowly lest I learn too soon
The bitterness of being left behind,
And all those other things. That was a joke
To Isaac, and it pleased him very much;
And that pleased me—for I was twelve years old.
At the end of an hour’s walking after that
The cottage of old Archibald appeared.
Little and white and high on a smooth round hill
It stood, with hackmatacks and apple-trees
Before it, and a big barn-roof beyond;
And over the place—trees, house, fields and all—
Hovered an air of still simplicity
And a fragrance of old summers—the old style
That lives the while it passes. I dare say
That I was lightly conscious of all this
When Isaac, of a sudden, stopped himself,
And for the long first quarter of a minute
Gazed with incredulous eyes, forgetful quite
Of breezes and of me and of all else
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Under the scorching sun but a smooth-cut field,
Faint yellow in the distance. I was young,
But there were a few things that I could see,
And this was one of them.—“Well, well!” said he;
And “Archibald will be surprised, I think,”
Said I. But all my childhood subtlety
Was lost on Isaac, for he strode along
Like something out of Homer—powerful
And awful on the wayside, so I thought.
Also I thought how good it was to be
So near the end of my short-legged endeavor
To keep the pace with Isaac for five miles.
Hardly had we turned in from the main road
When Archibald, with one hand on his back
And the other clutching his huge-headed cane,
Came limping down to meet us.—“Well! well! well!”
Said he; and then he looked at my red face,
All streaked with dust and sweat, and shook my hand,
And said it must have been a right smart walk
That we had had that day from Tilbury Town.—
“Magnificent,” said Isaac; and he told
About the beautiful west wind there was
Which cooled and clarified the atmosphere.
“You must have made it with your legs, I guess,”
Said Archibald; and Isaac humored him
With one of those infrequent smiles of his
Which he kept in reserve, apparently,
For Archibald alone. “But why,” said he,
“Should Providence have cider in the world
If not for such an afternoon as this?”
And Archibald, with a soft light in his eyes,
Replied that if he chose to go down cellar,
There he would find eight barrels—one of which
Was newly tapped, he said, and to his taste
An honor to the fruit. Isaac approved
Most heartily of that, and guided us
Forthwith, as if his venerable feet
Were measuring the turf in his own door-yard,
Straight to the open rollway. Down we went,
Out of the fiery sunshine to the gloom,
Grateful and half sepulchral, where we found
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The barrels, like eight potent sentinels,
Close ranged along the wall. From one of them
A bright pine spile stuck out alluringly,
And on the black flat stone, just under it,
Glimmered a late-spilled proof that Archibald
Had spoken from unfeigned experience.
There was a fluted antique water-glass
Close by, and in it, prisoned, or at rest,
There was a cricket, of the brown soft sort
That feeds on darkness. Isaac turned him out,
And touched him with his thumb to make him jump,
And then composedly pulled out the plug
With such a practised hand that scarce a drop
Did even touch his fingers. Then he drank
And smacked his lips with a slow patronage
And looked along the line of barrels there
With a pride that may have been forgetfulness
That they were Archibald’s and not his own.
“I never twist a spigot nowadays,”
He said, and raised the glass up to the light,
“But I thank God for orchards.” And that glass
Was filled repeatedly for the same hand
Before I thought it worth while to discern
Again that I was young, and that old age,
With all his woes, had some advantages.
“Now, Archibald,” said Isaac, when we stood
Outside again, “I have it in my mind
That I shall take a sort of little walk—
To stretch my legs and see what you are doing.
You stay and rest your back and tell the boy
A story: Tell him all about the time
In Stafford’s cabin forty years ago,
When four of us were snowed up for ten days
With only one dried haddock. Tell him all
About it, and be wary of your back.
Now I will go along.”—I looked up then
At Archibald, and as I looked I saw
Just how his nostrils widened once or twice
And then grew narrow. I can hear today
The way the old man chuckled to himself—
Not wholesomely, not wholly to convince
Another of his mirth,—as I can hear
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The lonely sigh that followed.—But at length
He said: “The orchard now’s the place for us;
We may find something like an apple there,
And we shall have the shade, at any rate.”
So there we went and there we laid ourselves
Where the sun could not reach us; and I champed
A dozen of worm-blighted astrakhans
While Archibald said nothing—merely told
The tale of Stafford’s cabin, which was good,
Though “master chilly”—after his own phrase—
Even for a day like that. But other thoughts
Were moving in his mind, imperative,
And writhing to be spoken: I could see
The glimmer of them in a glance or two,
Cautious, or else unconscious, that he gave
Over his shoulder: … “Stafford and the rest—
But that’s an old song now, and Archibald
And Isaac are old men. Remember, boy,
That we are old. Whatever we have gained,
Or lost, or thrown away, we are old men.
You look before you and we look behind,
And we are playing life out in the shadow—
But that’s not all of it. The sunshine lights
A good road yet before us if we look,
And we are doing that when least we know it;
For both of us are children of the sun,
Like you, and like the weed there at your feet.
The shadow calls us, and it frightens us—
We think; but there’s a light behind the stars
And we old fellows who have dared to live,
We see it—and we see the other things,
The other things … Yes, I have seen it come
These eight years, and these ten years, and I know
Now that it cannot be for very long
That Isaac will be Isaac. You have seen—
Young as you are, you must have seen the strange
Uncomfortable habit of the man?
He’ll take my nerves and tie them in a knot
Sometimes, and that’s not Isaac. I know that—
And I know what it is: I get it here
A little, in my knees, and Isaac—here.”
The old man shook his head regretfully
134
And laid his knuckles three times on his forehead.
“That’s what it is: Isaac is not quite right.
You see it, but you don’t know what it means:
The thousand little differences—no,
You do not know them, and it’s well you don’t;
You’ll know them soon enough—God bless you, boy!—
You’ll know them, but not all of them—not all.
So think of them as little as you can:
There’s nothing in them for you, or for me—
But I am old and I must think of them;
I’m in the shadow, but I don’t forget
The light, my boy,—the light behind the stars.
Remember that: remember that I said it;
And when the time that you think far away
Shall come for you to say it—say it, boy;
Let there be no confusion or distrust
In you, no snarling of a life half lived,
Nor any cursing over broken things
That your complaint has been the ruin of.
Live to see clearly and the light will come
To you, and as you need it.—But there, there,
I’m going it again, as Isaac says,
And I’ll stop now before you go to sleep.—
Only be sure that you growl cautiously,
And always where the shadow may not reach you.”
Never shall I forget, long as I live,
The quaint thin crack in Archibald’s voice,
The lonely twinkle in his little eyes,
Or the way it made me feel to be with him.
I know I lay and looked for a long time
Down through the orchard and across the road,
Across the river and the sun-scorched hills
That ceased in a blue forest, where the world
Ceased with it. Now and then my fancy caught
A flying glimpse of a good life beyond—
Something of ships and sunlight, streets and singing,
Troy falling, and the ages coming back,
And ages coming forward: Archibald
And Isaac were good fellows in old clothes,
And Agamemnon was a friend of mine;
Ulysses coming home again to shoot
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With bows and feathered arrows made another,
And all was as it should be. I was young.
So I lay dreaming of what things I would,
Calm and incorrigibly satisfied
With apples and romance and ignorance,
And the still smoke from Archibald’s clay pipe.
There was a stillness over everything,
As if the spirit of heat had laid its hand
Upon the world and hushed it; and I felt
Within the mightiness of the white sun
That smote the land around us and wrought out
A fragrance from the trees, a vital warmth
And fullness for the time that was to come,
And a glory for the world beyond the forest.
The present and the future and the past,
Isaac and Archibald, the burning bush,
The Trojans and the walls of Jericho,
Were beautifully fused; and all went well
Till Archibald began to fret for Isaac
And said it was a master day for sunstroke.
That was enough to make a mummy smile,
I thought; and I remained hilarious,
In face of all precedence and respect,
Till Isaac (who had come to us unheard)
Found he had no tobacco, looked at me
Peculiarly, and asked of Archibald
What ailed the boy to make him chirrup so.
From that he told us what a blessed world
The Lord had given us.—“But, Archibald,”
He added, with a sweet severity
That made me think of peach-skins and goose-flesh,
“I’m half afraid you cut those oats of yours
A day or two before they were well set.”
“They were set well enough,” said Archibald,—
And I remarked the process of his nose
Before the words came out. “But never mind
Your neighbor’s oats: you stay here in the shade
And rest yourself while I go find the cards.
We’ll have a little game of seven-up
And let the boy keep count.”—“We’ll have the game,
Assuredly,” said Isaac; “and I think
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That I will have a drop of cider, also.”
They marched away together towards the house
And left me to my childish ruminations
Upon the ways of men. I followed them
Down cellar with my fancy, and then left them
For a fairer vision of all things at once
That was anon to be destroyed again
By the sound of voices and of heavy feet—
One of the sounds of life that I remember,
Though I forget so many that rang first
As if they were thrown down to me from Sinai.
So I remember, even to this day,
Just how they sounded, how they placed themselves,
And how the game went on while I made marks
And crossed them out, and meanwhile made some Trojans.
Likewise I made Ulysses, after Isaac,
And a little after Flaxman. Archibald
Was injured when he found himself left out,
But he had no heroics, and I said so:
I told him that his white beard was too long
And too straight down to be like things in Homer.
“Quite so,” said Isaac.—“Low,” said Archibald;
And he threw down a deuce with a deep grin
That showed his yellow teeth and made me happy.
So they played on till a bell rang from the door,
And Archibald said, “Supper.”—After that
The old men smoked while I sat watching them
And wondered with all comfort what might come
To me, and what might never come to me;
And when the time came for the long walk home
With Isaac in the twilight, I could see
The forest and the sunset and the sky-line,
No matter where it was that I was looking:
The flame beyond the boundary, the music,
The foam and the white ships, and two old men
Were things that would not leave me.—And that night
There came to me a dream—a shining one,
With two old angels in it. They had wings,
And they were sitting where a silver light
Suffused them, face to face. The wings of one
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Began to palpitate as I approached,
But I was yet unseen when a dry voice
Cried thinly, with unpatronizing triumph,
“I’ve got you, Isaac; high, low, jack, and the game.”
Isaac and Archibald have gone their way
To the silence of the loved and well-forgotten.
I knew them, and I may have laughed at them;
But there’s a laughing that has honor in it,
And I have no regret for light words now.
Rather I think sometimes they may have made
Their sport of me;—but they would not do that,
They were too old for that. They were old men,
And I may laugh at them because I knew them.
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,
1083:Les Heures Claires
O la splendeur de notre joie,
Tissée en or dans l'air de soie!
Voici la maison douce et son pignon léger,
Et le jardin et le verger.
Voici le banc, sous les pommiers
D'où s'effeuille le printemps blanc,
A pétales frôlants et lents.
Voici des vols de lumineux ramiers
Plânant, ainsi que des présages,
Dans le ciel clair du paysage.
Voici--pareils à des baisers tombés sur terre
De la bouche du frêle azur-Deux bleus étangs simples et purs,
Bordés naïvement de fleurs involontaires.
O la splendeur de notre joie et de nous-mêmes,
En ce jardin où nous vivons de nos emblèmes!
Là-bas, de lentes formes passent,
Sont-ce nos deux âmes qui se délassent,
Au long des bois et des terrasses?
Sont-ce tes seins, sont-ce tes yeux
Ces deux fleurs d'or harmonieux?
Et ces herbes--on dirait des plumages
Mouillés dans la source qu'ils plissent-Sont-ce tes cheveux frais et lisses?
Certes, aucun abri ne vaut le clair verger,
Ni la maison au toit léger,
Ni ce jardin, où le ciel trame
Ce climat cher à nos deux âmes.
Quoique nous le voyions fleurir devant nos yeux,
Ce jardin clair où nous passons silencieux,
C'est plus encore en nous que se féconde
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Le plus joyeux et le plus doux jardin du monde.
Car nous vivons toutes les fleurs,
Toutes les herbes, toutes les palmes
En nos rires et en nos pleurs
De bonheur pur et calme.
Car nous vivons toutes les transparences
De l'étang bleu qui reflète l'exubérance
Des roses d'or et des grands lys vermeils:
Bouches et lèvres de soleil.
Car nous vivons toute la joie
Dardée en cris de fête et de printemps,
En nos aveux, où se côtoient
Les mots fervents et exaltants.
Oh! dis, c'est bien en nous que se féconde
Le plus joyeux et clair jardin du monde.
Ce chapiteau barbare, où des monstres se tordent,
Soudés entre eux, à coups de griffes et de dents,
En un tumulte fou de sang, de cris ardents,
De blessures et de gueules qui s'entre-mordent,
C'était moi-même, avant que tu fusses la mienne,
O toi la neuve, ô toi l'ancienne!
Qui vins à moi des loins d'éternité,
Avec, entre tes mains, l'ardeur et la bonté.
Je sens en toi les mêmes choses très profondes
Qu'en moi-même dormir
Et notre soif de souvenir
Boire l'écho, où nos passés se correspondent.
Nos yeux ont dû pleurer aux mêmes heures,
Sans le savoir, pendant l'enfance:
Avoir mêmes effrois, mêmes bonheurs,
Mêmes éclairs de confiance:
Car je te suis lié par l'inconnu
Qui me fixait, jadis au fond des avenues
Par où passait ma vie aventurière,
Et, certes, si j'avais regardé mieux,
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J'aurais pu voir s'ouvrir tes yeux
Depuis longtemps en ses paupières.
Le ciel en nuit s'est déplié
Et la lune semble veiller
Sur le silence endormi.
Tout est si pur et clair,
Tout est si pur et si pâle dans l'air
Et sur les lacs du paysage ami,
Qu'elle angoisse, la goutte d'eau
Qui tombe d'un roseau
Et tinte et puis se tait dans l'eau.
Mais j'ai tes mains entre les miennes
Et tes yeux sûrs, qui me retiennent,
De leurs ferveurs, si doucement;
Et je te sens si bien en paix de toute chose,
Que rien, pas même un fugitif soupçon de crainte,
Ne troublera, fût-ce un moment,
La confiance sainte
Qui dort en nous comme un enfant repose.
Chaque heure, où je pense à ta bonté
Si simplement profonde,
Je me confonds en prières vers toi.
Je suis venu si tard
Vers la douceur de ton regard
Et de si loin, vers tes deux mains tendues,
Tranquillement, par à travers les étendues!
J'avais en moi tant de rouille tenace
Qui me rongeait, à dents rapaces,
La confiance;
J'étais si lourd, j'étais si las,
J'étais si vieux de méfiance,
J'étais si lourd, j'étais si las
Du vain chemin de tous mes pas.
Je méritais si peu la merveilleuse joie
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De voir tes pieds illuminer ma voie,
Que j'en reste tremblant encore et presqu'en pleurs,
Et humble, à tout jamais, en face du bonheur.
Tu arbores parfois cette grâce bénigne
Du matinal jardin tranquille et sinueux
Qui déroule, là-bas, parmi les lointains bleus,
Ses doux chemins courbés en cols de cygne.
Et, d'autres fois, tu m'es le frisson clair
Du vent rapide et miroitant
Qui passe, avec ses doigts d'éclair,
Dans les crins d'eau de l'étang blanc.
Au bon toucher de tes deux mains,
Je sens comme des feuilles
Me doucement frôler;
Que midi brûle le jardin.
Les ombres, aussitôt recueillent
Les paroles chères dont ton être a tremblé.
Chaque moment me semble, grâce à toi,
Passer ainsi divinement en moi.
Aussi, quand l'heure vient de la nuit blême,
Où tu te cèles en toi-même,
En refermant les yeux,
Sens-tu mon doux regard dévotieux,
Plus humble et long qu'une prière,
Remercier le tien sous tes closes paupières?
Oh! laisse frapper à la porte
La main qui passe avec ses doigts futiles;
Notre heure est si unique, et le reste qu'importe,
Le reste, avec ses doigts futiles.
Laisse passer, par le chemin,
La triste et fatigante joie,
Avec ses crécelles en mains.
Laisse monter, laisse bruire
Et s'en aller le rire;
Laisse passer la foule et ses milliers de voix.
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L'instant est si beau de lumière,
Dans le jardin, autour de nous,
L'instant est si rare de lumière trémière,
Dans notre coeur, au fond de nous.
Tout nous prêche de n'attendre plus rien
De ce qui vient ou passe,
Avec des chansons lasses
Et des bras las par les chemins.
Et de rester les doux qui bénissons le jour.
Même devant la nuit d'ombre barricadée,
Aimant en nous, par dessus tout, l'idée
Que bellement nous nous faisons de notre amour.
Comme aux âges naïfs, je t'ai donné mon coeur,
Ainsi qu'une ample fleur
Qui s'ouvre, au clair de la rosée;
Entre ses plis frêles, ma bouche s'est posée.
La fleur, je la cueillis au pré des fleurs en flamme;
Ne lui dis rien: car la parole entre nous deux
Serait banale, et tous les mots sont hasardeux.
C'est à travers les yeux que l'âme écoute une âme.
La fleur qui est mon coeur et mon aveu,
Tout simplement, à tes lèvres confie
Qu'elle est loyale et claire et bonne, et qu'on se fie
Au vierge amour, comme un enfant se fie à Dieu.
Laissons l'esprit fleurir sur les collines,
En de capricieux chemins de vanité;
Et faisons simple accueil à la sincérité
Qui tient nos deux coeurs clairs, en ses mains cristallines;
Et rien n'est beau comme une confession d'âmes,
L'une à l'autre, le soir, lorsque la flamme
Des incomptables diamants
Brûle, comme autant d'yeux
Silencieux,
Le silence des firmaments.
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Le printemps jeune et bénévole
Qui vêt le jardin de beauté
Elucide nos voix et nos paroles
Et les trempe dans sa limpidité.
La brise et les lèvres des feuilles
Babillent--et effeuillent
En nous les syllabes de leur clarté.
Mais le meilleur de nous se gare
Et fuit les mots matériels;
Un simple et doux élan muet
Mieux que tout verbe amarre
Notre bonheur à son vrai ciel:
Celui de ton âme, à deux genoux,
Tout simplement, devant la mienne,
Et de mon âme, à deux genoux,
Très doucement, devant la tienne.
Viens lentement t'asseoir
Près du parterre, dont le soir
Ferme les fleurs de tranquille lumière,
Laisse filtrer la grande nuit en toi:
Nous sommes trop heureux pour que sa mer d'effroi
Trouble notre prière.
Là-haut, le pur cristal des étoiles s'éclaire.
Voici le firmament plus net et translucide
Qu'un étang bleu ou qu'un vitrail d'abside;
Et puis voici le ciel qui regarde à travers.
Les mille voix de l'énorme mystère
Parlent autour de toi.
Les mille lois de la nature entière
Bougent autour de toi,
Les arcs d'argent de l'invisible
Prennent ton âme et son élan pour cible,
Mais tu n'as peur, oh! simple coeur,
Mais tu n'as peur, puisque ta foi
Est que toute la terre collabore
A cet amour que fit éclore
La vie et son mystère en toi.
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Joins donc les mains tranquillement
Et doucement adore;
Un grand conseil de pureté
Et de divine intimité
Flotte, comme une étrange aurore,
Sous les minuits du firmament.
Combien elle est facilement ravie,
Avec ses yeux d'extase ignée,
Elle, la douce et résignée
Si simplement devant la vie.
Ce soir, comme un regard la surprenait fervente,
Et comme un mot la transportait
Au pur jardin de joie, où elle était
Tout à la fois reine et servante.
Humble d'elle, mais ardente de nous,
C'était à qui ploierait les deux genoux,
Pour recueillir le merveilleux bonheur
Qui, mutuel, nous débordait du coeur.
Nous écoutions se taire, en nous, la violence
De l'exaltant amour qu'emprisonnaient nos bras
Et le vivant silence
Dire des mots que nous ne savions pas.
Au temps où longuement j'avais souffert
Où les heures m'étaient des pièges,
Tu m'apparus l'accueillante lumière
Qui luit, aux fenêtres, l'hiver,
Au fonds des soirs, sur de la neige.
Ta clarté d'âme hospitalière
Frôla, sans le blesser, mon coeur,
Comme une main de tranquille chaleur;
Un espoir tiède, un mot clément,
Pénétrèrent en moi très lentement;
Puis vint la bonne confiance
Et la franchise et la tendresse et l'alliance,
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Enfin, de nos deux mains amies,
Un soir de claire entente et de douce accalmie.
Depuis, bien que l'été ait succédé au gel,
En nous-mêmes et sous le ciel,
Dont les flammes éternisées
Pavoisent d'or tous les chemins de nos pensées,
Et que l'amour soit devenu la fleur immense,
Naissant du fier désir,
Qui, sans cesse, pour mieux encor grandir,
En notre coeur, se recommence,
Je regarde toujours la petite lumière
Qui me fut douce, la première.
Je ne détaille pas, ni quels nous sommes
L'un pour l'autre, ni les pourquois, ni les raisons:
Tout doute est mort, en ce jardin de floraisons
Qui s'ouvre en nous et hors de nous, si loin des hommes.
Je
Et
Et
Et
ne raisonne pas, et ne veux pas savoir,
rien ne troublera ce qui n'est que mystère
qu'élans doux et que ferveur involontaire
que tranquille essor vers nos parvis d'espoir.
Je te sens claire avant de te comprendre telle;
Et c'est ma joie, infiniment,
De m'éprouver si doucement aimant,
Sans demander pourquoi ta voix m'appelle.
Soyons simples et bons--et que le jour
Nous soit tendresse et lumière servies,
Et laissons dire que la vie
N'est point faite pour un pareil amour.
A ces reines qui lentement descendent
Les escaliers en ors et fleurs de la