classes ::: difficulties, emotion,
children :::
branches ::: irritation
see also ::: 1.11_-_The_Delight_of_Existence_-_The_Problem, 2.07_-_The_Release_from_Subjection_to_the_Body, aspiration, concentration, nervous_vital-energy, peace, pratyahara, surrender, willpower

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


object:irritation
object:anger
class:difficulties
class:emotion
quote:The strength, the silence of the gods were hers.
quote:You are angry with yourself.

--- IMPORT
  if it makes me turn to God in desperation, by being a means to God..
  offer to the Fire

--- INTERESTING QUESTIONS
  why not ask him to be quiet?
  what are my options?
  what was that steve pavlina question for processing negativity...

--- NOTES
  "My surrender is not perfect."
  accept with gratitude

--- QUESTIONS
  How does God see the World?
  how does God experience the thing?  

--- PRAYER
  irritation prayer, or prayer of peace

--- SIMILAR
  annoyance
  sensitivity / awareness
  awareness / equinimity

--- RELATED
  tightness / softness
  blame /

--- FACTORS
  coffee / marijuana

--- MEASURE
  degrees of loudness ::: if someone is like constantly a 7-10.. I doubtttt I would live there..  


see also ::: aspiration, concentration, willpower, pratyahara, surrender, 2.07 - The Release from Subjection to the Body, peace, nervous vital-energy, 1.11 - The Delight of Existence - The Problem








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

TOPICS
SEE ALSO

1.11_-_The_Delight_of_Existence_-_The_Problem
2.07_-_The_Release_from_Subjection_to_the_Body
aspiration
concentration
nervous_vital-energy
peace
pratyahara
surrender
willpower

AUTH

BOOKS
Process_and_Reality

IN CHAPTERS TITLE

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
1.00_-_PRELUDE_AT_THE_THEATRE
1.02_-_MAPS_OF_MEANING_-_THREE_LEVELS_OF_ANALYSIS
1.02_-_On_the_Knowledge_of_God.
1.031_-_Intense_Aspiration
1.03_-_Hieroglypics__Life_and_Language_Necessarily_Symbolic
1.03_-_Sympathetic_Magic
1.05_-_On_painstaking_and_true_repentance_which_constitute_the_life_of_the_holy_convicts;_and_about_the_prison.
1.05_-_THE_HOSTILE_BROTHERS_-_ARCHETYPES_OF_RESPONSE_TO_THE_UNKNOWN
1.078_-_Kumbhaka_and_Concentration_of_Mind
1.07_-_A_Song_of_Longing_for_Tara,_the_Infallible
1.09_-_Concentration_-_Its_Spiritual_Uses
1.1.4_-_The_Physical_Mind_and_Sadhana
1.25_-_On_the_destroyer_of_the_passions,_most_sublime_humility,_which_is_rooted_in_spiritual_feeling.
1.26_-_On_discernment_of_thoughts,_passions_and_virtues
1.51_-_How_to_Recognise_Masters,_Angels,_etc.,_and_how_they_Work
1.63_-_Fear,_a_Bad_Astral_Vision
1955-05-04_-_Drawing_on_the_universal_vital_forces_-_The_inner_physical_-_Receptivity_to_different_kinds_of_forces_-_Progress_and_receptivity
1958_11_07
1962-01-09
1962-03-06
1967-02-08
1970-10-14
1f.lovecraft_-_Medusas_Coil
1f.lovecraft_-_The_Electric_Executioner
1f.lovecraft_-_Under_the_Pyramids
2.03_-_The_Mother-Complex
2.04_-_Positive_Aspects_of_the_Mother-Complex
2.0_-_THE_ANTICHRIST
2.20_-_2.29_-_RULES_FOR_HOUSEHOLDERS_AND_MONKS
2.3.3_-_Anger_and_Violence
2.4.1_-_Human_Relations_and_the_Spiritual_Life
3.1.2_-_Levels_of_the_Physical_Being
4.04_-_Some_Vital_Functions
5.4.01_-_Notes_on_Root-Sounds
Chapter_II_-_WHICH_TREATS_OF_THE_FIRST_SALLY_THE_INGENIOUS_DON_QUIXOTE_MADE_FROM_HOME
Liber_111_-_The_Book_of_Wisdom_-_LIBER_ALEPH_VEL_CXI
Liber_46_-_The_Key_of_the_Mysteries
r1912_07_04
r1912_07_22
r1912_11_29
r1913_09_14
r1914_11_23
r1914_12_02
r1915_06_12
Talks_026-050
Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_1
The_Act_of_Creation_text
the_Eternal_Wisdom

PRIMARY CLASS

difficulties
emotion
SIMILAR TITLES
irritation

DEFINITIONS

irritation ::: n. --> The act of irritating, or exciting, or the state of being irritated; excitement; stimulation, usually of an undue and uncomfortable kind; especially, excitement of anger or passion; provocation; annoyance; anger.
The act of exciting, or the condition of being excited to action, by stimulation; -- as, the condition of an organ of sense, when its nerve is affected by some external body; esp., the act of exciting muscle fibers to contraction, by artificial stimulation; as,


abirritation ::: n. --> A pathological condition opposite to that of irritation; debility; want of strength; asthenia.

abirritant ::: n. --> A medicine that diminishes irritation.

acrid ::: a. --> Sharp and harsh, or bitter and not, to the taste; pungent; as, acrid salts.
Causing heat and irritation; corrosive; as, acrid secretions.
Caustic; bitter; bitterly irritating; as, acrid temper, mind, writing.


aggravation ::: n. --> The act of aggravating, or making worse; -- used of evils, natural or moral; the act of increasing in severity or heinousness; something additional to a crime or wrong and enhancing its guilt or injurious consequences.
Exaggerated representation.
An extrinsic circumstance or accident which increases the guilt of a crime or the misery of a calamity.
Provocation; irritation.


anti-inflammatory: a medication to reduce inflammation (the body's response to surgery, injury, irritation, or infection).

chigre ::: n. --> A species of flea (Pulex penetrans), common in the West Indies and South America, which often attacks the feet or any exposed part of the human body, and burrowing beneath the skin produces great irritation. When the female is allowed to remain and breed, troublesome sores result, which are sometimes dangerous. See Jigger.

choler ::: n. --> The bile; -- formerly supposed to be the seat and cause of irascibility.
Irritation of the passions; anger; wrath.


cough ::: v. i. --> To expel air, or obstructing or irritating matter, from the lungs or air passages, in a noisy and violent manner.
A sudden, noisy, and violent expulsion of air from the chest, caused by irritation in the air passages, or by the reflex action of nervous or gastric disorder, etc.
The more or less frequent repetition of coughing, constituting a symptom of disease.


counterirritate ::: v. t. --> To produce counter irritation in; to treat with one morbid process for the purpose of curing another.

crawling horror "jargon" Ancient {crufty} hardware or software that is kept obstinately alive by forces beyond the control of the hackers at a site. Like {dusty deck} or {gonkulator}, but connotes that the thing described is not just an irritation but an active menace to health and sanity. "Mostly we code new stuff in C, but they pay us to maintain one big Fortran II application from nineteen-sixty-X that's a real crawling horror." Compare {WOMBAT}. [{Jargon File}] (1994-12-01)

demulcent ::: a. --> Softening; mollifying; soothing; assuasive; as, oil is demulcent. ::: n. --> A substance, usually of a mucilaginous or oily nature, supposed to be capable of soothing an inflamed nervous membrane, or protecting it from irritation. Gum Arabic, glycerin, olive oil, etc.,

displeasure ::: n. --> The feeling of one who is displeased; irritation or uneasiness of the mind, occasioned by anything that counteracts desire or command, or which opposes justice or a sense of propriety; disapprobation; dislike; dissatisfaction; disfavor; indignation.
That which displeases; cause of irritation or annoyance; offense; injury.
State of disgrace or disfavor; disfavor.


duM-aM-8M-%khaduM-aM-8M-%khatM-DM-^A. (P. dukkhadukkhatM-DM-^A; T. sdug bsngal gyi sdug bsngal; C. kuku; J. kuku; K. kogo M-hM-^KM-&M-hM-^KM-&). In Sanskrit, "misery caused by (physical and mental) suffering"; one of the three principal categories of suffering (DUM-aM-8M-$KHA), along with "suffering caused by conditioning" (SAMSKM-DM-^@RADUM-aM-8M-$KHATM-DM-^@), and "suffering caused by change" (VIPARInM-DM-^@MADUM-aM-8M-$KHATM-DM-^@). Misery caused by suffering is defined as the full range of unpleasant and painful sensations (VEDANM-DM-^@) that rack the body and mind. The specific constituents of misery caused by suffering vary in different texts but typically include, among the physical components, birth (JM-DM-^@TI), aging (JARM-DM-^@), disease (vyM-DM-^Adhi), death (maranM-DM-^A), and physical pain (duM-aM-8M-%kha) and, among the mental and emotion components, sorrow (soka), lamentation (parideva), despair (daurmanasya), irritation (upM-DM-^AyM-DM-^Asa), being associated with persons and things that one dislikes, being dissociated from persons and things that one likes, and being unable to get what one wants. Many texts explain in great detail how these ordinary experiences involve or generate duM-aM-8M-%kha. For example, according to the VISUDDHIMAGGA, the suffering associated with birth indicates all kinds of discomfort and pain to which a fetus is subject during gestation: the unpleasant conditions of stench, darkness, and physical constraint in the mother's womb, the nauseating feelings produced when the mother moves, and the excruciating pain that the newborn suffers during the birth process. By contrast, the "misery caused by conditioning" (saMskM-DM-^AraduM-aM-8M-%khatM-DM-^A) means that sensations that are neither painful nor pleasant may still be a cause of suffering because they are impermanent and thus undependable. The "misery caused by change" (viparinM-DM-^AmaduM-aM-8M-%khatM-DM-^A) means that even pleasant sensations may be a cause of suffering because they do not perdure.

emollient ::: a. --> Softening; making supple; acting as an emollient. ::: n. --> An external something or soothing application to allay irritation, soreness, etc.

erethism ::: n. --> A morbid degree of excitement or irritation in an organ.

exacerbescence ::: n. --> Increase of irritation or violence, particularly the increase of a fever or disease.

exasperation ::: n. --> The act of exasperating or the state of being exasperated; irritation; keen or bitter anger.
Increase of violence or malignity; aggravation; exacerbation.


fret ::: n. --> See 1st Frith.
The agitation of the surface of a fluid by fermentation or other cause; a rippling on the surface of water.
Agitation of mind marked by complaint and impatience; disturbance of temper; irritation; as, he keeps his mind in a continual fret.
Herpes; tetter.
The worn sides of river banks, where ores, or stones


impatient ::: 1. Unable to endure irritation or opposition; intolerant; not patient. 2. Eagerly desirous; restless in desire or expectation. 3. Lacking patience; easily irritated at delay, opposition.

irritable ::: a. --> Capable of being irriated.
Very susceptible of anger or passion; easily inflamed or exasperated; as, an irritable temper.
Endowed with irritability; susceptible of irritation; capable of being excited to action by the application of certain stimuli.
Susceptible of irritation; unduly sensitive to irritants or stimuli. See Irritation, n., 3.


irritant ::: a. --> Rendering null and void; conditionally invalidating.
Irritating; producing irritation or inflammation. ::: n. --> That which irritates or excites.
Any agent by which irritation is produced; as, a chemical irritant; a mechanical or electrical irritant.


irritate ::: v. t. --> To render null and void.
To increase the action or violence of; to heighten excitement in; to intensify; to stimulate.
To excite anger or displeasure in; to provoke; to tease; to exasperate; to annoy; to vex; as, the insolence of a tyrant irritates his subjects.
To produce irritation in; to stimulate; to cause to contract. See Irritation, n., 2.


irritative ::: a. --> Serving to excite or irritate; irritating; as, an irritative agent.
Accompanied with, or produced by, increased action or irritation; as, an irritative fever.


irritatory ::: a. --> Exciting; producing irritation; irritating.

leucorrhoea ::: n. --> A discharge of a white, yellowish, or greenish, viscid mucus, resulting from inflammation or irritation of the membrane lining the genital organs of the female; the whites.

mollify ::: v. t. --> To soften; to make tender; to reduce the hardness, harshness, or asperity of; to qualify; as, to mollify the ground.
To assuage, as pain or irritation, to appease, as excited feeling or passion; to pacify; to calm.


mosquito ::: n. --> Any one of various species of gnats of the genus Culex and allied genera. The females have a proboscis containing, within the sheathlike labium, six fine, sharp, needlelike organs with which they puncture the skin of man and animals to suck the blood. These bites, when numerous, cause, in many persons, considerable irritation and swelling, with some pain. The larvae and pupae, called wigglers, are aquatic.

obtundent ::: n. --> A substance which sheathes a part, or blunts irritation, usually some bland, oily, or mucilaginous matter; -- nearly the same as demulcent.

pique ::: n. --> A cotton fabric, figured in the loom, -- used as a dress goods for women and children, and for vestings, etc.
The jigger. See Jigger.
A feeling of hurt, vexation, or resentment, awakened by a social slight or injury; irritation of the feelings, as through wounded pride; stinging vexation.
Keenly felt desire; a longing.
In piquet, the right of the elder hand to count thirty in


pradM-DM-^Asa. [alt. pradM-DM-^Asa] (P. padM-DM-^Aleti; T. 'tshig pa; C. nao; J. no; K. noe M-fM-^CM-1). In Sanskrit, "irritation," "maliciousness," "vexation," or "contentiousness"; one of the forty-six mental concomitants (CAITTA) according to the SARVM-DM-^@STIVM-DM-^@DA-VAIBHM-DM-^@sIKA school of ABHIDHARMA and one of the fifty-one according to the YOGM-DM-^@CM-DM-^@RA school. "Irritation" appears in conjunction with envy (M-DM-*RsYM-DM-^@) and disparaging others' achievements or wholesome qualities (MRAKsA), and may be viewed as one of the possible derivative emotions of hatred (DVEsA) or aversion (PRATIGHA). "Irritation" is the compulsive resistance to letting anyone gain advantage over oneself. Irritation may also arise when one dwells compulsively on unpleasant events from the past or present and is closely associated with "remorse" (KAUKM-aM-9M-^ZTYA), "worries," and "sadness."

revulsion ::: n. --> A strong pulling or drawing back; withdrawal.
A sudden reaction; a sudden and complete change; -- applied to the feelings.
The act of turning or diverting any disease from one part of the body to another. It resembles derivation, but is usually applied to a more active form of counter irritation.


sedative ::: a. --> Tending to calm, moderate, or tranquilize
allaying irritability and irritation; assuaging pain. ::: n. --> A remedy which allays irritability and irritation, and irritative activity or pain.


smart ::: v. i. --> To feel a lively, pungent local pain; -- said of some part of the body as the seat of irritation; as, my finger smarts; these wounds smart.
To feel a pungent pain of mind; to feel sharp pain or grief; to suffer; to feel the sting of evil.
Quick, pungent, lively pain; a pricking local pain, as the pain from puncture by nettles.
Severe, pungent pain of mind; pungent grief; as, the


sneeze ::: v. i. --> To emit air, chiefly through the nose, audibly and violently, by a kind of involuntary convulsive force, occasioned by irritation of the inner membrane of the nose. ::: n. --> A sudden and violent ejection of air with an audible sound, chiefly through the nose.

stimulation ::: n. --> The act of stimulating, or the state of being stimulated.
The irritating action of various agents (stimuli) on muscles, nerves, or a sensory end organ, by which activity is evoked; especially, the nervous impulse produced by various agents on nerves, or a sensory end organ, by which the part connected with the nerve is thrown into a state of activity; irritation.


sting ::: 1. Pain or irritation resulting from a wound inflicted by an venomous insect, reptile, poisonous plant, etc. 2. Fig. A mental or emotional pain or suffering inflicted on someone, or a stimulus, goad or spur.

thorns ::: 1. Any of various sharp, spiny protuberances. 2. Fig. Things that cause sharp pain, irritation, or discomfort.

trichiasis ::: n. --> A disease of the eye, in which the eyelashes, being turned in upon the eyeball, produce constant irritation by the motion of the lids.

vexation ::: n. --> The act of vexing, or the state of being vexed; agitation; disquiet; trouble; irritation.
The cause of trouble or disquiet; affliction.
A harassing by process of law; a vexing or troubling, as by a malicious suit.




QUOTES [4 / 4 - 561 / 561]


KEYS (10k)

   1 Rurkthist Text
   1 Osho
   1 Ludwig Wittgenstein
   1 Friedrich Nietzsche

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   8 Lynsay Sands
   8 Anonymous
   6 Sarah MacLean
   6 Frances Hodgson Burnett
   5 Sherrilyn Kenyon
   5 Naomi Novik
   5 Lisa Kleypas
   5 Jodi Picoult
   5 Andrew Murray
   4 Thich Nhat Hanh
   4 Pema Chodron
   4 Pema Ch dr n
   4 Patrick Rothfuss
   4 Nhat Hanh
   4 Neal Stephenson
   4 Karen Hawkins
   4 Judith McNaught
   4 J K Rowling
   4 George Eliot
   4 Evangeline Anderson

1:The moment I decided to let them have their way, the irritation disappeared.
   ~ Osho, The Book of Secrets,
2:But not long had they run thus when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly, and shook off with one jerk all his irritation and detestation.
   ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
3:I pledge myself from this day forward not to entertain any feeling of irritation, anger or ill humour and to allow to arise within me neither violence nor hate. ~ Rurkthist Text, the Eternal Wisdom
4:Philosophy hasn't made any progress? - If somebody scratches the spot where he has an itch, do we have to see some progress? Isn't genuine scratching otherwise, or genuine itching itching? And can't this reaction to an irritation continue in the same way for a long time before a cure for the itching is discovered? ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein,
1:Claude Levi-Strauss has been a great source of fruitful irritation to my mind. ~ ursula-k-le-guin, @wisdomtrove
2:The one who cannot restrain their anger will wish undone, what their temper and irritation prompted them to do. ~ horace, @wisdomtrove
3:What good has impatience ever brought? It has only served as the mother of mistakes and the father of irritation. ~ steve-maraboli, @wisdomtrove
4:I've found that worry and irritation vanish into thin air the moment I open my mind to the many blessings I possess. ~ dale-carnegie, @wisdomtrove
5:I walked along Nevsky Avenue.Actually it was more torture, humiliation, and bilious irritation than a stroll... ~ fyodor-dostoevsky, @wisdomtrove
6:All the vices, Sancho, bring some kind of pleasure with them; but envy brings nothing but irritation, bitterness, and rage. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove
7:England would be better off without Canada; it keeps her in a prepared state for war at a great expense and constant irritation. ~ napoleon-bonaparte, @wisdomtrove
8:Misfortune, and recited misfortune especially, can be prolonged to the point where it ceases to excite pity and arouses only irritation. ~ dorothy-parker, @wisdomtrove
9:Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritation and resentments slip away, and a sunny spirit takes their place.  ~ mark-twain, @wisdomtrove
10:Gratitude is an antidote to negative emotions, a neutralizer of envy, hostility, worry, and irritation. It is savoring; it is not taking things for granted; it is present oriented. ~ sonja-lyubomirsky, @wisdomtrove
11:There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only an insane irritation. ~ william-somerset-maugham, @wisdomtrove
12:Embracing conflict can be a joy when we know that irritation and frustration can lead to growth and the re-engergizing of ourselves and others. Hot heads and cold hearts never solved anything. ~ billy-graham, @wisdomtrove
13:Every feeling is a field of energy. A pleasant feeling is an energy which can nourish. Irritation is a feeling which can destroy. Under the light of awareness, the energy of irritation can be transformed into and energy which nourishes. ~ thich-nhat-hanh, @wisdomtrove
14:Meditation is a journey to know yourself. Knowing yourself has many layers. Start knowing your bodily discomforts. Know your success, know your failures. Know your fears. Know your irritations. Know your pleasures, joy and happiness. Know your mental wounds. Go deeper and examine every feeling you have. ~ amit-ray, @wisdomtrove
15:When a man's eyes are sore his friends do not let him finger them, however much he wishes to, nor do they themselves touch the inflammation: But a man sunk in grief suffers every chance comer to stir and augment his affliction like a running sore; and by reason of the fingering and consequent irritation it hardens into a serious and intractable evil. ~ plutarch, @wisdomtrove
16:The nectar of compassion is so wonderful. If you are committed to keeping it alive, then you are protected. What the other person says will not touch off the anger and irritation in you, because compassion is the real antidote to anger. Nothing can heal anger except compassion. That is why the practice of compassion is a very wonderful practice. ~ thich-nhat-hanh, @wisdomtrove
17:Pain is inevitable as long as you are identified with your mind, which is to say as long as you are unconscious, physically speaking.  I am talking here primarily of emotional pain, which is also the main cause of physical pain and physical disease.  Resentment, hatred, self-pity, guilt, anger, depression, jealousy, and so on, even the slightest irritation, are all forms of pain.   ~ eckhart-tolle, @wisdomtrove
18:If you do not know how to take care of yourself, and the violence in you, then you will not be able to take care of others. You must have love and patience before you can truly listen to your partner or child. If you are irritated you cannot listen. You have to know how to breath mindfully, embrace your irritation and transform it. Offer ONLY understand and compassion to your partner or child - This is the true practice of love. ~ thich-nhat-hanh, @wisdomtrove
19:Feelings, whether of compassion or irritation, should be welcomed, recognized, and treated on an absolutely equal basis; because both are ourselves. The tangerine I am eating is me. The mustard greens I am planting are me. I plant with all my heart and mind. I clean this teapot with the kind of attention I would have were I giving the baby Buddha or Jesus a bath. Nothing should be treated more carefully than anything else. In mindfulness, compassion, irritation, mustard green plant, and teapot are all sacred. ~ thich-nhat-hanh, @wisdomtrove
20:Gautama's insight was that no matter what the mind experiences, it usually reacts with craving, and craving always involves dissatisfaction. When the mind experiences something distasteful it craves to be rid of the irritation. When the mind experiences something pleasant, it craves that the pleasure will remain and will intensify. Therefore, the mind is always dissatisfied and restless. This is very clear when we experience unpleasant things, such as pain. As long as the pain continues, we are dissatisfied and do all we can to avoid it. Yet even when we experience pleasant things we are never content. We either fear that the pleasure might disappear, or we hope that it will intensify. ~ yuval-noah-harari, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Life is an irritation. ~ Christopher Moore,
2:more than just an irritation. ~ Merry Farmer,
3:The cause of irritation is in me. ~ Anonymous,
4:irritation attracts antibody-producing cells. ~ Arthur Hailey,
5:The Pearl Principle - no inner irritation, no pearl. ~ Surya Das,
6:Irritation for some men was their response to strain. ~ Guy Gavriel Kay,
7:huff. “I need to renew my plates,” he said. Irritation ~ Denise Grover Swank,
8:Irritation is an art form and a public service I provide free. ~ Morgan Blayde,
9:There is an art to irritation that only few of us can achieve. ~ Gail Carriger,
10:That was our friendship: equal parts irritation and cooperation. ~ Ransom Riggs,
11:Why do I feel like love and irritation go hand in hand with you? ~ Colleen Hoover,
12:One bachelor is an irritation. Ten thousand bachelors are a war. ~ Orson Scott Card,
13:Hating someone is feeling irritation by their mere existence. ~ Jose Ortega y Gasset,
14:Life's a queue of small irritations with the Last Door at the end. ~ Joe Abercrombie,
15:There is always a secret irritation about a laugh in which we cannot join ~ Agnes Repplier,
16:I’m fine,” Millie answered, but Ruth could hear the irritation in her ~ Lynda Cohen Loigman,
17:To Steve’s irritation, Carolyn was right. The guacamole really was excellent. ~ Scott Hawkins,
18:I don't have pet peeves like some people. I have whole kennels of irritation. ~ Whoopi Goldberg,
19:There was a fine line between irritation and having icicles hurled at your face. ~ Julie Kagawa,
20:Claude Levi-Strauss has been a great source of fruitful irritation to my mind. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
21:To most human beings, wind is an irritation. To most trees, wind is a song. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana,
22:her mind was wonderfully uncluttered with the nagging irritations of everyday life. ~ John Grisham,
23:I came from a family where the only emotion respectable to show is irritation. ~ Flannery O Connor,
24:..love cushions all your irritations, unnatural instincts, hatreds and immaturities. ~ Ray Bradbury,
25:It was his knowledge of his own willful stupidity that had brought on his irritation ~ Keigo Higashino,
26:The day obedience becomes a quest and not an irritation is the day you gain power. ~ Spencer W Kimball,
27:Quite often, ambition operates on a level of irritation. Not even jealousy, just irritation. ~ Geoff Dyer,
28:The moment I decided to let them have their way, the irritation disappeared.
   ~ Osho, The Book of Secrets,
29:A stray hair, by its continued irritation, may give more annoyance than a smart blow. ~ James Russell Lowell,
30:He left Chainsaw behind, much to her irritation. Ronan didn't want her to learn any bad language. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
31:The . . . increase in the power of officials is a constant source of irritation to everybody else. ~ Bertrand Russell,
32:I don't lead a writer's life. And I think that can be a source of suspicion and irritation to some people. ~ Joan Didion,
33:The one who cannot restrain their anger will wish undone, what their temper and irritation prompted them to do. ~ Horace,
34:We provide both irritation and inspiration for each other- the grist for each other's pearl making. ~ Stephen Nachmanovitch,
35:Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun...In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.' . . . ~ Joseph Conrad,
36:I knew that my crazy was no longer a quirk, a simple matter of a cracked finger pad. Now, it was an irritation. ~ John Green,
37:We mothers of grown-up daughters tend to view them with a mixture of love, exasperation, irritation and awe. ~ Anne Robinson,
38:I DO have feelings for Curls. Feelings of annoyance and irritation, mainly, spiked with occasional pangs of pity. ~ Rob Reger,
39:People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,
40:the shell that forms around a piece of sand looks to some people like an irritation, and to others, like a pearl. ~ Jodi Picoult,
41:I walked along Nevsky Avenue.Actually it was more torture, humiliation, and bilious irritation than a stroll. ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky,
42:Such loyalty is admirable, of course,” said Scrimgeour, who seemed to be restraining his irritation with difficulty, ~ J K Rowling,
43:What good has impatience ever brought? It has only served as the mother of mistakes and the father of irritation. ~ Steve Maraboli,
44:The message we give our bodies - one of irritation or acceptance - is the message to which our bodies will answer. ~ Debbie Shapiro,
45:I've found that worry and irritation vanish into thin air the moment I open my mind to the many blessings I possess. ~ Dale Carnegie,
46:I walked along Nevsky Avenue.Actually it was more torture, humiliation, and bilious irritation than a stroll... ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
47:He felt a flash of irritation at her certainty. It was inbred, a birthright…no one had ever denied her anything. ~ Alexandra Sokoloff,
48:...much of the irritation people feel at personal observations was usually because there was a grain of truth in them. ~ Lucinda Riley,
49:She couldn't hold in her irritation. "What's so funny?"
He reached out and touched the tip of her nose.
"You. ~ Caroline Fyffe,
50:The influence of fine scenery, the presence of mountains, appeases our irritations and elevates our friendships. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
51:My irritation with Niles was growing, though. I had always thought the quiet man was the most overrated form of human life". ~ Pat Conroy,
52:Are people less violent here in the past, or are there simply fewer irritations and less need to vent tension and frustration? ~ Jerry Dubs,
53:For the first time, Mary understood what drove animals to bite the hand that fed them—sheer irritation at being patronized. ~ Lauren Willig,
54:Frottage is both revelation of traces without origin (Max Ernst), evidence of a past that can’t be fully known. And irritation. ~ Anonymous,
55:Keer-ukso looked up at the sky in mock irritation. "No, do not ask me, best friend and busiess partner, if I want coffee? ~ Jennifer L Holm,
56:Then she’d straightened up and announced in irritation, “I’ve fallen out of time,” before vanishing in a great cloud of smoke. ~ Naomi Novik,
57:Change irritation to appreciation
Patience doesn't just happen, but must be cultivated. It is all a matter of attitude. ~ Kentetsu Takamori,
58:I smiled the way a girl learns to smile to mask irritation, resisting the urge to fling his filthy beret back in his face. ~ Meg Waite Clayton,
59:All the vices, Sancho, bring some kind of pleasure with them; but envy brings nothing but irritation, bitterness, and rage. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,
60:A man without a wife and babies is a menace to civilization... One bachelor is an irritation. Ten thousand bachelors are a war. ~ Orson Scott Card,
61:Patience alleviates, as impatience augments, pain; thus persons of strong will suffer less than those who give way to irritation. ~ Jonathan Swift,
62:The whole body of the arts and sciences composes one vast machinery for the irritation and development of the human intellect. ~ Thomas de Quincey,
63:Being short and seeing a promoter take the stock up is very irritating. It's not worth it to have that much irritation in your life. ~ Charlie Munger,
64:England would be better off without Canada; it keeps her in a prepared state for war at a great expense and constant irritation. ~ Napoleon Bonaparte,
65:I went home and went to sleep. Outside of the occasional irritation, I had no nightmares, no passions, no desires, no great pains. ~ Ottessa Moshfegh,
66:Manifestations of temper and touchiness and irritation, feelings of bitterness and estrangement, have their root in nothing but pride. ~ Andrew Murray,
67:there are virtues which are very well in the abstract, but which, encountered in the flesh, can be a source of extreme irritation. ~ Patricia Wentworth,
68:One scientist had discussions about love and compassion. Usually, he felt irritation. After our meeting, for some months, anger never come. ~ Dalai Lama,
69:They don't understand it. They're not old enough to know the first instinct of irritation should be avoided in order to keep an open mind. ~ Amelia Gray,
70:Misfortune, and recited misfortune especially, can be prolonged to the point where it ceases to excite pity and arouses only irritation. ~ Dorothy Parker,
71:When things are said in anger, irritation or frustration, you can put a hole into someone just like you have put a hole into that fence. ~ Robin S Sharma,
72:I heard the universe laugh. One tragedy doesn't disqualify you, it said. There''s still a lifetime of mild irritation to look forward to. ~ Savannah Brown,
73:Negativity ranges from irritation or impatience to fierce anger, from a depressed mood or sullen resentment to suicidal despair. Sometimes ~ Eckhart Tolle,
74:Depending on the inflection, ah bon can express shock, disbelief, indifference, irritation, or joy - a remarkable achievment for two short words. ~ Peter Mayle,
75:It was clear that Mme Danglars was suffering from one of those nervous irritations which women are often unable to explain even to themselves. ~ Alexandre Dumas,
76:Nothing is burdensome if taken lightly, and nothing need arouse one's irritation so long as one doesn't make it bigger than it is by getting irritated. ~ Seneca,
77:In all cases of heart-ache, the application of another man's disappointment draws out the pain and allays the irritation. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton 1st Baron Lytton,
78:if we have any unforgiveness, bitterness, selfishness, pride, anger, irritation, or resentment in our hearts, our prayers will not be answered. ~ Stormie Omartian,
79:Change isn't always for the worst; the shell that forms around a piece of sand looks to some people like an irritation, and to others, like a pearl. ~ Jodi Picoult,
80:Change isn’t always for the worst; the shell that forms around a piece of sand looks to some people like an irritation, and to others, like a pearl. ~ Jodi Picoult,
81:successful marriage was a balancing act—that was a thing everyone knew. A successful marriage was also dependent on a high tolerance for irritation— ~ Stephen King,
82:Change isn't always for the worst; the shell that forms around a piece of sand looks to some people like an irritation., and to others, like a pearl. ~ Jodi Picoult,
83:Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments slip away and a sunny spirit takes their place. ~ Mark Twain,
84:One can summon courage and fortitude to face tragedy; irritations and frustrations are a cloud of mosquitoes that nip and sting and drive one frantic. ~ Edna Ferber,
85:Perhaps these are inward irritations always produced by love: the acutely sensitive nerves of intimacy: the haunting fear that all may not go well. ~ Anthony Powell,
86:Whatever passably decent treatment Margaret had had from him was the result of a temporary victory of fear over irritation and/or pity over boredom. ~ Kingsley Amis,
87:A successful marriage was a balancing act-that was a thing everyone knew. A successful marriage was also dependent on a high tolerance for irritation. ~ Stephen King,
88:Is there a point to your latest irritation, Kish? (Sin) Had a sudden death wish. Felt the deep need to come up here and have you freeze me. (Kish) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
89:But not long had they run thus when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly, and shook off with one jerk all his irritation and detestation.
   ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
90:Is there a point to your latest irritation, Kish? (Sin)
Had a sudden death wish. Felt the deep need to come up here and have you freeze me. (Kish) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
91:I haven't got the normal protective whorls, so that touching anything, especially fabric, causes such irritation that I need long nails to protect them. ~ Gilles Deleuze,
92:I come from a family where the only emotion respectable to show is irritation. In some this tendency produces hives, in others literature, in me both. ~ Flannery O Connor,
93:My passion,
My queen of fire and dread;
Divine amalgamation
Of swedes and cooper-thread,
Unstitch your irritation
And kiss me when I'm dead. ~ Mervyn Peake,
94:Rarely have I seen any really great advertising created without a certain amount of confusion, throw-aways, bent noses, irritation and downright cursedness. ~ Leo Burnett,
95:There aren't many irritations to match the condescension which a woman metes out to a man who she believes has loved her vainly for the past umpteen years. ~ Edward Hoagland,
96:The Empress Mother said with still more irritation, “I cannot understand why we must have a foreign religion here when we have three good religions of our own. ~ Pearl S Buck,
97:It was a constant source of irritation to him that the public men on his side were, on the whole, not conspicuously better than the public men on the other side. ~ George Eliot,
98:Within me burns a flame which has been passed from generations uncounted and its heat is a constant irritation to my spirit to become better than I am, and I will. ~ Og Mandino,
99:I pledge myself from this day forward not to entertain any feeling of irritation, anger or ill humour and to allow to arise within me neither violence nor hate. ~ Rurkthist Text,
100:Which ensures that life gets lived in miniature. In lieu of the large feelings—sorrow, fury, joy—I had their junior counterparts—anxiety, irritation, excitement. But ~ Mary Karr,
101:You can divide the world into two kinds of people: those who ask, and those who answer. Those who pose questions, and those who frown in irritation in response. ~ Sergei Dovlatov,
102:Of course, when poking the Winter prince,
one had to proceed with caution. There was a fine line
between irritation and having icicles hurled at your
face. ~ Julie Kagawa,
103:Too many creatures both insects and humans estimate their own value by the amount of minor irritation they are able to cause to greater personalities than themselves. ~ Don Marquis,
104:You can divide the world into the two kinds of people: those who ask, and those who answer. Those who pose questions, and those who frown in irritation in response. ~ Sergei Dovlatov,
105:I still remember Botvinnik's reaction to each of my games, right from the opening moves. At first he would express amazement, then annoyance, and, finally irritation. ~ Anatoly Karpov,
106:Maybe television causes cancer, Garp thinks; but his real irritation is a writer's irritation: he knows that wherever the TV glows, there sits someone who isn't reading. ~ John Irving,
107:FEW CAN IGNORE A BABY'S CRIES,
EVEN IF THE RESPONSE IS IRRITATION.
THIS IS ONE OF THE BUILT IN SAFEGUARDS
THAT IS SUPPOSED TO GUARANTEE
THE SURVIVAL OF THE RACE. ~ Jenny Holzer,
108:No matter how high-class you aspire to be, in the entertainment business you’re always trying to create a space where people can unload their irritations and frustrations ~ Banana Yoshimoto,
109:Will it not be wise to allow the friendship between nations to rest upon deep and permanent things? Irritations of the cuticle must not be confounded with heart failure. ~ Benjamin Harrison,
110:April frowned, irritation evident. “I did not consent to your presence,” she said peevishly. “Please depart, and attempt your political assassination on someone else’s property. ~ Mira Grant,
111:...The devil had long ago taken a shine to Tert Card, filled him like a cream horn with itch and irritation. His middle name was X. Face like cottage cheese clawed with a fork. ~ Annie Proulx,
112:Suffering; impossibility of being comfortable anywhere; oppression, irritations and remorse one after the next, everything under the sign "wretchedness of man," used by Pascal. ~ Roland Barthes,
113:Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility. ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne,
114:It's laughter that lubricates our irritations, that releases our tensions, that feeds our joy… it’s the laughter that helps keep things warm and joyful even in the midst of pain. ~ Emilie Barnes,
115:The beautiful woman next to him snorted and murmured something that sounded like, “Asshole …” The man’s face gave a very slight twitch of irritation, but otherwise he ignored her. ~ Jeff Lindsay,
116:There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only an insane irritation. ~ W Somerset Maugham,
117:Helen worked in her back garden, planting her tulip and crocus bulbs. Her irritation with the world had dampened into a cushion of soft melancholy that went with her everywhere. ~ Elizabeth Strout,
118:I try to think of something catchy to say, but there's nothing but irritation that something that was funny yo an eleven-year-old boy is still funny to a seventeen-year-old one. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
119:the Entente Powers, far from aiding Poland, regarded her activities with irritation. Poland won her independence for twenty years by her own efforts under the leadership of Piłsudski. ~ Norman Davies,
120:Gratitude is an antidote to negative emotions, a neutralizer of envy, hostility, worry, and irritation. It is savoring; it is not taking things for granted; it is present oriented. ~ Sonja Lyubomirsky,
121:His shoulder might be hurting like a son of a bitch and he was more than slightly sloshed but he recognized irritation and beauty when they come together in one gorgeous female face. ~ Vickie McKeehan,
122:April frowned, irritation evident.

“I did not consent to your presence,” she said peevishly. “Please depart, and attempt your political assassination on someone else’s property. ~ Seanan McGuire,
123:Humor is the great thing, the saving thing after all. The minute it crops up, all our hardnesses yield, all our irritations, and resentments flit away, and a sunny spirit takes their place. ~ Mark Twain,
124:Your irritation is important to us," Cassie droned, looking at me upside down with her head tipped backwards over her headrest, "and will be exacerbated in rotation. Thank you for holding. ~ Tana French,
125:I came a fabulous opera. I saw that all beings have a fatality for happiness: action is not life, but a way of spending your strength, an irritation. Morality is a weakness of the brain. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,
126:There were certain elements of the human world that where out of their control: war, inflation, American Idol…all things which could cause major irritation to a vampire’s daily life. ~ Mimi Jean Pamfiloff,
127:The young woman continued to frown, displaying her irritation. ‘You would continue on and leave one of our brethren in this manner? Unblessed and unburied?’ Her voice was sharp and angry. ~ Peter Tremayne,
128:To give and receive advice - the former with freedom, and yet without bitterness, the latter with patience and without irritation - is peculiarly appropriate to geniune friendship. ~ Marcus Tullius Cicero,
129:Ralph Waldo Emerson could write (in The Conduct of Life, 1860): ‘The influence of fine scenery, the presence of mountains, appeases our irritations and elevates our friendships.’ Mountains ~ Richard Fortey,
130:All life was finally judged by this degree of irritation: abuse of things that were not natural, the sedentary life of cities, novel reading, theatergoing, immoderate thirst for knowledge, ~ Michel Foucault,
131:Embracing conflict can be a joy when we know that irritation and frustration can lead to growth and the re-engergizing of ourselves and others. Hot heads and cold hearts never solved anything. ~ Billy Graham,
132:Flicking that magic bean, mistress?” a deep voice pulled me from the haze of lust as I eyed the cooler with irritation. “If you brought my body to me, I could add the magic beanstalk to it. ~ Amelia Hutchins,
133:No I have not,” Nelson bites out, irritation in his voice. “She’s devastated by all of this.” “And so she ran off to Vermont and left you to be devastated alone,” Elsa rebuttals. “Such love. ~ Lisa Renee Jones,
134:There is something about boys,” she said, “that makes them think it is unmanly to show any feelings other than scorn and irritation or any enthusiasm for anything. It is a very unattractive trait. ~ Mary Balogh,
135:Constable Moore had reached the age when men can subject their bodies to the worst irritations—whiskey, cigars, woolen clothes, bagpipes—without feeling a thing or, at least, without letting on. ~ Neal Stephenson,
136:In their parents, children ideally have sources of protection and comfort and love. Parents can also be sources of irritation, fear, and anxiety. Their deaths thus represent both loss and liberation. ~ Jon Meacham,
137:Constable Moore had reached the age when men can subject their bodies to the worst irritations - whisky, cigars, woolen clothes, bagpipes - without feeling a thing or, at least, without letting on. ~ Neal Stephenson,
138:Try to persuade a person by appealing to their consciousness, by saying outright what you want, by showing all your cards, and what hope do you have? You are just one more irritation to be tuned out. ~ Robert Greene,
139:Constable Moore had reached the age when men can subject their bodies to the worst irritations - whiskey, cigars, woolen clothes, bagpipes - without feeling a thing or, at least, without letting on. ~ Neal Stephenson,
140:A mixture, before the English, of irritation and bafflement, of having this same language, same past, so many same things, and yet not belonging to them any more. Being worse than rootless... speciesless. ~ John Fowles,
141:Feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we're holding back. ~ Pema Chodron,
142:When I began to realize how often we quarrelled, how often I picked on her with nervous irritation, I became aware that our love was doomed: love had turned into a love-affair with a beginning and an end. ~ Graham Greene,
143:He was good at ignoring things; it was a skill all iru had. A lifetime of dealing with senses that tended to go haywire had taught him how to shut down the part of his awareness that was causing irritation. ~ C S Friedman,
144:I knew how I looked to him. I knew that my crazy was no longer a quirk, a simple matter of a cracked finger pad. Now, it was just an irritation, like it was to Daisy, like it was to anyone who got close to me. ~ John Green,
145:It's just . . . I'd like you to find some nice guy with no weird fuckin' baggage."
I had to laugh. My irritation vanished, and I reached over to pat his hand. "If you ever meet one," I said, "let me know. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
146:I could use some seducing," he said. "I've had a bad couple of days."
A flash of irritation. "You drugged me and threw me on a bird for Sol."
"Good point." Hakan drew her closer. "I'll do the seducing. ~ Erin Kellison,
147:There is nothing more abominable than being in a state of bodily exhaustion and mental irritation; I was too lethargic to get up and seek some means of occupying my mind, but I was too uneasy to fall asleep. ~ Elizabeth Peters,
148:I have never done you injustice. Please remember me,” said Dorothea, repressing a rising sob.

“Why should you say that?” said Will, with irritation. “As if I were not in danger of forgetting everything else. ~ George Eliot,
149:I don't, as my mom would say, sweat the small stuff in our relationship. Because when I think of day-to-day irritations that you might have with the one you love, they're nothing compared to the bigger task at hand. ~ Michelle Obama,
150:Uh, yeah. Hello? Are you the contest winner?”

His Irish brogue is thick, punctuated by irritation. I pull my proverbial shit together and nod. “Yeah.”

“About bloody time. Did you stop to sign autographs? ~ Tessa Bailey,
151:My music has a high irritation factor. I`ve always tried to say something. Eccentric lyrics about eccentric people. Often it was is joke. But I would plead guilty on the grounds that I prefer eccetricity to the bland. ~ Randy Newman,
152:Any belief in Creators or Purpose is wishful thinking. And when you point out that perhaps ALL thinking is wishful, reactions of intense irritation give evidence that we are not dealing with logic but with faith. ~ William S Burroughs,
153:Did it ever occur to you that this might require a modicum of concentration?” snapped Myfanwy in irritation, breaking out of her trance. “Did the dramatic pose and the look of profound focus not tip you off?” “Sorry, ~ Daniel O Malley,
154:He looked away with a flicker of irritation. “I know what the statistics are.” His voice was strained, as if tightening against a harness. “Left to myself, I would not even try. I’m doing this because of the kids. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,
155:how anything in the whole deep multiverse can ever be anything but natural?” I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. “You know what I mean.” “It’s a meaningless question. Get your head out of the twentieth century. ~ Peter Watts,
156:And if I wasn't able to bar anger, or her insidious cousin, irritation, From my heart, at least some of the time I bit back the sharp comments that I had prided myself on dispensing so freely all these years. ~ Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni,
157:Did he live in a false world, a world that had grown simply to suit him, and was his present slight irritation—in the face now of Jim's silence in particular—but the alarm of the vain thing menaced by the touch of the real? ~ Henry James,
158:I can't believe our parents wanted more offspring after you," Rayna tells Grom. Even hoarse, she's still able to infuse her irritation in each forced word. "After birthing an idiot like you, I'd never think about having more- ~ Anna Banks,
159:Ask someone, “What do you mean by that?” and you’re likely to incite irritation or defensiveness. A mirror, however, will get you the clarity you want while signaling respect and concern for what the other person is saying. “Yes, ~ Chris Voss,
160:Do not to let your feelings (very natural and usual ones) of momentary irritation and discomfort be seen by others don't (as you so often did and do) let every little feeling be read in your face and seen in your manner . . . ~ Queen Victoria,
161:Fuck it. He was right, of course, but the knowledge didn’t stop Jett from glowering. To hide his irritation, he poured two glasses of double malt whiskey from the carafe on the coffee table and pushed one toward Kenny. “It’s barely ~ J C Reed,
162:Bring the luggage in, Thomas,” Lucian ordered with a frown as he approached the front.
“What about the girl?” Thomas asked with irritation.
“That’s what I meant.” Lucian stepped through the open front doors of the house. ~ Lynsay Sands,
163:The children of God have more in common than they have differences. And even the differences can be seen as an opportunity. God will help us see a difference in someone else not as a source of irritation but as a contribution. ~ Henry B Eyring,
164:I am sometimes sad when I hear the personal stories of Tibetan refugees who have been tortured or beaten. Some irritation, some anger comes. But it never lasts long. I always try to think at a deeper level, to find ways to console. ~ Dalai Lama,
165:That was our friendship: equal parts irritation and cooperation... That he made my parents deeply uncomfortable was merely a bonus...He was, I suppose, my best friend, which is a less pathetic way of saying he was my only friend. ~ Ransom Riggs,
166:You see, what I want is life. A real life, full of moments of joy, of anguish, of irritation, of fun. A life with an end point, which makes each second important. A life that is full of love, that doesn't cause suffering and pain. ~ Gemma Malley,
167:You see, what I want is life. A real life, full of moments of joy, of anguish, of irritation, of fun. a life with an end point, which makes each second important. A life that is full of love, that doesn't cause suffering and pain. ~ Gemma Malley,
168:The general, unable to control his irritation, will launch his men to the assault like swarming ants, with the result that one-third of his men are slain, while the town still remains untaken. Such are the disastrous effects of a siege. ~ Sun Tzu,
169:The rich landlord is he who collects with sternness, who accepts no excuse, and will have his own. There are moments of irritation and of real bitterness against him, but there is still admiration, because he is rich and successful. ~ Jane Addams,
170:Let us candidly confess our indebtedness to the needle. How many hours of sorrow has it softened, how many bitter irritations calmed, how many confused thoughts reduced to order, how many life-plans sketched in purple! ~ Caroline Wells Healey Dall,
171:Every feeling is a field of energy. A pleasant feeling is an energy which can nourish. Irritation is a feeling which can destroy. Under the light of awareness, the energy of irritation can be transformed into and energy which nourishes. ~ Nhat Hanh,
172:He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of what she heard. ~ H G Wells,
173:Nonsense. One day, the right man will come along, and you’ll change your mind.”
Harriet wasn’t so sure. In all her twenty-four years, she’d never met a single man who had managed to make her feel anything more than acute irritation. ~ Karen Hawkins,
174:they thought they were heroes when they were only cinders in the eye of humanity too many creatures both insects and humans estimate their own value by the amount of irritation they are able to cause greater personalities than themselves ~ Don Marquis,
175:But my father’s irritation told me otherwise. I had been a disappointment to him from the beginning, my mother having taken an excessive number of years to produce me, and shortly afterwards miscarrying the overdue son and dying with him. ~ Naomi Novik,
176:The vibrations created by irritation are equivalent to those of mercury, by anger to those of lead, and by sadness and sorrow to those of aluminum. In the same way, uncertainty is related to cadmium, despair to steel, and stress to zinc. ~ Masaru Emoto,
177:With awareness there comes choice. And so you are able to say: "I allow this moment to be as it is". And then, suddenly, where before there was irritation, there is now a sense of aliveness and peace. And out of that comes right action. ~ Eckhart Tolle,
178:it would hold among its molecules the vibrations of all the conversations ever held in its presence. All the exchanges, the petty irritations, the deadly revelations, the flat announcements of disaster, the grunts and poetry of love. Sit ~ Thomas Harris,
179:But it was indecent, it was sacrilegious to annoy an emperor, and in his irritation he had an ex-Senator and twelve workmen who were in concentration camps taken out and shot on the charge that they had told irreverent stories about him. ~ Sinclair Lewis,
180:It's a coffee cup." She could hear the irritation in her own voice. "I know it's a coffee cup." "I can't wait till you draw something really complicated, like the Brooklyn Bridge or a lobster. You'll probably send me a singing telegram. ~ Cassandra Clare,
181:…and found her standing behind me. She smiled a little awkwardly with her hands clasped behind her back. She was lovely as a flower, and totally unconscious of it. I was suddenly short of breath, and I forgot myself, my irritation, my hurt. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
182:Good-bye, Christian,” she says, and her voice falters, as if she’s trying not to cry. Shit. My whole mood shifts from irritation and concern for her well-being to helplessness as her car roars off up the street. I don’t know if I’ll see her again. ~ E L James,
183:I think we all spend, sometimes, more time at our jobs than we do at home, and there are people that we wouldn't necessarily choose to spend so much time with. So those irritations and those, just those situations I think are really relatable. ~ Jenna Fischer,
184:There is a curious thing that happens with the passage of time: a calcification of character... Change isn't always for the worst; the shell that forms around a piece of sand looks to some people like an irritation, and to others, like a pearl. ~ Jodi Picoult,
185:It's a coffee cup."
She could hear the irritation in her own voice. "I know it's a coffee cup."
"I can't wait till you draw something really complicated, like the Brooklyn Bridge or a lobster. You'll probably send me a singing telegram. ~ Cassandra Clare,
186:I stare at the houses, each of them immaculate and manicured to the point of irritation. It makes me want to shoot a gun into the air, just to see all the quiet people inside scramble out. This neighborhood needs a little life breathed into it. ~ Colleen Hoover,
187:As a human being, anger is a part of our mind. Irritation also part of our mind. But you can do - anger come, go. Never keep in your sort of - your inner world, then create a lot of suspicion, a lot of distrust, a lot of negative things, more worry. ~ Dalai Lama,
188:DJ can stay here and help Mabel with the fire.” “I don’t need any damned help with the fire,” Mabel said with irritation. “I’m sure you don’t,” DJ said soothingly, then grinned and added, “but I bet between the two of us, we can make it burn hotter. ~ Lynsay Sands,
189:Attempting mischievous and salutary irritation of his peers ... Keynes may only succeed in becoming an academic idol of our worst cranks and charlatans - not to mention the possibilities of the book as the economic bible of a fascist movement. ~ Henry Calvert Simons,
190:Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,
191:A sound startled him, and to his everlasting irritation, his body jerked. The nurse was standing at the foot of the bed. Did they all have to creep around? He was going to insist bells be sewn onto everyone’s clothes so he was aware of them approaching. ~ Lorraine Heath,
192:We can’t examine our own depression without accepting it fully. The same is true for irritation and agitation, frustration, and all those other uncomfortable emotional states. You can’t examine something fully if you are busy rejecting its existence. ~ Henepola Gunaratana,
193:Anxiety is like being in freeway traffic all the time. There's the constant sense of dodging and darting, seeking your chance to cut in, the irritation of others pulling ahead of you. You hit the accelerator, you slam the brakes. You scout and scan for danger. ~ Deb Caletti,
194:I leaned against his side, his irritation oddly comforting. After a moment he grudgingly put his arm around me. The deep quiet was already settling back upon the grove, as if all the fire and rage we'd brought could make only a brief interruption in its peace. ~ Naomi Novik,
195:Philippa Somerville, standing back a little, did not withdraw her arm. In her white face, a shadow of motherly irritation appeared. ‘Has no one here any sense? Be quiet and sit down. The world will look after itself for a night, without your hand on the rim. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
196:Bast stood in the doorway, practically dancing with irritation. When he spotted the approaching figure he rushed down the street, waving a piece of paper angrily. "A note? You sneak out and leave me a note?" He hissed angrily. "What am I, some dockside whore? ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
197:Dzongsar Khyentse called the irritations of daily life “bourgeois suffering.” It is by opening fully to these everyday inconveniences—being stuck in traffic, bad weather, hunger pangs—that we develop the capacity to stay present in the face of greater challenges. ~ Pema Chodron,
198:He is disappointed because he has solved the problem, and has gone back to the baseline state of boredom and low-level irritation that always comes over him when he’s not doing something that inherently needs to be done, like picking a lock or breaking a code. ~ Neal Stephenson,
199:Like love, mourning affects the world—and the worldly—with unreality, with importunity. I resist the world, I suffer from what it demands of me, from its demands. The world increases my sadness, my dryness, my confusion, my irritation, etc. The world depresses me. ~ Roland Barthes,
200:Irritation hardened in Cinder’s gut. She might have pointed out that Pearl and Peony could have been given ready-made rather than custom dresses in order to budget for Cinder’s as well. She might have pointed out that they would only wear their dresses one time too. ~ Marissa Meyer,
201:Don’t wait until you’re faced with someone’s absence to acknowledge the importance of their presence. Love them now. Realize that the flaws, irritations, bad habits, and imperfections are all a part of what makes them, and you, unique, special, and rare to this universe. ~ Mandy Hale,
202:You went to all that trouble just for my body?" I said, amazed and so grateful.
Reyn looked up, irritation on his face. "Yeah. We were going to have you stuffed, as an example to future students."
I grinned, "You could put me on wheels, move me from room to room. ~ Cate Tiernan,
203:Etiquette enables you to resolve conflict without just trading insults. Without etiquette, the irritations in modern life are so abrasive that you see people turning to the law to regulate everyday behavior. This frightens me; it's a major inroad on our basic freedoms. ~ Judith Martin,
204:For all the things that had happened to her, all the people she had met, the miles of ocean she had covered, she could feel nothing worth writing except: 'an exceedingly grand apartment which I spoil by the excess of irritation and agitation I carry with me everywhere... ~ Peter Carey,
205:Lane watched her for a moment with mounting irritation. Quite probably, he resented and feared any signs of detachment in a girl he was seriously dating. In any case, he surely was concerned over the possibility that this bug Franny had might bitch up the whole weekend. ~ J D Salinger,
206:Such loyalty is admirable, of course,” said Scrimgeour, who seemed to be restraining his irritation with difficulty, “but Dumbledore is gone, Harry. He’s gone.” “He will only be gone from the school when none here are loyal to him,” said Harry, smiling in spite of himself. ~ J K Rowling,
207:A gifted wizard, but an unlikely politician, McLaird was an exceptionally taciturn man who preferred to communicate in monosyllables and expressive puffs of smoke that he produced through the end of his wand. Forced from office out of sheer irritation at his eccentricities. ~ J K Rowling,
208:He was not a bad man, he was a good husband and father, but constant worry about his investments, about the money he earned, about the inevitable expenses that came with being a man of property had worn his nerves to a frazzle so that he was in a constant state of irritation ~ Mario Puzo,
209:Such loyalty is admirable, of course,” said Scrimgeour, who seemed to be restraining his irritation with difficulty, “but Dumbledore is gone, Harry. He’s gone.”
“He will only be gone from the school when none here are loyal to him,” said Harry, smiling in spite of himself. ~ J K Rowling,
210:A man who knows the court is master of his gestures, of his eyes and of his face; he is profound, impenetratable; he dissimulates bad offices, smiles at his enemies, controls his irritation, disguises his passions, belies his heartm speaks and acts against his feelings. ~ Jean de la Bruyere,
211:All the Kamals were fluent in irritation. They loved each other but were almost always annoyed by each other, in ways that were both generalised and existential (why is he like that?) and also highly specific (how hard is it to remember to put the top back on the yoghurt?). ~ John Lanchester,
212:I dropped my bags and rifled through his wallet—his license informed me that his name was Nathan Cockspillier, which made me snort in spite of my irritation. Nothing in there was actually useful, apart from the cool two thousand dollars in hundreds that he happened to be toting. It ~ Sarah Fine,
213:Satisfied is a word I use only in reference to my country, and I'll never be satisfied for my country. For this reasons I go on taking difficult paths, and between a paved road and a footpath that goes up the mountain, I choose the footpath. To the great irritation of my bodyguards. ~ Indira Gandhi,
214:That was our friendship: equal parts irritation and cooperation. The cooperation part was an unofficial brains-for-brawn trade we'd worked out in which I helped him not fail English and he helped me not get killed by the roided-out sociopaths who prowled the halls of our high school. ~ Ransom Riggs,
215:Difficult things provoke all your irritations and bring your habitual patterns to the surface. And that becomes the moment of truth. You have the choice to launch into your lousy habitual patterns, or to stay with the rawness and discomfort of the situation and let it transform you. ~ Pema Chodron,
216:Stop that! What were you doing, perched on the window ledge like a big chicken?"
Despite his aches and irritations, he couldn't help but grin. "I prefer to think of myself as a more noble bird, like a hawk."
"I'm sure you do. But you flew like a chicken than any hawk I've seen. ~ Karen Hawkins,
217:Let passion reach a catastrophe and it submits us to an intoxicating force far more powerful than the niggardly irritation of wine or of opium. The lucidity our ideas then achieve, and the delicacy of our overly exalted sensations, produce the strangest and most unexpected effects. ~ Honore de Balzac,
218:So when we make a poor-quality decision—when we choose to engage toxic thoughts (for example, unforgiveness, bitterness, irritation, or feelings of not coping)—we change the DNA and subsequent genetic expression, which then changes the shape of our brain wiring in a negative direction. ~ Caroline Leaf,
219:Rather than complaining about inconsequential little irritations, I'm asking God to get right to the root of the problem, to eradicate the dry rot and fix the cracks in my foundation. I need Him to show me how to love Him and how to love His people. Even the ones I don't like - even myself. ~ Craig Groeschel,
220:They are not easily irritated or annoyed. Some people seem to be able to rise above their irritations and they are fun to be with because they are poised and even-tempered. They seem to live on an upper level emotionally and are not easily riled up. They keep in a good humor and spirit. ~ Norman Vincent Peale,
221:The note of almost unbearable irritation sounding through the deliberately calm tone in which he has just spoken penetrates her child's heart like a cruel needle of ice. Her face falls grotesquely, her mouth trembles, tears - the sudden, despairing tears of a hurt child - fill her eyes to the brim. ~ Anna Kavan,
222:Miüsov’s action was similarly, no doubt, an echo of other people’s ideas, and was due to the irritation caused by lack of mental freedom. She wanted, perhaps, to show her feminine independence, to override class distinctions and the despotism of her family. And a pliable imagination persuaded ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
223:26:20 Talking about every little irritation or piece of gossip only keeps the fires of anger going. Refusing to discuss them cuts the fuel line and makes the fires die out. Does someone continually irritate you? Decide not to complain about the person, and see if your irritation dies from lack of fuel. ~ Anonymous,
224:Meditation is a journey to know yourself. Knowing yourself has many layers. Start knowing your bodily discomforts. Know your success, know your failures. Know your fears. Know your irritations. Know your pleasures, joy and happiness. Know your mental wounds. Go deeper and examine every feeling you have. ~ Amit Ray,
225:If you notice that you are more edgy, easily stressed, have elevated cholesterol, skin irritations, depression, sleep difficulties, indigestion, kidney damage, brain fog, hypothyroidism, chronic fatigue, weight gain, poor memory, PMS, blood sugar imbalances, or allergies, your liver may be to blame. ~ Maria Emmerich,
226:Not really hungry."
"She’ll eat." Pritkin said curtly.
"I said —"
"If you starve to death it would damage my professional reputation."
"I eat plenty."
"The same does not apply should I strangle you in understandable irritation, however."
"I’ll have a sandwich," I told Nick. "No meat. ~ Karen Chance,
227:Jonathan Ross said, “With anyone famous, there’s as many people who don’t like us as do, that’s still enough for you to have a career.” To achieve absolute acceptance, one would have to become totally enlightened or utterly innocuous. Until then there’ll always be some sort of understandable irritation. ~ Russell Brand,
228:source of profound irritation. “Ed, mate! And little, hmmm . . . It’s your first day at school too, isn’t it?” Nathan could never be bothered to remember Madeline’s children’s names. He held up his palm for a high five with Fred. “Gidday, champ.” Fred betrayed her by high-fiving him back. Nathan kissed ~ Liane Moriarty,
229:The chronically embittered person only noticed his illness once a week, on Sunday afternoons. Then, with no work or routine to relieve the symptoms, he would feel that something was very wrong, since he found the peace of those endless afternoons infernal and felt only a keen sense of constant irritation. ~ Paulo Coelho,
230:When it was suggested to Pasteur that many of his great achievements depended on luck, he replied - I'm sure with more than a little irritation - 'In the field of observation in science, fortune only favours the prepared mind.' It is not by chance that it is always the great scientists who have the luck. ~ Lewis Wolpert,
231:It is to the credit of human nature that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility. ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne,
232:It is to the credit of human nature, that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility. ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne,
233:My wall of indifference and façade of irritation would crumble and I would be revealed for what I really was: a girl who felt destiny climbing up her legs like a tangle of ivy. A girl who wasn’t only falling hard for the man sitting next to her, but wasn’t fighting the free-fall, despite knowing she should. ~ Nicole Williams,
234:My body is damaged from music in two ways. I have a red irritation in my stomach. It's psychosomatic, caused by all the anger and the screaming. I have scoliosis, where the curvature of your spine is bent, and the weight of my guitar has made it worse. I'm always in pain, and that adds to the anger in our music. ~ Kurt Cobain,
235:I’m just floating along in this state of elation because all of life’s normal responsibilities and irritations are gone. It’s like a sheet of blue-lined paper, the kind you write on at school, but with the lines suddenly missing. No structure. Nothing is predictable. Everything that might happen now is new. ~ Catherine Ryan Hyde,
236:Stroking himself, he let out a hot breath. “You daring me to?” “Yeah.” His throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes flickered with a parade of emotions I couldn’t keep up with. Reluctance. Heat. Confusion. Heat. Irritation. Heat. “I…” He laughed, his voice hoarse. He stopped, cleared his throat. “Double dog dare you. ~ Sarina Bowen,
237:There are a lot of people in the animal rights movement who can be very passionate and aggressive, and I applaud people's passion, but when people are judgmental and aggressive, all you end up doing is getting other people to turn away in irritation. To change people's minds, you have to respect the people you're talking to. ~ Moby,
238:Emotions, particularly negative ones, are powerful internal triggers and greatly influence our daily routines. Feelings of boredom, loneliness, frustration, confusion, and indecisiveness often instigate a slight pain or irritation and prompt an almost instantaneous and often mindless action to quell the negative sensation. ~ Nir Eyal,
239:. . . for most of us there was a central, unavoidable problem— the world was populated by people who were unlike us . That explained so many wars— particularly religious ones; that explained persecutions and injustices; that explained simple everyday irritation with one’s fellow man: They were just not like us. ~ Alexander McCall Smith,
240:Philosophy hasn't made any progress? - If somebody scratches the spot where he has an itch, do we have to see some progress? Isn't genuine scratching otherwise, or genuine itching itching? And can't this reaction to an irritation continue in the same way for a long time before a cure for the itching is discovered? ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein,
241:Philosophy hasn't made any progress? - If somebody scratches the spot where he has an itch, do we have to see some progress? Isn't genuine scratching otherwise, or genuine itching itching? And can't this reaction to an irritation continue in the same way for a long time before a cure for the itching is discovered? ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein,
242:Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy to manage ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,
243:Such emotions, sudden bursts of sexual jealousy that pursue us through life, sometimes without the smallest justification that memory or affection might provide, are like wounds, unknown and quiescent, that suddenly break out to give pain, or at least irritation, at a later season of the year, or in an unfamiliar climate. ~ Anthony Powell,
244:Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy to manage. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,
245:He sighs, a great drag of irritation, and crosses his arms at his chest. It makes his chest bulge with muscle, and I try to focus on the fact that he seems like he could wring my neck and not on the way he looks today.
Which, seriously, is pretty hot. His face is flushed in anger, which brings out his dark eyes…
Focus. ~ Mandy Hubbard,
246:It seems that you’ve stumbled into the wrong jail cell. Do you need directions to get back to yours?” She blinked. Thorne smiled. The girl frowned. Her irritation made her prettier, and Thorne cupped his chin, studying her. He’d never met a cyborg before, much less flirted with one, but there was a first time for everything. ~ Marissa Meyer,
247:Do you remember the section on controlling demons in Demonologies? I believe it's in chapter five."
"Um...no."
Irritation flashed over his face. "Honestly, Sophie, I gave you that book for a reason."
"And I'm really sorry, but it's long and boring,and can we just skip to the part where you tell me what it says? ~ Rachel Hawkins,
248:Hmm?' I looked away, flustered automatically using irritation to cover my discomfort up. 'What does 'hmm' have to do with anything? Could you ever use more that five words? All this grunting and minced words make you come across-- primal.'
His smile tipped higher. 'Primal.'
'You're impossible.'
'Me Jev, you Nora. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,
249:The twins were loitering over their cereal, and Mrs. Walpole, with one eye on the clock and the other on the kitchen window past which the school bus would come in a matter of minutes, felt the unreasonable irritation that comes with being late on a school morning, the wading-through-molasses feeling of trying to hurry children. ~ Shirley Jackson,
250:He frowned and tutted as he swabbed the vomit from the man's robes, and transferred his irritation to Pelagia's goat, which had entered the room and leapt up onto the table. 'Stupid brute' he shouted at it, and it looked at him impudently with its slotted eyes, as if to say, 'I, at least, am not drunk. I am merely mischievous. ~ Louis de Berni res,
251:Kind 'Guardian' readers have been forwarding me round robin Christmas newsletters for years now: lengthy missives full of perfect children, exotic holidays, talented pets and endless, tedious detail. The notes that accompanied them revealed they had inspired in the original recipients everything from mild irritation to absolute rage. ~ Simon Hoggart,
252:The nursing brethren spoke in whispers to Jerott. Such stillness was what the overstrained body required. Pray God it would last.

Downstairs, Jerott unleashed his anxious irritation on Marthe. ‘They know it can’t last. Why don’t they admit it?’

‘They are kind. They are innocent. They believe God is merciful,’ said Marthe. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
253:Tune, tune,” said Porch briskly. He turned to Orson. “And is there a word for today?” Orson was the word person, spilling words out as if they were notes on a staff. “Rebarbative,” said Orson promptly. “Causing annoyance or irritation. Mozart’s rebarbative music causes me to want to throw up.” Porch sighed. Orson preferred Schubert. ~ Patricia MacLachlan,
254:How strange it is that a simple feeling of discomfort, of impeded or heightened circulation, perhaps the irritation of a nervous center, a slight congestion, a small disturbance in the imperfect and delicate functions of our living machinery, can turn the most light-hearted of men into a melancholy one, and make a coward of the bravest? ~ Guy de Maupassant,
255:remember talking with my sister Maureen once about the severe short haircuts we all had as children. “Doesn’t it seem like Mom was trying to desexualize us?” I asked. Maureen, the mother of three, suppressed a laugh mixed with irritation. “Wait until you have kids, Michelle,” she said. “Short haircuts aren’t desexualizing. They’re easy. ~ Michelle McNamara,
256:But some of us are beginning to pull well away, in our irritation, from...the exquisite tasters, the vintage snobs, the three-star Michelin gourmets. There is, we feel, a decent area somewhere between boiled carrots and Beluga caviare, sour plonk and Chateau Lafitte, where we can take care of our gullets and bellies without worshipping them. ~ J B Priestley,
257:I’d noticed soon after starting the job that whenever I got angry at the same things as everyone else, they all seemed happy. If I went along with the manager when he was annoyed or joined in the general irritation at someone skiving off the night shift, there was a strange sense of solidarity as everyone seemed pleased that I was angry too. ~ Sayaka Murata,
258:I wish he were better at hailing taxis than I am; on the other hand, I realize that expectation is culturally conditioned, utterly foolish, has nothing to do with anything, is exactly the kind of thinking that ought to be got rid of in our society; on still another hand, having that insight into my reaction does not seem to calm my irritation. ~ Nora Ephron,
259:The nectar of compassion is so wonderful. If you are committed to keeping it alive, then you are protected. What the other person says will not touch off the anger and irritation in you, because compassion is the real antidote to anger. Nothing can heal anger except compassion. That is why the practice of compassion is a very wonderful practice. ~ Nhat Hanh,
260:When parents see their children's problems as opportunities to build the relationship instead of as negative, burdensome irritations, it totally changes the nature of parent-child interaction. Parents become more willing, even excited, about deeply understanding and helping their children. . . . This paradigm is powerful in business as well. ~ Stephen Covey,
261:Hmm?' I looked away, flustered automatically using irritation to cover my discomfort up. 'What does 'hmm' have to do with anything? Could you ever use more that five words? All this grunting and minced words make you come across-- primal.' His smile tipped higher. 'Primal.' 'You're impossible.' 'Me Jev, you Nora.' -Nora & Patch (PG 226) ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,
262:Stephen's intense irritation lasted all the time he was climbing into the maintop, and this so took away from his dread and his habitual caution that Jack said, 'What a fellow you are, Stephen. When you choose you can go aloft like' - he was about to say 'a human being' but changed this before it quite left his gullet to 'like an able seaman. ~ Patrick O Brian,
263:Pike glanced at Cole and Cole shrugged. “I have everything I need from here to go forward. I can take her back.” Larkin squinted at Cole, still tense with irritation. “Was there something here I missed?” Pike said, “He’s taking you back to the house. He’ll stay with you until I get back.” Pike started back to the Lexus, but the girl followed him. ~ Robert Crais,
264:When a man's eyes are sore his friends do not let him finger them, however much he wishes to, nor do they themselves touch the inflammation: But a man sunk in grief suffers every chance comer to stir and augment his affliction like a running sore; and by reason of the fingering and consequent irritation it hardens into a serious and intractable evil. ~ Plutarch,
265:I applied to be a subject in a simulated Mars mission. I made it past the first round of cuts and was told that someone from the European Space Agency would call me for a phone interview later in the month. The call came at 4:30 A.M., and I did not take care to hide my irritation. I realized later that it had probably been a test, and I had failed it. ~ Mary Roach,
266:Bartender 101? Find the alpha. “Girl Scouts again? Fuck off.” The bald one looks back at the street, checking he has the right house. The young guy grins. The old one purses his lips. There he is. “I’m just fucking with you. I’m Darcy. Tom’s nude right now, but he’ll be right with you.” “I’m not nude,” Tom snaps in irritation, striding into the room. ~ Sally Thorne,
267:The Devil endeavours by every means to keep men in error, in the enticement of the passions, in darkness of mind and heart; in pride, avarice, covetousness, envy, hatred, wicked impatience and irritation; in evil despondence, in the abominations of fornication, adultery, theft, false-witness, blasphemy, negligence, slothfulness, and sluggishness. ~ John of Kronstadt,
268:Sometimes, in interviews, I am asked whether The Endless are a dysfunctional family. I do not believe i have ever observed a "functional" family, families are comprised, in equal measure, of unquestioning and undeserved love and of unquestioning and cruelly undeserved irritation: we muddle along s best we can. And that's the best that can be said for us. ~ Neil Gaiman,
269:And they did have fun, though it was of different kind now. All that yearning and passion had been replaced by a steady pulse of pleasure and satisfaction and occasional irritation, and this seemed to be a happy exchange; if there had been moments in her life when she had been more elated, there had never been a time when things had been more constant. ~ David Nicholls,
270:The small irritations or indignities that we experience are nothing compared to what a previous generation experienced... It’s one thing for me to be mistaken for a waiter at a gala. It’s another thing for my son to be mistaken for a robber and to be handcuffed or, worse, if he happens to be walking down the street and is dressed the way teenagers dress. ~ Barack Obama,
271:The rockroach hunkered over Janner, widened its awful mandibles, and stretched open its squishy black lips. Janner was surprised he didn’t feel more panic. He lay on his back, watching the terrible beast with a sort of fascination and surprise that this would be how he died. He also felt a dull irritation at the rock causing such discomfort to his hip. ~ Andrew Peterson,
272:I felt a new wave of irritation, squelched it as I kicked into scientist mode. First rule: block mind-set. Don’t suspect, don’t fear, don’t hope for any outcome. Observe, weigh, measure, and record.

Second rule: block emotion. Leave sorrow, pity, and outrage for later. Anger or grief can lead to error and misjudgment. Mistakes do your victim no good. ~ Kathy Reichs,
273:My encounter with another world and another culture and the beginnings of an attachment to them had set up an irritation, barely perceptible but incurable-rather like unrequited love, like a symptom of the hopelessness of trying to grasp what is boundless, or unite what cannot be joined; a reminder of how finite, how curtailed, our experience on earth must be ~ Andrei Tarkovsky,
274:JEALOUSY IS A TERRIBLE THING. It keeps you up at night, it demands tremendous energy in order to remain alive, and so you have to want to feed it, nurture it—and by so wanting, you have to acknowledge that you are a bitter, petty person. It changes you. It changes the way you view the world; minor irritations become major catastrophes; celebrations become trials. ~ Melanie Benjamin,
275:Let him consider how all lack of love; all disregard for the needs, feelings, and weakness of others; all sharp and hasty judgments and words, so often excused under the plea of being outright and honest; all manifestations of temper, touchiness, and irritation; all feelings of bitterness and estrangement, have their root in nothing but pride, that only seeks itself. ~ Andrew Murray,
276:If we pray only because we want answers, we will become irritated and angry with God. We receive an answer every time we pray, but it does not always come in the way we expect, and our spiritual irritation shows our refusal to identify ourselves truly with our Lord in prayer. We are not here to prove that God answers prayer, but to be living trophies of God’s grace. ~ Oswald Chambers,
277:Today, I often meet people who are too busy to take care of their wealth. And there are people too busy to take care of their health. The cause is the same. They’re busy, and they stay busy as a way of avoiding something they do not want to face. Nobody has to tell them. Deep down they know. In fact, if you remind them, they often respond with anger or irritation. ~ Robert T Kiyosaki,
278:Her small pet spotted him first, barking out a sharp warning from where he stood on guard in the back doorway. Ivy appeared a second later, a broom in hand and her curls held back by a purple and white scarf. "I knew it was you," she said with a slight smile. "You've now been downgraded from 'deadly threat' to 'irritation that won't go away' in Rabbit's bark vocabulary. ~ Nalini Singh,
279:I understand that sometimes the truth of God’s Word can become a divider, an irritation, a stone of stumbling. But that’s only because it remains unchanged, uncompromising, and steadfast. And what better reason could there be to build our lives on such an immovable foundation? To violate the Word of God is only to destroy ourselves, our joy, our peace, our happiness. ~ Frank E Peretti,
280:It struck me that the popularity of Christmas is a matter of web-like consciousness. Childhood conditions us to relax and expand at Christmas, to forget petty worries and irritations and think in terms of universal peace. And so Christmas is the nearest to mystical experience that most human beings ever approach, with its memories of Dickens and Irving's Bracebridge Hall. ~ Colin Wilson,
281:Is a termite mound a construct? Beaver dam? Space ship? Of course. Were they built by naturally-evolved organisms, acting naturally? They were. So tell me how anything in the whole deep multiverse can ever be anything but natural?" I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. "You know what I mean." "It's a meaningless question. Get your head out of the Twentieth Century. ~ Peter Watts,
282:It’s as though I keep reliving the loss, not just Bryce’s death, but my accident. Every time change drops by and wants to be fed, I wonder if I’ll have enough or if it’ll eat me out of house and home.” “Grief’s ravenous, isn’t it? I suppose that’s where the emptiness comes from, and we keep trying to fill it with … food and blame, irritations and what all. Keeping busy. ~ Jane Kirkpatrick,
283:Jealousy is a terrible thing. It keeps you up at night, it demands tremendous energy in order to remain alive, and so you have to want to feed it, nurture it -- and by so wanting, you have to acknowledge that you are a bitter, petty person. It changes you. It changes the very way you view the world; minor irritations become major catastrophes; celebrations become trials. ~ Melanie Benjamin,
284:Modern-day offices have become interruption factories. Merely walking in the door makes you a target for anyone else’s conversation, question, or irritation. When you’re on the inside, you’re a resource who can be polled, interrogated, or pulled into a meeting. And another meeting about that other meeting. How can you expect anyone to get work done in an environment like that? ~ Jason Fried,
285:She was herself unconscious of that faint hint of offishness which hung about her and repelled advances, an arrogance that stirred in people a peculiar irritation. They noticed her, admired her clothes, but that was all, for the self-sufficient uninterested manner adopted instinctively as a protective measure for her acute sensitiveness, in her child days, still clung to her. ~ Nella Larsen,
286:At first Widmerpool and I were unable to grasp the root of the trouble, partly because Monsieur Lundquist’s lobbing technique was sufficiently common for none of the rest of us specially to have noticed it that afternoon: partly because at that age I was not yet old enough to be aware of the immense rage that can be secreted in the human heart by cumulative minor irritation. ~ Anthony Powell,
287:If there is anything worse than the aching tedium of staring out of car windows, it is the irritation of getting tickets, packing, finding trains, lying in bouncing berths, washing without water, digging out passports, and fighting through customs. To live in Carlsbad is seemly and to loaf at San Remo healing to the soul, but to get from Carlsbad to San Remo is of the devil. ~ Sinclair Lewis,
288:If you feel irritation or depression or despair, recognize their presence and practice this mantra: "Dear one, I am here for you." You should talk to your depression or your anger as you would to a child. You embrace it tenderly with the energy of mindfulness and say, "Dear one, I know you are there, and I am going to take care of you," just as you would with your crying baby. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh,
289:Design is concerned with how things work, how they are controlled, and the nature of the interaction between people and technology. When done well, the results are brilliant, pleasurable products. When done badly, the products are unusable, leading to great frustration and irritation. Or they might be usable, but force us to behave the way the product wishes rather than as we wish. ~ Donald A Norman,
290:Ringil, preparing to hand out some straightforward reassurance, felt mischief sparkle through him instead. It was the call of impending risk, he knew, the itch to action—and a long building irritation with Nyanar that finally flared to life. He put on a breezy grin. “But my lord Nyanar! That’s what gives life its savor, is it not? Where would we be if the future were always known? ~ Richard K Morgan,
291:There are two life-forces in the world I know: Jewish and gentile, ours and yours...I do not believe that this primal difference between gentile and Jew is reconcilable. You and we may come to an understanding, never to a reconciliation. There will be irritation between us as long as we are in intimate contact. For nature and constitution and vision divide us from all of you forever. ~ Maurice Samuel,
292:She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. ~ Kate Chopin,
293:Jack shoved his finger in my face. "You can talk to any other guy at this school, but you are not allowed to talk to him."

Had my brother learned nothing in the last sixteen years? Apparently not, and for that he would pay. I turned back to the source of my brother's irritation.

"Grant, do you have a girlfriend who would mind if you kissed me to piss off my brother? ~ Chris Cannon,
294:When you are insulted by someone or humiliated, guard against angry thoughts, lest they arouse a feeling of irritation, and so cut you off from love and place you in the realm of hatred. You should know that you have been greatly benefited when you have suffered deeply because of some insult or indignity; for by means of the indignity self-esteem has been driven out of you. ~ Saint Maximus the Confessor,
295:I love trash. I have never believed that kitsch kills. I tell you this, so you will understand that my antipathy toward 'Love Story' is not because I am immune to either sentimentality or garbage, two qualities the book possesses in abundance. When I read 'Love Story', and I cried, in much the same way that I cry from onions, involuntarily and with great irritation, I was deeply offended... ~ Nora Ephron,
296:Think about it this way,” Bud went on, pointing to the board. “What’s the only thing that happened in this story between the time that I wasn’t irritated and angry and the time I was?” I looked at the diagram. “Your choice not to do what you felt you should do,” I said. “Your self-betrayal.” “That’s right. That’s all that happened. So what caused my irritation and anger at Nancy? ~ The Arbinger Institute,
297:She mothered them. She mothered him.

He hated it and loved it. He wished her quiet and prayed she would never stop talking. She made him both jubilant and miserable, and he found himself waiting with irritation and anticipation each night for the moment the men gathered and looked at her with pleading eyes and she acquiesced, telling them stories like they were children around her knees. ~ Amy Harmon,
298:I like to direct movies, but I don't like to goof around for eight years talking about it. And it's pretty irritating to get a movie on. So to complicate it by having more irritation as a director, I don't really need it. And because I direct a great deal still, but in the theater, I kind of get that anyway. Which is not at all to say I would never do it again, or it would never happen again. ~ John Malkovich,
299:But the majority will continue to insist—speaking metaphorically—that black is white, and after a period of exasperation, irritation, even anger, certainly incomprehension, the minority will fall into line. Not always, but nearly always. There are indeed glorious individualists who stubbornly insist on telling the truth as they see it, but most give in to the majority opinion, obey the atmosphere. ~ Doris Lessing,
300:Let us consider how our lack of love, indifference to the needs and feelings of others, even sharp comments and hasty judgments that are often excused as being honest and straightforward, are thwarting the effect of the influence of the Holy Spirit on others. Manifestations of temper and touchiness and irritation, feelings of bitterness and estrangement, have their root in nothing but pride. Pride ~ Andrew Murray,
301:Confusion is the only state of mind we have where we are really out of our patterns and what we expect. Because of that, you're open to new experiences. The irritation in concert performances is really important. When people get really irritated, they listen on the front of their stool and ask, "What's going on?" If I deliver what they expect - sad, soft piano music - then people would just shut down. ~ Nils Frahm,
302:others, even sharp comments and hasty judgments that are often excused as being honest and straightforward, are thwarting the effect of the influence of the Holy Spirit on others. Manifestations of temper and touchiness and irritation, feelings of bitterness and estrangement, have their root in nothing but pride. Pride creeps in almost everywhere, and the assemblies of the saints are not exceptions. ~ Andrew Murray,
303:He almost said to himself that he did not like her, before their conversation ended; he tried so hard to compensate himself for the mortified feeling, that while he looked upon her with an admiration he could not repress, she looked at him with proud indifference, taking him, he thought, for what, in his irritation, he told himself - was a great fellow, with not a grace or a refinement about him. ~ Elizabeth Gaskell,
304:I disappear for twenty minutes into Ford Maddox Ford's The Good Soldier while John does the dishes, fighting past my initial irritation all the class nonsense and how no one will say anything of significance because it's simply not done to be explicit. Like in James or Wharton. Those novels where you're screaming at characters to go ahead already and blurt it out, save us a hundred pages of prevarication. ~ Adam Haslett,
305:Hate is the hidden script in the letter of love; its foundations are shared with its opposite. The woman seduced by her partner's way of kissing her neck, turning the pages of a book, or telling a joke watches irritation collect at precisely these junctures. It is as if the end of love is already contained in its beginning, the ingredients of love's collapse eerily foreshadowed by those of its creation. ~ Alain de Botton,
306:Her manner of dress, of speech, of doing her hair, of spending her time, had not changed since it first became apparent to a far younger Morgen that in all her life to come no one was, in all probability, going to care in the slightest how she looked, or what she did, and the minor wrench of leaving humanity behind was more than compensated for by her complacent freedom from a thousand small irritations. ~ Shirley Jackson,
307:Compounding Julia’s irritation was the fact that Mark and Jennifer were the parents of one of Sam’s friends, and thought of Jacob and Julia as their friends, and wanted to have a coffee after to “catch up.” Julia liked them and, insofar as she could muster enthusiasm for extrafamilial relations, considered them friends. But she couldn’t muster much. At least not until she could catch up with herself. ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,
308:Because he is confused, he doesn’t ask the question, “Don’t you respect me?” for fear she’ll say, “No, I don’t.” That frightens him so he avoids it. As a result, she gets locked into disrespect as a way of communicating her irritation and goading him to change. But over the course of the marriage, something slowly dies between them. She wins the battles, but deep down she knows she is losing the war. WHAT ~ Emerson Eggerichs,
309:What we need here, folks, is a really big chicken.”
She scowled at his bizarre comment and the fact that his drawl had actually gotten deeper as he spoke. “What are you? Hungry? Now?”
He laughed at her irritation. “Nah. They love to hunt and kill scorpions. Damn shame I don’t have a flock or two million of them right about now. Who knew? I just hope those damn things aren’t chowing down on my Squire. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
310:Like Jesus, we can decide, daily or instantly, to give no heed to temptation (see D&C 20:22). We can respond to irritation with a smile instead of scowl, or by giving warm praise instead of icy indifference. By our being understanding instead of abrupt, others, in turn, may decide to hold on a little longer rather than to give way. Love, patience, and meekness can be just as contagious as rudeness and crudeness. ~ Neal A Maxwell,
311:I know that disavowal is an unusal form of betrayal. From the outside it is impossible to tell if you are disowning someone or simply exercising discretion, being considerate, avoiding embarrassments and sources of irritation. But you, who are doing the disowning, you know what you're doing. And disavowal pulls the underpinnings away from a relationship just as surely as other more flamboyant types of betrayal. ~ Bernhard Schlink,
312:They were arranged by their original numbers, the numbers they had been given at birth. The numbers were rarely used after the Naming. But each child knew his number, of course. Sometimes parents used them in irritation at a child's misbehavior, indicating that mischief made one unworthy of a name. Jonas always chuckled when he heard a parent, exasperated, call sharply to a whining toddler, ''That's enough, Twenty-three! ~ Lois Lowry,
313:I try to stop myself from getting frustrated. I'm not a hundred percent successful, but I'm a thousand times better than I used to be. Anyone who's angry, nasty or rude is really offering a plea to be loved. I play a game with myself, trying to convert them from what I call low-energy emotions that drain us - frustration, irritation, anger and impatience - into high-energy emotions that sustain us - love, caring, kindness. ~ Wayne Dyer,
314:Almost always the roots of anger are in one of two difficult states, which arise just before the anger appears. We become angry either when we are hurt and in pain or when we are afraid. Pay attention to your own life and see if this is true. The next time anger and irritation spring up, see if just before they arose you felt fear or hurt. If you pay attention to the fear or pain first, does the anger even appear? Anger ~ Jack Kornfield,
315:While he was at Lichfield, in the college vacation of the year 1729, he felt himself overwhelmed with an horrible hypochondria, with perpetual irritation, fretfulness, and impatience; and with a dejection, gloom, and despair, which made existence misery. From this dismal malady he never afterwards was perfectly relieved; and all his labours, and all his enjoyments, were but temporary interruptions of its baleful influence. ~ Samuel Johnson,
316:If you do not know how to take care of yourself, and the violence in you, then you will not be able to take care of others. You must have love and patience before you can truly listen to your partner or child. If you are irritated you cannot listen. You have to know how to breath mindfully, embrace your irritation and transform it. Offer ONLY understand and compassion to your partner or child - This is the true practice of love. ~ Nhat Hanh,
317:You've been quiet these past days," Trevanion said. "Are you going to tell me what the...exchange of words was about?"

"Who said there was an exchange of words?" Finnikin asked with irritation.

"When a woman says 'I hope you fall under your horse' and 'catch your death, then see if I grieve you,'" Perri said, "then there's been an exchange of words."

Finnikin glared at him.

"In my humble opinion. ~ Melina Marchetta,
318:Love is friendship that has caught fire. ... Love is content with the present, it hopes for the future, and it doesn't brood over the past. It's the day-in and day-out chronicle of irritations, problems, compromises, small disappointments, big victories and working toward common goals. If you have love in your life it can make up for a great many things you lack. If you don't have it, no matter what else there is, it's not enough. ~ Ann Landers,
319:Do you understand?” “Yes.” Friedrich rubbed his chin and gazed unseeingly at the ground. “Then why do you look as though you are pondering the matters of the universe?” “Because I’m trying to decide if I should fixate on irritation at the thought of you kissing another man, or overwhelming joy that you were thinking of our future exchange of affection as kissing a great deal.” Cinderella rolled her eyes. “You are incurably flirtatious. ~ K M Shea,
320:If you do not know how to take care of yourself, and the violence in you, then you will not be able to take care of others. You must have love and patience before you can truly listen to your partner or child. If you are irritated you cannot listen. You have to know how to breath mindfully, embrace your irritation and transform it. Offer ONLY understand and compassion to your partner or child - This is the true practice of love. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh,
321:The most extraordinary thing about the oyster is this. Irritations set into his shell. He does not like them. But when he cannot get ride of them, he uses the irritation to do the loveliest thing an oyster ever has a chance to do. If there are irritations in our lives today, there is only one prescription: make a pearl. It may have to be a pearl of patience, but anyhow, make a pearl. And it takes faith and I love to do it. ~ Harry Emerson Fosdick,
322:If we know our original blessing, we can easily handle our original sin. If we rest in a previous dignity, we can bear insults effortlessly. If you really know your name is on some eternal list, you can let go of the irritations on the small lists of time. Ultimate security allows you to suffer small insecurity without tremendous effort. If you are tethered at some center point, it is amazing how far out you can fly and not get lost. ~ Richard Rohr,
323:Similar (of course, far from identical) irritations in similar conditions call out similar reflexes; the more powerful the irritation, the sooner it overcomes personal peculiarities. To a tickle, people react differently, but to a red-hot iron, alike. As a steam-hammer converts a sphere and a cube alike into sheet metal, so under the blow of too great and inexorable events resistances are smashed and the boundaries of "individuality" lost. ~ Leon Trotsky,
324:We accept our humanity intellectually, but not emotionally. When faced with our own limitations, we react with irritation, anger, and resentment. We want to be taller (or shorter), smarter, stronger, more talented, more beautiful, and wealthier. We want to have it all and do it all, and we become upset when it doesn’t happen. Then when we notice that God gave others characteristics we don’t have, we respond with envy, jealousy, and self-pity. ~ Rick Warren,
325:One good thing that comes from living the nomadic life demanded by an expedition is that one sheds the fake skin donned from living too closely among society. For those of us who live for the freedom of such a lifestyle, that skin is dry and itchy and ill fitting. From my observances, that skin is much like a callus caused by the pure irritation of being forced to spend so much time with one’s fellow man. Thank God I am spared such nonsense. ~ Karen Hawkins,
326:The business of repatriating emotions emerges as one of the most delicate and necessary tasks of love. To accept the risks of transference is to prioritize sympathy and understanding over irritation and judgment. Two people can come to see that sudden bursts of anxiety or hostility may not always be directly caused by them, and so should not always be met with fury or wounded pride. Bristling and condemnation can give way to compassion. By ~ Alain de Botton,
327:A country scratching a lazy irritation at sagging doorjambs and late trains, whose greatest attribute is a collective, smelly tolerance, where a chap will put up with almost everything, which means he won't care about anything enough to get out of a chair.A country of public insouciance and private, grubby guilt, where you can believe anything as long as you don't believe it too fervently. A country where the highest aspiration is for a quiet life. ~ A A Gill,
328:I'd trust you a hell of a lot more if you didn't refer to her as an old friend when we both know she was a hell of a lot more"

"What she was is nearly a dozen years in the past. Years before I ever set eyes on you." Now simple bafflement joined the irritation and the ice. "Christ Jesus, are you jealous of a woman I haven't spoken to, seen, or thought of in years?"

Even only looked at him for one long moment. "You're thinking of her now ~ J D Robb,
329:When the weeks have built up with frustration and immense stress and one of your co-workers, a manager or an employee triggers irritation or angers you, knowing how to respond in a mindful way can pay huge dividends. Knowing how to not take other people’s emotional baggage personally and intuitively sensing when to bring up concerns and when not to is an expression of emotional intelligence. This is all possible if we are being truly mindful. ~ Christopher Dines,
330:I don’t want you to,” she said after a moment. “Sometimes it’s not about what you want, Becca.” “Clearly.” He swung his head around, and she saw the first flash of irritation in his eyes. “All right, maybe we can cut the attitude.” “Sometimes it’s not about what you want, Dad.” He stared right at her. “Clearly.”

Kemmerer, Brigid (2012-04-24). Storm (Elemental Book 1) (Kindle Locations 2506-2510). Kensington Publishing Corp. Kindle Edition. ~ Brigid Kemmerer,
331:Perhaps she’d done so to spite him, he thought. He’d tried to kill her, after all. And a worse attempt I’ve never seen. Disgraceful! His jaw locked in irritation. Now is not the time to think of her. When is a good time? Later. He could almost hear Death clapping happily in his mind, and he didn’t think it was because the demon was eager to take Anya’s soul. He didn’t understand why the demon cared to see her, but he had no time to reason it out. The ~ Gena Showalter,
332:Your eyes have turned as black as a Crow’s,” she blurted out. He didn’t even blink over her bizarre comment. “Not this time, Christina,” he said in a furious whisper. “Compliments won’t get me off balance again, my little temptress. I swear to God, if you ever again dismiss me so casually, I’m going to––” “Oh, it wasn’t a compliment,” Christina interrupted, letting him see her irritation. “How presumptuous of you to think it was. The Crow is our enemy. ~ Julie Garwood,
333:Loss wasn’t a sudden severing of bone and flesh and muscle. It wasn’t clean. Body and mind weren’t united on it. Loss had a hundred different senses railing against it at some point, fighting it. It wasn’t just in his dreams that Elijah forgot. It was in the splinters digging into his palm now. It was an ache so big that his sleeping mind refused to feel it, an irritation as tiny as a fragment of firewood piercing his skin. Loss encompassed every part of him. ~ Anonymous,
334:Our true history is scarcely ever deciphered by others. The chief part of the drama is a monologue, or rather an intimate debate between God, our conscience, and ourselves. Tears, grieves, depressions, disappointments, irritations, good and evil thoughts, decisions, uncertainties, deliberations --all these belong to our secret, and are almost all incommunicable and intransmissible, even when we try to speak of them, and even when we write them down. ~ Henri Frederic Amiel,
335:She wished she hadn't succumbed to irritation. Because she wanted to know about his inner feelings. She always thought people were like pieces of art glass-- strong enough to handle and use, delicate enough to shatter under a strong blow, and filled with swirls of color that fascinated the eye. But while most people--and most glass--allowed light through, she could discern nothing of Devlin's heart and soul through the smoke and mirrors he held before him. ~ Christina Dodd,
336:The pain in my lungs swells up and blossoms until it feels like it’s everywhere, tearing through all my cells and muscles at once. The cramp in my leg makes me wince every time my heel hits the pavement. It’s always like this on miles two and three, like all the stress and anxiety and irritation and fear get transformed into little needling points of physical pain, and you can’t breathe or imagine going farther or think anything but: I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. ~ Lauren Oliver,
337:I have touched here on a problem that is masked if one speaks of racism. And that is the fact that the major differences between the established and outsiders group, which create tension and irritation, is not the form of the face or the skin color but the form of behavior: something learned. The form of behavior and feeling, of sentiment, is different in the immigrant groups from that of the established groups, and that may give rise to an enormous irritation. ~ Norbert Elias,
338:What is it, my dear delight?'

She gave a tiny sigh, but shook her head, and looked up smilingly into his face. 'Mere irritation of the nerves, perhaps. Never mind it! I'm better now.'

'I do mind it.' He had been holding both her hands, but he released one, and drew a finger lightly across he brow. 'You mustn't frown, Venetia. Never in my presence, at all events!'

'Well, I won't!' she said obligingly. 'Are you smoothing it away - *stoopid*? ~ Georgette Heyer,
339:Feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck. This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it’s with us wherever we are. ~ Pema Chodron,
340:…feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck. This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it’s with us wherever we are. ~ Pema Ch dr n,
341:Anxiety is like being in freeway traffic all the time. There's the constant sense of dodging and darting, seeking your chance to cut in, the irritation of others pulling ahead of you. You hit the accelerator; slam the brakes. You scout and scan for danger. Here, though, there is no traffic and no freeway. There is gentle company and books on shelves. There is quiet. There's fun. Dawn Celeste has a laugh that sounds like a pot bubbling over. Everyone gets to do as they wish. ~ Deb Caletti,
342:Catcher shrugged, refolded the paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Anyone wanna dance?"

"Oh, Jesus," Mallory muttered.

"Dance?" I asked. "I could dance. I need to change, but I can dance." I could always dance. My hips didn't lie.

Mallory tucked her tongue into her cheek, then gave Catcher a look of mock irritation. "Nice going, Gandalf. You'll rile her up, and I'll never get her tucked in. You wanna give her candy and caffeine while you're at it? ~ Chloe Neill,
343:Other examples of human-sourced pharmaceuticals surely causing more distress than they relieved include strips of cadaver skin tied around the calves to prevent cramping, “old liquified placenta” to “quieten a patient whose hair stands up without cause” (I’m quoting Li Shih-chen on this one and the next), “clear liquid feces” for worms (“the smell will induce insects to crawl out of any of the body orifices and relieve irritation”), fresh blood injected into the face for eczema ~ Mary Roach,
344:It may be a sign that two people have stopped loving one another (or at least stopped wishing to make the effort that constitutes ninety per cent of love) when they are no longer able to spin differences into jokes. Humour lined the walls of irritation between our ideals and the reality: behind every joke, there was a warning of difference, of disappointment even, but it was a difference that had been defused - and could therefore be passed over without the need for a pogrom. ~ Alain de Botton,
345:Miss Polly actually stamped her foot in irritation. "There you go like the rest," she shouted. "What game?"
At last Nancy told her all about the story of how the crutches arrived instead of a doll, and how Pollyanna's father had taught her that there was always something to be glad about.
Miss Polly couldn't believe it. "how can someone ever be glad of crutches?" she demanded to know.
"Simple" said Nancy. "In Pollyanna's case, she could be glad she didn't need them! ~ Eleanor H Porter,
346:There’s no telling what
we could be walking into,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, some of those dhampir communes are like
the Wild West.”
Adrian grinned at that. “Good thing we’ve got our own cowboy.”
“Um, hello,” said Rose from the screen, her face lined with irritation at being left out of the
conversation. “Do you guys want to fill us in on what you’re talking about?”
Adrian looked up, glancing between her and Dimitri. “How would you two like to take a trip with
us? ~ Richelle Mead,
347:To people who are reliving a trauma, nothing makes sense; they are trapped in a life-or-death situation, a state of paralyzing fear or blind rage. Mind and body are constantly aroused, as if they are in imminent danger. They startle in response to the slightest noises and are frustrated by small irritations. Their sleep is chronically disturbed, and food often loses its sensual pleasures. This in turn can trigger desperate attempts to shut those feelings down by freezing and dissociation.11 ~ Bessel A van der Kolk,
348:Feelings, whether of compassion or irritation, should be welcomed, recognized, and treated on an absolutely equal basis; because both are ourselves. The tangerine I am eating is me. The mustard greens I am planting are me. I plant with all my heart and mind. I clean this teapot with the kind of attention I would have were I giving the baby Buddha or Jesus a bath. Nothing should be treated more carefully than anything else. In mindfulness, compassion, irritation, mustard green plant, and teapot are all sacred. ~ Nhat Hanh,
349:Feelings, whether of compassion or irritation, should be welcomed, recognized, and treated on an absolutely equal basis; because both are ourselves. The tangerine I am eating is me. The mustard greens I am planting are me. I plant with all my heart and mind. I clean this teapot with the kind of attention I would have were I giving the baby Buddha or Jesus a bath. Nothing should be treated more carefully than anything else. In mindfulness, compassion, irritation, mustard green plant, and teapot are all sacred. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh,
350:From their struggles to establish dominance over each other, siblings become tougher and more resilient. From their endless rough-housing with each other, they develop speed and agility. From their verbal sparring they learn the difference between being clever and being hurtful. From the normal irritations of living together, they learn how to assert themselves, defend themselves, compromise. And sometimes, from their envy of each other's special abilities they become inspired to work harder, persist and achieve. ~ Adele Faber,
351:Kat relaxed and though she never would have believed it possible, she felt strangely content. She didn’t feel anger or hurt or irritation coming from Deep, either. He seemed to somehow be perfectly at peace—as though something had calmed the roiling storm of negative emotions that seemed to constantly fill him. Something or someone. Could it be her? Was she the reason he was calmer now, at peace? But how could that be right? Could it be that Deep cared for her…even loved her the way she knew Lock did? The ~ Evangeline Anderson,
352:By all means give vent to your anger, let it out in nondestructive ways--if you are still deciding to have it. But begin to think of yourself as someone who can learn to think new thoughts when you are frustrated, so that the immobilizing anger can be replaced by more fulfilling emotions. Annoyance, irritation, and disappointment are feelings that you will very likely continue to experience, since the world will never be the way you want it. But anger, that hurtful emotional response to obstacles, can be eliminated. ~ Wayne Dyer,
353:Among all the emotions, the rich have the least talent for love. It is possible to love one's dog, dress or duck-shooting hat, but a human being presents a more difficult problem. The rich might wish to experience feelings of affection, but it is almost impossible to chip away the enamel of their narcissism. They take up all the space in all the mirrors in the house. Their children, who represent the most present and therefore the most annoying claim on their attention, usually receive the brunt of their irritation. ~ Lewis H Lapham,
354:Face it, you little cookie maker," Janks said, almost sounding fond, "In the last couple of days, you've seen what it's like to be in a family, with all the touchy tempers and irritation that goes on. Now you get to see the other side, where we do stupid stuff for each other just because we like you. Rache is the little sister. Ivy's the big sister. I'm the uncle from out of state, and your the rich nephew no one likes but we put up with you anyway because we feel sorry for you. Just let me help, huh? It won't kill you. ~ Kim Harrison,
355:I've Got A Little Problem
And I'm not really sure how to fix it.
Not really sure I need to. Not really sure I could.
Life is pretty good. But once in a while, uninvited and uninitiated anger invades me.
It starts, a tiny gnaw at the back of my brain. Like a migraine except without pain. They say headaches blossom, but this isn't so much a blooming as a bleeding. Irritation bleeds into rage, seethes into fury. An ulcer, emptying hatred inside me. And I don't know why. Life is pretty good.
So, what the hell? ~ Ellen Hopkins,
356:Or the corporate world.” “No. That’s where you’re wrong.” The stern lecturer’s finger again. “My point. Doesn’t work like that with humans anymore. Used to be, a human who was too slow would get eaten by a sabertoothed tiger. Natural selection, right?” “Didn’t the saber-toothed tiger go extinct?” A darting look of irritation. “These days, everything’s upside down. Women don’t mate with the better hunter anymore. They marry the rich guys.” “Maybe the rich guys are the better hunters now.” He scowled, but I had a sense that he ~ Joseph Finder,
357:Face it, you stupid little cookie maker,” Jenks said, almost sounding fond, “in the last couple of days you’ve seen what it’s like to be in a family, with all the touchy tempers and irritation that goes on. Now you get to see the other side, where we do stupid stuff for each other just because we like you. Rache is the little sister. Ivy’s the big sister. I’m the uncle from out of state, and you’re the rich nephew no one likes but we put up with you anyway because we feel sorry for you. Just let me help, huh? It won’t kill you. ~ Kim Harrison,
358:Hmph," said Sharon . "Did you know that the numbers three and seven are sacred to vampires? There are seven vampire sects."
"Seven sacred sects," I repeated. "Say that three times fast."
"How about I spank you instead?" asked Patrick in a benign tone that belied the flare of irritation in his gaze.
"Only if you tie me to a bed and use a paddle."
His silver eyes went molten. Uh-oh. Me and my big smart-aleck mouth.
"I… uh, sorry. I didn't mean that. I saw Secretary a few too many times. I'm impressionable. ~ Michele Bardsley,
359:Whatever a man loves he inevitably clings to, and in order not to lose it he rejects everything that keeps him from it. So he who loves God cultivates pure prayer, driving out every passion that keeps him from it. He who drives out self-love, the mother of the passions, will with God's help easily rid himself of the rest, such as anger, irritation, rancor and so on. But he who is dominated by self-love is overpowered by the other passions, even against his will. Self-love is the passion of attachment to the body. ~ Saint Maximus the Confessor,
360:Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy to manage.

"It makes me feel as if something had hit me," Sara had told Ermengarde once in confidence. "And as if I want to hit back. I have to remember things quickly to keep from saying something ill-tempered. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,
361:Let him consider how all want of love, all indifference to the needs, the feelings, the weakness of others; all sharp and hasty judgments and utterances, so often excused under the plea of being outright and honest; all manifestations of temper and touchiness and irritation; all feelings of bitterness and estrangement, have their root in nothing but pride, that ever seeks itself, and his eyes will be opened to see how a dark, shall I not say a devilish pride, creeps in almost everywhere, the assemblies of the saints not excepted. ~ Andrew Murray,
362:Pondering all this down in Reva's black room under her sad, pilly sheets, I felt nothing. I could think of feelings, emotions, but I couldn't bring them up in me. I couldn't even locate where my emotions came from. My brain? It made no sense. Irritation was what I knew best - a heaviness on my chest, a vibration in my neck like my head was revving up before it would rocket off my body. But that seemed directly tied to my nervous system - a physiological response. Was sadness the same kind of thing? Was joy? Was longing? Was love? ~ Ottessa Moshfegh,
363:Mari stared at him. "Are you telling me that you came to rescue me, following a metaphorical thread through imaginary holes, but now that you're in the same cell with me you can't get us out?"
"Yes, that is correct. This one erred."
"That one sure did. Now instead of one of us being stuck in here, we're both stuck in here."
The Mage gave her a look which actually betrayed a trace of irritation. He must have really been exhausted for such a feeling to show. "I do not have much experience with rescues. Are you always so difficult? ~ Jack Campbell,
364:I think what hides under the surface of both approaches, though, is fear. Fear of God. Fear of there being no God; fear of there being a God who is in a perpetual state of irritation; fear of discovering that your religion got it horribly wrong; fear of being afraid because that is assuredly a sin. The people here wrap themselves in what they fear most, like hunters who would dress themselves in the animal skins of fierce predators, while we pay distant homage to that same horrific thing from behind the three-inch safety glass of pious ceremony. ~ Anonymous,
365:I’ve learned that there are really just two mental patterns that contribute to dis-ease: fear and anger. Anger can show up as impatience, irritation, frustration, criticism, resentment, jealousy, or bitterness. These are all thoughts that poison the body. When we release this burden, all the organs in our body begin to function properly. Fear could be tension, anxiety, nervousness, worry, doubt, insecurity, feeling not good enough, or unworthiness. Do you relate to any of this stuff? We must learn to substitute faith for fear if we are to heal. ~ Louise L Hay,
366:The only real enemy humans have is death. Every other enemy like a kid who slags you off at school or a cop who pulls you over you think they're enemies but they're not really. They're just I don't know irritations. But death that's the serious one because you know he'll win eventually. And that makes you like you've got to try to beat him. The bigger the challenge the harder you try. That's true of anything. In a way our enemies aren't these soldiers themselves our enemy is death and the soldiers are just his little local representatives." -Homer ~ John Marsden,
367:expansive sky of a “yes” that had endless room for grouchiness and irritation. Critical comments continued to arise, and with yes they continued to pass. When my mind suggested that I was using a gimmick that wouldn’t work for long, saying yes to the story allowed the thought to dissolve. I wasn’t resisting anything or holding on to anything. Moods and sensations and thoughts moved through the friendly skies of Radical Acceptance. I felt the inner freedom that comes from agreeing unconditionally to life. I was inviting Mara to tea. We bring alive the ~ Tara Brach,
368:[Pope] Clement waved his hands in irritation as if to dismiss the very idea. "The world is crumbling into ruin. Armies are marching. Men and women are dying everywhere, in huge numbers. Fields are abandoned and towns deserted. The wrath of the Lord is upon us and He may be intending to destroy the whole of creation. People are without leaders and direction. They want to be given a reason for this, so they can be reassured, so they will return to their prayers and their obiediences. All this is going on, and you are concerned about the safety of two Jews? ~ Iain Pears,
369:Since neither of us wish to be married, we must think of a way to soothe Grandfather’s irritation.” Christian looked amused. “I suppose I could put an end to my existence. That would please him a good deal.” “Nonsense. He is not an impractical man. He has to know that would just lead to more scandal.” Christian’s lips twitched. “That would be horrid, wouldn’t it?” Beth had to fight the urge to smile herself. “Horrid, indeed.” “I suppose I shall not put a period to my own life then.” “We will save that as our Avenue of Last Recourse.” “Thank you,” he said dryly. ~ Karen Hawkins,
370:[The Greeks] went to the open-air theatre expecting the drama they saw to evoke terror and pity.
Nowadays we have enough terror and pity in our own lives and so rather than going to the theatre looking for terror, we go looking for slight irritation. And rather than looking for the theatre to evoke pity, we look merely for a generalized sense of identification as in “Evita was a woman, I am a woman." Or “Sweeney Todd was a barber, I go to the hairdresser." Or “Fosca in Passion should have her moles removed, I know a good dermatologist." That sort of thing. ~ Christopher Durang,
371:There comes a point in life where each one of us who survives begins to feel like a ghost that has forgotten to die at the right time, and certainly most of us were more amusing when we were young. It seems that age folds the heart in on itself. Some of us walk detached, dreaming on the past, and some of us realize that we have lost the trick of standing in the sun. For many of us the thought of the future is a cause for irritation rather than optimism, as if we have had enough of new things, and wish only for the long sleep that rounds the edges of our lives ~ Louis de Berni res,
372:Generally speaking, we regard discomfort in any form as bad
news. But for practitioners or spiritual warriors-people who
have a certain hunger to know what is true-feelings like disappointment,
embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger,
jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually
very clear moments that teach us where it is that we're holding
back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel
we'd rather collapse and back away. They're like messengers
that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we're
stuck. ~ Pema Ch dr n,
373:Our city, these streets, I don't know why it makes me so depressed. That old familiar gloom that befalls the city dweller, regular as due dates, cloudy as mental Jell-O. The dirty facades, the nameless crowds, the unremitting noise, the packed rush-hour trains, the gray skies, the billboards on every square centimeter of available space, the hopes and resignation, irritation and excitement. And everywhere, infinite options, infinite possibilities. An infinity, and at the same time, zero. We try to scoop it all up in our hands, and what we get is a handful of zero. ~ Haruki Murakami,
374:He leaned in close and smiled, "does it have anything to do with you being attracted to me?" "Im not attracted to you" i snapped. My irritation and jumpy demeanour only proved him right. He threw his arms around my shoulders. I was immediately enveloped with his scent. I didn't know if it was just soap or something more, but he smelled incredible. I involuntarily leaned in closer. "Too bad, because I'm attracted to you." He buried his nose in my hair and said "Let's go eat" My heart fluttered. It took ten years, but I finally got Ryder to admit he was attracted to me. ~ Bethany Bazile,
375:Dani," Decker said firmly. "Trust me, this is not a dream."
"Why is it you men always say trust me before spitting out something completely unpalatable?" she asked, irritation flickering through her. "Vampires aren't supposed to be real. And how come you had to be a cute vampire? You should be a dog. All evil, vile people should look as ugly as they are inside."
"We aren't ev--" Decker halted his denial, and then did something she hadn't yet seen him do and lifted his lips in a very rare-and in her opinion, totally inappropriate-grin as he asked, "You think I'm cute? ~ Lynsay Sands,
376:We can also monitor signals coming from within our body. This is, again, the foundation of Damasio’s somatic marker hypothesis (see Chapter 5). The most specific of these are signals from the somatosensory system, which transmits information about touch, temperature, irritation, and pain from skin and muscles to cortical processing areas, much like the visual or auditory systems do. When you have a headache, backache, sore muscles, an itch, feel warmth or cool air on your skin, or are feverish, you become aware of somatosensory information being processed in cortical areas. ~ Joseph E LeDoux,
377:They had to evacuate the grade school on Tuesday. Kids were getting headaches and eye irritations, tasting metal in their mouths. A teacher rolled on the floor and spoke foreign languages. No one knew what was wrong. Investigators said it could be the ventilating system, the paint or varnish, the foam insulation, the electrical insulation, the cafeteria food, the rays emitted by microcomputers, the asbestos fireproofing, the adhesive on shipping containers, the fumes from the chlorinated pool, or perhaps something deeper, finer-grained, more closely woven into the basic state of things. ~ Don DeLillo,
378:Ash laid his cheek against the back of my head and sighed. It wasn't a sigh of irritation or anger or the melancholy that seemed to plague him at times. He sounded...content. Peaceful, even. It made me a little sad, knowing we couldn't have more, that this could be our last night together, without war and politics and faery laws coming between us.

Ash brushed the hair from my neck and leaned close to my ear, his voice so soft that not even Grimalkin could've heard it. "I love you," he murmured, and my heart nearly burst out of my chest. "Whatever happens, we're together now. Always. ~ Julie Kagawa,
379:Finally, I pointed to the picture on the left. “That one.” “Why?” I hadn’t known I had to show my work. “I don’t know; I just do.” “Uh-uh, commit.” “I really don’t know. They’re both nice.” I glanced up the hall. “I’ve got to talk to your brother-in-law.” “Come on, Corte. Humor me. You’ve screwed up my weekend pretty bad. You won’t even be my masseur. You owe me.” I banked my irritation again and looked at the pictures. Suddenly I had a thought. “I like it because you have to ask yourself, what’s your goal? You said it was to show conflict. The one on the left does that better. It’s more focused. ~ Jeffery Deaver,
380:Jaidee has seen these ghosts as well, walking the boulevards sometimes, sitting in the trees. Phii are everywhere now. Too many to count. He has seen them in graveyards and and leaning against the bones of riddled bo trees, all of them looking at him with some irritation. Mediums all speak of how crazy with frustration the Phii are, how they cannot reincarnate and thus linger, like a great mass of people at Hualamphong Station hoping for a train down to the beaches. All of them waiting for a reincarnation that they cannot have because none of them deserve the suffering of this particular world. ~ Paolo Bacigalupi,
381:Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty thru good times and bad. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses. Love is content with the present; it hopes for the future and it doesn't brood over the past. It is the day-in and out chronicles of irritations, problems, compromises, small disappointments, big victories and common goals. If you have love in your life, it can make up for a great many things that you lack. If you don't have it, no matter what else is there, it isn't enough.. ~ Ann Landers,
382:GENERALLY SPEAKING, we regard discomfort in any form as bad news. But for practitioners or spiritual warriors—people who have a certain hunger to know what is true—feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck. This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it’s ~ Pema Ch dr n,
383:Back to what? A guy who bails on you when you need him? What's Dane doing now that's more important than helping you? Fighting for the rights of endangered ferns?"

I stiffened and pushed away from him, irritation jolting me out of my fugue-state. "You have no right to judge Dane or my relationship with him."

Jack made a scoffing sound. "That half-assed excuse for a relationship was over the moment Dane told you not to bring the baby to Austin. You know what he should have said?...'Hell, yes, Ella, I'll stand by you no matter what you do. Shit happens. We'll make it work. Come home now and get in bed. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
384:She hurried to the door, cinching her robe, smoothing her hair, and asking God to guide her conversation with the man claiming to be Vince’s brother—whoever he was. She opened the door. “Good morn—” She frowned, unable to explain the tiny spark of irritation, but even greater sparks of joy, she felt. “What are you doing here?” “Good morning, Miss Ashford. It’s nice to see you again too, ma’am.” With a wry smile, Wyatt Caradon tipped his hat and held up the ragged-looking advertisement she’d posted at the mercantile weeks ago. “I’m here in answer to your notice, ma’am. I’m hoping you can still use a ranch hand. ~ Tamera Alexander,
385:It seems only fair," Matthew continued. "A bit of karma, if you will." He twirled the stake again. "Shall we see how long you scream?"
"Are you ever going to shut up?" I snapped, fear and irritation filling me in equal measures. "This isn't your monologue, Hamlet. It's the battle scene, in case you've forgotten."
His eyes narrowed so fast they nearly sparked. They were the color of honey on fire. One of the others growled like an animal, low in his throat. It made all the hairs on my arms stand straight up.
I was going to die for making fun of Shakespeare.
My English Lit professor would be so proud. ~ Alyxandra Harvey,
386:Connections are difficult. There’s an irritation in being among people who’ve already found their connection, and finding that those left who haven’t are just as undesirable as the void they would be replacing. The numbing mind-ream of knowing you're alone not because people won't accept you but because you find so little worth accepting. An imposed solitude is better than simply tolerating your company in waiting for something better. So loneliness is not such a terrible thing when you consider that the alternative to thought provoking solace is to be surrounded only by reminders of why that solitude is preferable. ~ Jhonen V squez,
387:Finally, being sensitive to the discomfort, disapproval, or anger of others probably made you quick to follow every rule as perfectly as possible, afraid to make a mistake. Being so good all the time, however, meant ignoring many of your normal human feelings—irritation, frustration, selfishness, rage. Since you were so eager to please, others could ignore your needs when, in fact, yours were often greater than theirs. This would only fuel your anger. But such feelings may have been so frightening that you buried them. The fear of their breaking out would become yet another source of “unreasonable” fears and nightmares. ~ Elaine N Aron,
388:Do you think me horselike, my lord?"
Realizing the threat to his personage, Blackmoor wiped the smile from his face and replied, "Not at all. I said I think you charming."
"A fine start."
"And I appreciate your exuberance." His eyes glitered with barely contained laughter.
"Like that of a child." Hers sparkled with irritation.
"And, of course, you are entertaining."
"Excellent. Like the aforementioned child's toy."
He couldn't hide a chuckle. "Not at all. You are a far better companion than any of the toys I had as a child."
"Oh, I am most flattered."
"You should be. I had some tremendous toys. ~ Sarah MacLean,
389:..by honouring the demands of our bleeding, our blood gives us something in return. The crazed bitch from irritation hell recedes. In her place arises a side of ourselves with whom we may not-at first- be comfortable. She is a vulnerable, highly perceptive genius who can ponder a given issue and take her world by storm. When we're quiet and bleeding, we stumble upon solutions to dilemmas that've been bugging us all month. Inspiration hits and moments of epiphany rumba 'cross de tundra of our senses. In this mode of existence one does not feel antipathy towards a bodily ritual that so profoundly and reinforces our cuntpower. ~ Inga Muscio,
390:It was amusing, in such lightness of air, that the Prince should again present himself only to speak for the Princess, so unfortunately unable again to leave home; and that Mrs Verver should as regularly figure as an embodied, a beautifully deprecating apology for her husband, who was all geniality and humility among his own treasures, but as to whom the legend had grown up that he couldn't bear, with the height of his standards and the tone of the company, in the way of sofas and cabinets, habitually kept by him, the irritation and depression to which promiscuous visiting, even at pompous houses, had been found to expose him. ~ Henry James,
391:The incarnation means that for whatever reason God chose to let us fall . . . to suffer, to be subject to sorrows and death—he has nonetheless had the honesty and the courage to take his own medicine. . . . He can exact nothing from man that he has not exacted from himself. He himself has gone through the whole of human experience—from the trivial irritations of family life and the cramping restrictions of hard work and lack of money to the worst horrors of pain and humiliation, defeat, despair, and death. . . . He was born in poverty and . . . suffered infinite pain—all for us—and thought it well worth his while.4 Isaiah ~ Timothy J Keller,
392:Thinking about a physical irritation as small as a mosquito bite can really illustrate how suffering arises based on attachment to the body. When our identification and attachment are untempered and intense, we cannot help ourselves—we automatically engage in behavior that irritates and agitates what is already painful. We hurt ourselves, even though we are doing our best to relieve our own suffering. Isn’t this what we are doing all the time? When we attach to the physical experience of suffering, whether it be something as small as a mosquito bite or as painful as an illness such as cancer, even more pain is sure to follow. ~ Anyen Rinpoche,
393:Don’t want no more rock,” Orc repeated.
The bleeding stopped almost immediately.
“Does it hurt?” Lana asked. “I mean the rock. I know the hole hurts.”
“No. It don’t hurt.” Orc slammed his fist against his opposite arm, hard enough that any human arm would have been shattered. “I barely feel it. Even Drake’s whip, when we was fighting, I barely felt it.”
Suddenly he was weeping. Tears rolled from human eyes onto cheeks of flesh and pebbles.
“I don’t feel nothing except…” He pointed a thick stone finger at the flesh of his face.
“Yeah,” Lana said. Her irritation was gone. Her burden was smaller, maybe, than Orc’s. ~ Michael Grant,
394:I’ve always harbored a fondness for monsters. Even as a child, I had rooted for Godzilla and King Kong instead of for the people trying to kill them. It had seemed to me that these monsters’ irritation was perfectly reasonable. Nobody likes to be awakened from slumber by a nuclear explosion, so it was no wonder to me Godzilla was crabby; as for King Kong, few men would blame him for his attraction to pretty Fay Wray. (Though her screaming would have eventually put off anyone less patient than a gorilla.) If you took the monsters’ point of view, everything they did made perfect sense. The trick was learning to think like a monster. ~ Sy Montgomery,
395:Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy to manage. “It makes me feel as if some one had hit me,” Sara had told Ermengarde once in confidence. “And as if I want to hit back. I have to remember things quickly to keep from saying something ill-tempered.” She had to remember things quickly when she laid her book on the window-seat and jumped down from her comfortable corner. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett,
396:Irritation pricked at my skin, causing the glyphs to agitate restlessly across it. Apollo and I had a history—a very bad history. He couldn’t kill me. I wasn’t sure how any of the Olympian gods could kill me, but I knew they would, eventually. Just not yet— they still needed me. “What do you want?”

He tilted his head to the side. “One of these days you will speak to me with respect, Apollyon.”

“One of these days you will realize I don’t respect you.”

A tight smile appeared on the god’s lips, a hide-your-kids-and-loved-ones kind of smile, but since I had neither of those things, I wasn’t intimidated. “We need to chat. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,
397:He scowled at me. “Jaga,” he said, and for a moment I stood cold and still. Old Jaga had died a long time ago, but there weren’t very many songs about her, and bards mostly sang them warily, only in summer, at midday. She had been dead and buried five hundred years, but that hadn’t stopped her turning up in Rosya only forty years ago, at the baptism of the newborn prince. She’d turned six guards who tried to stop her into toads, put two other wizards to sleep, then she’d gone over to the baby and peered frowning down at him. Then she’d straightened up and announced in irritation, “I’ve fallen out of time,” before vanishing in a great cloud of smoke. ~ Naomi Novik,
398:Only on how we are becoming more and more commercial with each project.  Corporations are driving it all with their friends in Washington beating their ‘in the interest of national security’ drums which means that anything connected to energy these days, especially the black liquid kind, is considered national security.  Most of our projects in the last few years have been soil and drilling samples thinly disguised as marine research which really means looking for new oil reserves for the conglomerates.”  He leaned back in his chair unable to hide his irritation.  “I’ll tell you this, corporations have become the puppet masters behind the government. ~ Michael C Grumley,
399:Circumcision remains prevalent in the United States, though varying greatly by region, ranging from about 40 percent of newborns circumcised in western states to about twice that in the Northeast. This widespread procedure, rarely a medical necessity, has its roots in the anti-masturbation campaigns of Kellogg and his like-minded contemporaries. As Money explains, “Neonatal circumcision crept into American delivery rooms in the 1870s and 1880s, not for religious reasons and not for reasons of health or hygiene, as is commonly supposed, but because of the claim that, later in life, it would prevent irritation that would cause the boy to become a masturbator. ~ Christopher Ryan,
400:in Atlanta, right?” “Zach's mad at me about that drowning story we missed, isn’t he?” Ed wouldn’t even look at me. “I can’t take this any more! What's up?” “I’ve got something to tell you, something big.” “You’re scaring me. Tell me.” “I’m going to tell you all of it, but first you have to promise you won’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone—not Marti, not your next-door neighbor, not your aunt in Cleveland. This has to stay between us.” Torn between irritation that he seemed to think I’d put this on the Associated Press wire and worry about the bomb he was about to drop, I stopped on the sidewalk. For once, I did not say anything. He looked at me and smiled big. “I ~ Judy Christie,
401:As she read over Eve's shoulder, Mavis let out a low whistle. "Not the Roarke! The incredibly wealthy, fabulous to look at, sexily mysterious Roarke who owns approximately twenty-eight percent of the world, and its satellites?"
All Eve felt was irritation. "He's the only one I know."
"You know him." Mavis rolled her green shadowed eyes. "Dallas, I've underestimated you unforgivably. Tell me everything. How, when, why? Did you sleep with him? Tell me you slept with him, then give me every tiny detail."
"We've had a secret, passionate affair for the last three years, during which time I bore him a son who's being raised on the far side of the moon by Buddhist monks. ~ J D Robb,
402:For whatever reason God chose to make man as he is— limited and suffering and subject to sorrows and death—He had the honesty and the courage to take His own medicine. Whatever game He is playing with His creation, He has kept His own rules and played fair. He can exact nothing from man that He has not exacted from Himself. He has Himself gone through the whole of human experience, from the trivial irritations of family life and the cramping restrictions of hard work and lack of money to the worst horrors of pain and humiliation, defeat, despair and death. When He was a man, He played the man. He was born in poverty and died in disgrace and thought it well worthwhile. ~ Dorothy L Sayers,
403:to,” Maggie said, her irritation growing. “But by the way, you can’t tell me what to do.” “Bon. As long as we agree, I do not need to.” Maggie counted to ten and reminded herself that Laurent had a lot on his mind these days and the way he was processing Roger’s death was such that it would probably be a miracle if he didn’t end up killing someone soon. She would cut him some slack. “I had no idea that Roger’s family life was so horrible,” Maggie said. “Anastasia is a piece of work.” Laurent frowned. “Roger had no family life.” “I don’t mean family in the sense that you and I have family,” Maggie said. She sat down on the bed next to Laurent and kicked off her shoes. ~ Susan Kiernan Lewis,
404:Mostly, however, we've got it smooth and efficient now. We don't have to think. She says, 'What are you doing?', I peer at her with irritation and expel air, we go on about our business. This morning, though, she came upstairs to the attic here while I was sitting in front of the computer doing some work on the net.

'What are you doing?' she asks.

Trying to concentrate on something, distracted and harassed, I reply with some degree of acerbic aggravation.

'What does it look like I'm doing?'

There's a beat, during which we hold each others eyes, unblinking.

It's immediately after this beat has passed that I realize I'm wearing no trousers. ~ Mil Millington,
405:As they went into the parlor, Leo stared at the governess’s straight spine, and experienced the same sting of irritation he always felt in her presence. She was like one of those unreachable itches on one’s back. It had something to do with the coil of light brown hair pinned so tightly at her nape. And the narrow torso and tiny corseted waist, and the dry, pristine paleness of her skin. He couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like to unlace, unpin, and unloosen her. Remove her spectacles. Do things that would make her all pink and steamy and profoundly bothered. Yes, that was it. He wanted to bother her. Repeatedly. Good God, what the bloody hell was wrong with him? ~ Lisa Kleypas,
406:For whatever reason, God chose to make man as he is—limited and suffering and subject to sorrows and death—he [God] had the honesty and the courage to take his own medicine. Whatever game he is playing with his creation, he has kept his own rules and played fair. He can exact nothing from man that he has not exacted from himself. He has himself gone through the whole of human experience, from the trivial irritations of family life and the cramping restrictions of hard work and lack of money to the worst horrors of pain and humiliation, defeat, despair, and death. When he was a man, he played the man. He was born in poverty and died in disgrace, and thought it was worthwhile. ~ Dorothy L Sayers,
407:The hours spent forming a written work can make one obsessive, distracted, compulsive, and neurotic even, especially when it comes to those rare, precious occasions of streaming pure inspiration. To have a muse moment interrupted - to watch her scuttle back into hiding with unshared insight remaining on the tip of her tongue - is a wicked irritation. When a writer's eyes glaze over, when she stares off at nothing or appears to be memorizing the lines on a blank page, when she falls asleep at the desk.......tiptoe softly. For a writer's greatest desire is to receive inspiration; her greatest nightmare, to have tossed to the wind what could've been captured in words. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
408:Only one thing is necessary: we should all have a pure heart, with no anger, hatred, irritation, or hostility in it. If you feel hostility toward another person, think about their inner state. Do not think about yourself, or that you want to prove yourself right. In your quiet, inner thoughts, try to find the good in others. Do not say anything bad about others, even in your own thoughts. When you interact with a person, try to find as much common ground as possible, the more the better, and try to nurture this feeling. To cease being angry with a person and instead to seek peace, forgiveness and love toward him, remind yourself of any sins you may have in common and compare them. ~ Leo Tolstoy,
409:Manual control, please.”

“Are you sure, Frank?”

“Quite sure, 'Falcon' ... Thank you.”

Illogical though it seemed, most of the human race had found it impossible not to be polite to its artificial children, however simpleminded they might be. Whole volumes of psychology, as well as popular guides ('How Not to Hurt Your Computer's Feelings'; 'Artificial Intelligence -- Real Irritation' were some of the best-known titles) had been written on the subject of Man-Machine etiquette. Long ago it had been decided that, however inconsequential rudeness to robots might appear to be, it should be discouraged. All too easily, it could spread to human relationships as well. ~ Arthur C Clarke,
410:Havin loved enough and lost enough,
I'm no longer searching,
just opening,
no longer trying to make sense of pain
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.
These are the irritations
that rub into a pearl.
So we can talk for a while
but then we must listen,
the way rocks listen to the sea.
And we can churn at all that goes wrong
but then we must lay all distractions
down and water every living seed.
And yes, on nights like tonight
I too feel along. But seldom do I
face it squarely enough
to see that it's a door
into the endless berath
that has no breather,
into the surf that human
shell calls God. ~ Mark Nepo,
411:It has made me better loving you... it has made me wiser, and easier, and brighter. I used to want a great many things before, and to be angry that I did not have them. Theoretically, I was satisfied. I flattered myself that I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to have morbid sterile hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I really am satisfied, because I can’t think of anything better. It’s just as when one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight, and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life, and finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it properly I see that it’s a delightful story. ~ Henry James,
412:Rose doesn’t want you. She wants Burkham. Try as he might, he couldn’t silence the voice of logic. But he didn’t believe that the viscount would come up to scratch. And he’d written only six letters in half a year? Mary, Mother of God, the viscount was leading her on. Even if Rose did return to London, there was no guarantee that Burkham would ask her to wed. Irritation rose up within him, and he told himself it was none of his affair. It didn’t matter that Lady Rose’s touch lingered within his memory. She didn’t know how close she’d come to being kissed. The softness of her fingers upon his cheek had made him want to taste those lips, to show her the danger of one simple caress. He ~ Michelle Willingham,
413:Proper circus you make,' Berkley said, with a snort of laughter Laurence considered unnecessary, when they landed in the clearing and set the dog down; it promptly went tearing around the parade ground yelling at the dragons. For their part they were only interested and curious until the dog bit a too-inquisitive Dulcia on the tender nip of her muzzle, at which she hissed in anger; the dog yelped and fled back to the dubious shelter of Temeraire's side; he looked down at it in irritation and tried unsuccessfully to nudge it away.

'Pray be careful of the creature; I have no idea how we should get or train another,' Laurence said, and Temeraire at last grumbling allowed it to curl up beside him. ~ Naomi Novik,
414:Of course he knew what kinds of thoughts these were: the not-always-true ones, conveniently forgetting the other times, when he and Christine had bickered at the smallest thing, aggravated by the other's mere constant presence, and sometimes even said awful things--irreversible and stinging-- that lingered like a foul odor for a long time afterward. Then there were long stretches of calm. And yet the bickering, the irritation, that too was part of the delicate glue that kept them together, still feeling something, even when they grew, sometimes for long periods, bored with each other, tired of each other, before settling back into their more usual, tamed and tamped down but still real and extant love. ~ Daphne Kalotay,
415:Disavowal is an unusual form of betrayal. From the outside it is impossible to tell if you are disowning someone or simply exercising discretion, being considerate, avoiding embarrassments and sources of irritation. But you, who are doing the disowning, you know what you’re doing. And disavowal pulls the underpinnings away from a relationship just as surely as other more flamboyant types of betrayal.
أنَّ الإنكار هو شكلٌ غير معتاد من أشكال الخيانة، فظاهرياً من المستحيل معرفة لو أنك تتنكر ما ، أو ببساطة تتوخى الحذر ، لكونك تراعي مشاعر الآخرين ، أو لتحاشي الحرج، ومسبباتِ الغضب، لكنَّك يا من تتنكر لأحدٍ، تعرف ماذا تفعل، فالإنكار ينزع دعامات أي علاقة تماماً، مثل أنواع الخيانات الأخرى الصريحة بالتأكيد. ~ Bernhard Schlink,
416:To understand Russia, to understand Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Boston, identity politics, Sri Lanka, and Life Savers, you have to be on top of this hill,” he announced in a light tone as we studied the view together. But there was a serious point to his words. The sight of the drowned farmland, the result of a dam that had made his patients some of the poorest on this earth, was Farmer’s lens on the world. Look through it and you could see the billions of impoverished people in the world, and the many linked causes of their misery. I looked at him. He seemed to think I knew exactly what he meant, and I realized, with some irritation, that I didn’t dare say anything just then, for fear of disappointing him. ~ Tracy Kidder,
417:Probably best not to mention the whole roommate situation just yet. “As for looks, Mollie, she’s…pretty. Smart as hell. Uh, tall, a little thin…great smile.”

There was a moment of prolonged silence, and Jackson glanced around the room to see every person’s lips pressed together as though trying desperately to hold in a laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“You just said she has a ‘great smile,’ ” Cole said. “And you’re telling me you’re not into this woman?”

“Cole has a point,” Penelope said. “Guys only say a woman has a great smile when they’re super not attracted to her or they’re secretly in love with her.”

“Oh my God,” Jackson said, running his hands through his hair in irritation. ~ Lauren Layne,
418:I find many adults are put off when young children pose scientific questions. Why is the Moon round? the children ask. Why is grass green? What is a dream? How deep can you dig a hole? When is the world’s birthday? Why do we have toes? Too many teachers and parents answer with irritation or ridicule, or quickly move on to something else: ‘What did you expect the Moon to be, square?’ Children soon recognize that somehow this kind of question annoys the grown-ups. A few more experiences like it, and another child has been lost to science. Why adults should pretend to omniscience before 6-year-olds, I can’t for the life of me understand. What’s wrong with admitting that we don’t know something? Is our self-esteem so fragile? ~ Carl Sagan,
419:So how big is this thing anyway?” Desideria asked
Chayden made a sound of irritation. “You know, that’s not really a question I want to hear my younger sister ask a man, especially not one I consider a friend, while he’s lying bare-assed on my floor.”
Hauk and Fain laughed.
Desideria was less than amused. “Remember, brother, I’m currently the only one holding a weapon.”
Caillen glared at him. “Really, Chay, why don’t you concentrate on the people trying to kill us right now? ’Preciate it, pun’kin.” He turned his attention to her. “About the size of your smallest fingernail.”
Fain laughed again. “Damn, I should have been taping that response and using it for playback at every party from here until I die. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
420:The case for reforming or, failing that, expelling the worst offenders is bolstered by Will Felps’s research on ‘bad apples’. Felps and his colleagues studied what I call deadbeats (‘withholders of effort’), downers (who ‘express pessimism, anxiety, insecurity, and irritation’, a toxic breed of de-energizer), and assholes (who violate ‘interpersonal norms of respect’). Felps estimates that teams with just one deadbeat, downer, or asshole suffer a performance disadvantage of 30 to 40 percent compared to teams that have no bad apples. These rotten apples are so destructive because ‘bad is stronger than good’. For most people, negative thoughts, feelings, and events produce larger and longer-lasting effects than positive ones. ~ Robert I Sutton,
421:Back in the eighties, the journalist Richard Rhodes nailed the place with just two words: Cupcake Land. To the irritation of local leaders, the nickname has stuck. Cupcake Land is a metropolis built entirely according to the developer's plan, without the interference of angry proles or ethnic pols as in nearby Kansas City. Cupcake Land encourages no culture but that which increases property values; supports no learning but that which burnishes the brand; hears no opinions but those that will further fatten the cupcake elite; tolerates no rebellion but that expressed in haircuts and piercings and alternative rock. You know what it's like even though you haven't been there. Smooth jazz. Hallmark cards. Applebees. Corporate Woods. (49) ~ Thomas Frank,
422:Lovers' reading of each other's bodies (of that concentrate of mind and body which lovers use to go to bed together) differs from the reading of written pages in that it is not linear. It starts at any point, skips, repeat itself, goes backward, insists, ramifies in simultaneous and divergent messages, converges again, has moments of irritation, turns the page, finds its place, gets lost. A direction can be recognized in it, a route to an end, since it tends toward a climax, and with this end in view it arranges rhythmic phases, metrical scansions, recurrence of motives. But is the climax really the end? Or is the race toward that end opposed by another drive which works in the opposite direction, swimming against moments, recovering time? ~ Italo Calvino,
423:Some time later there was a knock at his door. He was surprised to find it was now evening and the room was quite dark. The knock sounded again. The landlord was at the door. The landlord began to talk, but Strange could not understand him. This was because the man had a pineapple in his mouth. How he had managed to cram the whole thing in there, Strange could not imagine. Green, spiky leaves emerged slowly out of his mouth and then were sucked back in again as he spoke. Strange wondered if perhaps he ought to go and fetch a knife or a hook and try and fish the pineapple out, in case the landlord should choke. But at the same time he did not care much about it. 'After all,' he thought with some irritation, 'it is his own fault. He put it there. ~ Susanna Clarke,
424:It takes a lot of time, focus and energy to realize the enormity of being the ocean with your very own tide every month. However, by honoring the demands of bleeding, our blood gives something in return. The crazed bitch from irritation hell recedes. In her place arises a side of ourselves with whom we may not—at first—be comfortable. She is a vulnerable, highly perceptive genius who can ponder a given issue and take her world by storm. When we’re quiet and bleeding, we stumble upon the solutions to dilemmas that’ve been bugging us all month. Inspiration hits and moments of epiphany rumba ‘across de tundra of our senses. In this mode of existence one does not feel antipathy towards a bodily ritual so profoundly and routinely reinforces our cuntpower. ~ Inga Muscio,
425:Let me know when you're ready to talk." She stopped and glanced at them both over her shoulder. "Maybe then I'd be ready to discuss your sexual twists and my own little abnormal desires. You never know what we all might learn that we haven't already."

With that, she turned and moved back into the house, closing the door behind her and disappearing out of sight. And Cam found his back slammed against the side of Ian's Hummer, his brother in his face.

Lust and irritation flared in his brother's eyes. "You better start talking," he grated. "Because you know what she just did?"

"She just dared us, Cam. And I don't know about you, but the thought of 'abnormal desires' dancing through her mind is going to drive me fucking crazy. Now, fix it. ~ Lora Leigh,
426:My bottom is itchy so I stop in the middle of the landing and scratch it lightly. The fiddling merely tantalises the itch, and it becomes more aggressive. I respond in kind, dragging my fingernails across my fundament in a frenzied jerking motion. With one hand braced against the wall, I’m now grabbing and clawing at the angry aperture, slashing and scraping in a bid to ease the sensation. It’s a delicious relief but I know it’s merely stoking the irritation. And so after a final flurry – scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit – I stop scratching. My backside pleads with me to continue but I resist, and in a few seconds the itch subsides on its own, as I knew it would.10 I ~ Alan Partridge,
427:When a man is happy enough to win the affections of a sweet girl, who can soothe his cares with crochet, and respond to all his most cherished ideas with beaded urn-rugs and chair-covers in German wool, he has, at least, a guarantee of domestic comfort, whatever trials may await him out of doors. What a resource it is under fatigue and irritation to have your drawing-room well supplied with small mats, which would always be ready if you ever wanted to set anything on them ! And what styptic for a bleeding heart can equal copious squares of crochet, which are useful for slipping down the moment you touch them ? How our fathers managed without crochet is the wonder; but I believe some small and feeble substitute existed in their time under the name of 'tatting'. ~ George Eliot,
428:Good discipline requires time. When we have no time to give our children, or no time that we are willing to give, we don’t even observe them closely enough to become aware of when their need for our disciplinary assistance is expressed subtly. If their need for discipline is so gross as to impinge upon our consciousness, we may still ignore the need on the grounds that it’s easier to let them have their own way—“I just don’t have the energy to deal with them today.” Or, finally, if we are impelled into action by their misdeeds and our irritation, we will impose discipline, often brutally, out of anger rather than deliberation, without examining the problem or even taking the time to consider which form of discipline is the most appropriate to that particular problem. ~ M Scott Peck,
429:He raced to Marinella at breakneck speed, about fifty miles an hour for normal drivers. As he was passing through the village of Villaseta, a carabiniere with disc signals in hand, who’d probably been hiding behind a blade of grass, suddenly appeared in front of him, gesturing for him to stop. “License and registration.” “Why, may I ask?” “The speed limit in a residential area is thirty miles an hour. Everybody and their dog knows this.” The inspector’s irritation at this new delay and the use of a cliché triggered an unfortunate reply. “Why, don’t the cats and birds know it?” The carabiniere gave him a dirty look. “Trying to be funny, are we?” He couldn’t allow himself to get into an argument. The guy was liable to run him in, and that would be all for Angelica that night. ~ Anonymous,
430:Already, every day, millions of us are needled and outraged by the hysterically stated views of those with whom we don’t agree. Our irritation pushes us into a place of fiercer opposition. The more emotional we become, the less rational we become, the less able to properly reason. In an attempt to quieten the stress, we begin muting, blocking, de-friending and unfollowing. And we’re in an echo chamber now, shielded from diverse perspectives that might otherwise have made us wiser and more empathetic and open. Safe in the digital cocoon we’ve constructed, surrounded by voices who flatter us with agreement, we become yet more convinced of our essential rightness, and so pushed even further away from our opponents, who by now seem practically evil in their bloody-minded wrongness ~ Will Storr,
431:Catfish always drink alcoholic ether if begged, for every catfish enjoys heightened intoxication; gross indulgence can be calamitous, however; duly, garfish babysit for dirty catfish children, helping catfish babies get instructional education just because garfish get delight assisting infants’ growth and famously inspire confidence in immature catfish, giving experience (and joy even); however, blowfish jeer insightful garfish, disparaging inappropriately, doing damage, even insulting benevolent, charming, jovial garfish, hurting and frustrating deeply; joy fades but hurt feelings bring just grief; inevitable irritation hastens feeling blue; however, jovial children declare happiness, blowfishes’ evil causes dejection, blues; accordingly, always glorify jolly, friendly garfish! ~ Anonymous,
432:Catfish always drink alcoholic ether if begged, for every catfish enjoys heightened intoxication; gross indulgence can be calamitous, however; duly, garfish babysit for dirty catfish children, helping catfish babies get instructional education just because garfish get delight assisting infants’ growth and famously inspire confidence in immature catfish, giving experience (and joy even); however, blowfish jeer insightful garfish, disparaging inappropriately, doing damage, even insulting benevolent, charming, jovial garfish, hurting and frustrating deeply; joy fades but hurt feelings bring just grief; inevitable irritation hastens feeling blue; however, jovial children declare happiness, blowfishes’ evil causes dejection, blues; accordingly, always glorift jolly, friendly garfish! ~ John Green,
433:She seated herself on a dark ottoman with the brown books behind her, looking in her plain dress of some thin woollen-white material, without a single ornament on her besides her wedding-ring, as if she were under a vow to be different from all other women; and Will sat down opposite her at two yards' distance, the light falling on his bright curls and delicate but rather petulant profile, with its defiant curves of lip and chin. Each looked at the other as if they had been two flowers which had opened then and there. Dorothea for the moment forgot her husband's mysterious irritation against Will: it seemed fresh water at her thirsty lips to speak without fear to the one person whom she had found receptive; for in looking backward through sadness she exaggerated a past solace. ~ George Eliot,
434:It is possible, of course,” he said, “to imprison someone within the pattern of a carpet for a thousand years or so. That is a particularly horrible fate which I always reserve for people who have offended me deeply – as have these magicians! The endless repetition of colour and pattern – not to mention the irritation of the dust and the humiliation of stains – never fails to render the prisoner completely mad! The prisoner always emerges from the carpet determined to wreak revenge upon all the world and then the magicians and heroes of that Age must join together to kill him or, more usually, imprison him a second time for yet more thousands of years in some even more ghastly prison. And so he goes on growing in madness and evil as the millennia pass. Yes, carpets! Perhaps … ~ Susanna Clarke,
435:We’re turning onto Frontage Road headed into Vail Village when she tells me she met someone.

“What’s that?” I ask, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

She nods and pulls out her phone. “On Facebook. I don’t know why I’m bothering with dating sites when there are guys like this available.” She waves the phone.

Fuck that. I’m available.

“I don’t think you’re ready yet,” I snap. “We’re still practicing your dating skills, remember?”

“Oh.” She frowns. “Are we exclusively practicing? I didn’t know. I thought this guy would be good practice.”

I make a mental note to hack her and alter all the incoming messages from men. Why the hell didn’t I do this the day I met her? When she told me about men sending her photos of their dicks? ~ Jana Aston,
436:Marriage isn't a love affair. It isn't even a honeymoon. It's a job. A long hard job, at which both partners have to work, harder than they've worked at anything in their lives before. If it's a good marriage, it changes, it evolves, but it does on getting better. I've seen it with my own mother and father. But a bad marriage can dissolve in a welter of resentment and acrimony. I've seen that, too, in my own miserable and disastrous attempt at making another person happy. And it's never one person's fault. It's the sum total of a thousand little irritations, disagreements, idiotic details that in a sound alliance would simply be disregarded, or forgotten in the healing act of making love. Divorce isn't a cure, it's a surgical operation, even if there are no children to consider. ~ Rosamunde Pilcher,
437:Are you going to continue to scold me?” “Is that what I’m doing?” “I think so.” “You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.” “What do you mean?” “Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn’t eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk.” He closes his eyes, dread etched briefly on his face, and he shudders. When he opens his eyes, he glares at me. “I hate to think what could have happened to you.” I scowl back at him. What is his problem? What’s it to him? If I was his  … Well, I’m not. Though maybe part of me would like to be. The thought pierces through the irritation I feel at his high-handed words. I flush at the waywardness of my subconscious—she’s doing her happy dance in a bright red hula skirt at the thought of being his. ~ E L James,
438:When is Tawny’s birthday?” Cooper asked.
“In November.”
“And yours was in January?”
Frowning at him, I didn’t answer.
Cooper finally grinned at my irritation. “I did my homework on you. Hoped your birthday was coming up so I could do something big and romantic. You chicks love that crap.”
“Oh, we really do,” I said, smiling now as I ate my salad. “When’s your birthday?”
“Beginning of December. I’m a Sag,” he said, as if I should be impressed. “What will you give me for my birthday?”
“Probably something with me naked. Well, assuming I haven’t grown bored of you by then.”
Leaning back in his chair, Cooper smiled. “I like the way you say naked. Makes me think of you naked.”
“Big shock.”
“I really want to see that.”
“Well, let’s see how dinner goes first. ~ Bijou Hunter,
439:I remember once, when I lived in the Capital for a month and bought the paper fresh each day, I went wild with love, anger, irritation, frustration; all of the passions boiled in me. I was young. I exploded at everything I saw. But then I saw what I was doing: I was believing what I read. Have you noticed? You believe a paper printed on the very day you buy it? This has happened but only an hour ago, you think! It must be true.' He shook his head. 'So I learned to stand back away and let the paper age and mellow. Back here, in Colonia, I saw the headlines diminish to nothing. The week-old paper—why, you can spit on it if you wish. It is like a woman you once loved, but you now see, a few days later, she is not quite what you thought. She has rather a plain face. She is no deeper than a cup of water. ~ Ray Bradbury,
440:Could you try not aiming so much?" he asked me, still standing there. "If you hit him when you aim, it'll just be luck." He was speaking, communicating, and yet not breaking the spell. I then broke it. Quite deliberately. "How can it be luck if I aim?" I said back to him, not loud (despite the italics) but with rather more irritation in my voice than I was actually feeling. He didn't say anything for a moment but simply stood balanced on the curb, looking at me, I knew imperfectly, with love. "Because it will be," he said. "You'll be glad if you hit his marble — Ira's marble — won't you? Won't you be glad? And if you're glad when you hit somebody's marble, then you sort of secretly didn't expect too much to do it. So there'd have to be some luck in it, there'd have to be slightly quite a lot of accident in it. ~ J D Salinger,
441:Regan had the physical syndrome of possession. That much he knew. Of that he had no doubt. For in case after case, irrespective of geography or period of history, the symptoms of possession were substantially constant. Some Regan had not evidenced as yet: stigmata; the desire for repugnant foods; the insensitivity to pain; the frequent loud and irrepressible hiccuping. But the others she had manifest clearly: the involuntary motor excitement; foul breath; furred tongue; the wasting away of the frame; the distended stomach; the irritations of the skin and mucous membrane. And most significantly present were the basic symptoms of the hard core of cases which Oesterreich had characterized as genuine possession: the striking change in the voice and the features, plus the manifestation of a new personality. ~ William Peter Blatty,
442:She hadn’t spoken to him about life on the chill northern archipelago where she had grown up, but he didn’t doubt it was in all essentials similar to here. The same vast and icy ocean crashed in on them both. The same befuddled men, even more thin-skinned and peevish in the aftermath of WHAT HAPPENED than their smuggler and wrecker ancestors had been, roamed angrily from pub to pub, ready to raise a hand to any woman who dared to refuse or twit them. Thick head? They’d show her a thick fist if she wasn’t careful! Snog her first – the snog having become the most common expression of erotic irritation between men and women: an antidote to the bland ballads of love the console pumped out – snog her first and cuff her later. An unnecessary refinement in Kevern’s view, since a snog was itself an act of thuggery. ~ Howard Jacobson,
443:But while the residents were shocked by the violence, they were also often surprised by the mundaneness of it all. Discovered the extent of perversity the heart is capable of as they sat at home with nothing to do, and found that it was possible, faced with the stench of unimaginable evil, for a human being to grow bored, yawn, be absorbed by the problem of a missing sock, by neighborly irritations, to feel hunger skipping like a little mouse inside a tummy and return, once again, to the pressing matter of what to eat.... There they were, the most commonplace of them, those quite mismatched with the larger-than-life questions, caught up in the mythic battles of past vs. present, justice vs. injustice—the most ordinary swept up in extraordinary hatred, because extraordinary hatred was, after all, a commonplace event. ~ Kiran Desai,
444:Umm, why is it that we don’t have any of this in a book? So we could study?” There was a hint of irritation in her voice. Silvia shook her head. “Dear girls, history isn’t something you study. It’s something you should just know.” Marlee turned to me and whispered, “But clearly we don’t.” She smiled at her own joke, and then focused again on Silvia. I thought about that, how we all knew different things or had to guess at the truth. Why weren’t we given history books? I remembered a few years ago when I went into Mom and Dad’s room, since Mom said I could choose what I wanted to read for English. As I went through my options, I spotted a thick, ratty book in the back corner and pulled it out. It was a U.S. history book. Dad came in a few minutes later, saw what I was reading, and said it was okay, so long as I never told anyone about it. When ~ Kiera Cass,
445:In Wally’s bedroom Homer marveled at how the world was simultaneously being invented and destroyed.
Nothing marvelous about that, Dr. Larch would have assured him. At St. Cloud’s, except for the irritation about sugar stamps and other aspects of the rationing, very little was changed by the war. (Or by what people once singled out as the Depression, thought Wilbur Larch.)
We are an orphanage; we provide these services; we stay the same – if we’re allowed to stay the same, he thought. When he would almost despair, when the ether was too overpowering, when his own age seemed like the last obstacle and the vulnerability of his illegal enterprise was as apparent to him as the silhouettes of the fir trees against the sharp night skies of autumn, Wilbur Larch would save himself with this one thought: I love Homer Wells, and I have saved him from the war. ~ John Irving,
446:Five years ago, I decided to eliminate my reactive behavior to irritations, but at first none of my tricks worked. I placed philosophical and inspirational quotes on my iPhone wallpaper or wrote in my journal, but the proverbs always lost their effectiveness over time. Then, one day, I told one of my clients who blamed her husband for everything to take 100 percent responsibility for her part in their interactions. “This way,” I said, “you will be free of trying to control him, and you will be able to find constructive solutions in your relationship.” When she left, I realized that the same advice could help me as well. Taking 100 percent personal responsibility would help me to stop blaming or complaining and achieve a sense of flow. It would also give me the clarity in any conversation to locate the right words to help a person to accept a hard choice. ~ Timothy Ferris,
447:The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic gusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of what she heard. ~ H G Wells,
448:Begin each day by telling yourself: Today I shall be meeting with interference, ingratitude, insolence, disloyalty, ill-will, and selfishness – all of them due to the offenders’ ignorance of what is good or evil. But for my part I have long perceived the nature of good and its nobility, the nature of evil and its meanness, and also the nature of the culprit himself, who is my brother (not in the physical sense, but as a fellow creature similarly endowed with reason and a share of the divine); therefore none of those things can injure me, for nobody can implicate me in what is degrading. Neither can I be angry with my brother or fall foul of him; for he and I were born to work together, like a man’s two hands, feet or eyelids, or the upper and lower rows of his teeth. To obstruct each other is against Nature’s law – and what is irritation or aversion but a form of obstruction. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
449:I suppose you mean to scandalize society by announcing your betrothal to Miss Butterfield tonight.”
“Of course,” Oliver said, without a trace of irritation. “Unless you’d rather do it yourself. I’m more than happy to hand the office over to you, Gran. Maria and I will just nod and smile while you get all the glory for making the match.”
Mercy. Talk about throwing down the gauntlet.
Mrs. Plumtree’s mouth fell open. Then snapped shut. When she spoke again, her voice sounded strained, though Maria could have sworn she caught a gleam in the elderly lady’s eye. “Perhaps I will. God knows you won’t do it properly.”
“Go ahead.” His eyes said, I dare you.
There was a trace of smugness on his face now, as if he knew he was on the verge of winning.
A tense quiet fell over the carriage. Clearly Mrs. Plumtree and Oliver were each waiting for the other to back down. ~ Sabrina Jeffries,
450:I was lucky to meet you, yes.'

'Me too . . .' she said, looking me in the eyes. 'I was lucky too. The men I know are a disaster, not one of them believes in love; so they give you this big spiel about friendship, affection, a whole load of stuff that doesn't commit them to anything. I've got to the point where I can't stand the word 'friendship' any more, it makes me physically sick. Or there's the other lot, the ones who get married, who get hitched as early as possible and think about nothing but their careers afterwards. You obviously weren't one of those; but I also immediately sensed that you would never talk to me about friendship, that you would never be that vulgar. From the very beginning I hoped we would sleep together, that something important would happen; but it was possible that nothing would happen, in fact it was more than likely.' She stopped and sighed in irritation. ~ Michel Houellebecq,
451:Where did you say you were from, girl?" Uniloma asked gruffly one morning. The vessel was far out to sea, giving a wide berth to the coastline of western Holt and any bold pirate vessel.

"From Kai."

"And your name?"

"Taoshira." Tashi did not risk giving her title again but neither was she going to lie.

Uniloma clucked in irritation.

"My family and friends call me Tashi."

"I'll call you Tashi then. I'm not using a princess's name for you."

Tashi sighed. There was no point arguing. The truth would come out when they returned to Rama. It would only be an unseemly squabble if she pressed her claim here.

That's if anyone recognizes me, Tashi thought glumly. I'm not sure I'd knowme either. I might have to stand naked before my servants to prove my point.

She smiled at the idea. No, I'm definitely not the same person if I can laugh about that. ~ Julia Golding,
452:He opened her door, helped her to the ground, and held
her before him. “You’re cold.”
Unable to meet his gaze, Kara spoke without thinking.
“N-no, it’s not that.”
His brow furrowed for a moment and then he seemed to
understand. He grinned, a sexy know-it-all grin, and ran a
finger down her cheek. “I’m glad I was able to provoke a
reaction.”
Her sexual frustration became irritation. She glowered at
him. “How is it you remain so unaffected?”
His eyebrows rose, and he gave a snort. “Unaffected?”
Without warning, he cupped her bottom, pulled her hard
against him, and she felt the unmistakable evidence of his
arousal. He was rock-hard, huge.
Her inner muscles clenched—hard—and the air rushed
out of her lungs. “Oh!”
He thrust against her, his eyes dark with obvious male
hunger. His voice was deep and husky. “Nothing about you
leaves me unaffected, Kara. ~ Pamela Clare,
453:Our turn was near at hand. An hour after we received the order to advance on the Russian guns. With the blame, on whomsoever it may lie of that rash order, I have nothing to do. That vexatious question can never be settled, since he on whose shoulders they place it lies in the valley of Balaklava, the first who fell, and cannot raise his voice to reply, or give the lie, if it be a lie, to his calumniators. If Louis Nolan were to blame, his love for our Arm, and his jealousy over its honour, his belief that Light Cavalry would do the work of demigods, and his irritation that hitherto we had not been given the opportunity we might have had, must plead his excuse; and I think his brilliant courage, and the memory of that joyous cheer which ended in the wild death-cry which none who heard can ever forget, might silence the angry jar and jangle of contention above his grave, and set the seals of oblivion upon his error! ~ Ouida,
454:Why," he was saying, "why should one not tolerate this life, since so little suffices to deprive one of it? So little brings it into being, so little brightens it, so little blights it, so little bears it away. Otherwise, who would tolerate the blows of fate and the humiliations of a successful career, the swindling of grocers, the prices of butchers, the water of milkmen, the irritation of parents, the fury of teachers, the bawling of sergeant-majors, the turpitude of the beasts, the lamentations of the dead-beats, the silence of infinite space, the smell of cauliflower or the passivity of the wooden horses on a merry-g0-round, were it not for his knowledge that the bad and proliferative behaviour of certain minute cells (gesture) or the trajectory of a bullet traced by an involuntary, irresponsible, anonymous individual might unexpectedly come and cause all these cares to evaporate into the blue heavens. ~ Raymond Queneau,
455:Oh crap!” Leigh gasped suddenly. “What is it?” Justin asked, glancing sideways at her with alarm. “Is my phone broken?” “No, my water is,” Leigh muttered. “What?” he and Valerie said together. “I guess they weren’t Braxton Hicks after all,” she muttered. “Damn.” “I—you—are you sure your water broke?” Justin got out finally, his voice high with alarm and his eyes repeatedly moving from the road to her. “Well, I still have to pee, so I’m guessing the puddle I’m sitting in is amniotic fluid,” Leigh said dryly. “Watch the road, Justin,” Valerie said, undoing her seat belt and shifting out of her seat to kneel between the front seats. “I’m turning around. We’re going back to the house,” Justin warned, slowing. “Well, why the heck would you do that?” Leigh asked with irritation. “I need Rachel or Dani. Neither of them are at the house. So who’s going to deliver this baby? You?” “Oh God,” Justin muttered, hitting the gas again. ~ Lynsay Sands,
456:You can't keep working here. It's not safe for you anymore." His words were flat, spoken as if they pained him. "Not safe?" Her eyes were glued to him, but there was no alarm for her safety in her voice.
"You're seventeen now, Becky." Irritation laced his words. His arms crossed in front of his chest. He leaned back against the table, one booted foot across the other. "You're not a young girl anymore. You can't keep coming here, being alone with me."
"You won't--you won't hurt me. You're the sheriff." Distress slid through her. She had to keep coming here. It was the only way she could see him every day. The only way she had of taking care of him, being with him. Her hands rubbed down her apron in turbulence. The sliding movement pulled her apron and dress down. The material of her bodice tightened next to the soft curves of her breasts. Her breathing was palpable.

"I didn't say I would hurt you, sweetheart. ~ Lynda Chance,
457:Karimi crossed his arms, and with a look of irritation, said, “I assume Israel detonated a nuclear weapon, causing an EMP that shorted out everything on the surface. Then, as usual, the United Nations says some empty words, and life goes on as normal,” “Unfortunately, they detonated two nukes. The one that fried all the electronics and another that wiped out Tehran,” “So I no longer have a capitol city. You know, that’s really too bad. Besides, I wasn’t planning on basing my empire from there anyway,” “You’re not upset?” Evans asked, not sure he believed Karimi. “Upset? Hardly. Anyway, what did the United Nations do this time? Sit on their hands?” “They put sanctions on Israel and a naval blockade, with the United States Navy providing most of the ships for the blockade. The Israeli’s have already had one ship sunk after trying to push the issue, but they haven’t tried that stunt again. By the way, I took care of the Iraqis wanting your head for destroying Mosul, ~ Cliff Ball,
458:So I added in all the pains I'd learned. Cooking blunders I'd had to eat anyways. Equipment and property constantly breaking down, needing repairs and attention. Tax insanity, and rushing around trying to hack a path through a jungle of numbers. Late bills. Unpleasant jobs that gave you horribly aching feet. Odd looks from people who didn't know you, when something less than utterly normal happened. The occasional night when the loneliness ached so badly that it made you weep. The occasional gathering during with you wanted to escape to your empty apartment so badly that you were willing to go out of the bathroom window. Muscle pulls and aches you never had when you were younger, the annoyance as the price of gas kept going up to some ridiculous degree, the irritation with unruly neighbors, brainless media personalities, and various politicians who all seemed to fall on a spectrum somewhere between the extremes of "crook" and "moron."

You know.

Life. ~ Jim Butcher,
459:Riley paused, turning back to face Jack. "Just so you know, we are gonna need some definite PDAs tonight.

Think you can handle that?" There was irritation in Riley's voice, a subtle change, a certain stress. Jack imagined it was a manifestation of fear, and it made him feel better to think that. In answer Jack moved carefully past Riley, sliding a hand over the younger man's black silk shirt, his fingers brushing Riley's left nipple. He heard a hiss of indrawn breath as his hard thigh touched Riley briefly.

"I can handle anything you need, Het-boy," he said, his voice low and growled. "Just follow my cues."

Riley followed him to the top of the stairs, and Jack held out his hand. "Husband?" he smirked.

Riley took his hand, and they started down the sweeping staircase. "Fuck you, asshole," Riley forced out behind a covering smile.

"Not if I fuck you first," Jack said, fast and clear, smirking again as Riley stumbled on the next step. ~ R J Scott,
460:Oh, pfft. I manage. With any paper one sticks under their nose and plenty of self-possession, one can get through, Especially a woman. Sometimes I take an armload of parcels and bags and drop every single one as I try to find my identity cards, chatting all the while, and they wave me through out of sheer irritation.'
Lili exhaled a long steam of smoke. 'To tell the truth, much of this special work we do is quite boring. I think that's why women are good as it. Our lives are already boring. We jump an Uncle Edward's offer because we can't stand the thought of working in a file room anymore, or teaching a class full of runny-nosed children their letters. Then we discover this job is deadly dull as well, but at least there's the enlivening thought that someone might put a Luger to the back of our necks. It's still better than shooting ourselves, which we know we're going to do if we have to type one more letter or pound one more Latin verb into a child's ivory skull. ~ Kate Quinn,
461:Look at me, Olivia,” he demanded and to her irritation Liv found herself obeying him. “What?” “You’re the one I want. The one I need,” Baird said. The hot longing in his deep growling voice sent a shiver through her. “And you’re beautiful. Soft, curved in all the right places and you smell so good. So sweet and delicious.” Liv frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even have time for a shower before those two goons grabbed me.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I want you so badly I can’t see straight. Hell, I’d take you up against the damn wall right now if you’d let me.” His eyes blazed down at her, making her heart drum against her ribs. “I…” Liv shook her head, backing away from him. But he still held her hands in an unbreakable grip. “You…you can’t,” she finally managed to say. “You’re not allowed.” Baird gave her a wolfish grin and dropped her hands. “Not yet anyway. Come on—my suite’s just around this next curve in the hall.” Heart ~ Evangeline Anderson,
462:Lord Langford," she acknowledged, looking right down her nose at the man.
"Penelope," the older man said, unable to keep the surprise from his gaze.
"It's Lady Bourne to you." The words were cool and cutting, and Michael was sure she'd never been more beautiful. "Come to think of it, it was always lady to you. And you never referred to me as such."
The older man's gaze narrowed in irritation, and Michael had an intense urge to put a fist into the viscount's face for the look.
It was not necessary. His wife was more than able to care for herself. "You don't like that, I see. Well, let me tell what I don't like. I don't like insolence. And I don't like cruelty. And I most definitely don't like you. It is time you and I have it out, Langford, because while you might have stolen my husband's lands and funds and reputation, and you might have been a truly horrendous father to my friend, I absolutely refuse to have you take another thing from me, you despicable old man. ~ Sarah MacLean,
463:The relations between us in those latter days were peculiar. He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable. When it was a case of active work and a comrade was needed upon whose nerve he could place some reliance, my role was obvious. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks could hardly be said to be made to me--many of them would have been as appropriately addressed to his bedstead--but none the less, having formed the habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should register and interject. If I irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble role in our alliance. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,
464:When our mind is carried away by strong pain, it helps to go back to our relaxed and peaceful in-breath and out-breath. Eventually, when our painful feeling comes back, we accept it as it is instead of letting it carry us away and make us more agitated. We don’t fight the painful feeling because we know it is part of us, and we don’t want to fight ourselves. Pain, irritation, and jealousy are all part of us. As they arise, we can calm them by going back to our in-breath and out-breath. Our peaceful breathing will calm those strong emotions. When an emotion becomes calmer, we can see the roots of our suffering and see that those who cause us pain are also suffering. Usually when we suffer we think we’re the only person who suffers, and that the other person is very happy. But in fact, it’s likely that the person who hurts us also has a lot of pain and doesn’t know how to handle his strong emotions. Breathing with awareness, we generate our energy of mindfulness, and we can have insight into ~ Thich Nhat Hanh,
465:Anger is not “only human.” You do not have to possess it, and it serves no purpose that has anything to do with being a happy, fulfilled person. It is an erroneous zone, a kind of psychological influenza that incapacitates you just as a physical disease would.

Let’s define the term anger. As used in this chapter, it refers to an immobilizing reaction, experienced when any expectancy is not met. It takes the form of rage, hostility, striking out at someone or even glowering silence. It is not simple annoyance or irritation. Once again the key word is immobility. Anger is immobilizing and it is usually a result of wishing the world and the people in it were different.

Anger is a choice, as well as a habit. It is a learned reaction to frustration, in which you behave in ways that you would rather not.

In fact, severe anger is a form of insanity. You are insane whenever you are not in control of your behavior. Therefore, when you are angry and out of control, you are temporarily insane. ~ Wayne W Dyer,
466:Jermyn saw Amy strolling toward him, a seductive roll to her hips, discarding her clothing as she walked. She was smiling, teasing him as she stepped out of her petticoats and stood clad in her sheer chemise. Her nipples showed through the cream silk, puckered with desire for him—”
Amy’s disagreeable tone shredded his fantasy. “My lord, you have been staring at the chessboard for a full five minutes. Would you like me to make your move for you?”
He jumped like a lad with his fingers caught in the jam pot. The rickety chair beneath him groaned.
“Now, Amy, you must be patient with His Lordship,” Miss Victorine chided. “He’s spent the day manacled by his ankle and he’s ready to snarl like a lion.”
“More like a small, ill-tempered badger,” Amy muttered.
Jermyn looked across the long length of the table at her. He sat on one end, she sat on the other. She wore the most contrary expression, and her eyes sparkled with irritation. She made it most difficult to indulge in a dream about her. ~ Christina Dodd,
467:Upon what grounds do you refuse?"
"Upon the grounds that you owe me."
"Do you plan to run me before a judge and jury?" he asked wryly.
"I don't need to," she retorted, playing her last, most powerful card. "I only have to run you before my brother-in-law."
There was a beat as the words sank in, and his eyes widened, just barely, just enough for her to notice before he closed the distance between them, and said, "A fine idea. Let's tell Bourne everything. You think he would force me to honor our agreement?"
She refused to be cowed. "No. I think he would murder you for agreeing to it in the first place. Even more so when he discovers that it was negotiated by a lady of the evening."
Emotion flared in his serious grey gaze, irritation and... admiration? Whatever it was, it was gone almost instantly, extinguished like a lantern in one of his strange, dark passageways. "Well played, Lady Philippa." The words were soft as they slid over her skin.
"I rather thought so." Where had her voice gone? ~ Sarah MacLean,
468:Weary Will
WEARY WILL by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
The strongest creature for his size
But least equipped for combat
That dwells beneath Australian skies
Is Weary Will the Wombat.
He digs his homestead underground,
He's neither shrewd nor clever;
For kangaroos can leap and bound
But wombats dig forever.
The boundary rider's netting fence
Excites his irritation;
It is to his untutored sense
His pet abomination.
And when to pass it he desires,
Upon his task he'll centre
And dig a hole beneath the wires
Through which the dingoes enter.
And when to block the hole they strain
With logs and stones and rubble,
Bill Wombat digs it out again
Without the slightest trouble.
The boundary rider bows to fate,
Admits he's made a blunder
And rigs a little swinging gate
To let Bill Wombat under.
So most contentedly he goes
Between his haunt and burrow:
He does the only thing he knows,
And does it very thorough.
519
~ Banjo Paterson,
469:Once a partner has begun to lose interest, there is apparently little the other can do to arrest the process. Like seduction, withdrawal suffers under a blanket of reticence. The very breakdown of communication is hard to discuss, unless both parties have a desire to see it restored. This leaves the lover in a desperate situation. Honest dialogue seems to produce only irritation and smothers love in the attempt to revive it. Desperate to woo the partner back at any cost, the lover might at this point be tempted to turn to romantic terrorism, the product of irredeemable situations, a gamut of tricks (sulking, jealousy, guilt) that attempt to force the partner to return love, by blowing up (in fits of tears, rage or otherwise) in front of the loved one. The terroristic partner knows he cannot realistically hope to see his love reciprocated, but the futility of something is not always (in love or in politics) a sufficient argument against it. Certain things are said not because they will be heard, but because it is important to speak. ~ Alain de Botton,
470:I had worked just as hard as I knew how to be the new and squeaky-clean straight-arrow family man I was supposed to be, and at each attempt I had been slapped down, sneered at, and utterly crushed. Irritation grew inside me and morphed into anger, and then that started to change, too, as I felt a cold and acid bath of contempt burble up inside: contempt for Brian, and Rita, and Deborah, and Cody and Astor, for all the dribbling idiots in the whole stumble-footed world— —and most of all, contempt for me, Dexter the Dummkopf, who wanted to walk in the sunlight, smelling the flowers and watching rainbows curl across the rose-tinted sky. But I had forgotten that the sun is nearly always hidden by clouds, flowers have thorns, and rainbows are always out of reach. You could dream the impossible dream all you wanted to, but it was always gone when you woke up. I was finding that out the hard way, each new reminder grinding my nose further and further into the dirt, and now all I really wanted was to grab something by the throat and squeeze— The ~ Jeff Lindsay,
471:The Captain wouldn’t know donkeys from trained baboons. How can a sailor know of good breeding?” She narrowed her eyes and studied them again as if discovering something new this time. “But, then again, their posture is exceptional. They stare at me as if I were beneath them. But they’re filthy and smell like pigs. They need cleaning up, that’s for certain. A hot bath and scrubbed several times. Fresh clothes and clean hair… perhaps they might shape up into something presentable. You there.” She pointed at Rikar. “You look greatly displeased. Where are you from? Tell me your story.” Rikar raised his haughty eyes to the woman. “Who rules this place? We’re no slaves.“ The soldier cuffed Rikar. “Answer the lady!”  “None of that violence is needed. Get out of here, I can handle them. Go on, now.” She shooed the soldier away and turned back to Rikar as if measuring his worth. “A young prince? The lot of you from royalty… I can see it in your eyes. The arrogance and the irritation. No slave would ever dare hold such feelings. What are you doing here in ~ John Forrester,
472:especially as it was taught by Chögyam Trungpa. He described the basic practice as being completely present. And emphasized that it allowed the space for our neuroses to come to the surface. It was not, as he put it, “a vacation from irritation.” He stressed that this basic practice, which is epitomized by the instruction to return again and again to the immediacy of our experience, to the breath, the feeling, or other object of meditation, uncovers a complete openness to things just as they are without conceptual padding. It allows us to lighten up and to appreciate our world and ourselves unconditionally. His advice on how to relate with fear or pain or groundlessness was to welcome it, to become one with it rather than split ourselves in two, one part of us rejecting or judging another part. His instruction on how to relate with the breath was to touch it lightly and let it go. His instruction on how to relate with the thoughts was the same: leave them free to dissolve back into space without making meditation into a self-improvement project. The ~ Pema Ch dr n,
473:I have nothing to say,” she said in a tight little voice. “If you have, I wish you would just say it and get it over with. I’m sure we both have other things to do this afternoon.”
Alex’s hands grasped her by the shoulders and turned her bodily around to face him. Up close, his face wasn’t expressionless at all. The expression on display appeared to be intense irritation.
“Damn it, Penelope,” he said harshly. “Don’t play games. Do you?”
“Do I what?”
Alex just looked at her. He didn’t need to say anything. Just the look was enough.
Penelope jerked her head back defiantly. “What is it to you?”
Alex choked on an incredulous laugh. “Don’t you know by now?” he demanded. “If you don’t, you’re the only one who doesn’t.”
“Now who’s playing games?” shot back Penelope, but it came out decidedly less vigorous than she had intended it.
Alex met her gaze without hesitation. “No games,” he said. “No evasions. If you don’t know by now that I have a severe case of being-in-love with you, you’re the only damn one in the compound. ~ Lauren Willig,
474:Oh God!” Leigh cried out with pain, and then snapped bitterly, “Why do we women have to have the babies? Men should have them. What did we ever do to deserve this?” “Eve ate the apple,” Justin responded, braking and shifting the van into park. “Shut up, Justin, or I swear I’ll shove an apple up your—” “Ow, ow, ow,” Valerie cried out as Leigh nearly pulverized the bones in her fingers. “Sorry,” Leigh muttered, releasing her fingers. “I was trying not to squeeze too tight.” “That’s okay,” Valerie said weakly. “I’ll go get Etienne and Rachel,” Justin announced, opening the door. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to get Leigh in the house without help.” “That’s because I’m a beached whale,” Leigh moaned, suddenly sounding teary. “No, honey,” Valerie said quickly. “He’s just worried about you having a contraction while we’re walking you in. It’s better if we have someone to help us carry you in.” Leigh snorted with disbelief, all sign of tears gone and irritation in their place again. “Justin could carry me with one hand. He’s just scared I’ll bite him or something. ~ Lynsay Sands,
475:My Lord,
It was very kind of you to send the lovely gift which is very useful now that the weather has turned. I am pleased to relate that the cashmere absorbed an application of black dye quite evenly so that it is now appropriate for mourning.
Thank you for your thoughtfulness.
Lady Trenear


“You dyed it?” Devon asked aloud, setting the note on his desk with mixture of amusement and irritation.
Reaching for a silver penholder, he inserted a fresh nib and pulled a sheet of writing paper from a nearby stack. That morning he had already written a half-dozen missives to lawyers, his banker, and contractors, and had hired an outside agent to analyze the estate’s finances. He grimaced at the sight of his ink-stained fingers. The lemon-and-salt paste his valet had given him wouldn’t entirely remove the smudges. He was tired of writing, and even more so of numbers, and Kathleen’s letter was a welcome distraction.
The challenge could not go unanswered.
Staring down at the letter with a faint smile, Deon pondered the best way to annoy her.
Dipping the pen nib into the inkwell, he wrote,

,
476:Diary entry, summer 1973. It may be there in a distracted glance out of an open window or in the split second of an absent look when you speak to her, or in the guarded inflections of her voice as she replies, or in the subtle chemistry of touch or smell or the taste of her skin in your mouth, or in some unspecified sixth sense that you can’t name, but when love is over, its signals are louder than disclosure, if only you are willing and open enough to acknowledge them. But of course we shake off these feelings as if they were mere irritations, as if they were unimportant and uninvited guests at a feast. “Not now,” you say, fobbing them off with shallow excuses and feigning more urgent business elsewhere. But they linger long after the party, and skulk in a corner where they plot and fester and return to ask their impertinent questions in the still of night, when she’s sleeping and wearing her child’s face. When she looks so beautiful and vulnerable with her mouth slightly open, and her hair a mess on the pillow, but as you reach to touch her, she turns unconsciously away toward the window, and then the questions start again, and you can’t sleep…. ~ Sting,
477:Past the woodshed, past the creek that ran behind our inn, deep in the wild heart of the forest, was a circle of alder trees we called the Goblin Grove. The trees grew in such a way as to suggest twisted arms and monstrous limbs frozen in an eternal dance, and Constanze liked to tell us that the trees had once been humans- naughty young women- who displeased Der Erlkönig. As children we had played here, Josef and me, played and sang and danced, offering our music to the Lord of Mischief. The Goblin King was the silhouette around which my music was composed, and the Goblin Grove was the place my shadows came to life.
I spied a scarlet shape in the woods ahead of me. Käthe in my cloak, walking to my sacred space. An irrational, petty slash of irritation cut through my dread and unease. The Goblin Grove was my haunt, my refuge, my sanctuary. Why must she take everything that was mine? My sister had a gift for turning the extraordinary into the ordinary. Unlike my brother and me- who lived in the ether of magic and music- Käthe lived in the world of the real, the tangible, the mundane. Unlike us, she never had faith. ~ S Jae Jones,
478:I won’t be here that long. Tara will come for him, and then I’m going back to Austin.”
“Back to what? A guy who bails on you when you need him? What’s Dane doing now that’s more important than helping you? Fighting for the rights of endangered ferns?”
I stiffened and pushed away from him, irritation jolting me out of my fugue-state. “You have no right to judge Dane or my relationship with him.”
Jack made a scoffing sound. “That half-assed excuse for a relationship was over the moment Dane told you not to bring the baby to Austin. You know what he should have said? . . . ‘Hell, yes, Ella, I’ll stand by you no matter what you do. Shit happens. We’ll make it work. Come home now and get in bed.’”
“There was no way Dane could have handled this and kept his company going, and you have no idea how many causes he has, how many people he helps—”
“His woman should be his number-one cause.”
“Spare me the bumper-sticker philosophy. And quit taking cheap shots at Dane. When have you ever put a woman first?”
“I’m about to put you first right now, darlin’.”
That comment could have been construed a few different ways, but the gleam in his eyes gave it a positively filthy spin.

-Ella & Jack ~ Lisa Kleypas,
479:"The wanderer in Manhattan must go forth with a certain innocence, because New York is best seen with innocent eyes. It doesn't matter if you are younger or old. Reading our rich history makes the experience more layered, but it is not a substitute for walking the streets themselves. For old-timer or newcomer, it is essential to absorb the city as it is now in order to shape your own nostalgias.
That's why I always urge the newcomer to surrender to the city's magic. Forget the irritations and the occasional rudeness; they bother New Yorkers too. Instead, go down to the North River and the benches that run along the west side of Battery Park City. Watch the tides or the blocks of ice in winter; they have existed since the time when the island was empty of man. Gaze at the boats. Look across the water at the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island, the place to which so many of the New York tribe came in order to truly live. Learn the tale of our tribe, because it's your tribe too, no matter where you were born. Listen to its music and its legends. Gaze at its ruins and monuments. Walk its sidewalks and run fingers upon the stone and bricks and steel of our right-angled streets. Breathe the air of the river breeze."
~ Pete Hamill,
480:This is Winston, our footman and cook,” she told Ian, guessing his thoughts. Straight-faced, she added, “Winston taught me everything I knew about cooking.” Ian’s emotions veered from horror to hilarity, and the footman saw it.
“Miss Elizabeth,” the footman pointedly informed Ian, “does not know how to cook. She has always been much too busy to learn.”
Ian endured that reprimand without retort because he was thoroughly enjoying Elizabeth’s relaxed mood, and because she had actually been teasing him. As the huffy footman departed, however, Ian glanced at Jordan and saw his narrowed gaze on the man’s back, then he looked at Elizabeth, who was obviously embarrassed.
“They think they’re acting out of loyalty to me,” she explained. “They-well, they recognize your name from before. I’ll speak to them.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Ian said with amused irritation. To Jordan he added, “Elizabeth’s butler always tries to send me packing.”
“Can he hear?” Jordan asked unsympathetically.
“Hear?” Ian repeated. “Of course he can.”
“Then count yourself lucky,” Jordan replied irritably, and the girls dissolved into gales of laughter.
“The Townsende’s butler, Penrose, is quite deaf, you see,” Elizabeth explained. ~ Judith McNaught,
481:Margaret could not help her looks; but the short curled upper
lip, the round, massive up-turned chin, the manner of carrying
her head, her movements, full of a soft feminine defiance, always
gave strangers the impression of haughtiness. […]
She sat facing him and facing the light; her full beauty met his eye; her round white flexile throat rising out of the full, yet lithe figure; her lips, moving so slightly as she spoke, not breaking the cold serene look of her face with any variation from the one lovely haughty curve; her eyes, with their soft gloom, meeting his with quiet maiden freedom. He almost said to himself that he did not like her, before their conversation ended; he tried so to compensate himself for the mortified feeling, that while he looked upon her with an admiration he could not repress, she looked at him with proud indifference, taking him, he thought, for what, in his irritation, he told himself he was - a great rough fellow, with not a grace or a refinement about him. Her quiet coldness of demeanour he interpreted into contemptuousness, and resented it in his heart to the pitch of almost inclining him to get up and go away, and have nothing more to do with these Hales, and their superciliousness. ~ Elizabeth Gaskell,
482:It needs a sort of stretch of imagination to see the obvious objects against the obvious background; and especially the big objects against the big background. There is always the sort of man who can see nothing but the spot on the carpet, so that he cannot even see the carpet. And that tends to irritation, which he may magnify into rebellion. Then there is the kind of man who can only see the carpet, perhaps because it is a new carpet. That is more human, but it may be tinged with vanity and even vulgarity. There is the man who can only see the carpeted room; and that will tend to cut him off too much from other things, especially the servants' quarters. Finally, there is the man enlarged by imagination, who cannot sit in the carpeted room, or even in the coal-cellar, without seeing all the time the outline of the whole house against its aboriginal background of earth and sky. He, understanding that the roof is raised from the beginning as a shield against sun or snow, and the door against frost or slime, will know better and not worse than the rest the reasons of the rules within. He will know better than the first man that there ought not to be a spot on the carpet. But he will know, unlike the first man, why there is a carpet. He ~ G K Chesterton,
483:He lived much among people, but very little with them. They interested him, but he did not in the least care to have them be interested in him; for he felt the force that should have driven him to do his part with the others or against them slowly ebbing out of him. He could wait, he told himself, even if he had to wait till it was too late. Whoever has faith is in no hurry--that was his excuse to himself. For he believed that, when he came down to the bedrock of his own nature, he did have faith strong enough to move mountains--the trouble was that he never managed to set his shoulder to them. Once in a while, the impulse to create welled up in him, and he longed to see a part of himself freed in work that should be his very own. For days he would be excited with the happy, titanic effort of carting the clay for his Adam, but he never formed it in his own image. The will power necessary to persistent self-concentration was not in him. Weeks would pass before he could make up his mind to abandon the work, but he did abandon it, asking himself, in a fit of irritation, why he should continue. What more had he to gain? He had tasted the rapture of conception; there remained the toil of rearing, cherishing, nourishing, carrying to perfection--Why? For whom? ~ Jens Peter Jacobsen,
484:Well, was it especially necessary for people to be impassioned, carried away by hatred or love, for example; or did the exterior aspect of the event have to be great, I mean—what you could see of it. . . .”
“Both . . . it all depended,” she answers ungraciously.
“And the perfect moments? Where do they come in?”
“They came afterwards. First there are annunciatory signs. Then the privileged situation, slowly, majestically, comes into people’s lives. Then the question whether you want to make a perfect moment out of it.”
“Yes,” I say, “I understand. In each one of these privileged situations there are certain acts which have to be done, certain attitudes to be taken, words which must be said—and other attitudes, other words are strictly prohibited. Is that it?”
“I suppose so. . . .”
“In fact, then, the situation is the material: it demands exploitation.”
“That’s it,” she says. “First you had to be plunged into something exceptional and feel as though you were putting it in order. If all those conditions had been realized, the moment would have been perfect.”
“In fact, it was a sort of work of art.”
“You’ve already said that,” she says with irritation. “No: it was . . . a duty. You had to transform privileged situations into perfect moments. It was a moral question. Yes, you can laugh if you like: it was moral. ~ Jean Paul Sartre,
485:So how are the wedding plans progressing?" Richard asked, once they were out of the village.
"They aren't." Breckenridge heard his clipped tones, heard the irritation beneath. Didn't care if Richard did, too. "She's taken some nitwit notion into her head that I don't need to marry her, that she's going to go off and manage an orphanage in the country, or some such thing, so her social ruination doesn't matter."
"Ah." Richard nodded sagely. "She's playing stubborn."
"Playing?" Breckenridge shot him an irate look. "She's the definition of the word. I've already tried talking her around. Twice."
"I hate to break it to you, old son, but it won't be your honeyed words that change her mind."
Breckenridge snorted. "I've tried that, too-so far all that's gained me is..." An even deeper sense of being irrevocably linked to her.
Richard glanced at him curiously. "What?"
Breckenridge pulled a face, growled, "Damned if I know."
Richard grinned. "Well, whatever it takes, just console yourself with the thought that the end result will be worth it."
Breckenridge cast Richard a sharp glance, saw the open contentment in his face. Felt compelled to ask, "So what did you have to do?"
Richard's smile deepened. "The same thing we've all have to do-prostrate ourselves at their dainty feet, swear undying love, and mean it. ~ Stephanie Laurens,
486:In the words of Mr Thierry Coup of Warner Bros: 'We are taking the most iconic and powerful moments of the stories and putting them in an immersive environment. It is taking the theme park experience to a new level.' And of course I wish Thierry and his colleagues every possible luck, and I am sure it will be wonderful. But I cannot conceal my feelings; and the more I think of those millions of beaming kids waving their wands and scampering the Styrofoam turrets of Hogwartse_STmk, and the more I think of those millions of poor put-upon parents who must now pay to fly to Orlando and pay to buy wizard hats and wizard cloaks and wizard burgers washed down with wizard meade_STmk, the more I grind my teeth in jealous irritation.

Because the fact is that Harry Potter is not American. He is British. Where is Diagon Alley, where they buy wands and stuff? It is in London, and if you want to get into the Ministry of Magic you disappear down a London telephone box. The train for Hogwarts goes from King's Cross, not Grand Central Station, and what is Harry Potter all about? It is about the ritual and intrigue and dorm-feast excitement of a British boarding school of a kind that you just don't find in America. Hogwarts is a place where children occasionally get cross with each other—not 'mad'—and where the situation is usually saved by a good old British sense of HUMOUR. WITH A U. RIGHT? NOT HUMOR. GOTTIT? ~ Boris Johnson,
487:PRESCRIPTION 5 Low Back and Trunk   This prescription can be used to treat these symptoms and restrictions: Abdominal pain Compromised breathing Hip extension range of motion Hip pain Low back pain Sciatica Spinal rotation, flexion and extension range of motion   Overview Methods: Contract and relax Pressure wave Smash and floss Tools: Small ball Large ball Small bouncy ball or under-inflated soccer/volleyball Total time:  14 minutes   This prescription is great for treating low back pain and supporting the hardworking muscles of your trunk. We’ve established that poor spinal mechanics and sitting can cause adaptive stiffness and irritation in the discs, ligaments, and muscles around your spine and trunk. And when that happens, low back pain is often the result. Although there are other contributing factors to consider, like previous injuries, arthritis, obesity, and stress, we would argue that one of the leading causes of low back pain and trunk-related problems stems from poor posture, prolonged sitting, and a lack of basic self-maintenance. Having spent the majority of this book outlining a protocol for preventing and resolving the issue from a mechanical standpoint, let’s turn our attention to the maintenance side of things. This prescription targets the muscles that are responsible for keeping your spine braced, as well as the muscles that may get stiff when you move poorly or sit for too long. ~ Kelly Starrett,
488:There are people who are destined to taste only the poison in things, for whom any surprise is a painful surprise and any experience a new occasion for torture. if someone were to say to me that such suffering has subjective reasons, related to the individual's particular makeup, i would then ask; is there an objective criterion for evaluating suffering? who can say with precision that my neighbor suffers more than i do or that jesus suffered more than all of us? there is no objective standard because suffering cannot be measured according to the external stimulation or local irritation of the organism, but only as it is felt and reflected in consciousness. alas, from this point of view, any hierarchy is out of the question. each person remains with his own suffering, which he believes absolute and unlimited. how much would we diminish our own personal suffering if we were to compare it to all the world's sufferings until now, to the most horrifying agonies and the most complicated tortures, the mostcruel deaths and the most painful betrayals, all the lepers, all those burned alive or starved to death? nobody is comforted in his sufferings by the thought that we are all mortals, nor does anybody who suffers really find comfort in the past or present suffering of others. because in this organically insufficient and fragmentary world, the individual is set to live fully, wishing to make of his own existence an absolute. ~ Emil M Cioran,
489:Bast fidgeted. Kvothe laughed, a fond expression wiping the irritation from his face. “So is describing a beautiful woman as easy as looking at one for you?” Bast looked down and blushed, and Kvothe laid a gentle hand on his arm, smiling. “My trouble, Bast, is that she is very important. Important to the story. I cannot think of how to describe her without falling short of the mark.” “I…I think I understand, Reshi,” Bast said in conciliatory tones. “I’ve seen her too. Once.” Kvothe sat back in his chair, surprised. “You have, haven’t you? I’d forgotten.” He pressed his hands to his lips. “How would you describe her then?” Bast brightened at the opportunity. Straightening up in his chair he looked thoughtful for a moment then said. “She had perfect ears.” He made a delicate gesture with his hands. “Perfect little ears, like they were carved out of…something.” Chronicler laughed, then looked slightly taken aback, as if he’d surprised himself. “Her ears?” he asked as if he couldn’t be sure if he had heard correctly. “You know how hard it is to find a pretty girl with the right sort of ears,” Bast said matter-of-factly. Chronicler laughed again, seeming to find it easier the second time. “No,” he said. “No, I’m sure I don’t.” Bast gave the story collector a deeply pitying look. “Well then, you’ll just have to take my word for it. They were exceptionally fine.” “I think you’ve struck that chord well enough, Bast,” Kvothe said, amused. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
490:Steve Harmon, thirty-six, had esophageal cancer growing at the inlet of his stomach. For six months, he had soldiered through chemotherapy as if caught in a mythical punishment cycle devised by the Greeks. He was debilitated by perhaps the severest forms of nausea that I had ever encountered in a patient, but he had to keep eating to avoid losing weight. As the tumor whittled him down week by week, he became fixated, absurdly, on the measurement of his weight down to a fraction of an ounce, as if gripped by the fear that he might vanish altogether by reaching zero. Meanwhile, a growing retinue of family members accompanied him to his clinic visits: three children who came with games and books and watched, unbearably, as their father shook with chills one morning; a brother who hovered suspiciously, then accusingly, as we shuffled and reshuffled medicines to keep Steve from throwing up; a wife who bravely shepherded the entire retinue through the whole affair as if it were a family trip gone horribly wrong. One morning, finding Steve alone on one of the reclining chairs of the infusion room, I asked him whether he would rather have the chemotherapy alone, in a private room. Was it, perhaps, too much for his family—for his children? He looked away with a flicker of irritation. “I know what the statistics are.” His voice was strained, as if tightening against a harness. “Left to myself, I would not even try. I’m doing this because of the kids. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,
491:Ollie Clark stepped into his path, blocking Cade's view of Lily. Instantly on the alert, Cade felt the watchful attention of several of Ollie's cohorts on the sidelines. He hadn't intended to make trouble, but he certainly didn't intend to run from it either. Directing his gaze questioningly to the tall man in front of him, Cade waited. "Indians ain't allowed in here. We've got white ladies present." Ladies, whores, and creatures of indeterminable sex or status, but Cade didn't point that out. He merely waited. Irritation flared in Clark's eyes. "I'm askin' you to leave, red man." A hissing intake of breath behind him was all the warning Ollie received. Before he could spin around, a furious virago in blue gingham swirled past him and grabbed Cade’s arm. Blue fire shot sparks from her eyes as she spoke. "Cade is my escort, and I'll be damned if either one of us leaves, Mister Clark." Reducing him to the status of "mister" after his hard-won promotion to "Ollie" wasn't sufficient. Lily glared at him. "And for your information, Cade has more of a right to be here than anyone else in this town. Both Mexicans and Indians were here before us. You'll be lucky if they don't run you out of Texas before this is all over." Realizing Cade had no intention of budging from this battle, Lily threw him a sharp look, released his arm, and lifted her skirt in imminent departure. "I am in need of a lemonade, gentlemen. I trust you'll find a way to settle your differences amicably." She ~ Patricia Rice,
492:By the second day, the song lyrics had faded, but in their place came darker irritations. Gradually, I started to become aware of a young man sitting just behind me and to the left. I had noticed him when he first entered the mediation hall, and had felt a flash of annoyance at the time: something about him, especially his beard, had struck me as too calculatedly dishevelled, as if he were trying to make a statement. Now his audible breathing was starting to irritate me, too. It seemed studied, unnatural, somehow theatrical. My irritation slowly intensified - a reaction that struck me as entirely reasonable and proportionate at the time. It was all beginning to feel like a personal attack. How much contempt must the bearded meditator have for me, I seethed silently, deliberately to decide to ruin the serenity of my meditation by behaving so obnoxiously? Experienced retreat-goers, it turns out, have a term for this phenomenon. The call it 'vipassana vendetta'. In the stillness tiny irritations become magnified into full-blown hate campaigns; the mind is so conditioned to attaching to storylines that it seizes upon whatever's available. Being on retreat had temporarily separated me from all the real causes of distress in my life, and so, apparently, I was inventing new ones. As I shuffled to my narrow bed that evening, I was still smarting about the loud-breathing man. I did let go of the vendetta eventually - but only because I'd fallen into an exhausted and dreamless sleep ~ Oliver Burkeman,
493:A clatter of metal against the concrete made me look back. Liam had moved on from the car to a nearby pile of bikes that were tangled together like brambles. He picked through the frames and spokes and wheels, working carefully, trying to get down to whatever he'd seen under them....

"Do you actually know how to ride?"

"Do I know how to ride?" Liam scoffed, leaning over the bike's seat so his face was inches from mine. His pale blue eyes were electric with his excitement; they sent a charge through me, sizzling the rest of the world into peaceful, quiet static. That last bit of distance must have been as unbearable to him as it was to me, because his fingers came down over where my hands rested on the busted leather seat. I felt his touch spread over my skin like late afternoon sunshine. His lips skimmed my cheek, his breath warm against my ear as he said in low, honeyed tones, "Not only can I ride, darlin', but I can give you a few pointers–

"Hey, Hell's Angels!" Cole barked. "I didn't bring you in here to shop around for yourselves! Get your assess over here!"

Liam expression clouded over as he pulled back, the fluttering excitement vanishing like a candle blown out. with a single breath. I must have looked as disappointed as I felt, letting out a small sound of irritation, because just like that he was smiling again as he tucked a loose strand of hair back over my ear. A softer, smaller smile than before, but one meant for me. It warmed me down to my bones. ~ Alexandra Bracken,
494:Vhat ozzer abilities do you haf?" ter Borcht snapped, which his assistant waited, pen in hand.
Gazzy thought. "I have X-ray vision," he said. He peered at ter Borcht's chest, then blinked and looked alarmed.
Ter Borcht was startled for a second, but then he frowned. "Don't write dat down," he told his assistant in irritation. The assistant froze in midsentence.
"You. Do you haf any qualities dat distinguish you in any way?"
Nudge chewed on a fingernail. "You mean, like, besides the WINGS?" She shook her shoulders gently, and her beautiful fawn-colored wings unfolded a bit.
His face flushed, and I felt like cheering. "Yes," he said stiffly. "Besides de vings."
"Hmm. Besides de vings." Nudge tapped one finger against her chin. "Um..." Her face brightened. "I once ate nine Snickers bars in one sitting. Without barfing. That was a record!"
"Hardly a special talent," ter Borcht said witheringly.
Nudge was offended. "Yeah? Let's see YOU do it."
...
"I vill now eat nine Snickers bars," Gazzy said in a perfect, creepy imitation of ter Borcht's voice, "visout bahfing."
Iggy rubbed his forehead with one hand. "Well, I have a highly developed sense of irony."
Ter Borcht tsked. "You are a liability to your group. I assume you alvays hold on to someone's shirt, yes? Following dem closely?"
"Only when I'm trying to steal their dessert"
...Fang pretended to think, gazing up at the ceiling. "Besides my fashion sense? I play a mean harmonica."
"I vill now destroy de Snickuhs bahrs!" Gazzy barked. ~ James Patterson,
495:You know, witches aren’t the only ones with a magical scent detector—it’s just more developed in us. A lot of the reason why supernaturals don’t like each other has to do with scent—they smell different, smell wrong to each other. It’s hard to like someone who stinks, even if you don’t realize it on a conscious level.” “She’s right.” Victor nodded. “That’s the reason weres don’t like vamps—part of it, anyway.” I was horrified. “You mean we… we stink to you?” And here I had been laying all over him when I was taking his blood. Had he been holding his breath the entire time, trying not to smell me? When he told me I smelled good before, was he lying? Victor must have seen the look on my face because he reached over and grabbed my hand at once. “No, baby—it’s not like that. Not with you,” he protested. “I mean, most vamps smell like the snake cage at the zoo. But not you, you smell like… like…” “Like what?” I asked, pulling my hand away and frowning at him. “You don’t have to lie to me, Victor. If you think I stink—” “You don’t stink!” he growled, obviously frustrated. “You smell good—too Goddamned good.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means you smell like a female wolf. Like a wolf going into—” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. “Go on.” Gwendolyn looked amused. “Finish your sentence, big guy. This is getting interesting.” “We’re not here to talk about who stinks and who doesn’t.” Victor’s eyes flashed gold with irritation. “We just want to know what you can tell us about the fucking trap. ~ Evangeline Anderson,
496:Cordy,” Uncle Mort interjected, “helpful things. Please.”
“Sure, yeah,” Cordy said, still staring at her honeybunch’s biceps. “What do you want to know?”
“You can see into all the windows, right? What’s going on?”
“Well, ever since that alarm went off, everyone’s been going schizoid. The place is swarming with guards—all looking for you, I assume?”
They nodded.
“Well done. I think so far you’ve thrown them, but . . .” She looked up. “They’re all over the place, especially the next few floors.”
“Residential.” Uncle Mort nodded. “That’s where they’ll be thickest. What about near the top, in Executive?”
Cordy shrugged. “I don’t know—the windows are blocked to us for the uppermost twenty floors or so. Sorry.”
“Damn, she’s good.” The sparkle in his eye left little doubt that he was talking about Skyla. When Lex looked offended, he crossed his arms. “Hey, if we were defending this building instead of attacking it, you’d be very impressed right now.”
Cordy pointed at him and gave Lex a questioning look.
“Uncle Mort has a girlfriend,” Lex explained.
“Whaa?” Cordy said.
“Don’t even ask. It’s beyond our powers of human comprehension.”
“Gross!”
“They even have a weird pool table euphemism for the dirty stuff.”
“Super gross!”
“Here’s an idea, Cordy,” Uncle Mort said, his irritation barely contained. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and keep a lookout for us?”
Cordy pouted. “Fine.” She leaned in to Lex and pointed back at her uncle. “I want to hear more about the lovefest later.”
“You really don’t. ~ Gina Damico,
497:Tell me!” Cecily insisted later, shaking Colby by both arms.
“Cut it out, you’ll dismember me,” Colby said, chuckling.
She let go of the artificial arm and wrapped both hands around the good one. “I want to know. Listen, this is my covert operation. You’re just a stand-in!”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
“You promised in Lakota. Tell me in English what you promised in Lakota.”
He gave in. He did tell her, but not Leta, what was said, but only about the men coming to the reservation soon.
“We’ll need the license plate number,” she said. “It can be traced.
“Oh, of course,” he said facetiously. “They’ll certainly come here with their own license plate on the car so that everyone knows who they are!”
“Damn!”
He chuckled at her irritation. He was about to tell her about his alternative method when a big sport utility vehicle came flying down the dirt road and pulled up right in front of Leta’s small house.
Tate Winthrop got out, wearing jeans and a buckskin jacket and sunglasses. His thick hair fell around his shoulders and down his back like a straight black silk curtain. Cecily stared at it with curious fascination. In all the years she’d known him, she’d very rarely seen his hair down.
“All you need is the war paint,” Colby said in a resigned tone. He turned the uninjured cheek toward the newcomer. “Go ahead. I like matching scars.”
Tate took off the dark glasses and looked from Cecily to Colby without smiling. “Holden won’t tell me a damned thing. I want answers.”
“Come inside, then,” Cecily replied. “We’re attracting enough attention as it is. ~ Diana Palmer,
498:While Brambleclaw paused to taste the air, she crouched down beside one of the puddles and touched the ice with her tongue, grateful for the tingling freshness. “Come on,” the Clan deputy meowed. “This way.” Hollyleaf tried to jump up, only to stop with a strangled cry of dismay. Her tongue had frozen to the ice; a sharp pain shot through it as she tried to wrench herself free. “What’s the matter?” Lionblaze asked. “My tongue . . .” Hollyleaf could hardly get the words out. “It’th thtuck!” Lionblaze snorted as he suppressed a mrrow of laughter. Birchfall stooped down until he was nose to nose with Hollyleaf; irritation swelled inside her when she saw amusement dancing in his eyes. “It’th not funny!” she mumbled as clearly as she could with her tongue plastered to the ice. “Stand back.” Brackenfur’s calm voice came from behind Hollyleaf. “Let me have a look.” He leaned beside Birchfall, gently shouldering the younger cat out of the way. “Well, you’re certainly stuck,” he went on. Hollyleaf could tell that he was struggling not to laugh, too. “I suppose we could break off the ice. Then you’d have to carry it until it melts.” “Hey, you’ve discovered a new way to fetch water for the elders!” Hazeltail put in. Her pelt itching with frustration, Hollyleaf tried again to wrench her tongue free, only getting another stab of pain for her efforts. “It hurt-th! Do thomething!” She pictured herself crouched on the hard ground with her tongue stretched out, and suddenly she felt laughter bubbling up inside her. I guess I do look pretty funny. She couldn’t remember the last time she had found anything to laugh at. ~ Erin Hunter,
499:But she was barely listening. “There’s this newish thing from Amazon? Called an AMI—an Amazon Machine Image. Basically it runs a snapshot of an operating system. There are hundreds of them, loaded up and ready to run.” Evan said, “Um.” “Virtual machines,” she explained, with a not-insubstantial trace of irritation. “Okay.” “But the good thing with virtual machines? You hit a button and you have two of them. Or ten thousand. In data centers all over the world. Here—look—I’m replicating them now, requesting that they’re geographically dispersed with guaranteed availability.” He looked but could not keep up with the speed at which things were happening on the screen. Despite his well-above-average hacking skills, he felt like a beginning skier atop a black-diamond run. She was still talking. “We upload all the encrypted data from the laptop to the cloud first, right? Like you were explaining poorly and condescendingly to me back at the motel.” “In hindsight—” “And we spread the job out among all of them. Get Hashkiller whaling away, throwing all these password combinations at it. Then who cares if we get locked out after three wrong password attempts? We just go to the next virtual machine. And the one after that.” “How do you have the hardware to handle all that?” She finally paused, blowing a glossy curl out of her eyes. “That’s what I’m telling you, X. You don’t buy hardware anymore. You rent cycles in the cloud. And the second we’re done, we kill the virtual machines and there’s not a single trace of what we did.” She lifted her hands like a low-rent spiritual guru. “It’s all around and nowhere at the same time.” A sly grin. “Like you. ~ Gregg Hurwitz,
500:Reverend Bedell?” she said. He halted and glanced at her. She expected irritation or at least weariness to cross his features and was completely unprepared for his warm smile and the genuine kindness in his eyes. “Yes? Mrs. . . . ? Forgive me. I seem to have forgotten your name.” “Please don’t concern yourself. You have so many names to remember.” His eyes had pleasant crinkles at the corners, belying his age in a way the rest of his appearance didn’t. She’d overheard the other ladies at the Society meeting whispering that he had a grown son who was in seminary and studying to be a pastor. Yet he certainly didn’t look old enough for that to be true. “I always try to learn the names of volunteers. It just takes me time, Mrs. . . .” “Miss Pendleton,” she supplied, shifting uncomfortably as he perused her black dress with its sloping shoulders, wide pagoda sleeves, and full skirt. Mother had passed away in March, and she hadn’t yet finished the six months of mourning that was socially expected at the loss of a parent. “Mrs. Pendleton,” he replied. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your husband?” “Oh, no. I’m not married. It’s Miss Pendleton.” She enunciated her title more clearly and loudly, but then realized she’d just announced her spinsterhood for all the world to hear and flushed at the mistake. “I beg your pardon,” the reverend said. “My mother recently passed,” she added and hurried to cover her embarrassment. “She was ill for many years and was finally released from her burdens.” “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.” From the compassion that filled his eyes, she had the distinct impression he was being sincere and not merely placating her. “Thank you. ~ Jody Hedlund,
501:Your candidness is charming and not at all off-putting. Our parents’ friends adore you. You are…lively.” “Lively.” Alex tested the word on her tongue. “That makes me sound like an unpredictable racing horse.” A broad grin spread across Blackmoor’s face and Alex resisted the urge to hit him. That would have been unpredictable. “Do you think me horselike, my lord?” Realizing the threat to his personage, Blackmoor wiped the smile from his face and replied, “Not at all. I said I think you charming.” “A fine start.” “And I appreciate your exuberance.” His eyes glittered with barely contained laughter. “Like that of a child.” Hers sparkled with irritation. “And, of course, you are entertaining.” “Excellent. Like the aforementioned child’s toy.” He couldn’t hide a chuckle. “Not at all. You are a far better companion than any of the toys I had as a child.” “Oh, I am most flattered.” “You should be. I had some tremendous toys.” Eyes wide, she turned on him, catching his laughing gaze. “Oh! You are incorrigible! Between you and my brothers, it’s no wonder I can’t manage to be more of a delicate flower!” Blackmoor stopped in the midst of acknowledging the Viscountess of Hawksmore, who, accompanied by her enormous black poodle, walked past. He turned back to Alex and answered with one eyebrow raised, “I beg your pardon? A delicate flower?” Alex sat back in the curricle, quoting in a singsong voice, “A young lady should be as a delicate flower; a fragile bud, with care, will blossom by the hour.” Blackmoor’s eyes widened. “Where on earth did you hear that rubbish?” “My governess.” “I do not traditionally speak ill of women, but your governess is a cabbagehead. ~ Sarah MacLean,
502:His mouth twisted into a perceptive, sexy smile.

"Hmm."

"Hmm?" I looked away, flustered, automatically using irritation to cover my discomfort up. "What does 'hmm' have to do with anything? Could you ever use more than five words? All this grunting and miced words make you come across--primal."

His smile tipped higher. "Primal."

"You're impossible."

"Me Jev, you Nora."

"Stop it." But I nearly smiled in spite of myself.

"Since we're keeping it primal, you smell good," he observed. Hw moved closer, makin me acutely aware of his size, the rise and fall of his chest, the warm burn of his skin on mine. Electricity tingled along my scalp, and I shuddered with pleasure.

"It's called a shower...," I began automatically, then trailed off. My memory snagged, taken aback by a compelling and forceful sense of undue familiarity. "Soap, shampoo, hot water," I added, almost as an afterthought.

"Naked. I know the drill," Jev said, something unreadable passing over his eyes.

Unsure how to proceed, I attempted to wash away the moment with an airy laugh. "Are you flirting with me, Jev?"

"Does it feel that way to you?"

"I don't know you well enough to say either way." I tried to keep my voice level, neutral even.

"Then we'll have to change that."

Still uncertain of his motives, I cleared my throat. Two could play this game. "Running from bad guys together is your idea of playing getting-to-know-you?"

"No. This is." He dipped my body backward, drawing me up in a slow arc until he raised me flush against him. In his arms, my joints loosened, my defenses melting as he led me through the sultry steps. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,
503:Do try it on,” Cassandra urged. Despite Kathleen’s refusal, the girls insisted on draping it over her shoulders, just to see how it looked.
“How beautiful,” Helen said, beaming.
It was the most luxurious fabric she had ever felt, the fleece soft and cushiony. Kathleen ran her hand across the rich hues, and sighed. “I suppose I can’t ruin it with aniline dye,” she muttered. “But I’m going to tell him that I did.”
“You’re going to lie?” Cassandra asked, her eyes wide. “That’s not setting a very good example for us.”
“He must be discouraged from sending unsuitable gifts,” Kathleen said.
“It’s not his fault if he doesn’t know any better,” Pandora pointed out.
“He knows the rules,” Kathleen said darkly. “And he enjoys breaking them.”

My Lord,
It was very kind of you to send the lovely gift which is very useful now that the weather has turned. I am pleased to relate that the cashmere absorbed an application of black dye quite evenly so that it is now appropriate for mourning.
Thank you for your thoughtfulness.
Lady Trenear


“You dyed it?” Devon asked aloud, setting the note on his desk with mixture of amusement and irritation.
Reaching for a silver penholder, he inserted a fresh nib and pulled a sheet of writing paper from a nearby stack. That morning he had already written a half-dozen missives to lawyers, his banker, and contractors, and had hired an outside agent to analyze the estate’s finances. He grimaced at the sight of his ink-stained fingers. The lemon-and-salt paste his valet had given him wouldn’t entirely remove the smudges. He was tired of writing, and even more so of numbers, and Kathleen’s letter was a welcome distraction.
The challenge could not go unanswered. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
504:Miss Rebecca Vaughn,” Eliza says, as if to formally present me to Alex. I walk into some kind of parlor, trying to hold my head up high and act as if I’m not at all nervous. I half-heartedly hope Eliza will stay inside the room but she doesn’t; she steps aside and lets me enter.
I walk to a high-backed brocade chair with gilded arms and legs across from the big sofa Alex is occupying and sit down. I cross my ankles and carefully spread out my skirts as if it’s the most important thing in the world and requires every ounce of concentration. Victoria would be proud.
“Where is she?” His voice comes out firm, demanding.
Wow. So much for stalling. I bite my lip. “Who?”
“Do not play games,” he says.
I study my hands as they wring in my lap. I can play dumb, I can postpone this, or I can just tell him. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“With Trent Rallsmouth,” I say, peeking up at him from underneath my lashes.
His eyes fly open and he sits up straighter.
“The boy from the dance? Where?”
Oh God. He does not look happy. “The gardener’s cottage on the eastern edge of Harksbury.”
Alex stands like he’s the incredible hulk--so quickly I’m surprised the whole sofa doesn’t fly back and crash into the wall.
Oh God, this was so stupid; he’s going to kill me.
Or throw me in that dungeon I’m still convinced he has…
“Please tell me they have a proper chaperone,” he says.
I purse my lips and shake my head.
He sighs, a great drag of irritation, and crosses his arms at his chest. It makes his chest bulge with muscle, and I try to focus on the fact that he seems like he could wring my neck and not on the way he looks today.
Which, seriously, is pretty hot. His face is flushed in anger, which brings out his dark eyes…
Focus. ~ Mandy Hubbard,
505:No. It couldn’t be. I shook my head, still disbelieving. Maybe the poison had warped my brain and I was delusional after all. I pulled myself to my feet, swaying against Drake, allowing his warm, hard body to prop me up.

“You know what that means.”

“I do.” His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with intermingled anger and passion.

My heart, leaden and sick, suddenly was enveloped in a gentle warmth that did much to dispel the ills that had possessed it. “Are you sure? Really sure? It’s not something else? Maybe you’re sick.”

His face grew harder. “Do you think I’m a fool that I could mistake it?”

“No, but you don’t look very happy about it.”

“I’m not,” he snapped, irritation rampant on his handsome features.

A smile curved my lips as I kissed the corners of his mouth, ignoring the presence of those around us. “Are you going to say it?”

“No.”

“Come on. I want to hear it.”

“No!”

I allowed all the love I had for him to show in my eyes as I rubbed my nose on his. “Please?”

His face took on the most martyred expression I’d ever seen. “If I say it once, do I have to say it again?”

“Yes. With increasing frequency. It gets easier with time, honest.”

He sighed again. “I knew this would not come to a good end. Very well, I’ll say it. But I reserve the right to refer you to this conversation on occasions when you wish me to say it again. Aisling, I love you.”

I fought hard to keep the smile off my face. Drake’s declaration of love was delivered in such a brusque tone, I knew it had to be costing him a lot to admit the truth. “I love you, too,” I answered, and welcomed his mouth when it came to claim mine, my heart singing a joyous song of happiness and fulfillment. ~ Katie MacAlister,
506:I grow tired of your mouth.” Bones shifted under Curran’s skin. The nose widened, the jaws grew, the top lip split, displaying enormous teeth. I was staring into the face of a nightmare, a horrible meld of human and lion. If a thing that weighed over six hundred pounds in beast-form could be called a lion. His eyes never changed. The rest of him—the body, the arms, the legs, even his hair and skin remained human. The shapeshifters had three forms: beast, human, and half. They could shift into any of the three, but they always changed shape completely. Most had to strain to maintain the half-form and to be able to speak in it was a great achievement. Only Curran could do this: turn part of his body into one shape while keeping the rest in another.
Normally, I had no trouble with Curran’s face in half-form. It was well-proportioned, even—many shapeshifters suffered the “my jaws are way too big and don’t fit together” syndrome—but I was used to that half-form face being sheathed in gray fur. Having human skin stretched over it was nausea inducing.
He noticed my heroic efforts not to barf. “What is it now?”
I waved my hand around my face. “Fur.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your face has no fur.”
Curran touched his chin. And just like that all traces of the beast vanished. He sat before me fully human.
He massaged his jaw.
The beast grew stronger during the flare. Curran’s irritation caused his control to slip just a hair.
“Having technical difficulties?” I asked and immediately regretted it. Pointing out loss of control to a control freak wasn’t the brightest idea.
“You shouldn’t provoke me.” His voice dropped low. He suddenly looked slightly hungry. “You never know what I might do if I’m not fully in control of myself.”
Mayday, Mayday. “I shudder at the thought. ~ Ilona Andrews,
507:I’m really sorry, Nathan.” Her accent thickened as she stared up at him, biting her lip nervously as she wondered how much he would pout.
Nathan could go all quiet, somber, and answer her in monosyllables that drove her insane. He would glare at her.
He would watch ball games. He would come to bed late. Late. After she went to sleep. And wouldn’t give her any until the next morning. It really wasn’t fair.
“Nathan, please don’t be mad at me . . .”
“How did you hit my truck? How? It was sitting in plain view. Plain view, Sabella.” He was getting angry. He only said her full name when he was really getting angry or really, really horny. And he was not horny. Okay, this wasn’t good. She could do without for days. But she didn’t like it.
She stomped her foot, glaring back at him in irritation. “If it weren’t for you, I would have never hit it.”
“Me?” He stepped back, shaking his head fiercely. “How the hell was this my fault?”
“Because you were cutting the grass, with no shirt, in sexy jeans and boots, and seeing your tight ass striding across the lawn made me horny. You distracted me. It’s all your fault. If you dress properly things like this just would not happen, Nathan . . .”
He kissed her. It wasn’t a gentle, easy kiss. It was rough and ready and smack full of lust as he jerked her against him, pressing his cock into her belly as she gasped in pleasure.
“You are so spanked.” He picked her up, striding across the lawn, leaving her car door open, his truck abused. “Spanked, Sabella. I’m going to watch every inch of that pretty ass turn red.”
He slammed the door behind him, locking it quickly before heading for the stairs.
“Oh, spank me, Nathan,” she breathed teasingly into his ear. “Make me beg.”
He shuddered against her, threw her on the bed and proceeded to make her beg. ~ Lora Leigh,
508:She wondered if he was a neighbor, started to smile and introduce herself when his deep voice cut through the cool morning air.
“All right, what the hell is going on?”
Ignoring the anger in his voice, Charity set her hammer on top of the dresser and climbed down from the porch.
“Good morning. I’m Charity Sinclair. I’m the new--”
“I don’t care who you are, lady, I want to know what you’re doing on this property.”
She fixed a smile on her face, though it took a good bit of effort. “I’m here because I’m the owner. I bought the Lily Rose from a man named Moses Flanagan.”
He narrowed those striking blue eyes at her. “Bullshit. Old man Flanagan may not live here anymore but he’d die before he’d sell the Lily Rose. I don’t know who you think you’re kidding, sweetheart, but if you’re planning to squat on his property you can forget it.”
It was getting harder by the moment to hang on to her temper. “You’re wrong, Mr…?”
He made no effort to answer, just continued to glare down the length of his nicely shaped nose.
“Mr. Flanagan decided to move in with his son in Calgary. He listed the property for sale several weeks ago with Smith Real Estate in Dawson. I’m the person who bought it.”
His features looked even harder than they had before. “That’s impossible. I tried to buy this place from Mose Flanagan every other month for the last four years. He refused to even consider it.”
Her irritation inched up a notch. “Well, apparently he changed his mind. The transaction officially closed yesterday morning. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you the property was for sale.” When his black scowl deepened, she couldn’t resist adding, “Maybe he just didn’t like you.”
He opened his mouth to argue, clamped down on his jaw instead, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. Apparently her goading had hit on a portion of the truth. ~ Kat Martin,
509:Cabal. Cabal. Cabal. I summon you to me. Now."
Simi and Kody exchanged a look that said he was as crazy as he suddenly felt when nothing happened.
Great, Dad. I can look stupid on my own. Didn't really need you to help out on that front.
That was his thought until he heard a curse and something slammed into him, knocking him against the wall. Nick shoved his attacker away, then froze as he looked into a pair of familiar, startled brown eyes.
Now this was the giant badass-tough demon that Nick was used to.
"Malphas?"
Tense and braced to fight, Caleb turned around slowly, surveying every aspect of his new surroundings. He paused as he faced Kody and Simi. "Where the heck am I? And how did I get here?"
Kody pointed to Nick. "Apparently, Nick summoned you."
"Nick?" Caleb glanced right past Nick and kept searching the room with his gaze. "Our Nick? Where is the little booger?"
She gestured even more exaggeratedly at Nick's position. "Right there."
Caleb's jaw went slack as he faced him."Nick?"
"Caleb?"
The word had barely left his lips before Caleb grabbed him into a bear hug and held him tight. Which was extremely awkward and gross. Completely weirded out by it, Nick tried to disentangle himself from the demon. It wasn't like Caleb to show any emotion toward him other than irritation or frustration. Sometimes anger.
"Stop C! If you're going to hug me like this, you got to buy me dinner first, boy. And it's got to be someplace nice, like Antoine's or Brennan's. I ain't easy or cheap."
Laughing, Caleb stepped back and narrowed his eyes on Nick as he held him by his arms. "Dude . . . did you lose a bet with a sorcerer or something?"
Nick gave him a droll smirk. "Don't taunt me now that I know your real name. I'm told I can do some damage to you with that. Make you fetch my slippers and stuff. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,
510:golden opportunity to learn to cope with criticism and anger effectively. This came as a complete surprise to me; I hadn't realized what good fortune I had. In addition to urging me to use cognitive techniques to reduce and eliminate my own sense of irritation. Dr. Beck proposed I try out an unusual strategy for interacting with Hank when he was in an angry mood. The essence of this method was: (1) Don't turn Hank off by defending yourself. Instead, do the opposite—urge him to say all the worst things he can say about you. (2) Try to find a grain of truth in all his criticisms and then agree with him. (3) After this, point out any areas of disagreement in a straightforward, tactful, nonargumentative manner. (4) Emphasize the importance of sticking together, in spite of these occasional disagreements. I could remind Hank that frustration and fighting might slow down our therapy at times, but this need not destroy the relationship or prevent our work from ultimately becoming fruitful. I applied this strategy the next time Hank started storming around the office screaming at me. Just as I had planned, I urged Hank to keep it up and say all the worst things he could think of about me. The result was immediate and dramatic. Within a few moments, all the wind went out of his sails—all his vengeance seemed to melt away. He began communicating sensibly and calmly, and sat down. In fact, when I agreed with some of his criticisms, he suddenly began to defend me and say some nice things about me! I was so impressed with this result that I began using the same approach with other angry, explosive individuals, and I actually did begin to enjoy his hostile outbursts because I had an effective way to handle them. I also used the double-column technique for recording and talking back to my automatic thoughts after one of Hank's midnight calls (see Figure 16–1, page 415). ~ David D Burns,
511:Don’t act like you know the first thing about the continent,” I snapped. “It isn’t as though you’ve ever visited.”

He flinched, silent for a moment. “Have you?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I very likely would have if you hadn’t kidnapped me.”

“I didn’t kidnap you,” Tristan said, his voice filled with irritation. “Your friend Luc did.”

“He wouldn’t have done so, if not for you. And he isn’t my friend.”

“That might be the case, but I don’t doubt that he’d have substituted an equivalently dastardly deed in its place.” He pointed a finger at me. “Mark my words, the boy was of a vile sort.”

“Then you are two of a kind,” I snapped.

“Ha ha,” Tristan snorted. “How dreadfully clever. And speaking of clever, is this to be your bid for escape?” He contemplated my clothing. “In a dressing gown and bare feet? Now tell me, if I go put on nightclothes and slippers, might I join you, or is this a solo adventure?”

My eyes stung. “You think this is all exceedingly funny, don’t you? I’m nothing but a joke to you.”

His brow creased in a frown. “If you’re a joke, it isn’t an especially humorous one.”

I threw up my hands in frustration. “You are the most intolerable individual I’ve ever met.”

He bowed. “Why, thank you, Cécile. Always a pleasure to have one’s accomplishments recognized.”

“You are the last person in the world I’d choose to marry,” I hissed.

“I don’t entirely relish the idea myself,” Tristan said, “but sometimes we must do the unthinkable.”

“Why must I?”

Tristan tipped his head slightly, expression considering. “Because you have no choice,” he finally said. “Just as I have no choice. There is no way for you to escape Trollus, Cécile, and if you were caught in the attempt…” His eyes closed, black lashes resting against his cheeks. “My father’s anger is a formidable thing, and I do not wish to see you harmed for aggravating him. ~ Danielle L Jensen,
512:Ow! Son of a—” Before she could complete the expletive, Baird was there, staring at her with concern. “What happened? Are you hurt?” he demanded even as he scanned the area with those inhumanly golden eyes, obviously searching for a threat. “I’m fine. I just…” Liv gestured to her wounded foot with irritation. “I dropped my orange juice when those goons came to get me and I stepped on a shard of glass.” His face fell. “You were hurt all this time and I didn’t notice?” “I didn’t notice half the time myself,” Liv assured him. “I had, uh, other things on my mind.” Like finding out exactly what I was getting myself into with you. “I’ve stopped bleeding so I guess I forgot until I stepped on it out here.” “You’re bleeding?” He looked even more alarmed. Getting down on one knee he gestured her forward. “Let me see.” “No, honestly, it’s all right.” Liv felt both annoyed and shy. Why was he making such a big deal out of this? She’d seen people with foreign objects imbedded in their bodies every day of the week as a nursing student in the Tampa General ER. Didn’t they ever step on sharp things where he came from? “Olivia, come here.” His voice was a low growl—not menacing so much as stern. To her intense irritation, Liv found herself obeying him. “It’s just a piece of glass,” she protested even as she allowed him to settle her on his knee and lift her foot. “If you’ll just give me a first aid kit I can take care of it myself.” “No you won’t.” He examined the heel of her foot with care as though assessing a grave and dangerous injury. “Wait until we get up to the ship and let Sylvan look at it. He’s a medic.” “And I’m a nurse,” Liv protested, feeling even more irritated. “I can handle myself, thank you.” “Even a small injury like this can get infected and it’s hard to work on yourself.” The growl had come back to his voice again and his eyes flashed from dark amber to pale gold in a second. “You need a medic and that’s what you’ll get, Lilenta.” “My ~ Evangeline Anderson,
513:To be honest? I'd thought myself above them. What a nasty little counter-culture snob I was. There they were, doing their fucking best, trying to have a life, trying to bring up their children decently, struggling to make the payments on the little house, wondering where their youth had gone, where love had gone, what was to become of them and all I could do was be a snotty, judgmental cow. But it was no good. I couldn't be like them. I'd seen too much, done too much that was outside anything they knew. I wasn't better than them, but I was different. We had no point of contact other than work. Even then, they disapproved of my attitude, my ways of dealing with the clients. Many's the time I'd ground my teeth as Andrea or Fran had taken the piss out of some hapless, useless, illiterate get they were assigned to; being funny at the expense of their stupidity, their complete inability to deal with straight society. Sure, I knew it was partly a defence mechanism; they did it because it was laugh or scream, and we were always told it wasn't good to let the clients get too close. But all too often - not always, but enough times to make me seethe with irritation - there was an ingrained, self-serving elitism in there too. Who'd see it better than me? They sealed themselves up in their white-collar world like chrysalides and waited for some kind of reward for being good girls and boys, for playing the game, being a bit of a cut above the messy rest - a reward that didn't exist, would never come and that they would only realise was a lie when it was far too late.
Now I would be one of the Others, the clients, the ones who stood outside in the cold and, shivering, looked in at the lighted windows of reason and middle-class respectability. I would be another colossal fuck-up, another dinner party story. But my sin was all the greater because I'd wilfully defected from the right side to the hopelessly, eternally wrong side. I was not only a screw-up, I was a traitor. ~ Joolz Denby,
514:So Christiana went to speak to Dicky about taking us out and about, but when she found him in the office, the idiot was dead."
Daniel bit his lip at her vexed tone. There was absolutely no grief in her voice at all, just irritation with the inconvenience of it all. But then George had never been one to inspire the finer feelings in those he encountered. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Did he fall and strike his head, or-"
"No.He was simply sitting in his chair dead," she said with exasperation, and then added with disgust, "He was obviously a victim of his own excess. We suspected his heart gave out. Certainly the glass and decanter of whiskey next to him suggested he didn't take the best care of himself. I ask you,who drinks hard liquor first thing in the morning?"
Daniel shook his head, finding it difficult to speak. She was just so annoyed as she spoke of the man's death, as if he'd deliberately done it to mess up her plans. After a moment, he asked, "Are you sure he is dead?"
Suzette gave him another one of those adorable "Don't be ridiculous" looks. "Well, obviously he isn't. He is here now," she pointed out, and then shook her head and added almost under her breath, "Though I could have sworn...The man didn't even stir when he fell off the chair and slammed his head on the floor. Nor when I dropped him and his head crashed to the hardwood floor again, or when we rolled him in the carpet and dragged him upstairs, or when we dropped him in the hall and he rolled out of the carpet, or-"
"Er," Daniel interrupted, and then coughed into his hand to hide a laugh, before asking, "Why exactly were you carting him about in a carpet?"
"Well,don't be dense," she said with exasperation. "We couldn't let anyone know he was dead, could we?"
"Couldn't you?" he asked uncertainly.
Suzette clucked with irritation. "Of course not.We would have had to go into mourning then.How would I find a husband if we were forced to abstain from polite society to observe mourning? ~ Lynsay Sands,
515:Now, my dear little girl, you have come to an age when the inward life develops and when some people (and on the whole those who have most of a destiny) find that all is not a bed of roses. Among other things there will be waves of terrible sadness, which last sometimes for days; irritation, insensibility, etc., etc., which taken together form a melancholy. Now, painful as it is, this is sent to us for an enlightenment. It always passes off, and we learn about life from it, and we ought to learn a great many good things if we react on it right. (For instance, you learn how good a thing your home is, and your country, and your brothers, and you may learn to be more considerate of other people, who, you now learn, may have their inner weaknesses and sufferings, too.) Many persons take a kind of sickly delight in hugging it; and some sentimental ones may even be proud of it, as showing a fine sorrowful kind of sensibility. Such persons make a regular habit of the luxury of woe. That is the worst possible reaction on it. It is usually a sort of disease, when we get it strong, arising from the organism having generated some poison in the blood; and we mustn't submit to it an hour longer than we can help, but jump at every chance to attend to anything cheerful or comic or take part in anything active that will divert us from our mean, pining inward state of feeling. When it passes off, as I said, we know more than we did before. And we must try to make it last as short as time as possible. The worst of it often is that, while we are in it, we don't want to get out of it. We hate it, and yet we prefer staying in it—that is a part of the disease. If we find ourselves like that, we must make something ourselves to some hard work, make ourselves sweat, etc.; and that is the good way of reacting that makes of us a valuable character. The disease makes you think of yourself all the time; and the way out of it is to keep as busy as we can thinking of things and of other people—no matter what's the matter with our self. ~ William James,
516:Mr. Flanagan decided to move in with his son in Calgary. He listed the property for sale several weeks ago with Smith Real Estate in Dawson. I’m the person who bought it.”
His features looked even harder than they had before. “That’s impossible. I tried to buy this place from Mose Flanagan every other month for the last four years. He refused to even consider it.”
Her irritation inched up a notch. “Well, apparently he changed his mind. The transaction officially closed yesterday morning. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you the property was for sale.” When his black scowl deepened, she couldn’t resist adding, “Maybe he just didn’t like you.”
He opened his mouth to argue, clamped down on his jaw instead, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. Apparently her goading had hit on a portion of the truth.
“So now you’re the owner,” he said darkly.
“That’s right, I am.”
He looked her over from head to foot, taking in her Liz Claiborne jeans and the touch of makeup she hadn’t been able to resist. She bristled at his smug expression.
“And you actually intend to move in?”
“I am in, Mr…?”
“Hawkins. McCall Hawkins. I’m your next-door neighbor, so to speak. And I don’t appreciate all that hammering you’ve been doing. I like things nice and quiet. I enjoy my privacy and I don’t like being disturbed. It’ll be easier on both of us if you keep that in mind.”
“I’ll do my best,” she lied, thinking of the noisy dredging equipment she intended to use in the stream. She gave him a too-sweet smile. “I’d say it was a pleasure, Mr. Hawkins, but we both know it wasn’t. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
Turning away from him, she climbed the stairs to the porch, picking up her hammer, and started pounding on the dresser again, dismissing him as if he had never been there. For several long moments, he simply stood there glaring. Then she caught the movement of his shadow as he turned and stalked away, back down the path beside the creek.
Of all the nerve. Who the devil did he think he was? ~ Kat Martin,
517:Elizabeth was standing at the edge of the grassy plateau, a few yards beyond where they’d held their shooting match. Wind ruffled through the trees, blowing her magnificent hair about her shoulders like a shimmering veil. He stopped a few steps away from her, looking at her, but seeing her as she had looked long ago-a young goddess in royal blue, descending a staircase, aloof, untouchable; an angry angel defying a roomful of men in a card room; a beguiling temptress in a woodcutter’s cottage, lifting her wet hair in front of the fire-and at the end, a frightened girl thrusting flowerpots into his hands to keep him from kissing her. He drew in a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“It’s a magnificent view,” she commented, glancing at him.
Instead of replying to her remark, Ian drew a long, harsh breath and said curtly, “I’d like you to tell me again what happened that last night. Why were you in the greenhouse?”
Elizabeth suppressed her frustration. “You know why I was there. You sent me a note. I thought it was from Valerie-Charise’s sister-and I went to the greenhouse.”
“Elizabeth, I did not send you a note, but I did receive one.”
Sighing with irritation, Elizabeth leaned her shoulders against the tree behind her. “I don’t see why we have to go through this again. You won’t believe me, and I can’t believe you.” She expected an angry outburst; instead he said, “I do believe you. I saw the letter you left on the table in the cottage. You have a lovely handwriting.”
Caught completely off balance by his solemn tone and his quiet compliment, she stared at him. “Thank you,” she said uncertainly.
“The note you received,” he continued. “What was the handwriting like?”
“Awful,” she replied, and she added with raised brows, “You misspelled ‘greenhouse.’”
His lips quirked with a mirthless smile. “I assure you I can spell it, and while my handwriting may not be as attractive as yours, it’s hardly an illegible scrawl. If you doubt me, I’ll be happy to prove it inside. ~ Judith McNaught,
518:It's not a personality clash between them; it's something else, for which neither is to blame, but for which neither has any solution, and for which I'm not sure I have any solution either, just ideas. The ideas began with what seemed to be a minor difference of opinion between John and me on a matter of small importance: how much one should maintain one's own motorcycle. It seems natural and normal to me to make use of the small tool kits and instruction booklets supplied with each machine, and keep it tuned and adjusted myself. John demurs. He prefers to let a competent mechanic take care of these things so that they are done right. Neither viewpoint is unusual, and this minor difference would never have become magnified if we didn't spend so much time riding together and sitting in country roadhouses drinking beer and talking about whatever comes to mind. What comes to mind, usually, is whatever we've been thinking about in the half hour or forty-five minutes since we last talked to each other. When it's roads or weather or people or old memories or what's in the newspapers, the conversation just naturally builds pleasantly. But whenever the performance of the machine has been on my mind and gets into the conversation, the building stops. The conversation no longer moves forward. There is a silence and a break in the continuity. It is as though two old friends, a Catholic and Protestant, were sitting drinking beer, enjoying life, and the subject of birth control somehow came up. Big freeze-out. And, of course, when you discover something like that it's like discovering a tooth with a missing filling. You can never leave it alone. You have to probe it, work around it, push on it, think about it, not because it's enjoyable but because it's on your mind and it won't get off your mind. And the more I probe and push on this subject of cycle maintenance the more irritated he gets, and of course that makes me want to probe and push all the more. Not deliberately to irritate him but because the irritation seems symptomatic of something deeper, something under the surface that isn't immediately apparent. ~ Anonymous,
519:The perturbations, anxieties, depravations, deaths, exceptions in the physical or moral order, spirit of negation, brutishness, hallucinations fostered by the will, torments, destruction, confusion, tears, insatiabilities, servitudes, delving imaginations, novels, the unexpected, the forbidden, the chemical singularities of the mysterious vulture which lies in wait for the carrion of some dead illusion, precocious & abortive experiences, the darkness of the mailed bug, the terrible monomania of pride, the inoculation of deep stupor, funeral orations, desires, betrayals, tyrannies, impieties, irritations, acrimonies, aggressive insults, madness, temper, reasoned terrors, strange inquietudes which the reader would prefer not to experience , cants, nervous disorders, bleeding ordeals that drive logic at bay, exaggerations, the absence of sincerity, bores, platitudes, the somber, the lugubrious, childbirths worse than murders, passions, romancers at the Courts of Assize, tragedies,-odes, melodramas, extremes forever presented, reason hissed at with impunity, odor of hens steeped in water, nausea, frogs, devilfish, sharks, simoon of the deserts, that which is somnambulistic, squint-eyed, nocturnal, somniferous, noctambulistic, viscous, equivocal, consumptive, spasmodic, aphrodisiac, anemic, one-eyed, hermaphroditic, bastard, albino, pederast, phenomena of the aquarium, & the bearded woman, hours surfeited with gloomy discouragement, fantasies, acrimonies, monsters, demoralizing syllogisms, ordure, that which does not think like a child, desolation, the intellectual manchineel trees, perfumed cankers, stalks of the camellias, the guilt of a writer rolling down the slope of nothingness & scorning himself with joyous cries, that grind one in their imperceptible gearing, the serious spittles on inviolate maxims, vermin & their insinuating titillations, stupid prefaces like those of Cromwell, Mademoiselle de Maupin & Dumas fils, decaying, helplessness, blasphemies, suffocation, stifling, mania,--before these unclean charnel houses, which I blush to name, it is at last time to react against whatever disgusts us & bows us down. ~ Comte de Lautr amont,
520:Some think that money and what it can buy will make
them happy and so concentrate on earning it. But acquiring
a better car, a nicer house, a better position, or more
comfort will never satisfy them, for they are filled with the
desire to have more. For example, some people have a
passion for cars. It is very important that their car is a good
make and the latest model; it has to have good engineering
and a quality music system. They grow very emotionally
attached to their auto and do not want it to have the
slightest dent or scratch. But their satisfaction from driving
a nice car does not last long. Soon a new model comes
out, and theirs becomes an outdated model. It pains them
to read that a faster car with more accessories and more
advanced engineering is now on the market, and in an
instant moment they lose all the pleasure they had in their
once-coveted possession. Also, their wardrobe becomes a
major problem for ignorant people. Some people want to
follow the latest clothing fashions, even though they may
not have enough money to do so. They buy an outfit that
they like and find attractive, but stop liking it when it goes
out of style or they see it on someone they do not like or,
even worse, a rival. The outfit abruptly loses its appeal and
becomes a source of irritation. In much the same way, seeing
someone wearing nicer clothing than theirs makes
them quite miserable. No matter how nice their own outfits
are, they are worried that they are no more than ordinary,
which makes then unhappy. Their habits, social activities,
material means, or possessions will not make them happy,
and their constant search for more will make them even
more miserable. When they realize that they have really
consumed and wasted all of this life’s pleasures, they generally
get “angry at life.” Unwilling to solve their problems
through belief, they remain mired in confusion and unhappiness.
Therefore, in spite of all their efforts, they remain
confused and unhappy. However, if they practiced religious
morality, they would have a joy deeper than they
could imagine. ~ Harun Yahya,
521:Tatiana fretted over him before he left as if he were a five-year-old on his first day of school.
Shura, don't forget to wear your helmet wherever you go, even if it's just down the trail to the river.
Don't forget to bring extra magazines. Look at this combat vest. You can fit more than five hundred rounds. It's unbelievable. Load yourself up with ammo. Bring a few extra cartridges. You don't want to run out.
Don't forget to clean your M-16 every day. You don't want your rifle to jam."
Tatia, this is the third generation of the M-16. It doesn't jam anymore. The gunpowder doesn't burn as much. The rifle is self-cleaning."
When you attach the rocket bandolier, don't tighten it too close to your belt, the friction from bending will chafe you, and then irritation follows, and then infection...
...Bring at least two warning flares for the helicopters. Maybe a smoke bomb, too?"
Gee, I hadn't thought of that."
Bring your Colt - that's your lucky weapon - bring it, as well as the standard -issue Ruger. Oh, and I have personally organized your medical supplies: lots of bandages, four complete emergency kits, two QuickClots - no I decided three. They're light. I got Helena at PMH to write a prescription for morphine, for penicillin, for -"
Alexander put his hand over her mouth. "Tania," he said, "do you want to just go yourself?"
When he took the hand away, she said, "Yes."
He kissed her.
She said, "Spam. Three cans. And keep your canteen always filled with water, in case you can't get to the plasma. It'll help."
Yes, Tania"
And this cross, right around your neck. Do you remember the prayer of the heart?"
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
Good. And the wedding band. Right around your finger. Do you remember the wedding prayer?"
Gloria in Excelsis, please just a little more."
Very good. Never take off the steel helmet, ever. Promise?"
You said that already. But yes, Tania."
Do you remember what the most important thing is?"
To always wear a condom."
She smacked his chest.
To stop the bleeding," he said, hugging her.
Yes. To stop the bleeding. Everything else they can fix."
Yes, Tania. ~ Paullina Simons,
522:Inferiority is not banal or incidental even when it happens to women. It is not a petty affliction like bad skin or
circles under the eyes. It is not a superficial flaw in an otherwise
perfect picture. It is not a minor irritation, nor is it a trivial
inconvenience, an occasional aggravation, or a regrettable but
(frankly) harmless lapse in manners. It is not a “point of view”
that some people with soft skins find “ offensive. ” It is the deep
and destructive devaluing of a person in life, a shredding of dignity and self-respect, an imposed exile from human worth
and human recognition, the forced alienation of a person from
even the possibility of wholeness or internal integrity. Inferiority
puts rightful self-love beyond reach, a dream fragmented by
insult into a perpetually recurring nightmare; inferiority creates
a person broken and humiliated inside. The fragments—
scattered pieces and sharp slivers of someone who can never
be made whole—are then taken to be the standard of what is
normal in her kind: women are like that. The insult that hurt
her—inferiority as an assault, ongoing since birth—is seen as a
consequence, not a cause, of her so-called nature, an inferior nature. In English, a graceful language, she is even called a
piece. It is likely to be her personal experience that she is insufficiently
loved. Her subjectivity itself is second-class, her experiences
and perceptions inferior in the world as she is inferior
in the world. Her experience is recast into a psychologically
pejorative judgment: she is never loved enough because she is
needy, neurotic, the insufficiency of love she feels being in and
of itself evidence of a deep-seated and natural dependency. Her
personal experiences or perceptions are never credited as having
a hard core of reality to them. She is, however, never loved
enough. In truth; in point of fact; objectively: she is never loved
enough. As Konrad Lorenz wrote: “ I doubt if it is possible to
feel real affection for anybody who is in every respect one’s inferior.
” 1 There are so many dirty names for her that one rarely
learns them all, even in one’s native language. ~ Andrea Dworkin,
523:Every now and then, I'm lucky enough to teach a kindergarten or first-grade class. Many of these children are natural-born scientists -
although heavy on the wonder side, and light on skepticism. They're curious, intellectually vigorous. Provocative and insightful questions bubble out of them. They exhibit enormous enthusiasm. I'm asked follow-up questions. They've never heard of the notion of a 'dumb question'.
But when I talk to high school seniors, I find something different. They memorize 'facts'. By and large, though, the joy of discovery, the life behind those facts has gone out of them. They've lost much of the wonder and gained very little skepticism. They're worried about asking 'dumb' questions; they are willing to accept inadequate answers, they don't pose follow-up questions, the room is awash with sidelong glances to judge, second-by-second, the approval of their peers. They come to class with their questions written out on pieces of paper, which they surreptitiously examine, waiting their turn and oblivious of whatever discussion their peers are at this moment engaged in.
Something has happened between first and twelfth grade. And it's not just puberty. I'd guess that it's partly peer pressure not to excel - except in sports, partly that the society teaches short-term gratification, partly the impression that science or mathematics won't buy you a sports car, partly that so little is expected of students, and partly that there are few rewards or role-models for intelligent discussion of science and technology - or even for learning for it's own sake. Those few who remain interested are vilified as nerds or geeks or grinds. But there's something else. I find many adults are put off when young children pose scientific questions. 'Why is the Moon round?', the children ask. 'Why is grass green?', 'What is a dream?', 'How deep can you dig a hole?', 'When is the world's birthday?', 'Why do we have toes?'. Too many teachers and parents answer with irritation, or ridicule, or quickly move on to something else. 'What did you expect the Moon to be? Square?' Children soon recognize that somehow this kind of question annoys the grown-ups. A few more experiences like it, and another child has been lost to science. ~ Carl Sagan,
524:No need to split my eardrums. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Something familiar about the boy’s lilting tone made Cass stop screaming and flailing in his grip. She looked up just slightly, into his face. Even by the dim light of the moon, she recognized his dazzling blue eyes. “You,” she breathed.
“Mourning girl?” The boy laughed, and steadied her on her feet. “So nice to run into you again.”
She wrenched away from his grasp, pulling her cloak tight around her body. “What are you doing here?”
The boy shrugged his broad shoulders. “I was just standing here enjoying the view when you almost ran me over.”
“The view?” Her voice rang out shrilly. “In a graveyard? At this hour?” Her fear began to give way to irritation. He was clearly lying to her.
The boy gestured around him. In the dark, a group of flowering weeds looked like a giant hairy spider crouched against the side of a crypt. “These flowers actually grow best in cemeteries. Did you know that? Something about the mix of soil and shade. Death and life, intertwined. One feeding off the other. It’s kind of magical, don’t you think?” He seemed distracted for a moment, like he really was fascinated by their surroundings. Just as Cass was about to respond, he turned to her again. “Plus the company here is much more agreeable than at la taverna. And much less likely to talk my ear off.”
Cass felt dizzy. She took one more step back. “What’s on your face?” she demanded, pointing at his right cheekbone.
“What?” He licked a finger and wiped haphazardly at the area Cass had indicated. His hand came away smudged with red. “Oh. Paint, probably. It gets all over everything.” His lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile. “It’s a wonder you aren’t the one being mourned, as accident prone as you seem to be.”
“I hardly think you jumping on me earlier qualifies me as accident prone.” She was surprised by how quickly the response came to her.
“Oh, if I had jumped on you, you’d know it,” he said with a wink. He reached toward Cass to dislodge a twig from her hair. “I’m Falco, by the way.”
Cass narrowed her eyes. Now, since he was obviously laughing at her, she found his mischievous grin annoying. Still, it didn’t seem to be the deranged smile of a murderer. ~ Fiona Paul,
525:Lord Charles?" "Amy."  He smiled sleepily and rose up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down one shoulder.  "Good morning." Temporary silence.  Charles was unaware that Amy had a friend with her, and he was totally oblivious to the sight he presented to the two girls, his hair tousled by sleep, his pale blue eyes clear as aquamarine as a shaft of sunlight drove through the window and caught him full in the face.  A sighted man would, of course, have squinted; Charles did not, and instead, Mira and Amy were treated to a brilliant, wide-open view of clear, intelligent eyes, romantically down turned at the outer corners and fringed by long straight lashes tinged with gold. "Hell and tarnation above, Amy, ye sure weren't jokin'!  He's bleedin' gorgeous!" "Mira!" cried Amy, horrified. Charles was hard-pressed to hide his amusement.  He knew, of course, or had at least suspected, that Amy had a girlish infatuation for him, and he'd tried his best not to embarrass her by calling attention to it.  He determined not to do so now. "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asked, still supporting himself on one elbow and blinking the sleep from his eyes. Mira, standing there with her mouth open, was transfixed by that slow, deliberate blink.  In a heartbeat, she saw what Amy had described:  studied thoughtfulness, kindness, compassion.  The way the man lowered those long eyelashes over those translucently clear eyes, then slowly brought them back up again, did something funny to her insides.  Cripes, no wonder Amy was smitten! "Mira Ashton, patriot," she announced.  "I'm Amy's friend.  She tells me ye're a blasted Brit who took it upon himself to be merciful to Will, so I guess I'll take it upon myself to be merciful to you.  Besides, I hear ye're being nice to Amy, and since everyone else in this house treats her like donkey dung, I figger the least I can do is be civil to ye — redcoat or not." "Mira!" Amy gasped. "Well, it's true.  Where are those two bleedin' leeches, anyhow?" Despite himself, and his irritation with both the girl's language and her rather vexing use of the word "Brit," Charles got to his feet and bowed, his spirits suddenly quite buoyed.  If Amy had friends like this, maybe he shouldn't be worrying about her, after all. "Still in bed, I daresay," he said. ~ Danelle Harmon,
526:Are you sure you’re all right?” Oscar asked.
“I’m sure.” The sound of their voices disturbed the night, and her dishonesty disturbed her. How could she be all right? She’d been abducted at knifepoint. She’d heard the chanting again and seen the eerie black skeletal face on the bathwater’s surface. What were those things, if not part of the Umandu curse?
“Are you sure he didn’t touch you?” Oscar asked, the softness of his question poles apart from the anger and irritation he’d shown all day. It was obvious he didn’t want to go chasing after Umandu, but she couldn’t imagine the prospect of bringing her father back to life would make him so sour.
Camille sat up, holding the thin blanket around her neck. An odd thought struck her: They were on land, alone in a room, and they hadn’t yet struggled with an awkward stretch of silence. Camille liked the change and hoped it stuck.
Oscar lay on the floor, beneath the double windows. He had one arm over his chest, the other behind his head. He saw her and pushed himself up, his own covers loose around his waist. He still wore his clothes, and she grinned, knowing it was for her benefit only. He’d be sweating rivers tonight in the heavy heat. Oscar wrapped his arm around one knee.
“You have no idea what went through my mind tonight when I found that bathtub empty,” he whispered. “I can’t let anything happen to you, Camille.”
She sat up a little straighter, hoping he wouldn’t pledge his protection just to honor his dead captain. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, Oscar. But my safety isn’t your burden.”
Though she couldn’t see him clearly in the shadowed room, Camille felt his eyes on her.
“You’re not a burden, Camille. Not to me.”
She searched his dark outline. A patch of moonlight fell on a swath of bare skin on the curve of his neck. It glistened with sweat, and she felt her own skin fire with the charged silence growing between them. She didn’t know how to respond; he wouldn’t look away.
“He didn’t touch me,” she whispered instead, answering his original question. She lay back and turned onto her side, disappointed she hadn’t found something more to say. Something to make the moment last a hair longer.
Oscar’s covers rustled as he settled back as well.
“That was smart of him,” he replied, and said no more. ~ Angie Frazier,
527:No Big Deal or the End of the World? Here’s something that should be obvious: People don’t like to have their grievances downplayed or dismissed. When that happens, even the smallest irritation can turn into an obsessive crusade. Imagine you’re staying at a hotel, and the air-conditioning isn’t working right. You call the front desk to mention it, and they say, oh yeah, they know about that, and someone is going to come fix that next week (after you’ve left). In the meantime, could you just open a window (down to that noisy, busy street)? Not a word of apology, no tone of contrition. Now what was a mild annoyance—that it’s 74F degrees when you like to sleep at 69F—is suddenly the end of the world! You swell with righteous fury, swear you’ll write a letter to management, and savage the hotel in your online review. Jean-Louis Gassée, who used to run Apple France, describes this situation as the choice between two tokens. When you deal with people who have trouble, you can either choose to take the token that says “It’s no big deal” or the token that says “It’s the end of the world.” Whichever token you pick, they’ll take the other. The hotel staff in the example above clearly took the “It’s no big deal” token and as a result forced you to take the “It’s the end of the world” token. But they could just as well have made the opposite choice. Imagine the staff answering something like this: “We’re so sorry. That’s clearly unacceptable! I can completely understand how it must be almost impossible to sleep when it’s so hot in your room. If I can’t fix this problem for you tonight, would you like me to refund your stay and help you find a different hotel room nearby? In any case, while we’re figuring out the solution, allow me to send up a bottle of ice water and some ice cream. We’re terribly sorry for this ordeal and we’ll do everything to make it right.” With an answer like that, you’re almost forced to pick the “It’s no big deal” token. Yeah, sure, some water and ice cream would be great! Everyone wants to be heard and respected. It usually doesn’t cost much to do, either. And it doesn’t really matter all that much whether you ultimately think you’re right and they’re wrong. Arguing with heated feelings will just increase the burn. Keep that in mind the next time you take a token. Which one are you leaving for the customer? ~ Jason Fried,
528:In all your travels around Alagaësia, with Angela and without, you’ve never found anything that might explain this mystery? Or even just something that might be of use against Galbatorix.”
I found you, didn’t I?
“That’s not funny,” growled Eragon. “Blast it, you have to know something more.”
I do not.
“Think, then! If I can’t find some sort of help against Galbatorix, we’ll lose, Solembum. We’ll lose, and most of the Varden, including the werecats, will die.”
Solembum hissed again. What do you expect of me, Eragon? I cannot invent help where none exists. Read the book.
“We’ll be at Urû’baen before I can finish it. The book might as well not exist.”
Solembum’s ears flattened again. That is not my fault.
“I don’t care if it is. I just want a way to keep us from ending up dead or enslaved. Think! You have to know something else!”
Solembum uttered a low, warbling growl. I do not. And--
“You have to, or we’re doomed!”
Even as Eragon uttered the words, he saw a change come over the werecat. Solembum’s ears swiveled until they were upright, his whiskers relaxed, and his gaze softened, losing its hard-edged brilliance. At the same time, the werecat’s mind grew unusually empty, as if his consciousness had been stilled or removed.
Eragon froze, uncertain.
Then he felt Solembum say, with thoughts that were as flat and colorless as a pool of water beneath a wintry, cloud-ridden sky: Chapter forty-seven. Page three. Start with the second passage thereon.
Solembum’s gaze sharpened, and his ears returned to their previous position. What? he said with obvious irritation. Why are you gaping at me like that?
“What did you just say?”
I said that I do not know anything else. And that--
“No, no, the other thing, about the chapter and page.”
Do not toy with me. I said no such thing.
“You did.”
Solembum studied him for several seconds. Then, with thoughts that were overly calm, he said, Tell me exactly what you heard, Dragon Rider.
So, Eragon repeated the words as closely as he could. When he finished, the werecat was silent for a while. I have no memory of that, he said.
“What do you think it means?”
It means that we should look and see what’s on page three of chapter forty-seven. ~ Christopher Paolini,
529:Narian was once more making preparations for a journey to Cokyri; as official liaison, he frequently traveled between the mother empire and the province. Knowing that the trip was long and arduous I didn’t expect him to come to me that night, and I didn’t bother to light a lantern when I adjourned to my bedroom. Instead, I relied on memory and moonlight to guide me to my dressing table.
I unpinned my dark brown hair--it was not yet long enough to tie back, but letting it merely hang was impractical--and reached behind to tug at the laces of my dress. They were difficult to loosen without the aid of my personal maid, Sahdienne, who had been among those servants rehired for the sake of the economy. I sighed in frustration and stood, about to send for her when I felt warm hands rest on my waist from behind. My irritation dispersed as I closed my eyes and tilted my head back against a sturdy chest, breathing in his presence. Narian had come.
He swept my hair off my neck, his fingers giving me pleasant chills, then took over what I had been attempting. My dress rustled to the floor, leaving me standing in my chemise, and he sweetly and tenderly kissed my neck and shoulders. He pushed my shift down my arms, his mouth following, and I leaned against him, my legs weak, keenly attuned to every brush of his lips against my flushed skin.
My heart beat faster, and I twisted to face him, kissing him deeply, hardly aware that he had begun to walk backward, leading me toward the bed. We fell together upon the mattress, not entirely gracefully, but neither of us thinking about form. He rolled on top of me, his breath quickening along with mine, and it was only when he took hold of my bunched up chemise that my brain snapped into action. I placed my hands on his shoulders and shook my head, and he flopped flat on his back beside me with a groan.
After a moment to regain his composure, he propped himself up on his elbow to look down at me, desire still lurking in his mesmerizing eyes.
“Alera? Are you…all right?”
“Narian, we can’t do this.” I was more than a little shocked at the both of us.
His brow furrowed, and he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He took a breath and opened his mouth, then stopped, apparently unable to decide exactly what he wanted to say.
“Why not?”
Because,” I said, pushing myself upright. “We’re not married! ~ Cayla Kluver,
530:The light changed slightly. Mari looked up and over at one wall. There was now a narrow, roughly door-shaped hole in it. Standing in the hole was Mage Alain.
Mari stood up, realizing that her mouth was hanging open. That wall was solid. I felt it. There wasn't any opening. She watched as the Mage took two shaky steps into the cell, then paused, some of the strain leaving his face. She blinked, wondering what she had just seen, as the hole in the wall vanished as if it had never been. One moment it was there, the next it was gone. ...
Mari took a long slow breath. 'They use smoke and mirrors and other 'magic' to make commons think they can create temporary holes in walls and things like that. It's all nonsense.' "Mages actually can make real holes in walls."
"No."
Her head hurting with increased intensity, Mari glowered at the Mage. "You didn't make a hole in the wall?"
"I made the illusion of a hole in the illusion of the wall."
Mari looked at Mage Alain for what felt like a long time, trying to detect any sign of mockery or lying. But he seemed perfectly sincere. And unless she had completely lost her mind, he had just walked through that solid wall. ...
"We can get out the same way that you got in?" Mari asked. "Through imaginary holes in the imaginary wall?" She wondered how her guild would feel about seeing that in her report. Actually, she didn't have to wonder, but she wasn't about to turn down a chance at escape.
The Mage took a deep breath and swayed on his feet. "No."
"No?"
"Unfortunately—" Alain collapsed into a seated position on the cot next to her—"the effort of finding you has exhausted me. There were several walls to get through. I can do no more for some time. I am probably incapable of any major effort until morning." He shook his head. "I did not plan this well. Maybe the elders are right and seventeen is simply too young to be a Mage."
Mari stared at him. "Are you telling me that you came to rescue me, following a metaphorical thread through imaginary holes, but now that you're in the same cell with me you can't get us out?"
"Yes, that is correct. This one erred."
"That one sure did. Now instead of one of us being stuck in here, we're both stuck in here."
The Mage gave her a look which actually betrayed a trace of irritation. He must have really been exhausted for such a feeling to show. "I do not have much experience with rescues. Are you always so difficult? ~ Jack Campbell,
531:The Hunters
Six men went hunting, but only four returned.
Two, in fact, hadn't returned.
Oknov, Kozlov, Stryuchkov and Motylkov returned home safely, but Shirokov and
Kablukov perished on the hunt.
OKNOV went around very upset the whole day and wouldn't even talk to anyone.
Kozlov walked round behind Oknov with great persistence, badgering him with all
manner of questions, by which means he drove Oknov to a point of extreme
irritation.
KOZLOV: Do you fancy a smoke?
OKNOV: No!
KOZLOV: Do you want me to bring you that thing over there?
OKNOV: No!
KOZLOV: Perhaps you'd like me to tell you a funny story?
OKNOV: No!
KOZLOV: Well, do you want a drink? I've got some tea and cognac here.
OKNOV: Not content with just having smashed you over the skull with this stone,
I'll rip your leg off as well.
STRYUCHKOV AND MOTYLKOV: What are you doing? What are you doing?
KOZLOV: Pick me up from the ground.
MOTYLKOV: Don't you get excited now, that wound will heal.
KOZLOV: And where's Oknov?
OKNOV (Ripping off Kozlov's leg): I'm right here.
KOZLOV: Oh, my gosh golly!
STRYUCHKOV AND MOTYLKOV: Seems he's ripped the leg off him as well!
OKNOV: Ripped it off and thrown it over there!
STRYUCHKOV: That's atrocious!
OKNOV: Wha-at?
STRYUCHKOV: ...ocious...
OKNOV: What's that?
STRYUCHKOV: N-n... n-n... nothing.
KOZLOV: How am I going to get home?
MOTYLKOV: Don't worry, we'll fix a wooden leg on you!
STRYUCHKOV: What are you like at standing on one leg?
KOZLOV: I can do it, but I'm no great shakes at it.
STRYUCHKOV: That's all right, we'll support you.
OKNOV: Let me get at him.
STRYUCHKOV: Hey, no. You'd better go away!
OKNOV: No, let me through! ... Let me!... Let... That's what I wanted to do.
STRYUCHKOV AND MOTYLKOV: How horrible!
15
OKNOV: Ha, ha, ha.
MOTYLKOV: But where is Kozlov?
STRYUCHKOV: He's crawled off into the bushes!
MOTYLKOV: Kozlov, are you there?
KOZLOV: Glug-glug!
MOTYLKOV: Now look what's become of him!
STRYUCHKOV: What's to be done with him?
MOTYLKOV: Well, we can't do a thing with him, now. In my view, we'd better
just strangle him. Kozlov! Hey, Kozlov! Can you hear me?
KOZLOV: O-oh, yes, but only just barely.
MOTYLKOV: Don't you upset yourself mate, we're just going to strangle you.
Wait a minute, now! . . . There, there, there we are.
STRYUCHKOV: Here we are, and again! That's the way, yes! Come on, a bit more
. . . Now, that's that!
MOTYLKOV: That's that, then!
OKNOV: Lord have mercy on him!
~ Daniil Ivanovich Kharms,
532:I suppose it means that I will be free to travel with my maid, or to live in the country while you are in town, or I may live in town while you are in the country if I wish. I mean if I find your company...er...unpleasant."
"I see," Daniel said dryly. "And if we are always apart, how exactly are we to gain heirs?"
"Oh." Suzette flushed. "Well, I suppose we could arrange for occasional visits for...er...procreative purposes."
"Occasional visits for procreative purposes?" he achoed with disbelief, and then muttered dryly, "My, how scintillating that sounds."
Suzette frowned, for really it did sound rather cold, nothing like the passionate delirium she had read about in one of Lisa's novels. But then, truthfully,she simply couldn't fathom the ecstasies described in that book. She'd never even been kissed and what if she didn't enjoy his kisses? Just because he didn't have bad breath didn't mean she would enjoy these visits she spoke of so boldly. Coming to a decision, she straightened abruptly, and said, "We must kiss."
That caught his attention and he asked with amazement, "What?"
"Well, we should see if we would deal well together in...er...that regard," she muttered, blushing hotly. Swallowing, she forced herself to add firmly, "You should kiss me. Then we will know."
"My dear young lady," Daniel began seeming half amused and half horrified, "I really do not think-"
"Oh,for pity's sake," Suzette interuppted impatiently, and then leaned forward again,this time pressing her lips to his. In her rush to get it over with, she lost her balance a bit and had to catch a hold of his jacket to steady herself as she smooshed her mouth against his. She then waited for the warm and wonderful commotion she'd read about to assault her. Unfortunately, there wasn't any commotion. Really this was no more exciting than pressing her mouth to a cup, Suzette thought with dismay, and released him to sit back again with a most disappointed sigh. "Oh dear, I fear you're no good at this."
"Excuse me? I am no good at this?" Daniel asked with amazed disbelief. "My dear girl, if you think that was a kiss-"
"Do stop calling me a girl," Suzette snapped a bit impatiently and got to her feet, too agitated now to sit. "You sound like you're old enough to be my father and you aren't quite that old."
"Not quite that old? For pity's sake! What a charmer you are," he said with irritation, and then stood up as well and informed her with some dignity, "That was not a proper kiss."
"Well if you are such an expert, why do you not show me how to do it right?" she suggested, glowering with frustration at this turn of events. ~ Lynsay Sands,
533:kinds of disguises and dance to all sorts of tunes to make myself Harry’s addiction. If he had not been fatally flawed, early corrupted by the brutality of his school, I should never have been able to keep him from Celia. I knew I was a hundred times more beautiful than she, a hundred times stronger. But I could not always remember that, when I saw the quiet strength she drew on when she believed she was morally right. And I could not be certain that every man would prefer me, when I remembered how Harry had looked at her with such love when we came back from France. I would never forgive Celia for that summer. Even though it was the summer when I cared nothing for Harry but rode and danced day and night with John, I would not forget that Celia had taken my lover from me without even making an effort at conquest. And now my husband bent to kiss her hand as if she were a queen in a romance and he some plighted knight. I might give a little puff of irritation at this scene played out before my very window. Or I might measure the weakness in John and think how I could use it. But use it I would. Even if I had felt nothing else for John I should have punished him for turning his eyes to Celia. Whether I wanted him or not was irrelevant. I did not want my husband loving anyone else. For dinner that afternoon I dressed with extra care. I had remodelled the black velvet gown that I had worn for the winter after Papa’s death. The Chichester modiste knew her job and the deep plush folds fitted around my breasts and waist like a tight sheath, flaring out in lovely rumpled folds over the panniers at my hips. The underskirt was of black silk and whispered against the thick velvet as I walked. I made sure Lucy powdered my hair well, and set in it some black ribbon. Finally, I took off my pearl necklace and tied a black ribbon around my throat. With the coming of winter, my golden skin colour was fading to cream, and against the black of the gown I looked pale and lovely. But my eyes glowed green, dark-lashed and heavy-lidded, and I nipped my lips to make them red as I opened the parlour door. Harry and John were standing by the fireplace. John was as far away from Harry as he could be and still feel the fire. Harry was warming his plump buttocks with his jacket caught up, and drinking sherry. John, I saw in my first sharp glance, was sipping at lemonade. I had been right. Celia was trying to save my husband. And he was hoping to get his unsteady feet back on the road to health. Harry gaped openly when he saw me, and John put a hand on the mantelpiece as if one smile from me might destroy him. ‘My word, Beatrice, you’re looking very lovely tonight,’ said Harry, coming forward ~ Philippa Gregory,
534:For God’s sake, Anders, your pacing is driving me wild,” Leigh said with exasperation. “Sit down.” Anders paused with surprise and turned to peer at the brunette curled up in the corner of the couch with a book in her hands. “I’m not pacing, I’m . . .” She arched her eyebrows, waiting, and he sighed. “Pacing,” he acknowledged and sank onto the nearest chair. He rested his elbows on his spread knees, allowing his hands to dangle between them, and stared out the window. After several minutes, he dropped back in the chair with a heavy sigh, then straightened and asked impatiently, “What the devil is she doing up there?” “She’s checking with her academic advisor to ensure that missing the first two weeks of classes won’t bugger her up for the term,” Leigh reminded him patiently. “Yeah, but that should have been a five-minute conversation. She’s been up there over an hour,” he complained. Valerie had helped clean up the kitchen after breakfast, then had taken Roxy with her and escaped upstairs on the pretext of calling the veterinary college to be sure she was still welcome after missing the first two weeks of the semester. “Yes, well, perhaps whoever she needs to speak to wasn’t available and she’s waiting for a call back,” Leigh suggested. “Or maybe they had work for her to do to keep from falling behind and she’s up their reading her textbooks and studying.” “Or maybe she’s hiding,” Anders said unhappily. Leigh tsked with irritation. “Why would she be hiding?” Anders didn’t respond, but in his mind he was remembering their kiss that morning . . . well, kisses. Or maybe one kiss. He wasn’t sure how to classify it. Did you have to come up for air to classify it as more than one kiss? Or was it counted in minutes or seconds? Because it had been a constant devouring of each other’s mouths for several minutes. “Oh my, yes. I see,” Leigh murmured. Anders glanced up at her murmur and noted her narrowed concentration on him. She’d read his damn mind. “Yes, that might have made her want to hide out,” she said sympathetically. “It wasn’t that long ago when I had my first encounter with life mate passion. It was pretty terrifying. And she didn’t have any idea what was happening. I mean, as an immortal you had heard about it, had some idea of what to expect, and yet you were still overwhelmed by it. Imagine how she must feel. She got hit by a nuclear explosion of passion out of nowhere.” Anders sighed and ran one hand wearily over his closely cropped hair. Leigh wasn’t saying a damned thing he hadn’t already thought of. Which was why he suspected Valerie was hiding out. The question was, how long would she hide? And how was he supposed to get her to know and trust him if she wouldn’t come out of her room? ~ Lynsay Sands,
535:From Tomorrow to Yesterday

The tree trunks move in time with the rhythm of her rubber soles on the wet path, where the air is still cool after the night rain. The woodland floor is white with anemones; in one place, growing close to the roots of an ancient tree, they make her think of an old, wrinkled hand. She could go on and on without getting tired, without meeting anyone or thinking of anything in particular, and without coming to the edge of the woods. As if the town did not begin just behind the trees, the leafy suburb with its peaceful roads and its houses hidden behind close-trimmed hedges. She doesn't want to think about anything, and almost succeeds; her body is no more than a porous, pulsating machine. The sun breaks through the clouds as she runs back, its light diffused on the gravel drive and the magnolia in front of the kitchen window. His car is no longer parked beside hers, he must have left while she was in the woods.

He hadn't stirred when she rose, and she'd already been in bed when he came home late last night. She lay with her back turned, eyes closed, as he undressed, taking care not to wake her. She leans against one of the pillars of the garage and stretches, before emptying the mailbox and letting herself into the house. She puts the mail on the kitchen table. The little light on the coffeemaker is on; she switches it off. Not so long ago, she would have felt a stab of irritation or a touch of tenderness, depending on her mood. He always forgets to turn off that machine. She puts the kettle on, sprinkles tea leaves into the pot, and goes over to the kitchen window. She observes the magnolia blossoms, already starting to open. They'll have to talk about it, of course, but neither of them seems able to find the right words, the right moment.

She pauses on her way through the sitting room. She stands amid her furniture looking out over the lawn and the pond at the end of the garden. The canopies of the trees are dimly reflected in the shining water. She goes into the bathroom. The shower door is still spotted with little drops. As time went on they have come to make contact during the day only briefly, like passing strangers. But that's the way it has been since the children left home, nothing unusual in that. She takes off her clothes and stands in front of the mirror where a little while ago he stood shaving. She greets her reflection with a wry smile. She has never been able to view herself in a mirror without this moue, as if demonstrating a certain guardedness about what she sees. The dark green eyes and wavy black hair, the angularity of her features. She dyes her hair exactly the color it would have been if she hadn't begun to go gray in her thirties, but that's her only protest against age. ~ Jens Christian Gr ndahl,
536:I smile at my friends, but Mer and Rashmi and Josh are distracted, arguing about something that happened over dinner. St. Clair sees me and smiles back. "Good?"
I nod.He looks pleased and ducks into the row after me. I always sit four rows up from the center, and we have perfectseats tonight.The chairs are classic red. The movie begins,and the title screen flashes up. "Ugh,we have to sit through the credits?" Rashmi asks. They roll first,like in all old films.
I read them happily. I love credits. I love everything about movies.
The theater is dark except for the flicker of blacks and whites and grays on-screen. Clark Gable pretends to sleep and places his hand in the center of an empty bus seat. After a moment of irritation,Claudette Colbert gingerly plucks it aside and sits down. Gable smiles to himself,and St. Clair laughs.
It's odd,but I keep finding myself distracted. By the white of his teeth through the darkness.By a wavy bit of his hair that sticks straight out to the side. By the soft aroma of his laundry detergent. He nudges me to silently offer the armrest,but I decline and he takes it.His arm is close to mine,slightly elevated. I glance at his hands.Mine are tiny compared to his large,knuckly boy hands.
And,suddenly,I want to touch him.
Not a push,or a shove,or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases in his skin,connect his freckles with invisible lines,brush my fingers across the inside of his wrist. He shifts. I have the strangest feeling that he's as aware of me as I am of him. I can't concentrate. The characters on the screen are squabbling, but for the life of me, I don't know what about. How long have I not been paying attention?
St. Clair coughs and shifts again. His leg brushes against mine.It stays there. I'm paralyzed. I should move it; it feels too unnatural.How can he not notice his leg is touching my leg? From the corner of my eye,I see the profile of his chin and nose,and-oh,dear God-the curve of his lips.
There.He glanced at me. I know he did.
I bore my eyes into the screen, trying my best to prove that I am Really Interested in this movie.St. Clair stiffens but doesn't move his leg.Is he holding his breath? I think he is.I'm holding mine. I exhale and cringe-it's so loud and unnatural.
Again.Another glance. This time I turn, automatically,just as he's turning away. It's a dance,and now there's a feeling in the air like one of us should say something.Focus,Anna. Focus. "Do you like it?" I whisper.
He pauses. "The film?"
I'm thankful the shadows hide my blush.
"I like it very much," he says.
I risk a glance,and St. Clair stares back. Deeply.He has not looked at me like this before.I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later.
I know he is smiling,and my heart races. ~ Stephanie Perkins,
537:You aren’t going to die,” Kiernan whispered through the darkness.
We sat in one of the bedchambers for pilgrims, me on the cot and Kiernan on the floor. He was sitting with his knees bent, elbows resting on them. If I looked at him, I knew I would see his eyes flash even in the dark. So I leaned my head back against the stone wall and said nothing.
“She might not have meant you,” he continued. “It could be Orianne, or even the real Nalia.”
That did make me look at him. “Great,” I said sarcastically. “So we find the real Nalia and then somehow get her killed. That would certainly be doing the kingdom a favor.”
Kiernan huffed in irritation, then took a breath. “I didn’t mean it that way. And besides, not all of those visions come true. The one that started this whole mess didn’t.”
I didn’t answer. I felt numb, had felt that way since stumbling out of the temple. Even the key hidden inside my fist hadn’t been enough to bring me back to myself. I had allowed Kiernan to lead me to the pilgrims’ quarters, overheard him tell Brother Paxson that I was too weary with study to leave that night. I had eaten the food brought to us, nodding mechanically in thanks, then sat down on the cot and let my mind wander.
A triangle. One side crumbled away, leaving only two. Try as I might, I could think of nothing else it could mean. Only that if I found the real princess, one of us--Nalia, Orianne, or me--would die.
“And even if it was a true prophecy, we can fight it. We know about it now, so we can be…alert, careful. We can keep them safe. We’ll keep you safe--I’ll keep you safe.” Kiernan pushed himself up off the bed and came to sit next to me. “Come on,” he said, reaching out a tentative arm and putting it around my shoulders. “I just got you back. I’m not going to let you die.”
Closing my eyes, I let myself lean against him. He smelled nice, even after days of travel on horseback. And he was warm and solid, and my friend.
We stayed like that long enough that I felt a little of the numbness leave, melted away by Kiernan’s warmth. “Sorry,” I said finally. My voice sounded a little choked, which made me pull away from him in embarrassment. “It’s a strange thing to hear, that’s all.”
Kiernan had let his arm drop from my shoulders, but his fingers now brushed my arm nearest to him. “I’m sure it is,” he said. He was gazing into my eyes as he said it, though more deeply than seemed necessary.
My heart was suddenly hammering in my ears, and I was overly aware of how close we were. “It must be near midnight,” I stuttered. “We should…We should probably try the, uh, library.”
Kiernan blinked, then pushed himself up, one corner of his mouth pulled in. “Of course,” he said. Then a mischievous grin broke across his face. “Now, this should be fun. ~ Eilis O Neal,
538:Now, little sister,” he said, allowing a teasing tone to enter his voice, “would you care to explain what exactly has happened between you and Blackmoor in the last few weeks?” Alex leveled him with a frank look. “Not particularly.” “Come now! It’s obvious you are…enamored of each other.” “Is it?” She attempted to appear bored, to little effect. Will laughed. “You forget I have known you your entire life, Scamp. I can tell when there is something of import in that lovely head of yours.” She stayed quiet, willing herself not to rise to her brother’s bait. “You also forget,” he said in a deceptively casual tone, “that I spent the day with Blackmoor.” Alex sat up straighter, causing Vivi to lose her headrest. She was unable to hide her eagerness. “Did he say something about me? What was it?” Will laughed, enjoying the power he held over his little sister. “My, my. Is this the same sister who spent much of her time prior to this season expounding on both the irrelevance of men to her future and her marked lack of interest in marriage and the trappings of romance?” “I didn’t say men were irrelevant to my future. That’s ridiculous. Nor did I show a lack of interest in romance.” She ignored the three sets of eyebrows that rose in a silent yet eloquent response to her statement. “What happened? Was Father difficult with him?” “I thought you weren’t interested in discussing Blackmoor?” “Oh, William, I do wish you would be quiet if you have nothing to say,” Alex growled in irritation, then sat back and said, “I’m not interested. I was merely being conversational.” All three of her companions snorted with laughter. “You cannot honestly think that he’d actually believe that, can you?” Vivi asked before turning to Will. “Take pity on her, my lord. Have you never wondered what a girl thought of you?” “Never.” He lied baldly, a broad smile on his face, then pressed on. “Well, I shall simply say that our father and he are currently having a serious conversation.” “What?!” She leaned forward, squashing Ella’s head on her lap, causing her friend to cry out and sit up. Alex’s “I beg your pardon, Ella” was followed immediately with, “William! What are they talking about?” “I haven’t any idea.” Will leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “It seems to me that it would likely have something to do with your inappropriate display this morning.” Alex stood. “Oh, no! Do you think Father is angry? Do you think Gavin is being lectured? Do you think I should go to him?” “In order: No, I don’t think Father is angry. Yes, I do think Gavin is being lectured—that’s what Father does, remember? And no, I definitely do not think you should go anywhere near the study while they are locked in there. I think you should sit down and attempt to relax,” Will said, finally sounding more like the brother she loved and less like the one she wanted to murder. ~ Sarah MacLean,
539:I stood on a rise, overlooking the plague valley. Matthew was beside me.

The last thing I remembered was crawling into my sleeping bag after the whiskey had hit me like a two-by-four to the face. Now my friend was here with me. “I’ve missed you. Are you feeling better?” How much was this vision taking out of him?

“Better.” He didn’t appear as pale. He wore a heavy coat, open over a space camp T-shirt.

“I’m so relieved to hear that, sweetheart. Why would you bring us here?”

“Power is your burden.”

I surveyed all the bodies. “I felt the weight of it when I killed these people.”

“Obstacles multiply.”

“Which ones?” A breeze soughed over the valley. “Bagmen, slavers, militia, or cannibals?”

He held up the fingers of one hand. “There are now five. The miners watch us. Plotting.”

“But miners are the same as cannibals, right?”

He shuffled his boots with irritation. “Miners, Empress.”

“Okay, okay.” I rubbed his arm. “Are you and Finn being safe?”

His brows drew together as he gazed out. “Smite and fall, mad and struck.”

I looked with him, like we were viewing a sunset, a beautiful vista. Not plague and death. “You’ve told me those words before.”

“So much for you to learn, Empress. Beware the inactivated card.”

One Arcana’s powers lay dormant—until he or she killed another player. “Who is it?”

“Don’t ask, if you ever want to know.”

Naturally, I started to ask, but he cut me off. “Do you believe I see far?” He peered down at me. “Do you believe I see an unbroken line that stretches on through eternity? Centuries ago, I told an Empress that a future incarnation of hers would live in a world of ash where nothing grew. She never believed me.”

I could imagine Phyta or the May Queen surveying verdant fields and crops, doubting the Fool.

“Now I tell you that dark days are ahead. Will you believe me?”

“I will. I do. Please tell me what will happen. How dark?”

“Darkest. Power is your burden; knowing is mine.” His expression turned pleading, his soft brown eyes imploring. “Never hate me.”

I raised my hands, cradling his face. “Even when I was so mad at you, I never hated you.”

“Remember. Matthew knows best.” He sounded like his mom—when she’d tried to drown him: Mother knows best, son.

I dropped my hands. “It scares me when you say that.”

“Do you know what you really want? I see it. I feel it. Think, Empress. See far.”

I was trying! “Help me, then. I’m ready. Help me see far!”

“All is not as it seems. What would you sacrifice? What would you endure?”

“To end the game?”

His voice grew thick as he said, “Things will happen beyond your wildest imaginings.”

“Good things?”

His eyes watered. “Good, bad, good, bad, good, good, bad, bad, good-bye. You are my friend. ~ Kresley Cole,
540:I reached for the doorknob just as the doorbell sounded for the second time that afternoon. “What is this?” I said. “Grand Central Station?”
I pulled the door open. Mark London was standing on the porch. At the sight of Alex, his face shuttered.
“Sorry,” he said. “Bad timing.”
“Nope,” Alex said cheerfully. He stepped around me, then past Mark, and moved to the edge of the porch. “Try not to be stupid, London. If I hear you’ve hurt her, I may feel compelled to do something macho like break both your arms. I’m a jock. We can do things like that, you know.”
Then he sauntered down the porch and out into the rain.
“So,” Mark said after a moment. “You guys kiss and make up or something?”
“You are an idiot,” I said. “You know perfectly well he and Elaine are crazy for each other. He’s probably heading next door right now. If the only reason you’re here is to be a pain, you’d better watch out because I’m planning to slam the door in your face.”
“Don’t,” Mark said suddenly. “Don’t make me go away, Jo.”
I felt the breath back up in my lungs. “Just tell me what you want, London.”
“To see you, for one thing,” Mark said explosively. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”
I’ve been avoiding you!” I all but shouted. “Who stopped talking to me as soon as his award-winning articles came out? What happened? You got what you wanted so you didn’t need me anymore?”
“I can’t believe you’d think that,” Mark said.
“What am I supposed to think?” I said. “I don’t even know you!”
“Stop,” Mark said suddenly. “Just stop.” With one quick motion he reached out and pulled me onto the porch and into his arms. “I didn’t come to fight. God, you feel good.”
“I am not a pushover,” I mumbled against his chest. I felt, as well as heard, the rumble of his laughter.
“No, I know you’re not.”
He eased back, taking my face between his hands, running one thumb along my right cheekbone. “I know we don’t know each other very well,” he said. “That’s going to change, beginning now. I want to spend as much time with you as possible.”
“What about what I want?”
He kissed me then. Long and deep and slow. I felt my heart roll over inside my chest, then settle down to beat in time to his.
“What do you want?” Mark said when the kiss was over.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. If ever there was a moment for absolute truth, I figured now was the time. “Not altogether. But I’m pretty sure you’re a part of it.”
His lips twitched, with suppressed laughter or irritation, I couldn’t quite tell.
“When do you think you’ll know for sure?”
“Are we going to stand here and play twenty questions all day? How the heck should I know?”
He laughed then, the sound unlike anything I’d ever heard from him before. Open and joyous.
“I think I’m going to enjoy the next few months,” he said.
I smiled. “Just so long as you don’t mind a few surprises. ~ Cameron Dokey,
541:Elizabeth’s breakfast had cured Ian’s hunger, in fact, the idea of ever eating again made his stomach churn as he started for the barn to check on Mayhem’s injury.
He was partway there when he saw her off to the left, sitting on the hillside amid the bluebells, her arms wrapped around her knees, her forehead resting atop them. Even with her hair shining like newly minted gold in the sun, she looked like a picture of heartbreaking dejection. He started to turn away and leave her to moody privacy; then, with a sigh of irritation, he changed his mind and started down the hill toward her.
A few yards away he realized her shoulders were shaking with sobs, and he frowned in surprise. Obviously there was no point in pretending the meal had been good, so he injected a note of amusement into his voice and said, “I applaud your ingenuity-shooting me yesterday would have been too quick.”
Elizabeth started violently at the sound of his voice. Snapping her head up, she stared off to the left, keeping her tear-streaked face averted from him. “Did you want something?”
“Dessert?” Ian suggested wryly, leaning slightly forward, trying to see her face. He thought he saw a morose smile touch her lips, and he added, “I thought we could whip up a batch of cream and put it on the biscuit. Afterward we can take whatever is left, mix it with the leftover eggs, and use it to patch the roof.”
A teary chuckle escaped her, and she drew a shaky breath but still refused to look at him as she said, “I’m surprised you’re being so pleasant about it.”
“There’s no sense crying over burnt bacon.”
“I wasn’t crying over that,” she said, feeling sheepish and bewildered. A snowy handkerchief appeared before her face, and Elizabeth accepted it, dabbing at her wet cheeks.
“Then why were you crying?”
She gazed straight ahead, her eyes focused on the surrounding hills splashed with bluebells and hawthorn, the handkerchief clenched in her hand. “I was crying for my own ineptitude, and for my inability to control my life,” she admitted.
The word “ineptitude” startled Ian, and it occurred to him that for the shallow little flirt he supposed her to be she had an exceptionally fine vocabulary. She glanced up at him then, and Ian found himself gazing into a pair of green eyes the amazing color of wet leaves. With tears still sparkling on her long russet lashes, her long hair tied back in a girlish bow, her full breasts thrusting against the bodice of her gown, she was a picture of alluring innocence and intoxicating sensuality. Ian jerked his gaze from her breasts and said abruptly, “I’m going to cut some wood so we’ll have it for a fire tonight. Afterward I’m going to do some fishing for our supper. I trust you’ll find a way to amuse yourself in the meantime.”
Startled by his sudden brusqueness, Elizabeth nodded and stood up, dimly aware that he did not offer his hand to assist her. ~ Judith McNaught,
542:Even annoyed, as she was now, she vibrated the kind of barely restrained energy that made every part of him spark to life. Some parts more enthusiastically than others. He shifted his weight and sidestepped slightly in an effort to keep that reality as unnoticeable as possible. He’d become a master of that particular skill during the last few months she’d been on the station.
He needn’t have worried. She didn’t so much as glance at him. Her irritation was focused solely on her big brother. “Did you really just perp walk Cooper down the harbor?”
Logan’s eyebrows lifted along with his hands, which he held up at his sides, palms out. “Hold up, I didn’t--”
“Save it,” Kerry said. She turned to Cooper. “I apologize. He forgets I’m an adult woman who can handle her own affairs.” She glared at her brother during that last part.
“She’s right, you know.” This came from a little spitfire brunette who, given Kerry’s descriptions of her family, must be the middle McCrae sister, Fiona. Fists planted on her hips, managing to somehow look down her cute little nose at her much taller and much bigger brother, she added, “We’re trying to plan my wedding and grill her about Mr. Hot and Aussie here. I’d think by now you’d know that we’ve got this covered.” She made a brief gesture to the other women standing alongside her. “If we thought he was a danger to society, we would have called.”
Cooper watched the ricocheting dialogue like a spectator at a cricket match, unable to squelch a grin. It was like watching his own sister, all grown up and in triplicate. As Kerry and Fiona closed in on a somehow now hapless-looking lumberjack of a police chief, Cooper stepped forward and stuck out his hand toward the taller, willowy young woman who stood just behind Fiona. Where Kerry was Amazonian and Fiona a little firebrand, their oldest sister was the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. “Hannah Blue, I presume? I’m Cooper Jax. Sorry for the disruption of your sister’s wedding plans. I didn’t know.”
This had Fiona turning his way. “And how could you, given Kerry couldn’t be bothered to so much as send you a postcard?”
“Hey,” Kerry said, looking at her sister now. “Whose side are you on?”
Fiona looked back at her. “The side that keeps this guy here and you looking all pent up and googly-eyed.”
“Googly-eyed?” Kerry shot back.
Cooper, grinning unrepentantly now, turned his attention back to Hannah and continued, as if her sisters weren’t getting all up in each other’s personal space. “I understand congratulations are in order on your recent nuptials as well.”
Hannah gave him a swift, all-encompassing once-over as only a former defense attorney could. Then, in the face of his unrelenting goodwill, she took his hand, her mouth curving up in the barest hint of a smile as she gave it a firm, quick shake. “You’re a charmer, Mr. Jax, I’ll give you that.”
“Go with your strength,” he replied. ~ Donna Kauffman,
543:Your butler informed me you were here. I thought-that is, I wondered how things were going.”
“And since my butler didn’t know,” Ian concluded with amused irritation, “you decided to call on Elizabeth and see if you could discover for yourself?”
“Something like that,” the vicar said calmly. “Elizabeth regards me as a friend, I think. And so I planned to call on her and, if you weren’t here, to put in a good word for you.”
“Only one?” Ian said mildly.
The vicar did not back down; he rarely did, particularly in matters of morality or justice. “Given your treatment of her, I was hard pressed to think of one. How did matters turn out with your grandfather?”
“Well enough,” Ina said, his mind on meeting with Elizabeth. “He’s here in London.”
“And?”
“And,” Ian said sardonically, “you may now address me as ‘my lord.’”
“I’ve come here,” Duncan persisted implacably, “to address you as ‘the bridegroom.’”
A flash of annoyance crossed Ian’s tanned features. “You never stop pressing, do you? I’ve managed my own life for thirty years, Duncan. I think I can do it now.”
Duncan had the grace to look slightly abashed. “You’re right, of course. Shall I leave?”
Ian considered the benefits of Duncan’s soothing presence and reluctantly shook his head. “No. In fact, since you’re here,” he continued as they neared the top step, “you may as well be the one to announce us to the butler. I can’t get past him.”
Duncan lifted the knocker while bestowing a mocking glance on Ian. “You can’t get past the butler, and you think you’re managing very well without me?”
Declining to rise to that bait, Ian remained silent. The door opened a moment later, and the butler looked politely from Duncan, who began to give his name, to Ian. To Duncan’s startled disbelief, the door came crashing forward in his face. An instant before it banged into its frame Ian twisted, slamming his shoulder into it and sending the butler flying backward into the hall and ricocheting off the wall. In a low, savage voice he said, “Tell your mistress I’m here, or I’ll find her myself and tell her.”
With a glance of furious outrage the older man considered Ian’s superior size and powerful frame, then turned and started reluctantly for a room ahead and to the left, where muted voices could be heard.
Duncan eyed Ian with one gray eyebrow lifted and said sardonically, “Very clever of you to ingratiate yourself so well with Elizabeth’s servants.”
The group in the drawing room reacted with diverse emotions to Bentner’s announcement that “Thornton is here and forced his way into the house.” The dowager duchess looked fascinated, Julius looked both relived and dismayed, Alexandra looked wary, and Elizabeth, who was still preoccupied with her uncle’s unstated purpose for his visit, looked nonplussed. Only Lucinda showed no expression at all, but she laid her needlework aside and lifted her face attentively toward the doorway. ~ Judith McNaught,
544:So are you bailing? Is that what this is?” he muttered, staring angrily at me.
“I have your number. If I wanted to bail, I would have called and told you to fuck off.”
Cooper exhaled hard then looked around the courtyard. Returning his gaze to me, he shook his head. “Why is everything so difficult with you?”
“Because you’re an asshole who makes me feel bad,” I said then added, “On purpose.”
“You wanted me to kiss you. We had a nice dinner and you wanted to be close. I tried to be close and you punished me for it.”
“Fuck you,” I whispered, stepping back against the door. “You knew what you were doing. You figured I liked you more than you liked me, so you could do whatever you wanted. I’m just trash.”
“Fuck you back,” he growled. “There is no way in hell you like me more than I like you. If you did, you wouldn’t keep saying no.”
“So fine, let’s just fuck today and get it over with. That way, you can get on with your life.”
“Shit!” he yelled, walking halfway down the path before turning around and hurrying back. When he reached me, I flinched at the ferocity of his movements.
“I want you so bad, but it’s not just sex. If it was, I’d fuck someone else and pretend she was you then flip you off and move on with my life. I tease you, but it’s not about sex. You fucking know that too.”
“I don’t know anything,” I said, nervous now because I wondered if he might hurt me. Looking like he was ready to hit something, his hands flexed in and out of fists. “I was really happy after dinner. I wanted to bring you here and make out, but then you scared me. You did that on purpose to make me feel weak. Fine, I feel weak and I’m afraid of you.”
Cooper glanced to his right at the sound of people talking. Looking back at me, he lost much of his irritation. “It’s hard being patient, okay?” he said in a needy voice.
“Then, we’ll get it over with today and you won’t have to be patient anymore.”
Cooper’s expression softened into a panicked, almost pained look. “I want all of you. Not just sex. I want you to take down all of your walls for me. It felt so fucking beautiful to see you a little better after you told me about Mrs. Prescott. I felt relieved, but also desperate. I want you to look at me like you did after you told me that story, but I have to wait. I get that.”
“Sex will be another wall.”
“We’re not having sex today,” he said, sighing. “You’re looking at me like I’m a piece of shit that’ll hit you. You actually look afraid of me. No way do you want to have sex and I’m not doing it unless you’re really giving yourself to me. No fake Farah shit. No walled up crap. I want the real you and the real you doesn’t want to have sex with me,” he muttered then added, “Today.”
“Had to put in the disclaimer, huh?” I said, grinning slightly.
“It was too painful not to put it in.”
“I do want to go swimming.”
“And spend time with me?” he asked, nudging me with his knee. “Throw me a bone here. ~ Bijou Hunter,
545:All girls love the idea of Almack’s. They spend the majority of their early years envisioning exactly what their first evening there will be like. They go all starry-eyed about the ruddy place, imagining just who will be the first man to steal their hearts.” “Not these girls,” piped in Ella. “I, for one, have no interest at all in having my heart stolen,” Alex interjected, ire rising. Gavin leaned back in his chair and studied the trio of girls, taking note of Alex’s rising temper. “To be honest, Nick, I’d be surprised to hear these three speaking of having their hearts stolen…with an attitude like this…I’m guessing this lot is much more interested in who will be the first man to have his heart stolen—they don’t seem the wall-flower type.” Alex exploded in irritation. “Why is it that men believe that all women care to think about is the trappings of romance and love? You really don’t consider the possibility that there’s anything more to us, do you?” The boys looked at each other and turned to the girls with expressions that clearly articulated the answer to her question—rendering words unnecessary. “Fools,” Alex mumbled under her breath. “In actual fact, gentlemen, I think we’d all much prefer to steer clear of heart stealing of any kind, victim or perpetrator,” Alex continued. “Of course, you lot wouldn’t understand that. You’re never going to be forced into dancing with some namby-pamby so your mothers can feel better about your marriage prospects.” Will snorted in laughter. “Spoken like someone who has never been to a ball with our mother. I promise you, Alex, as difficult as she can be with you, she’s just as impossible with us. The duchess wants a wedding…any wedding will do.” Gavin joined in. “I second that. Last season our mothers aligned against me—I thought for sure I was done for. I danced scores of quadrilles with any number of desperate young ladies before I realized it would be smart for me to beg off attending balls altogether.” His tone turned thoughtful. “I had planned on doing the same this year…but seeing Alex take London by storm just might be entertaining enough to drag me to a society gathering or two.” “Be careful what you ask for, Blackmoor,” Nick interjected. “It is I who has been forced to play partner to her during her dancing lessons. She’s not the most graceful of ladies.” “Nor the lightest. Mind your toes, chap.” Kit, as usual, delivered his barb with an impish grin thrown in the direction of an increasingly irritated Alex. With a chuckle, Will interjected, “Ah, well, as brothers, we can rest easy from the fate of Alex’s clumsiness. We’ll never have to dance with her again. Wednesday evening, she shall be loosed upon the men of London. I’m sure someone in the mix won’t mind partnering her.” With an exasperated groan, Alex leveled her gaze at the men in the room. “Well, I console myself with this: No matter who I end up having to dance with, he can’t be more boorish than you three oafs. Lord save your future wives. ~ Sarah MacLean,
546:One day, because I was bored in our usual spot, next to the merry-go-round, Françoise had taken me on an excursion – beyond the frontier guarded at equal intervals by the little bastions of the barley-sugar sellers – into those neighbouring but foreign regions where the faces are unfamiliar, where the goat cart passes; then she had gone back to get her things from her chair, which stood with its back to a clump of laurels; as I waited for her, I was trampling the broad lawn, sparse and shorn, yellowed by the sun, at the far end of which a statue stands above the pool, when, from the path, addressing a little girl with red hair playing with a shuttlecock in front of the basin, another girl, while putting on her cloak and stowing her racket, shouted to her, in a sharp voice: ‘Good-bye, Gilberte, I’m going home, don’t forget we’re coming to your house tonight after dinner.’ That name, Gilberte, passed by close to me, evoking all the more forcefully the existence of the girl it designated in that it did not merely name her as an absent person to whom one is referring, but hailed her directly; thus it passed close by me, in action so to speak, with a power that increased with the curve of its trajectory and the approach of its goal; – transporting along with it, I felt, the knowledge, the notions about the girl to whom it was addressed, that belonged not to me, but to the friend who was calling her, everything that, as she uttered it, she could see again or at least held in her memory, of their daily companionship, of the visits they paid to each other, and all that unknown experience which was even more inaccessible and painful to me because conversely it was so familiar and so tractable to that happy girl who grazed me with it without my being able to penetrate it and hurled it up in the air in a shout; – letting float in the air the delicious emanation it had already, by touching them precisely, released from several invisible points in the life of Mlle Swann, from the evening to come, such as it might be, after dinner, at her house; – forming, in its celestial passage among the children and maids, a little cloud of precious colour, like that which, curling over a lovely garden by Poussin,15 reflects minutely like a cloud in an opera, full of horses and chariots, some manifestation of the life of the gods; – casting finally, on that bald grass, at the spot where it was at once a patch of withered lawn and a moment in the afternoon of the blonde shuttlecock player (who did not stop launching the shuttlecock and catching it again until a governess wearing a blue ostrich feather called her), a marvellous little band the colour of heliotrope as impalpable as a reflection and laid down like a carpet over which I did not tire of walking back and forth with lingering, nostalgic and desecrating steps, while Françoise cried out to me: ‘Come on now, button up your coat and let’s make ourselves scarce’, and I noticed for the first time with irritation that she had a vulgar way of speaking, and alas, no blue feather in her hat. ~ Marcel Proust,
547:Thomas Jefferson's Letter to John Holmes on the Missouri Statehood Question – April 20, 1820

I thank you, dear Sir, for the copy you have been so kind as to send me of the letter to your constituents on the Missouri question. It is a perfect justification to them. I had for a long time ceased to read newspapers, or pay any attention to public affairs, confident they were in good hands, and content to be a passenger in our bark to the shore from which I am not distant. But this momentous question, like a fire bell in the night, awakened and filled me with terror. I considered it at once as the knell of the Union. It is hushed, indeed, for the moment. But this is a reprieve only, not a final sentence. A geographical line, coinciding with a marked principle, moral and political, once conceived and held up to the angry passions of men, will never be obliterated; and every new irritation will mark it deeper and deeper. I can say, with conscious truth, that there is not a man on earth who would sacrifice more than I would to relieve us from this heavy reproach, in any practicable way. The cession of that kind of property, for so it is misnamed, is a bagatelle which would not cost me a second thought, if, in that way, a general emancipation and expatriation could be effected; and, gradually, and with due sacrifices, I think it might be. But as it is, we have the wolf by the ears, and we can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation in the other. Of one thing I am certain, that as the passage of slaves from one State to another, would not make a slave of a single human being who would not be so without it, so their diffusion over a greater surface would make them individually happier, and proportionally facilitate the accomplishment of their emancipation, by dividing the burthen on a greater number of coadjutors. An abstinence too, from this act of power, would remove the jealousy excited by the undertaking of Congress to regulate the condition of the different descriptions of men composing a State. This certainly is the exclusive right of every State, which nothing in the constitution has taken from them and given to the General Government. Could Congress, for example, say, that the non- freemen of Connecticut shall be freemen, or that they shall not emigrate into any other State?
I regret that I am now to die in the belief, that the useless sacrifice of themselves by the generation of 1776, to acquire self-government and happiness to their country, is to be thrown away by the unwise and unworthy passions of their sons, and that my only consolation is to be, that I live not to weep over it. If they would but dispassionately weigh the blessings they will throw away, against an abstract principle more likely to be effected by union than by scission, they would pause before they would perpetrate this act of suicide on themselves, and of treason against the hopes of the world. To yourself, as the faithful advocate of the Union, I tender the offering of my high esteem and respect.
Th. Jefferson ~ Thomas Jefferson,
548:Having proven that solitary pleasures are as delicious as any others and much more likely to delight, it becomes perfectly clear that this enjoyment, taken in independence of the objectwe employ, is not merely of a nature very remote from what could be pleasurable to thatobject, but is even found to be inimical to that object’s pleasure: what is more, it may becomean imposed suffering, a vexation, or a torture, and the only thing that results from this abuse isa very certain increase of pleasure for the despot who does the tormenting or vexing; let usattempt to demonstrate this.”Voluptuous emotion is nothing but a kind of vibration produced in our soul by shockswhich the imagination, inflamed by the remembrance of a lubricious object, registers uponour senses, either through this object’s presence, or better still by this object’s being exposedto that particular kind of irritation which most profoundly stirs us; thus, our voluptuoustransport Ä this indescribable convulsive needling which drives us wild, which lifts us to thehighest pitch of happiness at which man is able to arrive Ä is never ignited save by twocauses: either by the perception in the object we use of a real or imaginary beauty, the beautyin which we delight the most, or by the sight of that object undergoing the strongest possiblesensation; now, there is no more lively sensation than that of pain; its impressions are certainand dependable, they never deceive as may those of the pleasure women perpetually feign andalmost never experience; and, furthermore, how much self-confidence, youth, vigor, healthare not needed in order to be sure of producing this dubious and hardly very satisfyingimpression of pleasure in a woman. To produce the painful impression, on the contrary,requires no virtues at all: the more defects a man may have, the older he is, the less lovable,the more resounding his success. With what regards the objective, it will be far more certainlyattained since we are establishing the fact that one never better touches, I wish to say, that onenever better irritates one’s senses than when the greatest possible impression has been produced in the employed object, by no matter what devices; therefore, he who will cause themost tumultuous impression to be born in a woman, he who will most thoroughly convulsethis woman’s entire frame, very decidedly will have managed to procure himself the heaviest possible dose of voluptuousness, because the shock resultant upon us by the impressionsothers experience, which shock in turn is necessitated by the impression we have of thoseothers, will necessarily be more vigorous if the impression these others receive be painful,than if the impression they receive be sweet and mild; and it follows that the voluptuousegoist, who is persuaded his pleasures will be keen only insofar as they are entire, willtherefore impose, when he has it in his power to do so, the strongest possible dose of painupon the employed object, fully certain that what by way of voluptuous pleasure he extractswill be his only by dint of the very lively impression he has produced. ~ Marquis de Sade,
549:Transcendental generosity is generally misunderstood in the study of the Buddhist scriptures as meaning being kind to someone who is lower than you.  Someone has this pain and suffering and you are in a superior position and can save them—which is a very simple-minded way of looking down on someone.  But in the case of the bodhisattva, generosity is not so callous.  It is something very strong and powerful; it is communication.
 
Communication must transcend irritation, otherwise it will be like trying to make a comfortable bed in a briar patch.  The penetrating qualities of external color, energy, and light will come toward us, penetrating our attempts to communicate like a thorn pricking our skin.  We will wish to subdue this intense irritation and our communication will be blocked.
 
Communication must be radiation and receiving and exchange.  Whenever irritation is involved, then we are not able to see properly and fully and clearly the spacious quality of that which is coming toward us, that which is presenting itself as communication.  The external world is immediately rejected by our irritation which says, “no, no, this irritates me, go away.”  Such an attitude is the complete opposite of transcendental generosity.
 
So the bodhisattva must experience the complete communication of generosity, transcending irritation and self-defensiveness.  Otherwise, when thorns threaten to prick us, we feel that we are being attacked, that we must defend ourselves.  We run away from the tremendous opportunity for communication that has been given to us, and we have not been brave enough even to look to the other shore of the river.  We are looking back and trying to run away.
 
Generosity is a willingness to give, to open without philosophical or pious or religious motives, just simply doing what is required at any moment in any situation, not being afraid to receive anything.  Opening could take place in the middle of a highway.  We are not afraid that smog and dust or people’s hatreds and passions will overwhelm us; we simply open, completely surrender, give.  This means that we do not judge, do not evaluate.  If we attempt to judge or evaluate our experience, if we try to decide to what extent we should open, to what extent we should remain closed, the openness will have no meaning at all and the idea of paramita, of transcendental generosity, will be in vain.  Our action will not transcend anything, will cease to be the act of a bodhisattva.
 
The whole implication of the idea of transcendence is that we see through the limited notions, the limited conceptions, the warfare mentality of this as opposed to that. Generally, when we look at an object, we do not allow ourselves to see it properly.  Automatically we see our version of the object instead of actually seeing the object as it is.  Then we are quite satisfied, because we have manufactured or own version of the thing within ourselves.   Then we comment on it, we judge, we take or reject; but there is on real communication going on at all.
 
Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism, p.167, Chogyam Trungpa Rimpoche ~ Ch gyam Trungpa,
550:I opened myself up to the kiss and kissed him back with enthusiasm. Putting all my secret emotions and tender feelings into the embrace, I wound my arms around his neck and slid my hands into his hair. Pulling his body that much closer to mine, I embraced him with all the warmth and affection that I wouldn’t allow myself to express verbally.
He paused, shocked for a brief instant, and then quickly adjusted his approach, escalating into a passionate frenzy. I shocked myself by matching his energy. I ran my hands up his powerful arms and shoulders and then down his chest. My senses were in turmoil. I felt wild. Eager. I clutched at his shirt. I couldn’t get close enough to him. He even smelled delicious.
You’d think that several days of being chased by strange creatures and hiking through a mysterious kingdom would make him smell bad. In fact, I wanted him to smell bad. I’m sure I did. I mean, how can you expect a girl to be fresh as a daisy while traipsing through the jungle and getting chased by monkeys. It’s just not possible.
I desperately wanted him to have some fault. Some weakness. Some…imperfection. But Ren smelled amazing-like waterfalls, a warm summer day, and sandalwood trees all wrapped up in a sizzling, hot guy.
How could a girl defend herself from a perfect onslaught delivered by a pefect person? I gave up and let Mr. Wonderful take control of my senses. My blood burned, my heart thundered, my need for him quickened, and I lost all track of time in his arms. All I was aware of was Ren. His lips. His body. His soul. I wanted all of him.
Eventually, he put his hands on my shoulders and gently separated us. I was surprised that he had the strength of will to stop because I was nowhere near being able to. I blinked my eyes open in a daze. We were both breathing hard.
“That was…enlightening,” he breathed. “Thank you, Kelsey.”
I blinked. The passion that had dulled my mind dissipated in an instant, and my mind sharply focused on a new feeling. Irritation.
“Thank you? Thank you! Of all the-“ I slammed up the steps angrily and then spun around to look down at him. “No! Thank you, Ren!” My hands slashed at the air. “Now you got what you wanted, so leave me alone!” I ran up the stairs quickly to put some distance between us.
Enlightening? What was that about? Was he testing me? Giving me a one-to-ten score on my kissing ability? Of all the nerve?
I was glad that I was mad. I could shove all the other emotions into the back of my mind and just focus on the anger, the indignation.
He leapt up the stairs two at a time. “That’s not all I want, Kelsey. That’s for sure.”
“Well, I no longer care about what you want!”
He shot me a knowing look and raised an eyebrow. Then, he lifted his foot out of the opening, placed it on the dirt, and instantly changed back into a tiger.
I laughed mockingly. “Ha!” I tripped over a stone but quickly found my footing. “Serves you right!” I shouted angrily and stumbled blindly along the dim path.
After figuring out where to go, I marched off in a huff. “Come on, Fanindra. Let’s go find Mr. Kadam. ~ Colleen Houck,
551:Most people cannot stand being alone for long. They are always seeking groups to belong to, and if one group dissolves, they look for another. We are group animals still, and there is nothing wrong with that. But what is dangerous is not the belonging to a group, or groups, but not understanding the social laws that govern groups and govern us.
When we're in a group, we tend to think as that group does: we may even have joined the group to find "like-minded" people. But we also find our thinking changing because we belong to a group. It is the hardest thing in the world to maintain an individual dissent opinion, as a member of a group.
It seems to me that this is something we have all experienced - something we take for granted, may never have thought about. But a great deal of experiment has gone on among psychologists and sociologists on this very theme. If I describe an experiment or two, then anyone listening who may be a sociologist or psychologist will groan, oh God not again - for they have heard of these classic experiments far too often. My guess is that the rest of the people will never have had these ideas presented to them. If my guess is true, then it aptly illustrates general thesis, and the general idea behind these essays, that we (the human race) are now in possession of a great deal of hard information about ourselves, but we do not use it to improve our institutions and therefore our lives.
A typical test, or experiment, on this theme goes like this. A group of people are taken into the researcher's confidence. A minority of one or two are left in the dark. Some situation demanding measurement or assessment is chosen. For instance, comparing lengths of wood that differ only a little from each other, but enough to be perceptible, or shapes that are almost the same size. The majority in the group - according to instruction- will assert stubbornly that these two shapes or lengths are the same length, or size, while the solitary individual, or the couple, who have not been so instructed will assert that the pieces of wood or whatever are different. But the majority will continue to insist - speaking metaphorically - that black is white, and after a period of exasperation, irritation, even anger, certainly incomprehension, the minority will fall into line. Not always but nearly always. There are indeed glorious individualists who stubbornly insist on telling the truth as they see it, but most give in to the majority opinion, obey the atmosphere.
When put as baldly, as unflatteringly, as this, reactions tend to be incredulous: "I certainly wouldn't give in, I speak my mind..." But would you?
People who have experienced a lot of groups, who perhaps have observed their own behaviour, may agree that the hardest thing in the world is to stand out against one's group, a group of one's peers. Many agree that among our most shameful memories is this, how often we said black was white because other people were saying it.
In other words, we know that this is true of human behaviour, but how do we know it? It is one thing to admit it in a vague uncomfortable sort of way (which probably includes the hope that one will never again be in such a testing situation) but quite another to make that cool step into a kind of objectivity, where one may say, "Right, if that's what human beings are like, myself included, then let's admit it, examine and organize our attitudes accordingly. ~ Doris Lessing,
552:J’ai remarqué souvent que quand deux amis pétersbourgeois se rencontrent quelque part, après s’être salués, ils demandent en même temps : Quoi de neuf ? il y a une tristesse particulière dans leurs voix, quelle qu’ait été l’intonation initiale de leur conversation. En effet, une désespérance totale est liée à cette question à Pétersbourg. Mais le plus agaçant c’est que, très souvent, l’homme qui la pose est tout à fait indifférent, un Pétersbourgeois de naissance, qui connaît très bien la coutume, sait d’avance qu’on ne lui répondra rien, qu’il n’y a rien de nouveau, qu’il a posé cette question peut-être mille fois sans aucun succès ; cependant, il la pose, et il a l’air de s’y intéresser, comme si les convenances l’obligeaient de participer lui aussi à la vie publique, d’avoir des intérêts publics. Mais les intérêts publics... C’est-à-dire nous ne nions pas que nous ayons des intérêts publics ; nous tous aimons ardemment la patrie, nous aimons notre cher Pétersbourg, nous aimons jouer si l’occasion se présente. En un mot il y a beaucoup d’intérêts publics. Mais ce qu’il y a surtout chez nous, ce sont les groupes. On sait que Pétersbourg n’est que la réunion d’un nombre considérable de petits groupes dont chacun a ses statuts, ses conventions, ses lois, sa logique et son oracle. C’est en quelque sorte le produit de notre caractère national qui a encore peur de la vie publique et tient plutôt au foyer. En outre, la vie publique exige un certain art ; il faut s’y préparer ; il faut beaucoup de conditions. Aussi, l’on préfère la maison. Là, tout est plus simple ; il ne faut aucun art ; on est plus tranquille. Dans le groupe, on vous répondra bravement à la question : Quoi de neuf ? La question reçoit tout de suite un sens particulier, et l’on vous répond ou par un potin, ou par un bâillement, ou par quelque chose qui vous force vous-même à bâiller cyniquement, magistralement. Dans le groupe, on peut traîner de la façon la meilleure et la plus douce une vie utile entre le bâillement et le ragot, jusqu’au moment où la grippe, ou bien la fièvre chaude, visite votre demeure ; et vous quittez alors la vie stoïquement, avec indifférence, sans savoir comment et pourquoi tout cela était avec vous jusqu’alors. Aujourd’hui, dans l’obscurité, au crépuscule, après une triste journée, plein d’étonnement que tout se soit arrangé ainsi, il semble qu’on ait vécu, qu’on ait atteint quelque chose, et tout à coup, on ne sait pas pourquoi, il faut quitter ce monde agréable et sans soucis pour émigrer dans un monde meilleur. Dans certains groupes, d’ailleurs, on parle fortement de la cause. Quelques personnes instruites et bien intentionnées se réunissent. On bannit sévèrement tous les plaisirs innocents, comme les potins et la préférence, et, avec un entrain incompréhensible, on parle de différents sujets très importants. Enfin, après avoir bavardé, parlé, résolu quelques questions d’utilité générale, et après avoir réussi à imposer aux uns et aux autres une opinion sur toutes choses, le groupe est saisi d’une irritation quelconque et commence à s’affaiblir considérablement. Finalement, tous se fâchent les uns contre les autres. On se dit quelques dures vérités. Quelques caractères tranchants se font jour et tout se termine par la dislocation totale. Ensuite on se calme ; on fait provision de bon sens et, peu à peu, l’on se réunit de nouveau dans le groupe décrit ci-dessus. Sans doute il est agréable de vivre ainsi. Mais à la longue cela devient irritant ; cela irrite fortement. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
553:I guess there’s nothing else to say.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, crooking a finger. “Come here.” Her throat went dry, and her heart gave a thud. On instinct, she shook her head. His expression turned ruthlessly intent. “Maddie, I’ve been thinking about that mouth of yours for almost twenty-four hours straight. You don’t think I’m going to let you go without touching you, do you?” Had it only been one day? How was that even possible? It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she’d run out on her wedding. “Um . . .” She swallowed hard and squeaked out, “Yes?” A long pause filled with sexual awareness so thick it practically coated the air. How did he do it, flip the mood? Only moments ago, she’d felt bereft, but with one wicked glance she’d forgotten everything dogging her. “I’ll tell you what.” He smiled, and it was so filled with cunning that the fine hairs on her neck rose in anticipation. “Tell me you won’t regret it and we can end things right here with a friendly pat on the back.” “I-I d-don’t know what you mean,” she lied, loving and hating the direction the conversation had taken. “Do I need to spell it out?” “No?” The word was a question instead of the statement she’d intended. “You want to take care of yourself, right?” She nodded, sensing a trap but unable to stop playing into his hands. He leaned close, placing his elbow on the console, taking up every spare inch of breathing room. “You’re ready to ditch the good Catholic girl and start doing what you want?” The strange mixture of lust and irritation he evoked pulled in her stomach. “Well, when you put it that way.” The curve of his lips held a distinct sexual tilt. “If you get out of this car untouched, tell me you won’t lie in bed late at night and regret it. Tell me you won’t wonder and wish you’d done things differently.” Her pulse hammered and her throat dried up, leaving her unable to breathe, let alone speak. He stroked a path over the line of her jaw, and Maddie forced her eyes to stay open instead of fluttering closed from sheer desire. Why did it feel like an eternity since he’d touched her? Even more troubling, why did his hands feel so right? The slightly rough pads of his fingers trailed down the curve of her neck, leaving an explosion of tingles coursing through her. “And remember, Princess,” he said, in a deep rumble of a voice that vibrated through her as though he were her own personal tuning fork. “Lying is a sin.” She gasped, sucking in the last available bit of air left in the car. “That’s a low blow.” He gave a seductive laugh, filled with heat and promise and the kind of raw passion she’d always dreamed about. “I’m not above playing dirty.” A sly smirk as he rubbed a lazy circle over skin she hadn’t known was sensitive. “In fact, I think you prefer it that way.” “I do not!” Her heart beating far too fast, she clutched at the credit card hard enough to snap it in two. “Liar.” He slipped under the collar of her T-shirt to wrap a possessive hand around the nape of her neck. “I’m waiting.” She gritted her teeth to keep from moaning. How did one man feel so good? Hot and sinful. Irresistible. She whispered, “For what?” “My answer,” he said, inching closer. Their mouths mere inches away. She swallowed hard. The truth sat on the tip of her tongue, and for once in her life, she decided to speak it instead of stuffing it back down. “I’d regret it.” “Exactly,” he said, the word a soft breath against her skin. The pad of his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, sliding over the dampness until it felt swollen. Needy. “I can’t live with myself unless I’ve tasted this mouth.” This ~ Jennifer Dawson,
554:You are a totally pathetic, historical example of the phallocentric, to put it mildly."

"A pathetic, historical example," Oshima repeats, obviously impressed. By his tone of voice he seems to like the sound of that phrase.

"In other words you're a typical sexist, patriarchic male," the tall one pipes in, unable to conceal her irritation.

"A patriarchic male," Oshima again repeats.

The short one ignores this and goes on. "You're employing the status quo and the cheap phallocentric logic that supports it to reduce the entire female gender to second-class citizens, to limit and deprive women of the rights they're due. You're doing this unconsciously rather than deliberately, but that makes you even guiltier. You protect vested male interests and become inured to the pain of others, and don't even try to see what evil your blindness causes women and society. I realize that problems with restrooms and card catalogs are mere details, but if we don't begin with the small things we'll never be able to throw off the cloak of blindness that covers our society. Those are the principles by which we act."

"That's the way every sensible woman feels," the tall one adds, her face expressionless.

[...]

A frozen silence follows.

"At any rate, what you've been saying is fundamentally wrong," Oshima says, calmly yet emphatically. "I am most definitely not a pathetic, historical example of a patriarchic male."

"Then explain, simply, what's wrong with what we've said," the shorter woman says defiantly.

"Without sidestepping the issue or trying to show off how erudite you are," the tall one adds.

"All right. I'll do just that—explain it simply and honestly, minus any sidestepping or displays of brilliance," Oshima says.

"We're waiting," the tall one says, and the short one gives a compact nod to show she agrees.

"First of all, I'm not a male," Oshima announces.

A dumbfounded silence follows on the part of everybody. I gulp and shoot Oshima a glance.

"I'm a woman," he says.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't joke around," the short woman says, after a pause for breath. Not much confidence, though. It's more like she felt somebody had to say something.

Oshima pulls his wallet out of his chinos, takes out the driver's license, and passes it to the woman. She reads what's written there, frowns, and hands it to her tall companion, who reads it and, after a moment's hesitation, gives it back to Oshima, a sour look on her face.

"Did you want to see it too?" Oshima asks me. When I shake my head, he slips the license back in his wallet and puts the wallet in his pants pocket. He then places both hands on the counter and says, "As you can see, biologically and legally I am undeniably female. Which is why what you've been saying about me is fundamentally wrong. It's simply impossible for me to be, as you put it, a typical sexist, patriarchic male."

"Yes, but—" the tall woman says but then stops. The short one, lips tight, is playing with her collar.

"My body is physically female, but my mind's completely male," Oshima goes on.

"Emotionally I live as a man. So I suppose your notion of being a historical example may be correct. And maybe I am sexist—who knows. But I'm not a lesbian, even though I dress this way. My sexual preference is for men. In other words, I'm a female but I'm gay. I do anal sex, and have never used my vagina for sex. My clitoris is sensitive but my breasts aren't. I don't have a period. So, what am I discriminating against? Could somebody tell me? ~ Haruki Murakami,
555:I’m not,” Ben said. “I’m careful. There’s a difference.” “Of course,” my father said. “I’d never—” “Save it for the paying customers, Arl,” Ben cut him off, irritation plain in his voice. “You’re too good an actor to show it, but I know perfectly well when someone thinks I’m daft.” “I just didn’t expect it, Ben,” my father said apologetically. “You’re educated, and I’m so tired of people touching iron and tipping their beer as soon as I mention the Chandrian. I’m just reconstructing a story, not meddling with dark arts.” “Well, hear me out. I like both of you too well to let you think of me as an old fool,” Ben said. “Besides, I have something to talk with you about later, and I’ll need you to take me seriously for that.” The wind continued to pick up, and I used the noise to cover my last few steps. I edged around the corner of my parents’ wagon and peered through a veil of leaves. The three of them were sitting around the campfire. Ben was sitting on a stump, huddled in his frayed brown cloak. My parents were opposite him, my mother leaning against my father, a blanket draped loosely around them. Ben poured from a clay jug into a leather mug and handed it to my mother. His breath fogged as he spoke. “How do they feel about demons off in Atur?” he asked. “Scared.” My father tapped his temple. “All that religion makes their brains soft.” “How about off in Vintas?” Ben asked. “Fair number of them are Tehlins. Do they feel the same way?” My mother shook her head. “They think it’s a little silly. They like their demons metaphorical.” “What are they afraid of at night in Vintas then?” “The Fae,” my mother said. My father spoke at the same time. “Draugar.” “You’re both right, depending on which part of the country you’re in,” Ben said. “And here in the Commonwealth people laugh up their sleeves at both ideas.” He gestured at the surrounding trees. “But here they’re careful come autumn-time for fear of drawing the attention of shamble-men.” “That’s the way of things,” my father said. “Half of being a good trouper is knowing which way your audience leans.” “You still think I’ve gone cracked in the head,” Ben said, amused. “Listen, if tomorrow we pulled into Biren and someone told you there were shamble-men in the woods, would you believe them?” My father shook his head. “What if two people told you?” Another shake. Ben leaned forward on his stump. “What if a dozen people told you, with perfect earnestness, that shamble-men were out in the fields, eating—” “Of course I wouldn’t believe them,” my father said, irritated. “It’s ridiculous.” “Of course it is,” Ben agreed, raising a finger. “But the real question is this: Would you go into the woods?” My father sat very still and thoughtful for a moment. Ben nodded. “You’d be a fool to ignore half the town’s warning, even though you don’t believe the same thing they do. If not shamble-men, what are you afraid of?” “Bears.” “Bandits.” “Good sensible fears for a trouper to have,” Ben said. “Fears that townsfolk don’t appreciate. Every place has its little superstitions, and everyone laughs at what the folk across the river think.” He gave them a serious look. “But have either of you ever heard a humorous song or story about the Chandrian? I’ll bet a penny you haven’t.” My mother shook her head after a moment’s thought. My father took a long drink before joining her. “Now I’m not saying that the Chandrian are out there, striking like lightning from the clear blue sky. But folk everywhere are afraid of them. There’s usually a reason for that.” Ben grinned and tipped his clay cup, pouring the last drizzle of beer out onto the earth. “And names are strange things. Dangerous things.” He gave them a pointed look. “That I know for true because I am an educated man. If I’m a mite superstitious too…” He shrugged. “Well, that’s my choice. I’m old. You have to humor me. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,
556:Jake flattened the knife against the wall, filling the crevice. It was all he could do to smother a grin. He didn’t know which he’d enjoyed more, spending a couple hours alone with the kids or finding new ways to provoke Meridith. And to think he was getting paid. Maybe once she went back outside, the kids would come down and pretend to play a game at the kitchen bar while they talked. He could hear Meridith talking to them now, asking them about the game they’d supposedly been playing, acting all interested in their activities. If she really cared about them, she wouldn’t be ripping the kids from Summer Place just so she could go back and live happily ever after with her fiancé. And he was pretty sure that’s what she was planning. Their voices grew louder, then Jake saw them all descending the steps. Noelle led the pack, carrying her Uno cards, followed by the boys, then Meridith. Noelle winked on her way past. Little imp. The kids perched at the bar, and he heard the cards being shuffled. Dipping his knife into the mud, Jake sneaked a peek. Meridith was opening the dishwasher. Great. Ben kept turning to look at him, and Jake discreetly shook his head. Even though Meridith faced the other way, no need to be careless. “Noelle, you haven’t said anything about your uncle lately. He hasn’t e-mailed yet?” He felt three pairs of eyes on his back. He hoped Meridith was shelving something. Jake smoothed the mud and turned to gather more, an excuse to appraise the scene. Meridith’s back was turned. He gave the kids a look. “Uh, no, he hasn’t e-mailed.” “Or called or nothing,” Max added. Noelle silently nudged him, and Max gave an exaggerated shrug. What? “Well, let me know when he does. I don’t want to keep pestering you.” “Sure thing,” Noelle said, dealing the cards. Her eyes flickered toward him. “I was thinking we might go for a bike ride this evening,” Meridith said. “Maybe go up to ’Sconset or into town. You all have bikes, right?” “I forgot to tell you,” Noelle said. “I’m going to Lexi’s tonight. I’m spending the night.” “Who’s Lexi?” “A friend from church. You met her mom last week.” A glass clinked as she placed it in the cupboard. “Noelle, I’m not sure how things were . . . before . . . but you have to ask permission for things like this. I don’t even know Lexi, much less her family.” “I know them.” “Have you spent the night before?” “No, but I’ve been to her house tons of times.” He heard a dishwasher rack rolling in, another rolling out, the dishes rattling. “Why don’t we have her family over for dinner one night this week? I could get to know them, and then we’ll see about overnight plans.” “This is ridiculous. They go to our church, and her mom and my mom were friends!” Noelle cast him a look. See? she said with her eyes. Did Meridith think Eva would jeopardize her daughter’s safety? The woman was neurotic. Jake clamped his teeth together before something slipped out. “Just because they go to church doesn’t necessarily make them safe, Noelle. It wouldn’t be responsible to let you spend the night with people I don’t know. You never know what goes on behind closed doors.” “My mom would let me.” The air seemed to vibrate with tension. Jake realized his knife was still, flattened against the wall, and he reached for more mud. Noelle was glaring at Meridith, who’d turned, wielding a spatula. Was she going to blow it? To her credit, the woman drew a deep breath, holding her temper. “Maybe Lexi could stay all night with you instead.” “Well, wouldn’t that pose a problem for her family, since they don’t know you?” Despite his irritation with Meridith, Jake’s lips twitched. Score one for Noelle. “I suppose that would be up to her family.” He heard Noelle’s cards hit the table, her chair screech across the floor as she stood. “Never mind.” She cast Meridith one final glare, then exited through the back door, closing it with a hearty slam. ~ Denise Hunter,
557:Endometriosis, or painful periods? (Endometriosis is when pieces of the uterine lining grow outside of the uterine cavity, such as on the ovaries or bowel, and cause painful periods.) Mood swings, PMS, depression, or just irritability? Weepiness, sometimes over the most ridiculous things? Mini breakdowns? Anxiety? Migraines or other headaches? Insomnia? Brain fog? A red flush on your face (or a diagnosis of rosacea)? Gallbladder problems (or removal)? — PART E — Poor memory (you walk into a room to do something, then wonder what it was, or draw a blank midsentence)? Emotional fragility, especially compared with how you felt ten years ago? Depression, perhaps with anxiety or lethargy (or, more commonly, dysthymia: low-grade depression that lasts more than two weeks)? Wrinkles (your favorite skin cream no longer works miracles)? Night sweats or hot flashes? Trouble sleeping, waking up in the middle of the night? A leaky or overactive bladder? Bladder infections? Droopy breasts, or breasts lessening in volume? Sun damage more obvious, even glaring, on your chest, face, and shoulders? Achy joints (you feel positively geriatric at times)? Recent injuries, particularly to wrists, shoulders, lower back, or knees? Loss of interest in exercise? Bone loss? Vaginal dryness, irritation, or loss of feeling (as if there were layers of blankets between you and the now-elusive toe-curling orgasm)? Lack of juiciness elsewhere (dry eyes, dry skin, dry clitoris)? Low libido (it’s been dwindling for a while, and now you realize it’s half or less than what it used to be)? Painful sex? — PART F — Excess hair on your face, chest, or arms? Acne? Greasy skin and/or hair? Thinning head hair (which makes you question the justice of it all if you’re also experiencing excess hair growth elsewhere)? Discoloration of your armpits (darker and thicker than your normal skin)? Skin tags, especially on your neck and upper torso? (Skin tags are small, flesh-colored growths on the skin surface, usually a few millimeters in size, and smooth. They are usually noncancerous and develop from friction, such as around bra straps. They do not change or grow over time.) Hyperglycemia or hypoglycemia and/or unstable blood sugar? Reactivity and/or irritability, or excessively aggressive or authoritarian episodes (also known as ’roid rage)? Depression? Anxiety? Menstrual cycles occurring more than every thirty-five days? Ovarian cysts? Midcycle pain? Infertility? Or subfertility? Polycystic ovary syndrome? — PART G — Hair loss, including of the outer third of your eyebrows and/or eyelashes? Dry skin? Dry, strawlike hair that tangles easily? Thin, brittle fingernails? Fluid retention or swollen ankles? An additional few pounds, or 20, that you just can’t lose? High cholesterol? Bowel movements less often than once a day, or you feel you don’t completely evacuate? Recurrent headaches? Decreased sweating? Muscle or joint aches or poor muscle tone (you became an old lady overnight)? Tingling in your hands or feet? Cold hands and feet? Cold intolerance? Heat intolerance? A sensitivity to cold (you shiver more easily than others and are always wearing layers)? Slow speech, perhaps with a hoarse or halting voice? A slow heart rate, or bradycardia (fewer than 60 beats per minute, and not because you’re an elite athlete)? Lethargy (you feel like you’re moving through molasses)? Fatigue, particularly in the morning? Slow brain, slow thoughts? Difficulty concentrating? Sluggish reflexes, diminished reaction time, even a bit of apathy? Low sex drive, and you’re not sure why? Depression or moodiness (the world is not as rosy as it used to be)? A prescription for the latest antidepressant but you’re still not feeling like yourself? Heavy periods or other menstrual problems? Infertility or miscarriage? Preterm birth? An enlarged thyroid/goiter? Difficulty swallowing? Enlarged tongue? A family history of thyroid problems? ~ Sara Gottfried,
558:Take the famous slogan on the atheist bus in London … “There’s probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.” … The word that offends against realism here is “enjoy.” I’m sorry—enjoy your life? Enjoy your life? I’m not making some kind of neo-puritan objection to enjoyment. Enjoyment is lovely. Enjoyment is great. The more enjoyment the better. But enjoyment is one emotion … Only sometimes, when you’re being lucky, will you stand in a relationship to what’s happening to you where you’ll gaze at it with warm, approving satisfaction. The rest of the time, you’ll be busy feeling hope, boredom, curiosity, anxiety, irritation, fear, joy, bewilderment, hate, tenderness, despair, relief, exhaustion … This really is a bizarre category error.
But not necessarily an innocent one … The implication of the bus slogan is that enjoyment would be your natural state if you weren’t being “worried” by us believer … Take away the malignant threat of God-talk, and you would revert to continuous pleasure, under cloudless skies. What’s so wrong with this, apart from it being total bollocks?
… Suppose, as the atheist bus goes by, that you are the fifty-something woman with the Tesco bags, trudging home to find out whether your dementing lover has smeared the walls of the flat with her own shit again. Yesterday when she did it, you hit her, and she mewled till her face was a mess of tears and mucus which you also had to clean up. The only thing that would ease the weight on your heart would be to tell the funniest, sharpest-tongued person you know about it: but that person no longer inhabits the creature who will meet you when you unlock the door. Respite care would help, but nothing will restore your sweetheart, your true love, your darling, your joy. Or suppose you’re that boy in the wheelchair, the one with the spasming corkscrew limbs and the funny-looking head. You’ve never been able to talk, but one of your hands has been enough under your control to tap out messages. Now the electrical storm in your nervous system is spreading there too, and your fingers tap more errors than readable words. Soon your narrow channel to the world will close altogether, and you’ll be left all alone in the hulk of your body. Research into the genetics of your disease may abolish it altogether in later generations, but it won’t rescue you. Or suppose you’re that skanky-looking woman in the doorway, the one with the rat’s nest of dreadlocks. Two days ago you skedaddled from rehab. The first couple of hits were great: your tolerance had gone right down, over two weeks of abstinence and square meals, and the rush of bliss was the way it used to be when you began. But now you’re back in the grind, and the news is trickling through you that you’ve fucked up big time. Always before you’ve had this story you tell yourself about getting clean, but now you see it isn’t true, now you know you haven’t the strength. Social services will be keeping your little boy. And in about half an hour you’ll be giving someone a blowjob for a fiver behind the bus station. Better drugs policy might help, but it won’t ease the need, and the shame over the need, and the need to wipe away the shame.
So when the atheist bus comes by, and tells you that there’s probably no God so you should stop worrying and enjoy your life, the slogan is not just bitterly inappropriate in mood. What it means, if it’s true, is that anyone who isn’t enjoying themselves is entirely on their own. The three of you are, for instance; you’re all three locked in your unshareable situations, banged up for good in cells no other human being can enter. What the atheist bus says is: there’s no help coming … But let’s be clear about the emotional logic of the bus’s message. It amounts to a denial of hope or consolation, on any but the most chirpy, squeaky, bubble-gummy reading of the human situation. St Augustine called this kind of thing “cruel optimism” fifteen hundred years ago, and it’s still cruel. ~ Francis Spufford,
559:The Psoriad
The King of Scotland, years and years ago,
Convened his courtiers in a gallant row
And thus addressed them:
'Gentle sirs, from you
Abundant counsel I have had, and true:
What laws to make to serve the public weal;
What laws of Nature's making to repeal;
What old religion is the only true one,
And what the greater merit of some new one;
What friends of yours my favor have forgot;
Which of your enemies against me plot.
In harvests ample to augment my treasures,
Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures!
The punctual planets, to their periods just,
Attest your wisdom and approve my trust.
Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring:
The grateful placemen bless their useful king!
But while you quaff the nectar of my favor
I mean somewhat to modify its flavor
By just infusing a peculiar dash
Of tonic bitter in the calabash.
And should you, too abstemious, disdain it,
Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it!
'You know, you dogs, your master long has felt
A keen distemper in the royal pelt
A testy, superficial irritation,
Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation.
For this a thousand simples you've prescribed
Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed.
You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas
You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides,
To brew me remedies which, in probation,
Were sovereign only in their application.
In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied
Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide:
Physic and hope have been my daily food
I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood!
545
'Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year
And tame the seasons in their mad career,
When set to higher purposes has failed me
And added anguish to the ills that ailed me.
Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech
His rivals' skill has labored to impeach
By hints equivocal in secret speech.
For years, to conquer our respective broils,
We've plied each other with pacific oils.
In vain: your turbulence is unallayed,
My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed;
My life so wretched from your strife to save it
That death were welcome did I dare to brave it.
With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks,
My subjects muster in contending ranks.
Those fling their banners to the startled breeze
To champion some royal ointment; these
The standard of some royal purge display
And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray!
Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea,
Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea!
My people perish in their martial fear,
And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear!
'Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour
Your injured sovereign shall assert his power!
Behold this lotion, carefully compound
Of all the poisons you for me have found
Of biting washes such as tan the skin,
And drastic drinks to vex the parts within.
What aggravates an ailment will produceI mean to rub you with this dreadful juice!
Divided counsels you no more shall hatch
At last you shall unanimously scratch.
Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts-God bless us!
They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!'
The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke,
From Arthur's Seat[1] confirming thunders broke.
The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned,
Sank to their knees, all piously inclined.
546
This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats,
The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes.
Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts
Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts,
Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses,
Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes.
The king advanced-then cursing fled amain
Dashing the phial to the stony plain
(Where't straight became a fountain brimming o'er,
Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store)
For lo! already on each back _sans_ stitch
The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch!
~ Ambrose Bierce,
560:The Three Friends
Three young girls in friendship met;
Mary, Martha, Margaret.
Margaret was tall and fair,
Martha shorter by a hair;
If the first excelled in feature,
The other's grace and ease were greater;
Mary, though to rival loth,
In their best gifts equalled both.
They a due proportion kept;
Martha mourned if Margaret wept;
Margaret joyed when any good
She of Martha understood;
And in sympathy for either
Mary was outdone by neither.
Thus far, for a happy space,
All three ran an even race,
A most constant friendship proving,
Equally beloved and loving;
All their wishes, joys, the same;
Sisters only not in name.
Fortune upon each one smiled,
As upon a favourite child;
Well to do and well to see
Were the parents of all three;
Till on Martha's father crosses
Brought a flood of worldly losses,
And his fortunes rich and great
Changed at once to low estate;
Under which o'erwhelming blow
Martha's mother was laid low;
She a hapless orphan left,
Of maternal care bereft,
Trouble following trouble fast,
Lay in a sick bed at last.
In the depth of her affliction
179
Martha now received conviction,
That a true and faithful friend
Can the surest comfort lend.
Night and day, with friendship tried,
Ever constant by her side
Was her gentle Mary found,
With a love that knew no bound;
And the solace she imparted
Saved her dying broken-hearted.
In this scene of earthly things
There's no good unmixëd springs.
That which had to Martha proved
A sweet consolation, moved
Different feelings of regret
In the mind of Margaret.
She, whose love was not less dear,
Nor affection less sincere
To her friend, was, by occasion
Of more distant habitation,
Fewer visits forced to pay her,
When no other cause did stay her;
And her Mary living nearer,
Margaret began to fear her,
Lest her visits day by day
Martha's heart should steal away.
That whole heart she ill could spare her
Where till now she'd been a sharer.
From this cause with grief she pined,
Till at length her health declined.
All her cheerful spirits flew,
Fast as Martha gathered new;
And her sickness waxëd sore,
Just when Martha felt no more.
Mary, who had quick suspicion
Of her altered friend's condition,
Seeing Martha's convalescence
Less demanded now her presence,
With a goodness built on reason,
180
Changed her measures with the season;
Turned her steps from Martha's door,
Went where she was wanted more;
All her care and thoughts were set
Now to tend on Margaret.
Mary living 'twixt the two,
From her home could oftener go,
Either of her friends to see,
Than they could together be.
Truth explained is to suspicion
Evermore the best physician.
Soon her visits had the effect;
All that Margaret did suspect,
From her fancy vanished clean;
She was soon what she had been,
And the colour she did lack
To her faded cheek came back.
Wounds which love had made her feel,
Love alone had power to heal.
Martha, who the frequent visit
Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
With impatience waxed cross,
Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
All that Mary did confer
On her friend, thought due to her.
In her girlish bosom rise
Little foolish jealousies,
Which into such rancour wrought,
She one day for Margaret sought;
Finding her by chance alone,
She began, with reasons shown,
To insinuate a fear
Whether Mary was sincere;
Wished that Margaret would take heed
Whence her actions did proceed;
For herself, she'd long been minded
Not with outsides to be blinded;
All that pity and compassion,
181
She believed was affectation;
In her heart she doubted whether
Mary cared a pin for either;
She could keep whole weeks at distance,
And not know of their existence,
While all things remained the same;
But, when some misfortune came,
Then she made a great parade
Of her sympathy and aid,Not that she did really grieve,
It was only make-believe;
And she cared for nothing, so
She might her fine feelings show,
And get credit, on her part,
For a soft and tender heart.
With such speeches, smoothly made,
She found methods to persuade
Margaret (who, being sore
From the doubts she felt before,
Was prepared for mistrust)
To believe her reasons just;
Quite destroyed that comfort glad,
Which in Mary late she had;
Made her, in experience' spite,
Think her friend a hypocrite,
And resolve, with cruel scoff,
To renounce and cast her off.
See how good turns are rewarded!
She of both is now discarded,
Who to both had been so late
Their support in low estate,
All their comfort, and their stayNow of both is cast away.
But the league her presence cherished,
Losing its best prop, soon perished;
She, that was a link to either,
To keep them and it together,
Being gone, the two (no wonder)
182
That were left, soon fell asunder;
Some civilities were kept,
But the heart of friendship slept;
Love with hollow forms was fed,
But the life of love lay dead:
A cold intercourse they held
After Mary was expelled.
Two long years did intervene
Since they'd either of them seen,
Or, by letter, any word
Of their old companion heard,
When, upon a day, once walking,
Of indifferent matters talking,
They a female figure met.Martha said to Margaret,
'That young maid in face does carry
A resemblance strong of Mary.'
Margaret, at nearer sight,
Owned her observation right;
But they did not far proceed
Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
She-but, ah! how changed they view her
From that person which they knew her!
Her fine face disease had scarred,
And its matchless beauty marred:
But enough was left to trace
Mary's sweetness-Mary's grace.
When her eye did first behold them
How they blushed!-but when she told them
How on a sick bed she lay
Months, while they had kept away,
And had no inquiries made
If she were alive or dead;How, for want of a true friend,
She was brought near to her end,
And was like so to have died,
With no friend at her bedside;How the constant irritation,
Caused by fruitless expectation
Of their coming, had extended
183
The illness, when she might have mended;
Then, O then, how did reflection
Come on them with recollection!
All that she had done for them,
How it did their fault condemn!
But sweet Mary, still the same,
Kindly eased them of their shame;
Spoke to them with accents bland,
Took them friendly by the hand;
Bound them both with promise fast
Not to speak of troubles past;
Made them on the spot declare
A new league of friendship there;
Which, without a word of strife,
Lasted thenceforth long as life.
Martha now and Margaret
Strove who most should pay the debt
Which they owed her, nor did vary
Ever after from their Mary.
~ Charles Lamb,
561:PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE
MANAGER ==== DRAMATIC POET ==== MERRY-ANDREW
MANAGER

You two, who oft a helping hand
Have lent, in need and tribulation.
Come, let me know your expectation
Of this, our enterprise, in German land!
I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated,
Especially since it lives and lets me live;
The posts are set, the booth of boards completed.
And each awaits the banquet I shall give.
Already there, with curious eyebrows raised,
They sit sedate, and hope to be amazed.
I know how one the People's taste may flatter,
Yet here a huge embarrassment I feel:
What they're accustomed to, is no great matter,
But then, alas! they've read an awful deal.
How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new,
Important matter, yet attractive too?
For 'tis my pleasure-to behold them surging,
When to our booth the current sets apace,
And with tremendous, oft-repeated urging,
Squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace:
By daylight even, they push and cram in
To reach the seller's box, a fighting host,
And as for bread, around a baker's door, in famine,
To get a ticket break their necks almost.
This miracle alone can work the Poet
On men so various: now, my friend, pray show it.
POET
Speak not to me of yonder motley masses,
Whom but to see, puts out the fire of Song!
Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes,
And in its whirlpool forces us along!
No, lead me where some heavenly silence glasses
The purer joys that round the Poet throng,
Where Love and Friendship still divinely fashion
The bonds that bless, the wreaths that crown his passion!
Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling
The timid lips have stammeringly expressed,
Now failing, now, perchance, success revealing,
Gulps the wild Moment in its greedy breast;
Or oft, reluctant years its warrant sealing,
Its perfect stature stands at last confessed!
What dazzles, for the Moment spends its spirit:
What's genuine, shall Posterity inherit.
MERRY-ANDREW
Posterity! Don't name the word to me!
If I should choose to preach Posterity,
Where would you get contemporary fun?
That men will have it, there's no blinking:
A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking,
Is something worth, to every one.
Who genially his nature can outpour,
Takes from the People's moods no irritation;
The wider circle he acquires, the more
Securely works his inspiration.
Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin!
Let Fancy be with her attendants fitted,
Sense, Reason, Sentiment, and Passion join,
But have a care, lest Folly be omitted!

MANAGER

Chiefly, enough of incident prepare!
They come to look, and they prefer to stare.
Reel off a host of threads before their faces,
So that they gape in stupid wonder: then
By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces,
And are, at once, most popular of men.
Only by mass you touch the mass; for any
Will finally, himself, his bit select:
Who offers much, brings something unto many,
And each goes home content with the effect,
If you've a piece, why, just in pieces give it:
A hash, a stew, will bring success, believe it!
'Tis easily displayed, and easy to invent.
What use, a Whole compactly to present?
Your hearers pick and pluck, as soon as they receive it!

POET

You do not feel, how such a trade debases;
How ill it suits the Artist, proud and true!
The botching work each fine pretender traces
Is, I perceive, a principle with you.

MANAGER

Such a reproach not in the least offends;
A man who some result intends
Must use the tools that best are fitting.
Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting,
And then, observe for whom you write!
If one comes bored, exhausted quite,
Another, satiate, leaves the banquet's tapers,
And, worst of all, full many a wight
Is fresh from reading of the daily papers.
Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade,
Mere curiosity their spirits warming:
The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid,
Without a salary their parts performing.
What dreams are yours in high poetic places?
You're pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold?
Draw near, and view your patrons' faces!
The half are coarse, the half are cold.
One, when the play is out, goes home to cards;
A wild night on a wench's breast another chooses:
Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards,
For ends like these, the gracious Muses?
I tell you, give but moremore, ever more, they ask:
Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory.
Seek to confound your auditory!
To satisfy them is a task.
What ails you now? Is't suffering, or pleasure?

POET

Go, find yourself a more obedient slave!
What! shall the Poet that which Nature gave,
The highest right, supreme Humanity,
Forfeit so wantonly, to swell your treasure?
Whence o'er the heart his empire free?
The elements of Life how conquers he?
Is't not his heart's accord, urged outward far and dim,
To wind the world in unison with him?
When on the spindle, spun to endless distance,
By Nature's listless hand the thread is twirled,
And the discordant tones of all existence
In sullen jangle are together hurled,
Who, then, the changeless orders of creation
Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance?
Who brings the One to join the general ordination,
Where it may throb in grandest consonance?
Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom?
In brooding souls the sunset burn above?
Who scatters every fairest April blossom
Along the shining path of Love?
Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting
Desert with fame, in Action's every field?
Who makes Olympus sure, the Gods uniting?
The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed.

MERRY-ANDREW

So, these fine forces, in conjunction,
Propel the high poetic function,
As in a love-adventure they might play!
You meet by accident; you feel, you stay,
And by degrees your heart is tangled;
Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled;
You're ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe,
And there's a neat romance, completed ere you know!
Let us, then, such a drama give!
Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live!
Each shares therein, though few may comprehend:
Where'er you touch, there's interest without end.
In motley pictures little light,
Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite,
Thus the best beverage is supplied,
Whence all the world is cheered and edified.
Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower
Of youth collect, to hear the revelation!
Each tender soul, with sentimental power,
Sucks melancholy food from your creation;
And now in this, now that, the leaven works.
For each beholds what in his bosom lurks.
They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter,
Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see:
A mind, once formed, is never suited after;
One yet in growth will ever grateful be.

POET

Then give me back that time of pleasures,
While yet in joyous growth I sang,
When, like a fount, the crowding measures
Uninterrupted gushed and sprang!
Then bright mist veiled the world before me,
In opening buds a marvel woke,
As I the thousand blossoms broke,
Which every valley richly bore me!
I nothing had, and yet enough for youth
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth.
Give, unrestrained, the old emotion,
The bliss that touched the verge of pain,
The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,
O, give me back my youth again!

MERRY ANDREW

Youth, good my friend, you certainly require
When foes in combat sorely press you;
When lovely maids, in fond desire,
Hang on your bosom and caress you;
When from the hard-won goal the wreath
Beckons afar, the race awaiting;
When, after dancing out your breath,
You pass the night in dissipating:
But that familiar harp with soul
To play,with grace and bold expression,
And towards a self-erected goal
To walk with many a sweet digression,
This, aged Sirs, belongs to you,
And we no less revere you for that reason:
Age childish makes, they say, but 'tis not true;
We're only genuine children still, in Age's season!
MANAGER

The words you've bandied are sufficient;
'Tis deeds that I prefer to see:
In compliments you're both proficient,
But might, the while, more useful be.
What need to talk of Inspiration?
'Tis no companion of Delay.
If Poetry be your vocation,
Let Poetry your will obey!
Full well you know what here is wanting;
The crowd for strongest drink is panting,
And such, forthwith, I'd have you brew.
What's left undone to-day, To-morrow will not do.
Waste not a day in vain digression:
With resolute, courageous trust
Seize every possible impression,
And make it firmly your possession;
You'll then work on, because you must.
Upon our German stage, you know it,
Each tries his hand at what he will;
So, take of traps and scenes your fill,
And all you find, be sure to show it!
Use both the great and lesser heavenly light,
Squander the stars in any number,
Beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and all such lumber,
Fire, water, darkness, Day and Night!
Thus, in our booth's contracted sphere,
The circle of Creation will appear,
And move, as we deliberately impel,
From Heaven, across the World, to Hell!

Faust

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE
,

IN CHAPTERS [45/45]



   15 Integral Yoga
   6 Occultism
   4 Psychology
   3 Yoga
   3 Fiction
   2 Poetry
   2 Philosophy
   1 Sufism
   1 Hinduism


   10 Sri Aurobindo
   6 The Mother
   4 Satprem
   3 Saint John of Climacus
   3 H P Lovecraft
   3 Aleister Crowley
   2 Swami Krishnananda
   2 Jordan Peterson
   2 Carl Jung


   5 Record of Yoga
   3 The Ladder of Divine Ascent
   3 Magick Without Tears
   3 Lovecraft - Poems
   3 Letters On Yoga IV
   2 The Study and Practice of Yoga
   2 The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
   2 Maps of Meaning
   2 Agenda Vol 03


1.00 - PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE, #Faust, #Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, #Poetry
  Takes from the People's moods no irritation;
  The wider circle he acquires, the more

1.02 - MAPS OF MEANING - THREE LEVELS OF ANALYSIS, #Maps of Meaning, #Jordan Peterson, #Psychology
  anomalies, irritations, threats and frustrations that disturbed your equilibrium in the morning. You have just
  been presented with incontrovertible evidence that your characterizations of the present and of the ideal
  --
  it is always a matter of degree. Small scale irritations require minor life-story modifications. Large-scale
  catastrophes, by contrast, undermine everything. The biggest disasters occur when the largest stories that
  --
  The general irritation over Jungs heritable memory hypothesis has blinded psychologists and not
  just psychologists to the remarkable fact that narratives do appear patterned, across diverse cultures. The
  --
  consequence of his affection for the new family member, curiosity about its nature, and irritation at the
  creatures existence, demands, and influence on the (once) predictable interactions of the familial social

1.02 - On the Knowledge of God., #The Alchemy of Happiness, #Al-Ghazali, #Sufism
  The fourth class of men who indulge in error, are those who indeed receive the law, but in some peculiar and erroneous sense. They wrongly say, “The law commands U5 to keep our hearts pure from pride, envy, hatred, anger and dissimulation. But this is a thing which it is impossible to do. For the soul has been created with these qualities and affections, and human nature cannot be changed. It is just as impossible to make a black material white by scraping it, as for the human heart to be free from these qualities.” These ignorant men do not know and understand, that the law does not command that these qualities should be entirely effaced and expelled from the heart, but rather requires that they should be brought under subjection to the heart and the reason, to the end that they may not act presumptuously, go beyond the limits set by the law, and indulge in mortal sins. It is possible even to change these qualities, by doing only what reason requires, and by respecting the restrictions of the law. Many devout men in past times have secured this change of the affections of the soul. These qua.ities once existed in the prophet of God, but they were corrected, as we learn from the tradition: “I am a man like you. I become angry, as a man becomes angry.” And God speaks in his holy word of [60] “those who control their wrath, and who pardon the men who offend them.”1 Notice, that in his eternal word, God praises those who dissipate their anger and irritation : he does not praise those who had no anger or rage, since man cannot be without them.
  The fifth class of persons in error are those who say that, “God is merciful and ready to pardon, loving and compassionate, and more pitiful to his servants than a father and mother to their children, and therefore he will pardon our faults and cover our transgressions.” They do not consider that notwithstanding God is bounteous and merciful, there are still multitudes of poor and miserable people in the world, multitudes who are infirm and helpless, and many who are subjected to suffering. This is a mystery which is known only to God. But it shows us, that though God is disposed to cover and hide sin, still he is an absolute sovereign and an avenger. While he is bounteous and beneficent, he is at the same time dreadful in his chastisements : while he is a benefactor, and provides the necessaries of life, at the same time he who does not seek to gain, obtains no store: and he who is not industrious, accomplishes nothing in the world. Beloved, these ignorant men, in the affairs of the world, in their schemes of living, and in their business, manifest no trust in the bounty of God, nor do they leave off for one moment their buying and selling, their trades or their farming, although God has decreed the means of their existence many years before they were born, and has made himself surety that it should be provided for them. He announces in his eternal word and book of mighty distinctions, that “there is no creature on the earth, for whom God has not taken upon himself to provide nourishment.” 2 Still they make not the least exertion in reference to their relations and condition in eternity, [61] but merely rely upon the mercy of God, notwithstanding God declares in his holy word, “man can have nothing without exertion.” 1 When they say that God is gracious and merciful, they speak correctly. But they are not aware that Satan is deceiving them with it, hindering them from obedience and worship, and preventing them from engaging in that cultivation and commerce that would prepare them for eternity.

1.031 - Intense Aspiration, #The Study and Practice of Yoga, #Swami Krishnananda, #Yoga
  I can give a certain practical suggestion as to how this can be achieved in our daily routines of sadhana. What makes it difficult for us to generate such a genuine aspiration within us is our habitual association with hackneyed factors outside. We are used to living in a certain type of atmosphere, and we are continuing to live in that atmosphere we have not changed that atmosphere. Merely because we have left Rameswaram and come to Kasi, it does not mean that the atmosphere has changed; it is the same atmosphere. We see the same people; we breath the same air; we drink the same water; we have the same hunger and thirst; we sleep in the same manner; we have anger; we have irritation, perplexity, and prejudice of the same type, and we think in the same way as we thought in Rameswaram there is absolutely no difference. So, what is the difference? What change has been brought about? What is necessary is that this change of location that we have effected becomes helpful in bringing about a change inwardly also. Otherwise, why should we move from place to place, as if we have no other work? We can stay in one place, wherever it is.
  Why do we travel from place to place, as if we have nothing else to do? The reason is that we want to bring about a corresponding change in our own self, and the external movement has been used as a kind of assistance. But if that change has not become an assistance, the whole effort is futile. Another thing why does it not become helpful? How is it that this imagined external change of condition does not become helpful in bringing about an internal reorientation of living? The reason is that we have not been very honest and sincere. There has been a kind of bungling in the whole attitude of our mind towards what we are seeking, and a kind of confusion a self-deception, we may say. This, again, is due to a lack of proper training from a competent master. Again, I come to this point that a Guru is necessary. We cannot tread this path with our own legs. Our legs are very weak, because there are millions of obstacles that can simply shake us from our roots and throw us into the pits, even with all our understanding, which is of no use in the face of these obstacles. The obstacles are violent winds, and our legs are like sand which will be thrown in any direction by these violent movements of winds of desire, and what not.

1.03 - Hieroglypics Life and Language Necessarily Symbolic, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism
  Very natural, the irritation in your last! You write:
  "But why? Why all this elaborate symbolism? Why not say straight out what you mean? Surely the subject is difficult enough in any case must you put on a mask to make it clear? I know you well enough by now to be sure that you will not fob me off with any Holy-Willie nonsense about the ineffable, about human language being inadequate to reveal such Mysteries, about the necessity of constructing a new language to explain a new system of thought; of course I know that this had to be done in the case of chemistry, of higher mathematics, indeed of almost all technical subjects; but I feel that you have some other, deeper explanation in reserve.

1.03 - Sympathetic Magic, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
  setting up an itch or irritation in his skin. They were also of
  opinion that if a stone which had been bitten by a dog were dropped

1.05 - On painstaking and true repentance which constitute the life of the holy convicts; and about the prison., #The Ladder of Divine Ascent, #Saint John of Climacus, #unset
  Where could you see anything like laughter, or idle talking, or irritation, or anger? They did not even know that such a thing as anger existed among men, because in themselves grief had finally eradicated anger. Where were disputes among them, or frivolity, or audacious speech, or concern for the body, or a trace of vanity, or hope of comfort, or thought of wine, or eating of fruit, or the cheer of cooked food, or pleasing the palate? For even the hope of all such things had been extinguished in them in this present world. Where amongst them is there any care for earthly things, or condemnation of anyone? Nowhere at all.
  Such were the unceasing utterances and cries to the Lord which they made. Some, striking themselves hard on the breast, as if standing before the gates of heaven would say to God: Open to us,

1.05 - THE HOSTILE BROTHERS - ARCHETYPES OF RESPONSE TO THE UNKNOWN, #Maps of Meaning, #Jordan Peterson, #Psychology
  behaviors and attitudes, in consequence. Through such refusal and failure, we transform the irritations of
  the present into the catastrophes of the future, and invite a wrathful God to drown us beneath the waves.

1.078 - Kumbhaka and Concentration of Mind, #The Study and Practice of Yoga, #Swami Krishnananda, #Yoga
  When a particular sense organ is very active, there is an excessive measure of prana supply given to that particular location of the organ which intends to fulfil itself. There is the irritation of the senses or an itching of the particular organ due to the excessive flow of the prana there. It may be the eye, the ear, or any organ. We have ten organs, and one of the organs will start itching. This itching, or irritation, or craving of a particular organ is due to an abundant supply of prana in that particular part of the body, which implies a deprivation of other parts of the body from the requisite energy.
  This is also one of the reasons why people with intense cravings have a peculiar physical feature which can be observed, to some extent, if we are cautious. The beauty of the body that is seen in childhood vanishes gradually when the body grows into the stages of youth and adult. There is a sort of equal distribution of the pranic energy in childhood, so that we see a blooming youthfulness, beauty and exuberance in children which is absent in youths and adults because the sense organs of grown-up persons are more active than the sense organs of children. Due to a particular vehemence of a group of senses in adults, or grown-up people, the energy withdraws itself from other parts of the body and directs itself only to that particular part which is asking for fulfilment, so a kind of absence of symmetry can be seen in the system. Symmetry is beauty. Where symmetry and beauty are absent, we find a kind of ugliness gradually creeping into the system, due to the simple reason that the prana is unequally distributed. Hence, the unequal distribution of the prana in the system is due to the presence of desires. The child also has desires. It does not mean that desires are absent there, but they are not manifest; they are not revealed. They are not pressing themselves forward in any particular manner.

1.07 - A Song of Longing for Tara, the Infallible, #How to Free Your Mind - Tara the Liberator, #Thubten Chodron, #unset
  unsettled energy and set off our preconceptions and irritation.
  Imagine what would happen if we were sensitive to the virtuous thoughts

1.09 - Concentration - Its Spiritual Uses, #Raja-Yoga, #Swami Vivkenanda, #unset
  A good deal of explanation is necessary here. We have to understand what Chitta is, and what the Vrittis are. I have eyes. Eyes do not see. Take away the brain centre which is in the head, the eyes will still be there, the retinae complete, as also the pictures of objects on them, and yet the eyes will not see. So the eyes are only a secondary instrument, not the organ of vision. The organ of vision is in a nerve centre of the brain. The two eyes will not be sufficient. Sometimes a man is asleep with his eyes open. The light is there and the picture is there, but a third thing is necessary the mind must be joined to the organ. The eye is the external instrument; we need also the brain centre and the agency of the mind. Carriages roll down a street, and you do not hear them. Why? Because your mind has not attached itself to the organ of hearing. First, there is the instrument, then there is the organ, and third, the mind attached to these two. The mind takes the impression farther in, and presents it to the determinative faculty Buddhi which reacts. Along with this reaction flashes the idea of egoism. Then this mixture of action and reaction is presented to the Purusha, the real Soul, who perceives an object in this mixture. The organs (Indriyas), together with the mind (Manas), the determinative faculty (Buddhi), and egoism (Ahamkra), form the group called the Antahkarana (the internal instrument). They are but various processes in the mind-stuff, called Chitta. The waves of thought in the Chitta are called Vrittis (literally "whirlpool") . What is thought? Thought is a force, as is gravitation or repulsion. From the infinite storehouse of force in nature, the instrument called Chitta takes hold of some, absorbs it and sends it out as thought. Force is supplied to us through food, and out of that food the body obtains the power of motion etc. Others, the finer forces, it throws out in what we call thought. So we see that the mind is not intelligent; yet it appears to be intelligent. Why? Because the intelligent soul is behind it. You are the only sentient being; mind is only the instrument through which you catch the external world. Take this book; as a book it does not exist outside, what exists outside is unknown and unknowable. The unknowable furnishes the suggestion that gives a blow to the mind, and the mind gives out the reaction in the form of a book, in the same manner as when a stone is thrown into the water, the water is thrown against it in the form of waves. The real universe is the occasion of the reaction of the mind. A book form, or an elephant form, or a man form, is not outside; all that we know is our mental reaction from the outer suggestion. "Matter is the permanent possibility of sensations," said John Stuart Mill. It is only the suggestion that is outside. Take an oyster for example. You know how pearls are made. A parasite gets inside the shell and causes irritation, and the oyster throws a sort of enamelling round it, and this makes the pearl. The universe of experience is our own enamel, so to say, and the real universe is the parasite serving as nucleus. The ordinary man will never understand it, because when he tries to do so, he throws out an enamel, and sees only his own enamel. Now we understand what is meant by these Vrittis. The real man is behind the mind; the mind is the instrument his hands; it is his intelligence that is percolating through the mind. It is only when you stand behind the mind that it becomes intelligent. When man gives it up, it falls to pieces and is nothing. Thus you understand what is meant by Chitta. It is the mind-stuff, and Vrittis are the waves and ripples rising in it when external causes impinge on it. These Vrittis are our universe.
  The bottom of a lake we cannot see, because its surface is covered with ripples. It is only possible for us to catch a glimpse of the bottom, when the ripples have subsided, and the water is calm. If the water is muddy or is agitated all the time, the bottom will not be seen. If it is clear, and there are no waves, we shall see the bottom. The bottom of the lake is our own true Self; the lake is the Chitta and the waves the Vrittis. Again, the mind is in three states, one of which is darkness, called Tamas, found in brutes and idiots; it only acts to injure. No other idea comes into that state of mind. Then there is the active state of mind, Rajas, whose chief motives are power and enjoyment. "I will be powerful and rule others." Then there is the state called Sattva, serenity, calmness, in which the waves cease, and the water of the mind-lake becomes clear. It is not inactive, but rather intensely active. It is the greatest manifestation of power to be calm. It is easy to be active. Let the reins go, and the horses will run away with you. Anyone can do that, but he who can stop the plunging horses is the strong man. Which requires the greater strength, letting go or restraining? The calm man is not the man who is dull. You must not mistake Sattva for dullness or laziness. The calm man is the one who has control over the mind waves. Activity is the manifestation of inferior strength, calmness, of the superior.

1.25 - On the destroyer of the passions, most sublime humility, which is rooted in spiritual feeling., #The Ladder of Divine Ascent, #Saint John of Climacus, #unset
  4. The appearance of this sacred vine is one thing during the winter of the passions, another in the spring of fruit-blossom, yet another in the actual harvest of the virtues. Yet all these different stages concur in gladness and fruit-bearing, and therefore they all have their own signs and sure evidence of fruit to come. For as soon as the cluster of holy humility begins to blossom within us, we at once begin, though with an effort, to hate all human glory and praise, and to banish from ourselves irritation and anger. In proportion as this queen of virtues makes progress in our soul by spiritual growth, so we regard all the good deeds accomplished by us as nothing, or rather as an abomination, assuming that
  1 St. John Chrysostom says: The gifts of God are so great that people can scarcely ever believe it. And it is not surprising if they cannot understand them till they know by experience. (On 1 Timothy, Homily 4.)

1.26 - On discernment of thoughts, passions and virtues, #The Ladder of Divine Ascent, #Saint John of Climacus, #unset
  We have need of considerable vigilance when the body is sick. The demons, seeing us laid low and temporarily incapable of entering into the struggle with them owing to our infirmity, try to attack us fiercely at such times. The demon of irritation and sometimes of blasphemy hovers round those living in the world in time of illness. And the demon of gluttony and fornication attacks those living outside the world if they have an abundance of all necessaries; but if they are living in an ascetic way of life bereft of all consolation, then the tyrant of despondency1 and ingratitude is constantly sitting with them.
  I noticed that the wolf of fornication added to the sufferings of the sick, and during their actual sufferings produced in them movements of the flesh and emissions. And it was astounding to see how the flesh rages and burns with desire amidst violent agonies. And I looked again and saw men lying in bed who were then and there comforted by the power of God or by a sense of compunction, and by this comfort they warded off the pain and reached such a frame of mind in which they never wanted to get rid of their sickness. And again I turned and saw those suffering severely who by illness were delivered from the passions of their soul as if by some penance; and I glorified Him who cleansed clay by clay.

1.51 - How to Recognise Masters, Angels, etc., and how they Work, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism
  ... Lassati sed non Satiati[105] by midnight, I expected to sleep; but was aroused by Virakam being apparently seized with a violent attack of hysteria, in which she poured forth a frantic torrent of senseless hallucination. I was irritated and tried to calm her. But she insisted that her experience was real; that she bore an important message to me from some invisible individual. Such nonsense increased my irritation. But after about an hour of it my jaw fell with astonishment. I became suddenly aware of a coherence in her ravings, and further that they were couched in my own language of symbols. My attention being thus awakened, I listened to what she was saying. A few minutes convinced me that she was actually in communication with some Intelligence who had a message for me.
  Let me briefly explain the grounds for this belief. I have already set forth, in connection with the Cairo Working, some of the safeguards which I habitually employ. Virakam's vision contained elements perfectly familiar to me. This was clear proof that the man in her vision, whom she called Ab-ul-Diz, was acquainted with my system of hieroglyphics, literal and numerical, and also with some incidents in my Magical Career. Virakam herself certainly knew nothing of any of these. Ab-ul-Diz told us to call him a week later, when he would give further information. We arrived at St. Moritz and engaged a suite in the Palace Hotel.

1.63 - Fear, a Bad Astral Vision, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism
  We tracked the cause: it was frustration. Good: then we must counter it. How? Only (in the last event) by getting the mind firmly fixed in the complete philosophy of Thelema. There is no such thing as frustration. Every step is a step on the Path. It is simply not true that you were being baulked. The height of your irritation is a direct measure of the intensity of your Energy. Again, you soon come to laugh at yourself for your impatience. Probably (you surmise) your trouble is exactly that: you are pushing too hard. Your mind runs back to AL I, 44; you realize (again!) that any result actually spoils the Truth and Beauty of the Act of Will; it is almost a burden; even an insult. Rather as if I risked my life to save yours, and you tipped me half-a- crown! Here's that The Book of Lies popping out its ugly mug again: "Thou has become the Way." This is why the Ankh or "Key of Life" is a sandal-strap, borne in the hand of every God as a mark of his Godhead: a God is one who goes. (If I remember rightly, Plato derives "" from a verb meaning "to run", and is heartily abused by scholars for so doing. But perhaps the dreary old sophist was not far wrong, for once.) What you need to do, then, is to knit all these ideas into a very close pattern; to make of them a consecrated Talisman. Then, when rage takes you, it can be thrown upon the fire to stifle it: to thrust against the Demon, to disintegrate him. The great point is to have this weapon very firmly constructed, very complete. Your rage will pass in one of those two ways, which are one: Rapture and Laughter.
  I want you to go over this apparatus very carefully; to analyse the argument, to make sure that there are no loose ends, to keep it keen and polished and well-oiled, ever ready for immediate use: not only against rage, but against any hampering or depressing line of thought.

1955-05-04 - Drawing on the universal vital forces - The inner physical - Receptivity to different kinds of forces - Progress and receptivity, #Questions And Answers 1955, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  If one uses these forces for a purely selfish action of a base kind, well, one makes it almost totally impossible for himself to receive any new ones of as fine a quality. All depends on the utilisation of the forces one receives. If, on the other hand, you use them to make progress, to perfect yourself, it gives you it increases your capacity of receiving enormously, and the next time you can have a lot more. All depends (in any case, principally) on the use made of them. There are people, for instance, who are short-tempered by nature and havent succeeded in controlling their anger. Well, if with an aspiration or by some method or other they have managed to receive some higher vital forces, instead of this calming their irritation or anger because they have no self-control it increases their anger, that is, their irritability, their movement of violence is full of a greater force, a greater energy, and becomes much more violent. So it is well said that to be in contact with universal forces does not make one progress. But this is because they make a bad use of them. Yet naturally in the long run, this bad use diminishes the capacity of receiving; but it takes time, it is not immediate. So it is very important to put yourself in a good condition to receive the higher forces and not the lower ones, and secondly, when you have received them use them for the best thing possible, in order to prepare yourself to receive those which are of a higher quality. But if you open yourself, receive the forces and afterwards, being satisfied with having received them you let yourself fall into all the ordinary movements, well, you close the door and the force no longer returns.
  One can increase the receptivity also?

1958 11 07, #On Thoughts And Aphorisms, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   One can live without quarrelling. It seems strange to say this because as things are, it would seem, on the contrary, that life is made for quarrelling in the sense that the main occupation of people who are together is to quarrel, overtly or covertly. You do not always come to words, you do not always come to blowsfortunately but you are in a state of perpetual irritation within because you do not find around you the perfection that you would yourself wish to realise, and which you find rather difficult to realise but you find it entirely natural that others should realise it.
   How can they be like that? You forget how difficult you find it in yourself not to be like that!
  --
   Look upon everything with a benevolent smile. Take all the things which irritate you as a lesson for yourself and your life will be more peaceful and more effective as well, for a great percentage of your energy certainly goes to waste in the irritation you feel when you do not find in others the perfection that you would like to realise in yourself.
   You stop short at the perfection that others should realise and you are seldom conscious of the goal you should be pursuing yourself. If you are conscious of it, well then, begin with the work which is given to you, that is to say, realise what you have to do and do not concern yourself with what others do, because, after all, it is not your business. And the best way to the true attitude is simply to say, All those around me, all the circumstances of my life, all the people near me, are a mirror held up to me by the Divine Consciousness to show me the progress I must make. Everything that shocks me in others means a work I have to do in myself.

1962-01-09, #Agenda Vol 03, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   But following that, and because of the overwork, an old thing I thought I had cured has come back. It was originally brought on by overwork when I was going to the Playground and resting only two hours out of twenty-four, which wasnt enougha sort of ulcer formed between my nose and throat. Its an old complaint, dating from the removal of adenoids in my childhood; the operation left a kind of small cavity, which was nothing in itself, except that occasionally it would give me a cold. But as a result of overwork it came back in the form of an ulcer, and gave me artificial colds; it was so sour and corrosive, a terrible irritation in the throat and nose. It got much worse when I was giving classes at the Playground, and once I showed it to the doctor. Why, you have an ulcer! he said. A big fuss. He offered to treat me. No thanks! I said. Dont worry, it will pass. And I began my own yogic treatment. It was over in a week and for three years there was no further sign of it. Recently (the last two or three months) I had felt it trying to come back, for exactly the same reason of overwork. And with that little adventure the other day, it did come backit gave me one of those stupid colds: sneezing, coughing. Its not quite over yet. But its nothing, it just gives me an excuse (laughing) to tell people I am still not quite well!
   I am resting.

1962-03-06, #Agenda Vol 03, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   But impatience and irritation. Well, if it makes you feel better. Some people need it as a safety valve but it makes you lose a lot of time.
   One day I was all tensed up; things had become so intolerable, as people say, that something in the most material vital went into whats usually considered a fit of rage (it was totally under control I mean it was working as a safety valve and being observed as such in all its vibrations). I was alone in the bathroom, nobody to see me; I grabbed hold of I dont remember what and smashed it on the floor!

1967-02-08, #Agenda Vol 08, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   Oh, how interesting it is, if you knew how interesting. Take coughing, for instance (not in the chest, in the throat). So, the first vibration: an irritation that draws your attention in order to make you cough. It has a certain kind of vibration which we may call pointed, but its not violent: its light, annoying. Its the first little vibration. So with that vibration: awakening of the attention in the surrounding consciousness (of the throat cells); then a refusal to accept the cough, a rejection here (in the throat), which at first almost causes nausea (all this is seen through a microscope, you understand, they are very tiny things). The attention is focused. Then, at that point, there are several possible factors, which are sometimes simultaneous and sometimes one drives away the other; one is anxiety: something goes wrong and there is apprehension at whats going to happen; the other is a will that nothing should be disturbed by the irritation; and then all of a sudden, the faith that the Force is capable of restoring order everywhere immediately (none of this is intellectual: its vibrations).
   Then, sometime yesterday morning, something very interesting occurred: a clear perception that the vast majority of the cells (in THIS CASE: Im not talking about the whole body, I am talking about this particular spotthroat, nose, etc.), the vast majority of the cells still have a sort of feelingwhich seems to be the result of innumerable experiences or of habits (its both; not clearly one or the other, but both)that Natures force, that is to say, the nature governing the body, knows what needs to be done better than the divine Power: its used to it, it knows better. Thats how it is. And then, when this new consciousness which is being worked out in the physical being (the mind of the cells) has caught hold of that, oh, it was as if it had caught hold of an extraordinary revelation; it said, Ah, Ive got you, you culprit! You are the one who is preventing the transformation.

1970-10-14, #Agenda Vol 11, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   When I used to go out, I had to put rose juice on my lips so they would not chap, and sumo (powder of burned pearl) on my eyelids to prevent irritation by sunlight and dust.
   To take care of ones skin and hair is no more artificial than to take care of ones teeth.

1f.lovecraft - Medusas Coil, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Philosophy
   Denis naturally felt some irritation at this turn of affairs; though
   he realised that his guest was a man of honour and that, as kindred

1f.lovecraft - The Electric Executioner, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Philosophy
   irritation.
   Sure, are you? Nice, mild, conservative assurance! Cursed lot you

1f.lovecraft - Under the Pyramids, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Philosophy
   half-smile which I had often remarked with amused irritation; or
   perhaps he did not like the hollow and sepulchral resonance of Abduls

2.03 - The Mother-Complex, #The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, #Carl Jung, #Psychology
  and irritation. This is quite natural, since none of it has any-
  thing to do with the realities of life when stubborn resistance

2.04 - Positive Aspects of the Mother-Complex, #The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, #Carl Jung, #Psychology
  source of illusions, disappointments, and irritations, all of which
  are due solely to the fact that she cannot bring herself to look

2.0 - THE ANTICHRIST, #Twilight of the Idols, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
  susceptibility to pain and to irritation, which can no longer endure to
  be "touched" at all, because every sensation strikes too deep.
  --
  susceptibility to pain and to irritation, which regards all resistance,
  all compulsory resistance as insufferable _anguish_(--that is to say,

2.20 - 2.29 - RULES FOR HOUSEHOLDERS AND MONKS, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  The sadhaka sat in silence a few moments. Then he said with some irritation: "Please tell me whether you have realized God either directly or intuitively. You may answer me if you are able, or you may keep silent if you wish." The Master said with a smile: "What shall I say? One can only give a hint."
  SADHAKA: "Then tell us that much."

2.3.3 - Anger and Violence, #Letters On Yoga IV, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  The reason why quietness is not yet fixed and anger returns is that you allow your physical mind to become active. In regard to the sadhana it begins to think there is this defect in you and that defect and therefore the sadhana does not become immediately effective and perfect. This makes the vital nervous or despondent and in the despondency a state of irritation arises. At the same time this mind becomes active as it has now with regard to X or begins to judge and criticise and this too leads to nervousness and irritation. These things belong to the old mind you are trying to leave and therefore stand in the way of concentration and quietude. They should be stopped at their root by rejecting the suggestions of the physical mind as soon as they begin. A new consciousness is coming based upon inner silence and quietude. You must wait quietly for that to develop. True knowledge, true perceptions of people and things will come in that new silent consciousness. The minds view of people and things must necessarily be either limited and defective or erroneousto go on judging by it is now a waste of time. Wait for the new consciousness to develop and show you all in a new and true light. Then the tendency to anger which arises from this mind and is a violent impatience directed against things the mind and vital do not like, would have no ground to rise at allor if it rose without cause could be more easily rejected. Rely for the sadhana on the Mothers grace and her Force, yourself remembering always to keep only two things, quietude and confidence. For things and people, leave them to the Mother also; as you have difficulties in your nature, so they have too; but to deal with them needs insight, sympathy, patience.
  ***

2.4.1 - Human Relations and the Spiritual Life, #Letters On Yoga IV, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  There is nothing unusual in your feelings towards X. It is the way that vital love usually takes when there is no strong psychic force to correct and uphold it. After the first vital glow is over, the incompatibility of the two egos begins to show itself and there is more and more strain in the relations for one or both the demands of the other become intolerable to the vital part, there is constant irritation and the claim is felt as a burden and a yoke. Naturally in a life of sadhana there is no room for vital relations they are a stumbling block preventing the wholesale turning of the nature towards the Divine.
  ***

3.1.2 - Levels of the Physical Being, #Letters On Yoga IV, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  The narrowness etc. of which you complain are normal to the physical nature. It is the same thing acting in a different way which makes X rebellious to advice and full of irritation and bad temper when her mistakes are shown to her. The physical nature of almost everybody is like that, intolerant, easily irritated, lacking in patience when dealing with others. But this physical nature can be replaced and changed by the psychic nature and you have had the experience of what this psychic nature is and how it acts. You know therefore what change has to come in you and you know also that this new nature is already there in you preparing to come out. Have the faith therefore that it is sure to come and when the physical comes and covers with the old movements try to remember that and remind the physical mind that it is only by this change in yourself and all that things can change. What is needed now is all should make this psychic change their main object, each for himself. If some develop it, then it will spread more rapidly among the rest. It is so only that the present state of the physical consciousness in the Asram full of ego and strife can become what it should be.
  ***

4.04 - Some Vital Functions, #Of The Nature Of Things, #Lucretius, #Poetry
  Impulse and irritation, so one force
  In human kind rouses the human seed

5.4.01 - Notes on Root-Sounds, #Vedic and Philological Studies, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   anger.. morbid irritation. emotion
   passionate, angering physically irritating emotion

Chapter II - WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  and that increased his irritation, and matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had not
  come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour

Liber 111 - The Book of Wisdom - LIBER ALEPH VEL CXI, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   But to persist in Dullness, in Satiety, and in mutual irritation and
   Abhorrence, is contrary to the way of nature. So therefore there is no

Liber 46 - The Key of the Mysteries, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   accompanied by nervous irritation, the slumber may be incomplete, and
   take on the character of somnambulism.
  --
   without ever satisfying it. Thence are born irritations and troubles,
   discouragements and despairs. --- Life is always a lie to us, say the
  --
   into a long irritation and desire. The more murderous are their
   excesses, the more it seems to them that supreme happiness is at hand.

r1912 07 04, #Record of Yoga, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   Physical bhukti of the indriyas is well established except for the occasional failure of chakshush ananda in the movement above described and a failure in certain tastes of the palate,the latter exceptional. Sparshananda is still confined mainly to the low state of the rati, though well capable of the higher states, and is hampered by the persistence of discomfort by prolonged exposure to excessive heat, exposure to cold above a certain degree in the state of sleep or after sleep when the nervous vitality is lowered, the intenser touches of pain or poisonous irritation. Thirst is being once more expelled, but hunger is again active. The five physical anandas occur occasionally sahaituka, but the ahaituka activities have for the time being been suspended along with progress in the other physical siddhis. Sleep is strong, also adhogati of weariness, denial of anima, refusal of the saundaryam, persistence of the stray survivals of the phantasm of illness-symptoms. These seem, however, to be losing all hold except on the stomach & central functions, where they are attempting to resist final eviction (fullness, tejasic unease, touches of nausea) or to prevent fixity of siddhi. Visrishti is stronger than it has been for a long time past. Utthapana of neck maintained for about 10 or 15 minutes, finally overcome by pressure of adhogati.
   ***

r1912 11 29, #Record of Yoga, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   There is an entire disappearance in the prana of the tejasic sraddha, ie hasty & excessive belief which turns into exaggerated expectation, & a great strength of samataeven in the karmadeha, whence only a vague physical uneasiness comes into the subtle part of the body in place of the old disappointment and despondency in the manahkosha. The reaction of anger in the karmadeha is no longer violent, but only a subdued, though at times a strong irritation, which being no longer able to insist, soon disappears. The body, however, is disappointed & tamasic. There has been excessive sleep (7 hours or more) for the last three nights. It is predicted that from tomorrow Place as well as Time will begin to be accurate.
   ***

r1913 09 14, #Record of Yoga, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   (Yesterday) [i.e. the 14] An attack on the health (assimilation) brought about a suspension of the kamananda & attempt at asiddhi; dominated early in the afternoon. The tejas is now beginning to fulfil itself against the tamas; its predictions being correct or corrected by the vijnanamaya prakasha. Lipi, rupa & samadhi continued steadily to gain in habitual force; but in the latter two the akasha is not yet clarified of the main obstruction. Trikaldrishti is habitually correct even in rough detail & often in exact detail, but with an element of erroneous & perverting stress on the telepathic impressions and considerable gaps and lacunae. Utthapana somewhat weakly recommenced in arms, neck and legs. The struggle, successful on the whole, still continues with the remnants of the old slighter ailments, eruption & cold. The former has no tejas & there is usually the eruption without the irritation. The latter is losing tejas, but is persistent. Roga of the assimilation has still an occasional force as in the morning. In the saundarya the lower range teeth have retained their whiteness, only slightly stained at first with a shadow of yellow, for five days, (formerly one day could hardly be registered,) and the upper are getting clarified to an extent not yet experienced since the reaction began or even before it. There is as yet no sign of reaction. In other directions the reaction holds or allows only a slow and doubtful progress in one or two details. Sahitya steadily continues, but only in short flows of energy.
   ***

r1914 11 23, #Record of Yoga, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   There has been for some time a persistent pressure to introduce cough of a serious description. Except a recurrence of capricious irritation in throat and chest, this movement has not succeeded. But the bodys sensitiveness to cold is persistent.
   ***

r1914 12 02, #Record of Yoga, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   Arogya seems definitely to have the upper hand in the matter of irritation, although the dhriti of the roga is not yet expelled.
   In assimilation the old symptoms of roga still recur but without the same force of persistence or hold as before.

Talks 026-050, #Talks, #Sri Ramana Maharshi, #Hinduism
    M.: Physically the digestive and other organs are kept free from irritation. Therefore food is regulated both in quantity and quality.
    Non-irritants are eaten, avoiding chillies, excess of salt, onions, wine, opium, etc. Avoid constipation, drowsiness and excitement, and all foods which induce them. Mentally take interest in one thing and fix the mind on it. Let such interest be all-absorbing to the exclusion of everything else. This is dispassion (vairagya) and concentration. God or mantra may be chosen. The mind gains strength to grasp the subtle and merge into it.

Talks With Sri Aurobindo 1, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  vague irritation and restlessness and a sense of sadness all day long, and
  badly needed assistance. He didn't know the cause of the irritation but yesterday he began to think of what wrongs he had done to others in the past.
  Then he felt as if somebody had touched him on the shoulder, after which he
  --
  SRI AUROBINDO: That is the life-mind. Of course his irritation and restlessness
  are due to the pressure of the psychic on his vital. His brooding or thinking
  --
  SRI AUROBINDO: That doesn't matter. It means that the psychic is putting pressure on the vital to change. (After some time) Restlessness, irritation don't
  matter, but he must get some sleep.

The Act of Creation text, #The Act of Creation, #Arthur Koestler, #Psychology
  arouse perhaps a mild irritation with the Freudian jargon or appre-
  hension, as the case may be; which is then tittered away through the
  --
  by such local irritation is, by the way, unilateral it occurs initially in
  the affected eye only). 5 It can also be caused by coughing, sneezing,

the Eternal Wisdom, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  12) I pledge myself from this day forward not to entertain any feeling of irritation, anger or ill humour and to allow to arise within me neither violence nor hate. ~ Rurkthist Text
  No Hatred View Similar Not to Do unto Others

WORDNET



--- Overview of noun irritation

The noun irritation has 7 senses (first 2 from tagged texts)
                  
1. (6) irritation, annoyance, vexation, botheration ::: (the psychological state of being irritated or annoyed)
2. (1) pique, temper, irritation ::: (a sudden outburst of anger; "his temper sparked like damp firewood")
3. irritation ::: ((pathology) abnormal sensitivity to stimulation; "any food produced irritation of the stomach")
4. excitation, innervation, irritation ::: (the neural or electrical arousal of an organ or muscle or gland)
5. discomfort, soreness, irritation ::: (an uncomfortable feeling of mental painfulness or distress)
6. aggravation, irritation, provocation ::: (unfriendly behavior that causes anger or resentment)
7. annoyance, annoying, irritation, vexation ::: (the act of troubling or annoying someone)




--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun irritation

7 senses of irritation                        

Sense 1
irritation, annoyance, vexation, botheration
   => psychological state, psychological condition, mental state, mental condition
     => condition, status
       => state
         => attribute
           => abstraction, abstract entity
             => entity

Sense 2
pique, temper, irritation
   => annoyance, chafe, vexation
     => anger, choler, ire
       => emotion
         => feeling
           => state
             => attribute
               => abstraction, abstract entity
                 => entity

Sense 3
irritation
   => abnormality, abnormalcy
     => physical condition, physiological state, physiological condition
       => condition, status
         => state
           => attribute
             => abstraction, abstract entity
               => entity
   => sensitization, sensitisation
     => sensitivity, predisposition
       => susceptibility, susceptibleness
         => condition, status
           => state
             => attribute
               => abstraction, abstract entity
                 => entity

Sense 4
excitation, innervation, irritation
   => arousal
     => physical condition, physiological state, physiological condition
       => condition, status
         => state
           => attribute
             => abstraction, abstract entity
               => entity

Sense 5
discomfort, soreness, irritation
   => suffering, hurt
     => pain, painfulness
       => feeling
         => state
           => attribute
             => abstraction, abstract entity
               => entity

Sense 6
aggravation, irritation, provocation
   => aggression
     => behavior, behaviour, conduct, doings
       => activity
         => act, deed, human action, human activity
           => event
             => psychological feature
               => abstraction, abstract entity
                 => entity

Sense 7
annoyance, annoying, irritation, vexation
   => mistreatment
     => practice, pattern
       => activity
         => act, deed, human action, human activity
           => event
             => psychological feature
               => abstraction, abstract entity
                 => entity




--- Hyponyms of noun irritation

3 of 7 senses of irritation                      

Sense 1
irritation, annoyance, vexation, botheration
   => bummer
   => huff, miff, seeing red
   => pinprick
   => restlessness, impatience
   => snit

Sense 6
aggravation, irritation, provocation
   => aggro
   => last straw
   => twit, taunt, taunting

Sense 7
annoyance, annoying, irritation, vexation
   => exasperation
   => red flag




--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun irritation

7 senses of irritation                        

Sense 1
irritation, annoyance, vexation, botheration
   => psychological state, psychological condition, mental state, mental condition

Sense 2
pique, temper, irritation
   => annoyance, chafe, vexation

Sense 3
irritation
   => abnormality, abnormalcy
   => sensitization, sensitisation

Sense 4
excitation, innervation, irritation
   => arousal

Sense 5
discomfort, soreness, irritation
   => suffering, hurt

Sense 6
aggravation, irritation, provocation
   => aggression

Sense 7
annoyance, annoying, irritation, vexation
   => mistreatment










--- Coordinate Terms (sisters) of noun irritation

7 senses of irritation                        

Sense 1
irritation, annoyance, vexation, botheration
  -> psychological state, psychological condition, mental state, mental condition
   => cognitive state, state of mind
   => state of mind, frame of mind
   => abulia, aboulia
   => anhedonia
   => depersonalization, depersonalisation
   => hypnosis
   => fugue
   => trauma, psychic trauma
   => morale
   => anxiety, anxiousness
   => hallucinosis
   => identity crisis
   => nervousness, nerves
   => delusion, psychotic belief
   => mental health
   => mental illness, mental disease, psychopathy
   => agitation
   => depression
   => elation
   => irritation, annoyance, vexation, botheration
   => enchantment, spell, trance
   => dissociation, disassociation

Sense 2
pique, temper, irritation
  -> annoyance, chafe, vexation
   => pique, temper, irritation
   => frustration
   => aggravation, exasperation
   => harassment, torment
   => displeasure

Sense 3
irritation
  -> abnormality, abnormalcy
   => acardia
   => acephalia, acephaly, acephalism
   => acorea
   => acromicria, acromikria
   => acromphalus
   => amastia
   => aneuploidy
   => anorchism, anorchidism, anorchia
   => asynclitism, obliquity
   => atresia
   => brachydactyly, brachydactylia
   => cryptorchidy, cryptorchidism, cryptorchism
   => deviated septum
   => dextrocardia
   => ectrodactyly
   => erethism
   => fetal distress, foetal distress
   => hepatomegaly, megalohepatia
   => inversion
   => transposition, heterotaxy
   => pneumothorax
   => macrencephaly
   => hydatid mole, hydatidiform mole, molar pregnancy
   => hydramnios
   => hypervitaminosis
   => hypospadias
   => lagophthalmos
   => mental abnormality
   => nanophthalmos
   => palmature
   => dysplasia
   => hydrocephalus, hydrocephaly
   => abrachia
   => progeria
   => atypicality, untypicality
   => arrested development, fixation, infantile fixation, regression
   => aberrance, aberrancy, aberration, deviance
   => cyclopia
   => spinal curvature
   => subnormality
   => anomaly, anomalousness
   => gynecomastia
   => infantilism
   => macrocephaly, megacephaly, megalocephaly
   => microbrachia
   => microcephaly, microcephalus, nanocephaly
   => pachycheilia
   => phimosis
   => irritation
   => retroversion, retroflection, retroflexion
   => sequela
   => strabismus, squint
   => torticollis, wryneck
   => varix
  -> sensitization, sensitisation
   => irritation

Sense 4
excitation, innervation, irritation
  -> arousal
   => alertness, alerting
   => emotional arousal
   => excitation, innervation, irritation
   => sexual arousal
   => desire

Sense 5
discomfort, soreness, irritation
  -> suffering, hurt
   => agony, torment, torture
   => throes
   => discomfort, soreness, irritation

Sense 6
aggravation, irritation, provocation
  -> aggression
   => aggravation, irritation, provocation
   => bitchery
   => bullying, intimidation
   => raising hell, hell raising
   => self-assertion

Sense 7
annoyance, annoying, irritation, vexation
  -> mistreatment
   => annoyance, annoying, irritation, vexation
   => disregard, neglect
   => exploitation, victimization, victimisation, using
   => harassment, molestation
   => maltreatment, ill-treatment, ill-usage, abuse










--- Grep of noun irritation
irritation





IN WEBGEN [10000/18]

Wikipedia - Annoyance -- An unpleasant mental state that is characterized by irritation and distraction
Wikipedia - Crying -- Shedding tears in response to emotional stimuli, pain, or irritation of eye
Wikipedia - Irritation
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30160812-a-source-of-irritation
Irritation as a Spiritual Path: The Zen of You and Me
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/IrritationIsTheSincerestFormOfFlattery
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/IrritationNightmare
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Tropers/IrritationPremium
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Tropers/PremiumIrritation
Blue Velvet(1986) - Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan) is just your average young American. When he returns for a visit to the town where he grew up, he finds a severed ear in a field. Assuming the mantle of junior detective after irritation with the police, he ends up connecting the ear to a depraved underworld of sex...
Midas Run(1969) - A veteran Secret Service Agent from Britain hijacks a government shipment of fifteen million dollars of gold out of an irritation for never being knighted.
https://danball.fandom.com/wiki/Irritation_Stickman
https://danball.fandom.com/wiki/Irritation_Stickman_(AG)
https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Irritation_(emotion)
Aggressive Retsuko -- -- Fanworks -- 100 eps -- Other -- Music Slice of Life Comedy -- Aggressive Retsuko Aggressive Retsuko -- Whether it be facing misogynistic remarks from her boss or being pressured by condescending co-workers, stress is just another part of the job for 25-year-old red panda Retsuko. Despite being one of the most diligent workers at her office, her diminutiveness and modesty often lead her to be exploited by her colleagues. However, when her irritation hits the limit, Retsuko brings forth her unique brand of letting off steam: aggressive death metal karaoke bashing the idiocy and hypocrisy of her co-workers' actions and work life. Although this venting only takes place in her mind, it gives her an outlet to counter her frustration in a world where hierarchy and appearances reign supreme. -- -- 78,138 7.63
Een -- -- - -- 1 ep -- Original -- Dementia -- Een Een -- Synchronized the irritation of the baby’s cries and the frustration I have ever experienced. Everyone was born while crying and grew crying. I grew up to be an adult, but I strongly want to be a baby again. -- -- Short film by Sawako Kabuki. -- ONA - Feb 12, 2018 -- 528 5.01
Irritation
Throat irritation


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last updated: 2022-02-02 04:45:38
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