Sanctum

1:Your life sparks fires from within your innermost temple. No one can reach there but you, it is your inner sanctum. You are your own master there, only you can reach and ignite the fire. ~ Rajneesh,

2:The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul, which opens to that primeval cosmic night that was soul long before there was conscious ego and will be soul far beyond what a conscious ego could ever reach. ~ Carl Jung,

3:Worthy The Name Of Sir Knight
Sir Knight of the world's oldest order,
Sir Knight of the Army of God,
You have crossed the strange mystical border,
The ground floor of truth you have trod;
You have entered the sanctum sanctorum,
Which leads to the temple above,
Where you come as a stone, and a Christ-chosen one,
In the kingdom of Friendship and Love.
II
As you stand in this new realm of beauty,
Where each man you meet is your friend,
Think not that your promise of duty
In hall, or asylum, shall end;
Outside, in the great world of pleasure,
Beyond, in the clamor of trade,
In the battle of life and its coarse daily strife
Remember the vows you have made.
III
Your service, majestic and solemn,
Your symbols, suggestive and sweet,
Your uniformed phalanx in column
On gala days marching the street;
Your sword and your plume and your helmet,
Your 'secrets' hid from the world's sight;
These things are the small, lesser parts of the all
Which are needed to form the true Knight.
IV
The martyrs who perished rejoicing
In Templary's glorious laws,
Who died 'midst the fagots while voicing
The glory and worth of their cause-
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They honored the title of 'Templar'
No more than the Knight of to-day
Who mars not the name with one blemish of shame,
But carries it clean through life's fray.
To live for a cause, to endeavor
To make your deeds grace it, to try
And uphold its precepts forever,
Is harder by far than to die.
For the battle of life is unending,
The enemy, Self, never tires,
And the true Knight must slay that sly foe every day
Ere he reaches the heights he desires.
VI
Sir Knight, have you pondered the meaning
Of all you have heard and been told?
Have you strengthened your heart for its weaning
From vices and faults loved of old?
Will you honor, in hours of temptation,
Your promises noble and grand?
Will your spirit be strong to do battle with wrong,
'And having done all, to stand?'
VII
Will you ever be true to a brother
In actions as well as in creed?
Will you stand by his side as no other
Could stand in the hour of his need?
Will you boldly defend him from peril,
And lift him from poverty's curseWill the promise of aid which you willingly made,
Reach down from your lips to your purse?
VIII
The world's battle field is before you!
Let Wisdom walk close by your side,
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Let Faith spread her snowy wings o'er you,
Let Truth be your comrade and guide;
Let Fortitude, Justice and Mercy
Direct all your conduct aright,
And let each word and act tell to men the proud fact,
You are worthy the name of 'Sir Knight'.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

* WISDOM TROVE *

1:The Bible is a sanctum; the world, sputum. ~ franz-kafka, @wisdomtrove

2:Your life sparks fires from within your innermost temple. No one can reach there but you, it is your inner sanctum. You are your own master there, only you can reach and ignite the fire. ~ rajneesh, @wisdomtrove

3:Children, we may go to the temple, reverently circumambulate the sanctum sanctorum and put our offering in the charity box, but on our way out if we kick the beggar at the door, where is our devotion? Compassion towards the poor is our duty to God. Mother is not saying that we should give money to every beggar that sits in front of a temple, but do not despise them. Pray for them as well. When we hate others, it is our own mind that becomes impure. Equality of vision is God. ~ mata-amritanandamayi, @wisdomtrove

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *

1:The Bible is a sanctum; the world, sputum. ~ Franz Kafka,

2:In the land of the killers, a sinner's mind is a sanctum. ~ Eminem,

3:the domestic enemy’s inner sanctum, the National Press Club. ~ Mark Bowden,

4:When I feel the Snickers bar in my hand, I know I'm in the inner sanctum. ~ Susan Ee,

5:The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul. ~ Carl Jung,

6:"A dream is a small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul . . . " ~ Carl Jung,

7:I go up to The Sanctum and put on the most obnoxious head-banging punk music I have, a San Francisco band called Filth. ~ Jandy Nelson,

8:When you let people into the inner sanctum of your life, you risk having them see the heart of you. (from Vanishing Acts) ~ Jodi Picoult,

9:To the virtuous man, the universe is the only sanctum sanctorum, and the penetralia of the temple are the broad noon of his existence. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

10:Sanctum, a holy or sacred place. What could be more sacred than possessing the power of your own true thoughts? Sanctum. It is both lock and key. ~ Madeleine Roux,

11:Eve followed him into the building. No one would dare frisk her, and she entered Beckett’s inner sanctum fully armed—not that she needed her weapons. ~ Debra Anastasia,

12:The only member of the inner sanctum of licensed sorcerers absent was Patrick of Ludlow, who was busy moving an oak for a wealthy client eager to alphabetize his arboretum. ~ Jasper Fforde,

13:Your life sparks fires from within your innermost temple. No one can reach there but you, it is your inner sanctum. You are your own master there, only you can reach and ignite the fire. ~ Rajneesh,

14:Your life sparks fires from within your innermost temple. No one can reach there but you, it is your inner sanctum. You are your own master there, only you can reach and ignite the fire. ~ Rajneesh,

15:I was staring at the end result. The Holy Grail of bookshelves, the ultimate shrine, the sanctum sanctorum, the point where every booklover and hoarder’s pilgrimage ends: an empty shelf. Two of them. ~ Nilanjana Roy,

16:... the All is everywhere, and anywhere may become the seat of power. Any blade of grass may assume, in myth, the figure of the savior and conduct the questing wanderer into the sanctum sanctorum of his own heart. ~ Joseph Campbell,

17:No receptionist was sitting guard at this hour. They knocked and were buzzed into the inner sanctum. It was much nicer in here, a totally different feel and look, like they’d stepped through a wall into Diagon Alley. They ~ Harlan Coben,

18:Prophet Muhammad was not a ritualistic man; he was the example of this Qur'an. Yes, he prayed; yes, he visited the Inner Sanctum of Allah and gave us five daily prayers, but he wanted us to live the meaning of that prayer. ~ Louis Farrakhan,

19:When I would re-create myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable and to the citizen, most dismal, swamp. I enter as a sacred place, a Sanctum sanctorum. There is the strength, the marrow, of Nature. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

20:The economic sanctions are absolutely going to hurt Russia's economy. They're hurting some of his key inner sanctum. But they are not affecting his political standing. And it's hard to see how they would do so at least, in the short term. ~ Clarissa Ward,

21:"The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul, which opens to that primeval cosmic night that was soul long before there was conscious ego and will be soul far beyond what a conscious ego could ever reach." ~ Carl Jung,

22:"The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul, which opens into that primeval cosmic night that was soul long before there was a conscious ego and will be soul far beyond what a conscious ego could ever reach." ~ Carl Jung,

23:She saw a dust-bearing bee sink into the sanctum of a bloom; the thousand sister-calyxes arch to meet the love embrace and the ecstatic shiver of the tree from root to tiniest branch creaming in every blossom and frothing with delight. So this was a marriage! ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

24:Maurice Blanche maintained that amid the tales, the smokescreens, and the deceptive mirrors of life’s unsolved mysteries, truth resides, waiting for someone to enter its sanctum, then leave, without quite closing the door behind them. That is when truth may make its escape. ~ Jacqueline Winspear,

25:I have been ineluctably drawn to libraries ever since I entered that sanctum sanctorum. It was a place of quietude. In a world where things go beep and ding and ring, where you’ve got mail and you’ve got messages, when I enter a library, I feel that I am still entering a temple. ~ Carmen Agra Deedy,

26:Having grown up in those woods, Walker knew that for many people, the wilderness did not represent an otherworldly sanctum of ‘biodiversity,’ as it did for many urban environmentalists. Rather, it served as the birthplace, staging ground, and repository for the area’s deepest traditions. ~ Robert Moor,

27:Two minutes later, we were ushered into Mr. Flannery’s inner sanctum. The office smelled of cigar smoke and Lemon Pledge. Snap-together furniture, the kind you might find at Kmart or Bradlees, had been stained dark, feigning rich oak and mahogany and working about as well as a Las Vegas toupee. ~ Harlan Coben,

28:RECEPTIONIST LOOKED RIGHT through me as I crossed the carpeted lobby between glass-cased tanker models and clipper ship prints. I winked at her, and she spun away on her swivel chair. The frosted doors to the inner sanctum had bronze fouled anchors mounted in place of handles, and I pushed through humming a sea chanty under my breath. “Yo ho, blow the man down …” Beyond ~ William Hjortsberg,

29:The outer courtyard was one hundred-fifty feet long by seventy-five feet wide. Wooden poles holding linen curtains over seven feet high sanctioned it off. The Tent of Meeting, or holy place pitched at the back end and was fifteen feet wide, fifteen feet high, and forty-five feet long. It was divided into two sections, the holy place and the most holy place, the inner sanctum. ~ Brian Godawa,

30:The eye single, the third eye painted on the foreheads of oriental gods, the inner eye, the symbolic eye of Horus, see inwardly; whereas the physical eyes behold only the outer parts. It is with the eye single, the eye of the gods, that man can behold the sanctum sanctorum, the little room in the heart, where between the wings of the cherub hovers the shekinah's glory. ~ Manly P Hall, How to Understand Your Bible,

31:From my stone pillow I have dreamed dreams of the mortal world above. I have heard its voices, its new music, as lullabies as I lie in my grave. I have envisioned its fantastical discoveries. I have known its courage in the timeless sanctum of my thoughts. And though it shuts me out with its dazzling forms, I long for one with the strength to roam it fearlessly, to ride the Devil's Road through its heart. ~ Anne Rice,

32:The Supreme Court had made birth control legal for married couples in the 1965 case, Griswold v. Connecticut, basing its decision on the opinion that a ban violated the privacy of the marital bedroom’s “innermost sanctum.” But, for single women, the relevant decision came seven years later. In 1972’s Eisenstadt v. Baird, the Court struck down a law that prohibited the sale of contraception to unmarried persons, ~ Rebecca Traister,

33:The subtleties of inner-sanctum passes are a degree subject in their own right. Access All Areas means about halfway in, VIP one level further. A laminate trumps a stick-on and a green dot lets you through another gate. After that it helps if you are either part of the show, a family member, or have that demented look that ensures that there are always a few lunatics who make it to where they absolutely should not be. ~ Nick Mason,

34:The problem for most people as they get older is that they start to buy into their own bullshit to the extent that they just have to eliminate from their inner sanctum anyone who is going to really challenge it. But I think all bandmates of U2 were lucky enough to have the four of us respect and regard each other to the extent that we're kind of always looking out for one another, so none of us can get away with buying into the bullshit. ~ The Edge,

35:She was stretched on her back beneath the pear tree soaking in the alto chant of the visiting bees, the gold of the sun and the panting breath of the breeze when the inaudible voice of it all came to her. She saw a dust-bearing bee sink into the sanctum of a bloom; the thousand sister-calyxes arch to meet the love embrace and the ecstatic shiver of the tree from root to tiniest branch creaming in every blossom and frothing with delight. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

36:Not to be overly dramatic," said Magnus, "but - aaaargh. Aaaargh. Why! I cannot believe we broke into a secret sanctum in a creepy dungeon to find something your sister would e-mail us the next day."
Alec looked at the page on the glorious history of the Crimson Hand, in which the Great Poison commanded his followers to paint white stripes on horses and make the wooden mouse the national animal of Morocco.
"It is ironic," he admitted. ~ Cassandra Clare,

37:He wanted to grind every Federation world into dust beneath his boot as his army blazed a trail of blood and corpses all the way to Seneca.

He wanted to storm their inner sanctum and fire a laser into the skull of their Field Marshal while their Chairman watched, then fire a laser into the skull of their Chairman.

He wanted to burn their bodies on a pyre and carry the ashes back to Deucali and spread them on his mother’s consecrated grave. ~ G S Jennsen,

38:Think of admitting the details of a single case of the criminal court into our thoughts, to stalk profanely through their very sanctum sanctorum for an hour, ay, for many hours! to make a very barroom of the mind's inmost apartment, as if for so long the dust of the street had occupied us,--the very street itself, with all its travel, its bustle, and filth, had passed through our thoughts' shrine! Would it not be an intellectual and moral suicide? ~ Henry David Thoreau,

39:According to the old Mysteries, the secret father, or as the Greeks called it, the hidden god, abode in the heart - that is, in the sanctum sanctorum. Man prays not to some vast spirit in the sky, but rather to the divine principle within himself; that is his god, his own spirit; his own over-self; the father that abides in the innermost. Many have raised their eyes to the skies, but few have turned them inward to the contemplation of the hidden god. ~ Manly P Hall, How to Understand Your Bible,

40:Children, we may go to the temple, reverently circumambulate the sanctum sanctorum and put our offering in the charity box, but on our way out if we kick the beggar at the door, where is our devotion? Compassion towards the poor is our duty to God. Mother is not saying that we should give money to every beggar that sits in front of a temple, but do not despise them. Pray for them as well. When we hate others, it is our own mind that becomes impure. Equality of vision is God. ~ Mata Amritanandamayi,

41:This sensible, sensible girl. A girl who knew how to protect herself. Never a daredevil, never stunting without a safety mat, without spotters. A girl for whom instability was the ultimate enemy. Who’d never known divorce or slamming doors or slamming fists. A girl whose home was a peaceful sanctum, even the basement padded. A life that had to be made safe because of the risks she put her body through. She was the most dangerous thing in her own life. Her body, the only dangerous thing. ~ Megan Abbott,

42:When I wish to recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable and, to the citizen, most dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place — a sanctum sanctorum ....A town is saved, not more by the righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps that surround it. A township where one primitive forest waves above while another primitive forest rots below,— such a town is fitted to raise not only corn and potatoes, but poets and philosophers for the coming ages. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

43:Thoreau the “Patron Saint of Swamps” because he enjoyed being in them and writing about them said, “my temple is the swamp… When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most impenetrable and to the citizen, most dismal, swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place, a sanctum sanctorum… I seemed to have reached a new world, so wild a place…far away from human society. What’s the need of visiting far-off mountains and bogs, if a half-hour’s walk will carry me into such wildness and novelty. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

44:It is said that the Hindus must have been upset at seeing Turkish and Mongol soldiers in their heavy boots trampling the floors of the temples. The question is, which Hindus? For, the same temple if it was now entered by mleccha soldiers was open only to upper-caste Hindus and its sanctum was in any case barred to the majority of the population who were regarded as the indigenous mleccha. The trauma was therefore more in the notion of the temple being polluted rather than the confrontation of one religion with another. ~ Romila Thapar,

45:In England the cabinet became the most exclusive and private of all chambers—the innermost sanctum where the most private meetings could take place. Then it made one of those bizarre leaps that words sometimes make and came to describe (by 1605) not just where the king met with his ministers, but the collective term for the ministers themselves. This explains why this one word now describes both the most intimate and exalted group of advisers in government and the shelved recess in the bathroom where we keep Ex-Lax and the like. ~ Bill Bryson,

46:Let a dribble of blood spatter onto the pristine damask of my disguise? It was a terrible idea and it sent a surge of horrid discomfort right through me. Besides, I had never even mentioned to anyone that I had a brother, and in this case the “anyone” was Rita, and she would certainly wonder at the omission. How could I invite him in—into the world of Rita’s pancakes, Disney DVDs, and clean sheets? Invite him inside, by all that was unholy, to the Inner Sanctum of Lily Anne? It was not right. It was sacrilegious, a blasphemous violation of … Of ~ Jeff Lindsay,

47:Moreover, in accordance with a time-honoured custom, analogous to that which gave to the first meeting between two young people promised to one another in marriage the form of a chance encounter at a performance in the Théâtre du Gymnase, the dialogue in the course of which destiny was to dictate the word ‘War’ or the word ‘Peace’ was held, as a rule, not in the ministerial sanctum but on a bench in a Kurgarten where the Minister and M. de Norpois went independently to a thermal spring to drink at its source their little tumblers of some curative water. ~ Marcel Proust,

48:The ribosomes, for instance, which manufacture proteins, rival in complexity any chemical factory. The mitochondria are power plants which extract energy from food by a complicated chain of chemical reactions involving some fifty different steps: a single cell may have up to five thousand such power plants. Then there are the centrosomes, with their spindle apparatus, which organises the incredible choreography of the cell dividing into two; and the DNA spirals of heredity, coiled up in the inner sanctum of the chromosomes, working their even more potent magic. ~ Arthur Koestler,

49:Now, had Tashtego perished in that head, it had been a very precious perishing; smothered in the very whitest and daintiest of fragrant spermaceti; coffined, hearsed, and tombed in the secret inner chamber and sanctum sanctorum of the whale. Only one sweeter end can readily be recalled—the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey in the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that leaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed. How many, think ye, have likewise fallen into Plato's honey head, and sweetly perished there? ~ Herman Melville,

50:Man, furthermore, must make his choices as an individual, for individuality is one side of one’s consciousness of one’s self. We can see this point clearly when we realize that consciousness of one’s self is always a unique act—I can never know exactly how you see yourself and you never can know exactly how I relate to myself. This is the inner sanctum where each man must stand alone. This fact makes for much of the tragedy and inescapable isolation in human life, but it also indicates again that we must find the strength in ourselves to stand in our own inner sanctum as individuals. ~ Rollo May,

51:She was stretched on her back beneath the pear tree soaking in the alto chant of the visiting bees, the gold of the sun and the panting breath of the breeze when the inaudible voice of it all came to her. She saw a dust-bearing bee sink into the sanctum of a bloom; the thousand sister-calyxes arch to meet the love embrace and the ecstatic shiver of the tree from root to tiniest branch creaming in every blossom and frothing with delight. So this was a marriage! She had been summoned to behold a revelation. Then Janie felt a pain remorseless sweet that left her limp and languid. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

52:Once a wish comes true, it disappears for good.”
“That’s what you wished for?” I asked, incredulous. “A peck on the cheek?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“This,” said Amar, gesturing to the space between us, “the chance to be this close to you.”
We looked at one another in silence. There was something new between us. Fragile and thrumming. I didn’t know what to do. Nothing I had learned in Bharata’s sanctum had taught me this. Nothing I had seen in the harem came close to what I felt. There was an undercurrent of depth, of something hard-won and dangerous. I couldn’t treat it with lightness…and I didn’t want to. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

53:...cannot possibly know who you are, you imagine that she is suspicious of all young people-as a matter of principle- and therefore what she sees when she looks at you is not you as yourself but you as yet one more querrilla fighter in the war against authority, an unruly insurrectionist who has no business barging into the sanctum of her library and asking for work. Such are the times you live in,the times you both live in. She instructs you to put the cards in order, and you can sense how deeply she wants you to fail, how happy it will make her to reject your application, and because you want the job just as much as she doesn't want you to have it, you make sure that you don't fail. ~ Paul Auster,

54:Amy was looking around the sanctum in awe. "It's...beautiful!"
The girl was modest and thoughtful. How bizarre. So rarely did Ian see these qualities in others–especially during the quest for the 39 Clues. Naturally, he had been taught to avoid these behaviors at all costs and never to consort with anyone who possessed them. They were distasteful–FLO, as Papa would say. For Losers Only. And Kabras never lost.
Yet she fascinated him. Her joy in running up Alistair's tiny lawn, her awe at this piddling cubbyhole–it didn't seem possible to gain so much happiness from so little. This gave him a curious feeling he'd never quite experienced. Something like indigestion but quite a bit more pleasant.
Ah well. Blame it on the ripped trousers, he thought. Humiliation softened the soul. ~ Peter Lerangis,

55:The Secret Team does not like criticism, investigation, or history and is always prone to see the world as divided into but two camps—“Them” and “Us.” Sometimes the distinction may be as little as one dot, as in “So. Viets” and “Soviets,” the So. Viets being our friends in Indochina, and the Soviets being the enemy of that period. To be a member, you don’t question, you don’t ask; it’s “Get on the Team” or else. One of its most powerful weapons in the most political and powerful capitals of the world is that of exclusion. To be denied the “need to know” status, like being a member of the Team, even though one may have all the necessary clearances, is to be totally blackballed and eliminated from further participation. Politically, if you are cut from the Team and from its insider’s knowledge, you are dead. In many ways and by many criteria the Secret Team is the inner sanctum of a new religious order. ~ L Fletcher Prouty,

56:Quincel de Morhban received me in his garden, something I never would have suspected, from either the man or the place. It was an inner sanctum, like Delaunay’s, like I had known in the Night Court, only vaster. It was shielded from the elements, warmed by a dozen braziers and torches, with mirrors set to gather the sun’s heat when it availed, and scrims of sheerest silk that could be drawn across the open roof to protect the delicate flora. In all defiance of the early spring chill, a riot of flowers bloomed: spikenard and foxglove, azalea, Lady’s slipper and Love-Not-Lost, orchids and phlox, lavender and roses. “You are pleased,” de Morhban said softly. He stood beside a small fountain, awaiting me; his eyes drank in the sight of me. “It costs me thousands of ducats to maintain this place. I have one master gardener from L’Agnace, and one from Namarre, and they are ever at odds with each other. But I reckon it worth the cost. I am D’Angeline. So we count the cost of pleasure.” He reached out one hand for me. “So I count your cost. ~ Jacqueline Carey,

57:in a way, even this festival and its cultic rituals were an expression of contempt for Rome. Tensions were high, tempers flared, and rioting mobs were a constant threat in this volatile environment. And this year brought with it the added insurrectionists and their contagious madness of Messiah expectation. The Roman forces were on high alert. The entire temple complex was over a thousand feet long and just under a thousand feet wide. The largest area, the outer court, or Court of the Gentiles, was open to all, both Jew and Gentile alike. It had marble flooring and was lined all around by porticos. Here animals were sold for sacrifices, like a marketplace, and worshippers could congregate or wait in line for their sacrifices. Upon closer approach to the Temple itself, in the center of the temple area, a screen with an engraved sign warned Gentiles not to proceed upon pain of death. Like every temple in the world, the closer one got to the inner sanctum or Holy of Holies in the temple, the more sacred the space became, and the fewer who were allowed to go further. ~ Brian Godawa,

58:Ask a random kid today if she wants to be popular and she'll tell you no, even if the truth is that if she was in a desert dying of thirst and had the choice between a glass of water and instant popularity, she'd probably choose the latter. See, you can't admit to wanting it, because that makes you less cool. To be truly popular, it has to look like it's something you are, when in reality, it's what you make yourself.

I wonder if any works harder at anything than kids do at being popular. I mean, even air-traffic controllers and the president of the United States take vacations, but look at your average high school student and you'll see someone who's putting in time twenty-four hours a day, for the entire length of the school year.

So how do you crack the inner sanctum? Well, here's the catch: it's not up to you. What's important is what everyone else thinks of how you dress, what you eat for lunch, what shows you TiVo, what music is on your iPod.

I've always sort of wondered though: If everyone else's opinion is what matters, then do you ever really have one of your own? ~ Jodi Picoult,

59:I’ll find you something else to read. Catch.” He let it fall without looking, and Tessa had to dart forward to seize it before it hit the floor.

It was a large squarish volume bound in dark blue velvet. There was a pattern cut into the velvet, a swirling symbol reminiscent of the marks that decorated Will’s skin. The title was stamped on the front in silver: The Shadowhunter’s Codex. Tessa glanced up at Will. “What is this?”

“I assumed you’d have questions about Shadowhunters, given that you’re currently inhabiting our sanctum sanctorum, so to speak. That book ought to tell you anything you want to know—about us, about our history, even about Downworlders like you.” Will’s face turned grave. “Be careful with it, though. It’s six hundred years old and the only copy of its kind. Losing or damaging it is punishable by death under the Law.”

Tessa thrust the book away from her as if it were on fire. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” Will leaped down from the ladder and landed lightly in front of her. “You do believe everything I say, though, don’t you? Do I seem unusually trustworthy to you, or are you just a naïve sort? ~ Cassandra Clare,

60:English version by Keith Dowman The Supreme Being is the Dakini Queen of the Lake of Awareness! I have vanished into fields of lotus-light, the plenum of dynamic space, To be born in the inner sanctum of an immaculate lotus; Do not despair, have faith! When you have withdrawn attachment to this rocky defile, This barbaric Tibet, full of war and strife, Abandon unnecessary activity and rely on solitude. Practice energy control, purify your psychic nerves and seed-essence, And cultivate mahamudra and Dsokchen. The Supreme Being is the Dakini Queen of the Lake of Awareness! Attaining humility, through Guru Pema Jungne's compassion I followed him, And now I have finally gone into his presence; Do not despair, but pray! When you see your karmic body as vulnerable as a bubble, Realising the truth of impermanence, and that in death you are helpless, Disabuse yourself of fantasies of eternity, Make your life a practice of sadhana, And cultivate the experience that takes you to the place where Ati ends. [1484.jpg] -- from The Shambhala Anthology of Women's Spiritual Poetry, Edited by Aliki Barnstone

~ Yeshe Tsogyal, The Supreme Being is the Dakini Queen of the Lake of Awareness!
,

61:Alerted by the door’s subtle chime, Dr. Ricard emerged from an interior room. She had shoulder-length silver hair that didn’t match her youthful face. Square black glasses, minimal makeup, black knit pants with a deep-cut black-and-white silk top—Ricard was an odd mixture of hippie and hip. She couldn’t be more than forty, but Taylor wasn’t very good with ages. Ricard crossed the room and held out her hand. Taylor shook it, then followed when the doctor gestured, leading the way into her inner sanctum. The room was filled with sunlight—facing east, the early morning sun spilled through the windows, lending an air of good cheer to the surroundings. Two heavy couches faced one another across a second art deco glass coffee table; a large wing chair covered in black velvet bore the markings of frequent use. Sure enough, Ricard crossed the room, curled like a cat with her feet tucked under her, laid the notepad and pen on the coffee table and indicated Taylor should sit with a nod of her head. Taylor did, amazed at the control the woman exuded without even speaking. After a moment, the doctor spoke, her accented voice making Taylor feel like she was on a museum tour in Great Britain. ~ J T Ellison,

62:I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow turmeric nuggets, because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce one's arrival to God, because of the while of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of sunlight, because of the fragrance of incense, because of flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously signified, the same word - faith. I became loyal to these sense impressions even before I knew what they meant or what they were for. It is my heart that commands me so. I feel at home in a Hindu temple. I am aware of Presence, not personal the way we usually presence, but something larger. My heart still skips a beat when I catch sight of the murti, of God Residing, in the inner sanctum of the temple. Truly I am in a sacred cosmic womb, a place where everything is born, and it is my sweet luck to behold its living core. My hands naturally come together in reverent worship. ~ Yann Martel,

63:Journalism In Cactus Center
Down here in Cactus Center we ain't much on splittin' hairs;
In the fancy shades of language we are puttin' on no airs,
But we're shy one young reporter--it was strange how it occurred-Who mussed up a brilliant future when he chose jest one wrong word.
He hustled local items for the 'Stockmen's Weekly Star';
He was young and plumb ambitious, and he made friends near and far;
He never knocked nobody, but he allus tried to boost,
And we thought he'd make a wonder on the journalistic roost.
But he wrote, with good intentions, as most every one allows,
'Our townsman, Poker Johnson, has gone South to rustle cows';
He meant to say that Poker was a-roundin' up his brand,
For he did n't know that 'rustle' meant to 'thieve' in Cattle Land.
When Poker Johnson read it he put on an extry gun,
And he came to town a-frothin' with his bronco on the run;
The reporter got a warnin' and he hopped a cowboy's beast
And he started navigatin' for the calm and distant East.
We got old Poker quiet when he'd busted up the press,
And had shot holes in the sanctum and had made the type of mess;
And we'd like a bright reporter who is broke to Western slang-No more such babes shall money with out newspaper she-bang!
~ Arthur Chapman,

64:Not without a slight shudder at the danger, I often perceive how near I had come to admitting into my mind the details of some trivial affair- the news of the street; and I am astonished to observe how willing men are to lumber their minds with such rubbish- to permit idle rumors and incidents of the most insignificant kind to intrude on ground which should be sacred to thought. Shall the mind be a public arena, where the affairs of the street and the gossip of the tea-table chiefly are discussed? Or shall it be a quarter of heaven itself- an hypaethral temple, consecrated to the service of the gods? I find it so difficult to dispose of the few facts which to me are significant, that I hesitate to burden my attention with those which are insignificant, which only a divine mind could illustrate. Such is, for the most part, the news in newspapers and conversation. It is important to preserve the mind's chastity in this respect. Think of admitting the details of a single case of the criminal court into our thoughts, to stalk profanely through their very sanctum sanctorum for an hour, ay, for many hours! to make a very bar-room of the mind's inmost apartment, as if for so long the dust of the street had occupied us- the very street itself, with all its travel, its bustle, and filth, had passed through our thoughts' shrine! Would it not be an intellectual and moral suicide? ~ Henry David Thoreau,

65:I’ll tell you what I wished for if you give me a kiss.”
I turned to face him. “Even if I did, you might lie. There’s no way to prove that you wished for what you said you did.”
He smiled. “Clever as ever.”
“Or unwilling to kiss you.”
“Another lie,” he said, grinning.
Amar reached into the air and a handful of lights danced on his palms. “Kiss me and you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
He leaned forward, the small lights illuminating his face. In the light, he looked honey drenched. But I wasn’t going to give him a victory so easily. I quickly pecked his cheek and stepped back. Amar was still tipped toward me, his eyes a little wide before he started laughing.
“Foolish optimism.”
I ignored him. “And those wishes?”
“See for yourself,” he said, opening his palm.
There was nothing in his hands. Around us, a third of the lights had disappeared. I stared into the dark, waiting for them to flare into being. But they were gone.
“Once a wish comes true, it disappears for good.”
“That’s what you wished for?” I asked, incredulous. “A peck on the cheek?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“This,” said Amar, gesturing to the space between us, “the chance to be this close to you.”
We looked at one another in silence. There was something new between us. Fragile and thrumming. I didn’t know what to do. Nothing I had learned in Bharata’s sanctum had taught me this. Nothing I had seen in the harem came close to what I felt. There was an undercurrent of depth, of something hard-won and dangerous. I couldn’t treat it with lightness…and I didn’t want to. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

66:Then there was the time when he picked up a two-by-four on the side of the road and put it in the front seat by me and stuck it out the window. He told me to hold it, which I did, but when the wind hit the board, it turned around and hit me in the head and knocked me out. Another time, when a friend of Daddy’s bought a brand-new Buick, Daddy pressed the push-button window up on my neck. But that time I think it was just a matter of him not being familiar with the equipment. The main thing Momma bases her theory on is once Daddy, who is very artistic, wanted to make a life mask of my face. He put plaster of paris on me but forgot the breathing holes. On top of that he also forgot to put Vaseline on my face. He had to crack the plaster off with a hammer. Momma didn’t speak to him for a week on that one. I myself was sorry that it didn’t turn out. She also says he is going to ruin my nervous system because of the time he sneaked up on me when I was listening to Inner Sanctum on the radio. Just as the squeaking door opened, he grabbed me and yelled, “Got ya,” real loud, which caused me to faint. She also didn’t like him telling me Santa Claus had been killed in a bus accident and making me throw up. The Pettibones have very delicate nervous systems. That’s true. Momma is nervous all the time. She’s worn a hole in the floor on the passenger’s side of Daddy’s car from putting on the brakes. Momma always looks like she is on the verge of a hissy fit, but that’s mainly because when she was eighteen, she stuck her head in a gas oven looking at some biscuits and blew her eyebrows off. So she paints them on like little half-moons. People love to talk to her because she always looks interested, even if she isn’t. ~ Fannie Flagg,

67:Someone who doesn’t know. There are lots of people who don’t, in other countries.”
“If they come here, you’d think they’d learn,” she said. “It’s stupid to go somewhere and wander around offending their gods and people.”
“He was Roman,” I said.
Dion snorted. “Which means he didn’t care.” We looked at him, and he went on. “That’s what my father says. He says the Romans don’t care anything for the customs of other people, and that they don’t even want other people to worship their own gods. That the worst thing that can happen to a people is to come under Roman rule.”
“Why would you care who your subjects worship?” Cleopatra said practically. “As long as they pay their taxes and don’t rebel? I mean, most people worship Isis and Serapis at least some, but if they don’t it’s not like there’s anything bad that happens to them.”
“Like the Jews,” I said, thinking of the most prominent group that didn’t worship Isis and Serapis. Jews had been in Alexandria forever, but there never had been any kind of problem with them.
Dion nodded. He looked very serious. “Since Rome annexed Judea four years ago, lots and lots more Jews have come to Alexandria. Haven’t you noticed?”
I hadn’t, but didn’t say so. I didn’t know a huge amount about Judea, truth to tell, though of course I knew about Queen Salome, who had only died seven years before and had been the most powerful queen in generations. Since her death, her country had fallen into all kinds of disarray.
“The Roman Pompeius Magnus even went into the Temple, into the Holy of Holies,” Dion said. “It was his way of showing that he could do whatever he wanted.”
That was serious, I thought. Almost all temples had an inner sanctum, where no one but priests were allowed. It was horribly blasphemous for anyone else to go in, and it certainly would never have occurred to Auletes to do it, even in the temples of our own gods. And it’s always a bad idea to offend other people’s gods. You never knew what might happen.
Cleopatra must have been thinking the same thing. “What happened?” she asked.
Dion shrugged. “Jews hate Pompeius. And lots and lots have come to Alexandria since then, bringing their money and their crafts.”
“And so their economy is hurt and ours benefits, ~ Jo Graham,

68:Unofficial
ONE morning, my heart can remember,
I sat dreaming there,
In the 'governor's' chair
In the office. The month was November,
And the weather a subject for prayer.
My mind strayed through visions unbounded-Far-off seemed the din
That King William Street's in,
And the quill of the 'junior' sounded
Like the squeak of an elf's violin.
I was roused with a start--some one entered.
Though ground-glass divide
Off the sanctum inside,
The star where my homage was centred
In the office without I descried.
'Oh, kind Fate, to bring me my Kitty!
The boy I can send
At the bank to attend:
One partner's just gone from the City,
And the other is at the West End.
'Change two pounds, boy, for threepenny pieces!
And there isn't a franc
In the place!--I will thank
You to take down these coupons from Creasy's
To the London and Westminster Bank.'
He is gone! This can never be Kitty,
Alone here with me!
Can this ever be she,
Laughing here in the heart of the City,
454
With the old office cat on her knee?
'I hope, Ben,' she says, 'you are stronger,
And I hope it's not true
Work is injuring you;
And I'd better not stay any longer,
As you seem to have so much to do!'
But she does not go yet. Still she lingers,
Dry deed-boxes press
The crisp folds of her dress,
While the desk feels inquisitive fingers
In a touch that is half a caress.
Now, dreary and quiet the place is;
Here's the space on the floor
I remember of yore,
Which was brushed by her ribbons and laces
As she smiled her 'good-bye' at the door.
The violets she wore in her bosom,
So scented, dew-wet,
Are hard to forget;
The dim office grew fair with each blossom,
And their fragrance seems haunting it yet.
I'm in partnership now with old Bradley;
His brother is dead,
So I stand as the Head
Of affairs; and I'm thinking thus sadly
Of the sweetness of days that have fled.
My Wimbledon house--all that's in it-My life, with its dower
Of money-bag power-I would throw to the dogs in a minute,
455
To recall from those days but one hour.
Lost light of my eyes, little Kitty!
Too late now, too late;
But I'd give my estate
To be once more a clerk in the City-In the office with you tête-à-tête.
~ Edith Nesbit,

69:Worthy The Name Of Sir Knight
Sir Knight of the world's oldest order,
Sir Knight of the Army of God,
You have crossed the strange mystical border,
The ground floor of truth you have trod;
You have entered the sanctum sanctorum,
Which leads to the temple above,
Where you come as a stone, and a Christ-chosen one,
In the kingdom of Friendship and Love.
II
As you stand in this new realm of beauty,
Where each man you meet is your friend,
Think not that your promise of duty
In hall, or asylum, shall end;
Outside, in the great world of pleasure,
Beyond, in the clamor of trade,
In the battle of life and its coarse daily strife
Remember the vows you have made.
III
Your service, majestic and solemn,
Your symbols, suggestive and sweet,
Your uniformed phalanx in column
On gala days marching the street;
Your sword and your plume and your helmet,
Your 'secrets' hid from the world's sight;
These things are the small, lesser parts of the all
Which are needed to form the true Knight.
IV
The martyrs who perished rejoicing
In Templary's glorious laws,
Who died 'midst the fagots while voicing
The glory and worth of their cause-
935
They honored the title of 'Templar'
No more than the Knight of to-day
Who mars not the name with one blemish of shame,
But carries it clean through life's fray.
To live for a cause, to endeavor
To make your deeds grace it, to try
And uphold its precepts forever,
Is harder by far than to die.
For the battle of life is unending,
The enemy, Self, never tires,
And the true Knight must slay that sly foe every day
Ere he reaches the heights he desires.
VI
Sir Knight, have you pondered the meaning
Of all you have heard and been told?
Have you strengthened your heart for its weaning
From vices and faults loved of old?
Will you honor, in hours of temptation,
Your promises noble and grand?
Will your spirit be strong to do battle with wrong,
'And having done all, to stand?'
VII
Will you ever be true to a brother
In actions as well as in creed?
Will you stand by his side as no other
Could stand in the hour of his need?
Will you boldly defend him from peril,
And lift him from poverty's curseWill the promise of aid which you willingly made,
Reach down from your lips to your purse?
VIII
The world's battle field is before you!
Let Wisdom walk close by your side,
936
Let Faith spread her snowy wings o'er you,
Let Truth be your comrade and guide;
Let Fortitude, Justice and Mercy
Direct all your conduct aright,
And let each word and act tell to men the proud fact,
You are worthy the name of 'Sir Knight'.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

70:Worthy The Name Of Sir Knight
Sir Knight of the world's oldest order,
Sir Knight of the Army of God,
You have crossed the strange mystical border,
The ground floor of truth you have trod;
You have entered the sanctum sanctorum,
Which leads to the temple above,
Where you come as a stone, and a Christ-chosen one,
In the kingdom of Friendship and Love.
II
As you stand in this new realm of beauty,
Where each man you meet is your friend,
Think not that your promise of duty
In hall, or asylum, shall end;
Outside, in the great world of pleasure,
Beyond, in the clamor of trade,
In the battle of life and its coarse daily strife
Remember the vows you have made.
III
Your service, majestic and solemn,
Your symbols, suggestive and sweet,
Your uniformed phalanx in column
On gala days marching the street;
Your sword and your plume and your helmet,
Your 'secrets' hid from the world's sight;
These things are the small, lesser parts of the all
Which are needed to form the true Knight.
IV
The martyrs who perished rejoicing
In Templary's glorious laws,
Who died 'midst the fagots while voicing
The glory and worth of their cause-
935
They honored the title of 'Templar'
No more than the Knight of to-day
Who mars not the name with one blemish of shame,
But carries it clean through life's fray.
To live for a cause, to endeavor
To make your deeds grace it, to try
And uphold its precepts forever,
Is harder by far than to die.
For the battle of life is unending,
The enemy, Self, never tires,
And the true Knight must slay that sly foe every day
Ere he reaches the heights he desires.
VI
Sir Knight, have you pondered the meaning
Of all you have heard and been told?
Have you strengthened your heart for its weaning
From vices and faults loved of old?
Will you honor, in hours of temptation,
Your promises noble and grand?
Will your spirit be strong to do battle with wrong,
'And having done all, to stand?'
VII
Will you ever be true to a brother
In actions as well as in creed?
Will you stand by his side as no other
Could stand in the hour of his need?
Will you boldly defend him from peril,
And lift him from poverty's curseWill the promise of aid which you willingly made,
Reach down from your lips to your purse?
VIII
The world's battle field is before you!
Let Wisdom walk close by your side,
936
Let Faith spread her snowy wings o'er you,
Let Truth be your comrade and guide;
Let Fortitude, Justice and Mercy
Direct all your conduct aright,
And let each word and act tell to men the proud fact,
You are worthy the name of 'Sir Knight'.
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

71:Bannon thrived on the chaos he created and did everything he could to make it spread. When he finally made his way through the crowd to the back of the town house, he put on a headset to join the broadcast of the Breitbart radio show already in progress. It was his way of bringing tens of thousands of listeners into the inner sanctum of the “Breitbart Embassy,” as the town house was ironically known, and thereby conscripting them into a larger project. Bannon was inordinately proud of the movement he saw growing around him, boasting constantly of its egalitarian nature. What to an outsider could look like a cast of extras from the Island of Misfit Toys was, in Bannon’s eyes, a proudly populist and “unclubbable” plebiscite rising up in defiant protest against the “globalists” and “gatekeepers” who had taken control of both parties. Just how Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty figured into a plan to overthrow the global power structure wasn’t clear, even to many of Bannon’s friends. But, then, Bannon derived a visceral thrill anytime he could deliver a fuck-you to the establishment. The thousands of frustrated listeners calling in to his radio show, and the millions more who flocked to Breitbart News, had left him no doubt that an army of the angry and dispossessed was eager to join him in lobbing a bomb at the country’s leaders. As guests left the party, a doorman handed out a gift that Bannon had chosen for the occasion: a silver hip flask with “Breitbart” imprinted above an image of a honey badger, the Breitbart mascot. — Bannon’s cult-leader magnetism was a powerful draw for oddballs and freaks, and the attraction ran both ways. As he moved further from the cosmopolitan orbits of Goldman Sachs and Hollywood, there was no longer any need for him to suppress his right-wing impulses. Giving full vent to his views on subjects like immigration and Islam isolated him among a radical fringe that most of political Washington regarded as teeming with racist conspiracy theorists. But far from being bothered, Bannon welcomed their disdain, taking it as proof of his authentic conviction. It fed his grandiose sense of purpose to imagine that he was amassing an army of ragged, pitchfork-wielding outsiders to storm the barricades and, in Andrew Breitbart’s favorite formulation, “take back the country.” If Bannon was bothered by the incendiary views held by some of those lining up with him, he didn’t show it. His habit always was to welcome all comers. To all outward appearances, Bannon, wild-eyed and scruffy, a Falstaff in flip-flops, was someone whom the political world could safely ignore. But his appearance, and the company he kept, masked an analytic capability that was undiminished and as applicable to politics as it had been to the finances of corrupt Hollywood movie studios. Somehow, Bannon, who would happily fall into league with the most agitated conservative zealot, was able to see clearly that conservatives had failed to stop Bill Clinton in the 1990s because they had indulged this very zealotry to a point where their credibility with the media and mainstream voters was shot. Trapped in their own bubble, speaking only to one another, they had believed that they were winning, when in reality they had already lost. ~ Joshua Green,

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