So this was how secrets got started, I thought to myself. People constructed them little by little. I had not intended to keep May Kasahara a secret from Kumiko. My relationship with her was not that big a deal, finally: whether I mentioned it or not was of no consequence. Once it had flown down a certain delicate channel, however, it had become cloaked in the opacity of secretiveness, whatever my original "intention" had have been.
I was very aware of the legend, from such an early age. Being a Brit, you are so aware of King Arthur, Camelot, Guinevere and Morgan, the witch. Merlin is this mad magician who's cloaked in mystery. It has that mystery about it. And, it's a lead role for a woman that's strong and has a real journey to take.
There is no doubt that constitutional freedoms will never be abolished in one fell swoop, for the American people cherish their freedoms, and would not tolerate such a loss if they could perceive it. But the erosion of freedom rarely comes as an all-out frontal assault but rather as a gradual, noxious creeping, cloaked in secrecy, and glossed over by reassurances of greater security.
Amie blinked through the haze of her thoughts and the constant drum of the rains. A golden light swung back and forth in the distance like a pendulum and every second drew closer. Finally, Amie could tell it wasn't a faerie light but a lantern, carried by a small green-cloaked person.
To bring the worst of the worst terrorists inside the United States would be cause for great danger... It is recklessness cloaked in righteousness and would make the American people less safe... The terrorists see just what they were hoping for: our unity gone, our resolve shaken, our leaders distracted. In short, they see weakness and opportunity.
Isn't that someone we know?" asked Horace. He pointed to where a cloaked figure sat by the side of the road a few hundred meters away, arms wrapped around his knees. Close by him, a small shaggy horse cropped the grass growing at the edge of the drainage ditch that ran beside the road. "So it is," Halt replied. "And he seems to have brought Will with him.
Isn't that someone we know?" asked Horace. He pointed to where a cloaked figure sat by the side of the road a few hundred meters away, arms wrapped around his knees. Close by him, a small shaggy horse cropped the grass growing at the edge of the drainage ditch that ran beside the road. "So it is, " Halt replied. "And he seems to have brought Will with him.
What you seem so unwilling to accept, even now, is this: that the ideals which supported the old Republic had no correspondence to the fact of the old Republic; that the glorious word concealed the deed of horror; that the appearance of tradition and order cloaked the reality of corruption and chaos; that the call to liberty and freedom closed the minds, even of those who called, to the facts of privation, suppression, and sanctioned murder.
But one thing is certain: the commandments have not changed. Let there be no mistake about that. Right is still right. Wrong is still wrong, no matter how cleverly cloaked in respectability or political correctness. We believe in chastity before marriage and fidelity ever after. That standard is an absolute standard of truth. It is neither subject to public opinion polls nor dependent upon situation or circumstance. There is no need to debate it or other gospel standards.
M. Russell Ballard
The divide of race has been America's constant curse. Each new wave of immigrants gives new targets to old prejudices. Prejudice and contempt, cloaked in the pretense of religious or political conviction, are no different. They have nearly destroyed us in the past. They plague us still. They fuel the fanaticism of terror. They torment the lives of millions in fractured nations around the world. These obsessions cripple both those who are hated and, of course, those who hate, robbing both of what they might become.
William J. Clinton
With industry's sales and marketing machines cloaked in mantles of charitable virtue, no wonder most Americans don't realize that the junk that passes for food is in fact the biggest contributor to our health crisis, and the junk that passes for medicine keeps us just well enough to continue to spend on both the food and the medicine.
T. Colin Campbell
Throughout the twentieth century and into the beginning of the twenty-first, the United States repeatedly used its military power, and that of its clandestine services, to overthrow governments that refused to protect American interests. Each time, it cloaked its intervention in the rhetoric of national security and liberation. In most cases, however, it acted mainly for economic reasons-specifically to establish, promote and defend the right of Americans to do business around the world without interference.
Whatever experimental film aromas cloaked my movies were because I'm a gleefully clumsy, primitive filmmaker. I really like traditional pleasingly narrative films, but I also just couldn't resist throwing in the disruptive. It seems to me that art-house film is at its glorious zenith right now, maybe it can even get better? There's just so many good films, you know Cemetery Of Splendour, Arabian Nights, Miguel Gomes, just so much great work coming out.
I've always wished that spring would come... because I was so afraid of the cold world, cloaked in white. It did nothing but make me curl myself into a ball. I had always kept myself curled up, but never once really tried to take a good look at winter... The softness of the snowflakes that fall without a sound, the beautiful forests that are as splendid as a white flower in bloom, and if you have that special person to share it all with... that white world can be utterly beautiful.
The Obama administration's agenda of maximizing dependency involves political favoritism cloaked in the raiment of "economic planning" and "social justice" that somehow produce results superior to what markets produce when freedom allows merit to manifest itself, and incompetence to fail. The administration's central activity - the political allocation of wealth and opportunity - is not merely susceptible to corruption, it is corruption.
Secret ceremonies in which malevolent men and women cloaked in hooded robes, hiding behind painted faces and chanting demonic incantations while inflicting sadistic wounds on innocent children lying on makeshift alters, or tied to inverted crosses, sounds like the stuff of which B-grade horror movies are made. Some think amoral religious cults only populate the world of Rosemary's Baby, but don't exist in real life. Or, do they? Ask Jenny Hill.
Book burning is a charming old custom, hallowed by antiquity. It has been practiced for centuries by fascists, communists, atheists, school children, rival authors, and tired librarians. Like everything of importance since the invention of the cloak and the shroud, its origins are cloaked in mystery and shrouded in secrecy. Some scholars believe that the first instance of book burning occurred in the Middle Ages, when a monk was trying to illuminate a manuscript. All agree that book burning was almost non-existent during the period when books were made of stone.
One accurate way to describe abortion is subtle infanticide. That is: child-killing done in a way that the people don't recognize it as child-killing. That reality is why the word abortion exists. Some words are created to cloak reality the same way procedures are created to cloak reality. "Abortion" is cloaked child-killing
Snow crunched under the feet of three cloaked figures - a queen, her lady, and a gravedigger - as they hurried along a moonlit path in Windsor Castle's lower ward. The gravedigger pushed a cart that held a slab of marble, his pick and shovel, and some straw. When the trio reached the steps of St. George's Chapel, Queen Mary stopped. She turned her head, pushing aside the fur of her hood, and a gust of wind needled her with crystallized snow. She looked back at her attendants. Was she wrong to trust them with this night's work?
I believe in movement. I believe in that lighthearted balloon, the world. I believe in midnight and the hour of noon. But what else do I believe in? Sometimes everything. Sometimes nothing. It fluctuates like light flitting over a pond. I believe in life, which one day each of us shall lose. When we are young we think we won't, that we are different. As a child I thought I would never grow up, that I could will it so. And then I realized, quite recently, that I had crossed some line, unconsciously cloaked in the truth of my chronology. How did we get so damn old? I say to my joints, my iron-colored hair. Now I am older than my love, my departed friends. Perhaps I will live so long that the New York Public Library will be obliged to hand over the walking stick of Virginia Woolf. I would cherish it for her, and the stones in her pocket. But I would also keep on living, refusing to surrender my pen.
If Under fell, if Over leaped, If death was life and Death life reaped, Something rises from the gloom, To make the Underland a tomb Hear it scratching down below, Rat of long forgotten snow, Evil cloaked in coat of White, Will the Warrior drain your light? What could turn the Warrior week? What do burning Gnawers seek? Just a barely speaking pup That holds the Land of Under up Die the baby, die his heart Die his most essential part Die the peace that rules the hour, Gnawers have their key to power
I think Mr Kosta had first-hand knowledge of ancient times because he looked like he was raised from the crypt. He was cadaverous. Painfully thin, he had sunken cheeks in a narrow, ashen face, greyish teeth, and his hands were gnarled and shook a lot. But he was a mine of information and probably one of the best teachers I've ever had because he made the subject interesting. And although history in general wasn't my favourite course, I devoured the classic tales. They fascinated me. Maybe it was because my existence felt like a Greek tragedy. But as Mr Kosta told us, our lives were just ancient myths cloaked in the modern attire of defences and pretences (the ancients didn't give a crap what the neighbours thought).
In the mid-path of my life, I woke to find myself in a dark wood, ' writes Dante, in The Divine Comedy, beginning a quest that will lead to transformation and redemption. A journey through the dark of the woods is a motif common to fairy tales: young heroes set off through the perilous forest in order to reach their destiny, or they find themselves abandoned there, cast off and left for dead. The road is long and treacherous, prowled by wolves, ghosts, and wizards - but helpers also appear along the way, good fairies and animal guides, often cloaked in unlikely disguises. The hero's task is to tell friend from foe, and to keep walking steadily onward.
It is always worth asking questions, especially in regards to the ingenuity of local marketers around the world. From uncovering the truth cloaked by sly names of regional specialties such as 'Rocky Mountain oysters, ' to the inadvertent discovery that the innocuous little cubes of 'fruit de mer' or 'fruit of the sea, ' a salt-cured flavoring in popular West African Atlantic Ocean coastal cuisine are actually nothing of the sort, but from the flesh of giant land snails. Even the chef who'd used these cubes for years without a second thought was appalled, especially when the un-cured version of 'fruit de mer' had been busy making the most of a bad situation by eating an escape path through the rest of the fresh ingredients before sliming across the counter and up the wall.
I've been actively engaged with mythic imagery ever since I picked up that Rackham book, but it really came into focus for me when I moved from London to the country. As I walked the extraordinary landscape of Dartmoor, I looked at the trees and the rocks and the hills and I could see the personality in those forms... then they metamorphosed under my pencil into faeries, goblins and trolls. After Alan and I published "Faeries", he moved on from the subject of faery folklore to illustrate Tolkien and other literary works... while I discovered that my own exploration of Faerieland had only just begun. In the countryside, the old stories seemed to come alive around me; the faeries were a tangible aspect of the landscape, pulses of spirit, emotion, and light. They "insisted" on taking form under my pencil, emerging on the page before me cloaked in archetypal shapes drawn from nature and myth. I'd attracted their attention, you see, and they hadn't finished with me yet.
People who have recently lost someone have a certain look, recognizable maybe only to those who have seen that look on their own faces. I have noticed it on my face and I notice it now on others. The look is one of extreme vulnerability, nakedness, openness. It is the look of someone who walks from the ophthalmologist's office into the bright daylight with dilated eyes, or of someone who wears glasses and is suddenly made to take them off. These people who have lost someone look naked because they think themselves invisible. I myself felt invisible for a period of time, incorporeal. I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. I understood for the first time the power in the image of the rivers, the Styx, the Lethe, the cloaked ferryman with his pole. I understood for the first time the meaning in the practice of suttee. Widows did not throw themselves on the burning raft out of grief. The burning raft was instead an accurate representation of the place to which their grief (not their families, not the community, not custom, their grief) had taken them.
My pastor, Pete Wilson, gave a message on prayer, specifically citing this idea many of us have that prayer is a kind of transaction. beside him on the platform, an object the size of a refrigerator stood cloaked beneath a black cover. He said, 'most of us have reduced prayer down to a transaction. A way to manipulate what we want. A vending machine.' At that point, he yanked off the cover revealing a large vending machine, loaded with all kinds of snacks. He inserted some coins and pushed the button for peanut MandMs (smart man, my pastor). Nothing happened. He hit the machine a couple of times, tried to rock it. Nothing. He continued. 'Most of the time when we go to God, it's because we want something. If we get what we want, we turn and walk off, satisfied. If we don't get what we want, we get frustrated; we kick the machine and blame God for not answering our request.' This 'transaction' view of prayer will always disappoint us because at the root of it, we think it's all about us. but prayer is so much more than giving God a list of our wants and needs or, in some cases, our demands. Prayer is communication. It's talking and listening.
I am a child of the everlasting King. I am forgiven. I am a warrior. I am cloaked in righteous armor. I was made for adventure. I was built for battle. I am part of a larger story. My true and lasting affirmation comes only from my King. I am unique above all creation-planned and perfect in design. I have been created for a glorious destiny. All my ways are established by you, my King, and I walk in them. My life and actions are real, authentic, and without compromise. I am quickened and made alive through the power of your Spirit. My whole life is before me. I am a shining gift from God to this lost world. I know my name, I understand my calling, and I am worthy to walk in it. I am strong, brave, and courageous in the face of my enemies. Whatever is good, whatever is pure, whatever is true, dwell on these things. My sins are scattered as far as the east is from the west. I am a good husband to my wife. I am a good father to my daughters. The past is over, and the future glimmers with radiant light. I will look to the new day, the dawning of hope. I will step forward with the truth before me and will no longer look on the day that is gone. The past is over; the future has begun.
James L. Rubart
Where are you taking me?' Andrew demanded, whirling on the Ferryman. His muscles tensed, hands curling in and out of fists. 'To my master.' The voice was ghostly, whispers of black ash and death, words cold and detached. He had an idea who that was but asked anyway: 'And who is your master?' No answer came. Andrew's insatiable rage rose up and swallowed his grief like a yawning ocean mouth, the darkest depths surging to the surface to form a mighty tidal wave. He closed the distance and seized the Ferryman's gaunt wrist. There was no substance, no life beneath the cloak. The Ferryman slowly turned his hooded head, and Andrew found himself looking into the black hole of a self-contained night. The olfactory of decay was a punch in the face. Andrew released the Ferryman's wrist and hastily stepped back, rocking the boat as he put distance between him and the unnatural wind spilling from the gaping orifice. Andrew shivered, the tiny hairs on his neck saluting. The cloaked head faced forward again, and the wind died away.
Marvel comes quickly, cloaked in the mundane. It's the woman waking to the smell of smoke as fire spreads, miles away, through her brother's house. It's the sharp flash of recognition as a young man glimpses, in the ordinary hubbub, the stranger with whom he will share his life. It's a mother's dream of her baby, blue in the cold store, six months before he comes, stillborn, into the world. Even the Church Fathers admitted the category of marvelous- or mirabilis, as they knew it. For them it was an irksome classification. A grey area. Compare the marvel with it's less troublesome metaphysical kin. In the thirteenth century, the miracle reflected the steady-handed authorship of the divine- truth made manifest. Similarly magic, or magicus, demonstrated with tell-tale showmanship the desperate guile of the devil. The marvel, however, was of poor performance and tended, therefore, towards ambiguity. It took shape in the merely mortal sphere. It seemed to lack the requisite supernatural chutzpah. Here, the clergy were typically surplus to requirements. Yet, if less outwardly compelling, the marvel was also less easily contained than either the miraculous or the magical. It remained more elusive. More stubborn. And if finally reducible in time, with the erosions of memory, to rationalization, anecdote, drinking tale or woman's lore, the marvel also rarely failed to leave behind a certain residual uncertainty. A discomfiting sense of possibility. Or, on bolder occasions, an appetite for wonder.
KILLAZ REFLECT THE DESTINY OF THE VILLAGE SO WHEN 20 COUNT REGRETS FLOAT DOWN FUTILITY SPILLAGE SEE I'LL PASS THE BROKEN ARROW THIS TIME FOR CERTAIN YEA BUT FROM HERE ON OUT ITS HOOF THE MARE THE BARE FOOTED URCHIN DIG IT IN PERSON NOW EXHIBIT TRUE AUDACITY AND PASSIVELY HACK GREASE INTO RIBBONS YOUR EXCUSED FROM THE ROUNDTABLE ADMISSIONS COMMITTEE ACTIVIST LEGENDS TURNED HOSTAGE IN FALLEN CITIES DIRTY EARTHLINGS CIRCLING VISION IMMACULATE SPIN ME DIZZY IN A CROSSWALK MY TOO FAR GONE MASTODON SENSES INSPECT RELENTLESS FOR FITTED BOOGIE SYSTEMS AND CROOK ADDICTIONS WELL SURE MY CROWN IS FORMED OF THORNS YEA BUT MY THORNS ARE FORMED OF SOUND AND I HAVE FOUND SOUND WILL KEEP ME WARM WHEN THE MORNINGS BORN WITH FROZEN GROUND PUT A ROPE DOWN PULL ME FROM WHERE THE BUZZARDS CLEARED I MEAN FROM THE BONES YOU AND YOUR LITTLE BADASS MAD MAX MUSKETEERS WHEN THE SILHOETTES OF EMACIATED FRAMES DANCE ON A HIGHWIRE MISTOOK FOR ASPIRING THIRD WORLD POSTER CHILDREN BUT IS INSERTED GHOST WITH DEALIN DEAD TO ADMINISTER LINKS LIKE CHIEF THEN WHATS YOUR FORTE DEVIL DRAGGER IN DISGUISE SEEKING THE MATCH MADE IN YOUR EYES FRIEND IT DON'T TAKE THE WISE THIS MINUTE TRIPLICATE PACE UNIFIED I DON'T CONDONE THE BLASPHEMY NATURALLY ITS PROCREATION FROM THE FLOODS, TO THE FIRES, TO THE DROUGHTS, TO THE CYCLONES TIDAL WAVES, THE TWISTERS, TORNADOES, AND HELL STONES WHIRLWINDS, TROPICAL STORMS, BLIZZARDS AND MONSOONS ALL OF WHICH I WITNESSED PRIOR TO WAKING UP INSIDE MY ROOM LOOK AT THE CROOK AS I PANIC EPISODE TANTRUMS FUCK HUGGING MY COOL THE EDGINESS READIES THE MOCK KNOCK QUICK DRAW HENCE THE DUEL THE COMPANY OF SIMILARS COULDN'T EXCITE THE MOTOR BUT HERMIT CRAB ACE HOME ALONE-UH ONE BARREL OF IDIOMS AND CHARCOAL STICK, COURAGE UNDER DESIRE CANOPY DRAPED BEAUTIFUL MESSIAH RELUCTANT STUCK IN THE PLUCK IN THE HAUL BUZZING THE FUZZING TELEVISON MIXER BOOK OF SATURATED MATCHES AND A HALF-MADE BED PICK OF THE LITTER, LITTER OF THE PICK PACK LEADER WILL HUFF CANNIBAL FUMES, MECHANICAL ZOOM THERE'S AMPLE ROOM STOWAWAYS INSIDE THE CARGO BED SAID LEECH PRIOR TO FIRING UP HIS BARNACLE MAGNET INSTINCTS LEASHING HIMSELF TO WHERE THE WIND SPLITTING ICE STORMS AND TERMITE SWARMS ARE COMMONPLACE I'M A TRACE THIS SILVER LINING WINDING ROUND THE PROFIT CHASE I KNOW THERE IS GOOD IN YOU IF ONE PEELS BACK THE OPULENCE BUT I ALSO KNOW ITS RATIO THE BAD DON'T FEED MY CONFIDENCE THE NUTRIENTS WILL BE INTENSE CIRCLE THE CLUES UNITS OF SUCCESS BEING PERSONAL THEN SUCKED BASIC DIVERSION RUSTY ANCHOR BUDGET FOR NOTHING WEDGED BETWEEN AESOP ROCK AND A SCARRED FACE OF FRUSTRATED FUCK YOUS BOUND BY CONCERN I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M STILL CONCERNED I CAN'T BELIEVE SIDE CHILDREN TURN IN THEIR SLEEP OVER ONE-LINERS WELL I YIELD TO HEAR YOUR BURNS COLOR ME OUT OF MY SKULL DRAGGIN A WAGON OF CREATURE FEATURES AND ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO AGGRAVATE THE SLEEPERS LOOK SELF-CRAFTED HEROICS MURDER WORTHLESS CRASH TEST IDEOLOGIES, CATALOG ALIEN DOCTRINES TYPE DISTURBANCE GOT EM OUT, KILLING MACHINES TURN BELLY UP BUCKLED, THE TROUBLES I'VE SEEN COAX TWENTY FOUR SEVENS OF WIDE EYES FROM DAY DREAMERS CLEAN OR DIRTY SERPENTS IN TURN WISH PREFERENCE FOR THE LATTER JUSTIFIED THE GERMS BURN CAUTERIZE THE GASHES AFTER ON MY LEFT, ONE FINGER FOR EACH BURROUGH I CAN TOUCH ON MY RIGHT, ONE FINGER FOR EACH TIME THAT I WAKE UP MIDSUMMER NIGHT WHO'S CLOAKED IN A PRISTINE MANTLE OF HELLFIRE BUT A-CAPITAL GLACIERS OUT THE EAST SLIDE LATERAL BORN FOR ONE TASK INDEED TO SPOIL THE CITIZEN KANE EMOTE SELF THIS UGLY DUCKLING SEED LOOK I AINT TOO ATTIRED OF DRAGGIN THE BAGGAGE OVER THE SEASAW SEEDS WHEN THE REAPERS TURNS MORTALS TO CASPERS SEE THE PLAIN AND STONE CONJURABLE CAN'T MIMMICK THE NULL OF A BILLION TROOPS HOLDING MATCHSTICKS TO EMPTY CANNONS STAND OF A MANY MOONS WHEN THE SUN HIT THE MOUNTAINSIDE SPLENDIDLY BASK IN THE LAST WARMTH THAT BE KNOWN TO MAN'S TANGENTS IN THE WINK OF AN INNOCENT STARCHILD'S EYELID DROP HE VANISHED MANAGED TO CARVE INITIALS IN THE GRANITE WALL THE DAMNED IT ALL UP I HUNG WITH CATS THAT DO THE DONTS CATS THAT FORAGE THROUGH THE MOATS HOPING THEY OPEN WITH SOVERIEGNTY AND A CANTINE DEEMED WITH PRODIGIES I LOVE THE WAKE, THE WATCH, THE WALK, THE WORK THE WELL ITS ALMOST SIX O'CLOCK I'VE NEVER SEEN SO MANY TUGBOATS MISS THE DOCK