I did not know then what Brother William was seeking, and to tell the truth, I still do not know today, and I presume he himself did not know, moved as he was solely by the desire for truth, and by the suspicion - which I could see he always harbored - that the truth was not what was appearing to him at any given moment.
Death catches everyone eventually, and I had never harbored any illusions about its ability to catch me. That it had hesitated so long to do so seemed born more of a desire to mock me than of any real inclination to wait. Death had tired of that game, and had finally moved in to collect what we all owe.
The human species was too fond of lying, cheating, envy, ignorance, self-pity, self-righteousness, and utopian visions that always led to mass murder-but until and if it destroyed itself, it harbored the potential to become nobler, to take responsibility for its actions, to live and let live, and to earn the stewardship of the earth.
Too often we bask in our comfortable complacency and rationalize that the ravages of war, economic disaster, famine, and earth quake cannot happen here. Those who believe this are either not acquainted with the revelations of the Lord, or they do not believe them. Those who smugly think these calamities will not happen, that they will somehow be set aside because of the righteousness of the Saints, are deceived and will rue the day they harbored such a delusion.
Ezra Taft Benson
There is nothing that dies so hard and rallies so often as intolerance. The vices and passions which it summons to its support are the most ruthless and the most persistent harbored in the human breast. They sometimes sleep but they never seem to die. Anything, any extraordinary situation, any unnecessary controversy, may light those fires again and plant in our republic that which has destroyed every republic which undertook to nurse it.
Whenever anyone harbored ill will toward the beast or said he'd got what he deserved, the spell increased and the evil grew stronger and stronger in the gargoyle. It became more and more difficult for people to forgive-and love-not only the beast, but each other as well. This, too, made the evil increase.
A text is not a text unless it hides from the first comer, from the first glance, the law of its composition and the rules of its game. A text remains, moreover, forever imperceptible. Its laws and rules are not, however, harbored in the inaccessibility of a secret; it is simply that they can never be booked, in the present, into anything that could rigorously be called a perception.
Madness is not what it seems. Time stops. All my life I've been obsessed with time, its motion and velocity, the way it works you over, the way it rushes you onward, a pebble turning in a brook. I've always been obsessed with where I'd go, and what I'd do, and how I would live. I've always harbored a desperate hope that I would make something of myself. Not then. Time stopped seeming so much like the thing that would transform me into something worthwhile and began to be inseparable from death. I spent my time merely waiting.
As we talked, I had the sense of uncovering something precious and long-buried, fully formed. Our conversation was a process of removing layers, some of them easily dusted away. Other layers, requiring chisels or axes, were left alone for now. We revealed as much as we dared about what had happened during the years that separated us. But it wasn't what I had expected, being with Hardy again. There was something in me that remained stubbornly locked away, as if I were afraid to let out the emotion I had harbored for so long.
Slavery was a central concern of governance form the time of the first nation-state. The Code of Hammurabi, the earliest know set of laws for governing an empire, prescribed death for anyone who harbored a fugitive or otherwise helped a slave to escape. The relationship between the law and bondage goes back even farther: Indeed, the oldest extant legal documents don't concern the sale of land, houses, or even animals, but slaves.
But for a long time, and probably far too long, I had a secret wish: the adolescently romantic idea that there was someone out there for me; someone I hadn't met yet who would ask me on a date and make sense of my life. I harbored the hope, I'm now embarrassed to admit, that like a girl in a Lifetime movie, I would look into someone's eyes and find a reflection of my inner life. But sometime between my teenage years and the first years in New York, that idea had pretty well evaporated. I'd grown up.
I had hated these ponies for the part they played in my father's death but now I realized the notion was fanciful, that it was wrong to charge blame to these pretty beasts who knew neither good nor evil but only innocence. I say that of these ponies. I have known some horses and a good many more pigs who I believe harbored evil intent in their hearts. I will go further and say all cats are wicked, though often useful. Who has not seen Satan in their sly faces? Some preachers will say, well, that is superstitious "claptrap." My answer is this: Preacher, go to your Bible and read Luke 8: 26-33
If there is any realm where distinction is especially difficult, it is the realm of childhood memories, the realm of beloved images harbored in memory since childhood. These memories which live by the image and in virtue of the image become, at certain times of our lives and particularly during the quiet age, the origin and matter of a complex reverie: the memory dreams, and reverie remembers.
As for myself: I had come to the conclusion that there was nothing sacred about myself or any human being, that we were all machines, doomed to collide and collide and collide. For want of anything better to do, we became fans of collisions. Sometimes I wrote well about collisions, which meant I was a writing machine in good repair. Sometimes I wrote badly, which meant I was a writing machine in bad repair. I no more harbored sacredness than did a Pontiac, a mousetrap, or a South Bend Lathe.
When now we turn and look five miles above, there on the edge of town are five houses of prostitutes, -two of blacks and three of whites; and in one of the houses of the whites a worthless black boy was harbored too openly two years ago; so he was hanged for rape. And here, too, is the high whitewashed fence of the "stockade, " as the county prison is called; the white folks say it is ever full of black criminals, -the black folks say that only colored boys are sent to jail, and they not because they are guilty, but because the State needs criminals to eke out its income by their forced labor.
W.E.B. Du Bois
Now we the American working population Hate the fact that eight hours a day Is wasted on chasing the dream of someone that isn't us. And we may not hate our jobs, But we hate jobs in general That don't have to do with fighting our own causes. We the American working population Hate the nine-to-five, day-in day-out When we'd rather be supporting ourselves By being paid to perfect the pastimes That we have harbored based solely on the fact That it makes us smile if it sounds dope.
I lay down and started to feel a little depressed about prom. I refused to feel any kind of sadness over the fact that I wasn't going to prom, but I had - stupidly, embarrassingly - thought of finding Margo, and getting her to come home with me just in time for prom, like late on Saturday night, and we'd walk into the Hilton ballroom wearing jeans and ratty T-shirts, and we'd be just in time for the last dance, and we'd dance while everyone pointed at us and marveled at the return of Margo, and then we'd fox-trot the hell out of there and go get ice cream at Friendly's. So yes, like Ben, I harbored ridiculous prom fantasies. But at least I didn't say mine out loud.
I NEED YOU ALL TO BE CLEAR ON EXACTLY WHAT I'M SAYIN WITH YOUR ATTENTION SPAN I UNDERSTAND THAT I AIN'T PLAYIN YOU MISTAKEN IF YOU SOMEHOW THINK IT'S JUST ME YOU FACIN STARIN ME DOWN WHILE YOUR ENEMY IS STANDIN ADJACENT MY HEART IS RACIN BUT I KNOW JUST WHAT I STAND FOR WE CHASIN DEATH CARELESSLY LIKE +JESSICA+, I +CARE MOORE+ WHO SAID, 'JUST BECAUSE NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND HOW YOU SPEAK DON'T NECESSARILY MEAN THAT WHAT YOU BE SAYIN IS DEEP' IN CASE YOU DIE IN YOUR SLEEP YOU ASK THE LORD FOR A BLESSIN SOMETIMES THEY SNEAK UP SO QUIET THAT THE SILENCE IS DEAFENIN YOU'LL NEVER KNOW WHO THE ASSASSIN IS UNTIL IT'S YOUR TIME TO GO YOUR LIFE IS FLASHIN, ASKIN FOR FORGIVENESS BUT YOU MOVE TOO SLOW NOW THE PEOPLE THAT YOU LOVE BEAR THE PAIN THAT YOU ONCE HARBORED YOU WAS LIVIN FOR YOURSELF SO YOU COULD NEVER BE A MARTYR LIFE IS HARD, DEATH IS HARDER; YOU SOMEBODY BABY FATHER SOMEONE'S LOVER, SON OF YOUR MOTHER, SOMEBODY BROTHER SOMEBODY NIGGA, NOW YOUR SPIRIT IN THE AIR LIKE A WHISPER HEARIN YOUR NAME MENTIONED WHEN WE POURIN OUT SOME LIQUOR THE DAYS GO BY QUICKER AND THE NIGHTS DON'T SEEM TO DIFFER IT'S GETTIN COLD, SO I SHIVERED AND ASKED MY SOUL TO BE DELIVERED