First impressions matter more in basketball than in any other sport, and they can be savored only in person. Players can't hide behind pads or helmets, so we can stare at them, evaluate every move they make: running, jumping, walking, even ogling the cheerleaders. We can see every ripple and tattoo. If they're lazy, we can tell.
You savored the luxury of Another day? mingled in a surreal crowd of shineYou walked the dogma in yet another waywillingly surrendered to the bottom line...To tease the victory with its other halfstill happy from yesterday' confident stumble? To challenge reluctance in the pride of laughstill dazzled and sore of being too humble
Lesley Gore's part-time field was pop singer, and in her brief but urgent prime, she was the Queen of Teen Angst. She endured heartbreak as a birthday girl betrayed by her beau in 'It's My Party,' savored revenge in the sequel 'Judy's Turn to Cry' and belted the proto-feminist anthem 'You Don't Own Me.'
I've traveled all over the world for the Institute, but I never dreamed I'd meet someone like you." "Strong?" A chuckle escaped her. "Yes." "Handsome?" "Of course." "Sharp of wit and skilled with a sword?" "Absolutely." An other chuckle. "But I mean a man... friend... guy. Oh, I don't know what to call you!" He savored her amusement""and her earnest words. "Just call me yours. That is all I want to be." (Ashlyn and Maddox)
I've traveled all over the world for the Institute, but I never dreamed I'd meet someone like you." "Strong?" A chuckle escaped her. "Yes." "Handsome?" "Of course." "Sharp of wit and skilled with a sword?" "Absolutely." An other chuckle. "But I mean a man... friend... guy. Oh, I don't know what to call you!" He savored her amusement-and her earnest words. "Just call me yours. That is all I want to be." (Ashlyn and Maddox)
... life isn't a puzzle to be solved. It's an adventure to be savored. Let every challenge be a new mountain to climb, not an obstacle to get in your way and stop you. Yeah, it'll be hard, but once you reach the summit of it, you'll be able to see the world for what it really is. And at the top, it never seems to have been as difficult a feat to climb there as you first made it out to be. Most of all, you'll know that you beat that mountain, and that you rule it. It does not rule you.
Here is Max De Pree at his best, and that is very good indeed. In Leading Without Power, De Pree shows us why we cannot master the how-to-dos of effective leadership without also being clear about what leaders?and followers?must be. In doing so, he not only provides us with much practical wisdom about creative leading and organizational health, he also nurtures our souls. This is a book to be savored by all who care about such things as vision, faithfulness, trust, and hope.
Richard J. Mouw
You live your life like it's a rare treasure to be savored. You take pleasure from the simplest of things and you never take them for granted. I saw the joy on your face and the life in your eyes when you cradled the permits to your chest. I've never seen anything lovelier. I actually thought you would cry just from the joy of touching them. I've been numb all my life, Megeara, but you... you feel on a level that I can't even imagine, and for a little while I wanted to feel that, too. (Arik)
The way we get to live forever is through memories stored in the hearts and souls of those whose lives we touch. That's our soul print. It's our comfort, our emotional nourishment at the end of the day and the end of a life. How wonderful that they are called up at will and savored randomly. It seems to me we should spend our lives in a conscious state of creating these meaningful moments that live on. Memories matter.
There is only one thing about which I shall have no regrets when my life ends. I have savored to the full all the small, daily joys. The bright sunshine on the breakfast table; the smell of the air at dusk; the sound of the clock ticking; the light rains that start gently after midnight; the hour when the family come home; Sunday-evening tea before the fire! I have never missed one moment of beauty, not even taken it for granted. Spring, summer, autumn, or winter. I wish I had failed as little in other ways.
Agnes Sligh Turnbull
What is sin? It is the glory of God not honored. The holiness of God not reverenced. The greatness of God not admired. The power of God not praised. The truth of God not sought. The wisdom of God not esteemed. The beauty of God not treasured. The goodness of God not savored. The faithfulness of God not trusted. The commandments of God not obeyed. The justice of God not respected. The wrath of God not feared. The grace of God not cherished. The presence of God not prized. The person of God not loved. That is sin.
She tasted the day he lost his first job. She tasted the morning he had awakened, still drunk, in his car, in the middle of a cornfield, and, terrified, had sworn off the bottle for ever. She knee his real name. She remembered the name that had once been tattooed on his arm and knew why it could be there no longer. She tasted the color of his eyes from the inside, and shivered at the nightmare he had in which he was forced to carry spiny fish in his mouth, and from which he woke, choking, night after night. She savored the hungers in food and fiction, and discovered a dark sky when he was a small boy and he had stared up at the stars and wondered at their vastness and immensity, that even he had forgotten.
Adin looked up at Donte, who was then in the middle of taking a sip of his wine. He took in Donte's demonically beautiful face, long and angular, with its hooded eyes and high cheekbones, its wine-darkened lips. He watched as Donte savored it, imagining the warmth of the wine on the inside of Donte's mouth and against his tongue. He could almost feel it as it slid down the column of Donte's throat, teasing his Adam's apple into a subtle bob, and suddenly Adin was the wine, slipping down that throat, and just as inexplicably, Adin felt Donte's mouth on him everywhere at once, biting... licking... sucking. Adin's breath sped up; his skin warmed with the beginnings of a flush brought on by arousal.
You should stop by the shop. I'll make you up a special Welcome-To-Marietta chocolate basket for Samara. She'll love it." Of course. He should have thought of it himself. "She's got this salted caramel thing that will earn you major points, " said Dawson. "the ladies love it." "I shouldn't say this in church." Sage looked down, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "But it's been called orgasmic." With that word, for a split second, everyone around him disappeared. Logan imagined putting a tiny square of rich, smooth candy onto Samara's tongue, watching her lips move as she savored it, kissing her, sharing the sweet, silky heat. What sound would she make when the flavor hit the back of her mouth? Would she moan? Would she ask for more? "It's a gift that keeps on giving, " added Dawson, waggling his eyebrows.
His eyes flared, and he tightened his grip on her arm. 'Don't press me, Meg.' She didn't miss the intimate use of her Christian name, but there was no mistaking the threat this time. His voice was deep and liquid and seemed to wrap around her. She knew she shouldn't provoke him, but he brought out a mischievous side of her long forgotten. Lifting one brow, she asked, 'Or what?' Before the taunt had left her mouth, she was in his arms again and jerked firmly against the broad chest she'd just admired. She gasped. Not from shock, but from the realization of how much she liked being pressed against him. Of how she savored the sensation of her breasts and hips molded against the hard length of his body, of melting against him, of being secured in his arms. A wave of heated awareness shuddered through her. His eyes were hooded, his expression dark and full of promise. 'Or I will prove to you just how innocent you are, my sweet, and how very little control you have over a man and a man's desires.
Hitch: making rules about drinking can be the sign of an alcoholic, ' as Martin Amis once teasingly said to me. (Adorno would have savored that, as well.) Of course, watching the clock for the start-time is probably a bad sign, but here are some simple pieces of advice for the young. Don't drink on an empty stomach: the main point of the refreshment is the enhancement of food. Don't drink if you have the blues: it's a junk cure. Drink when you are in a good mood. Cheap booze is a false economy. It's not true that you shouldn't drink alone: these can be the happiest glasses you ever drain. Hangovers are another bad sign, and you should not expect to be believed if you take refuge in saying you can't properly remember last night. (If you really don't remember, that's an even worse sign.) Avoid all narcotics: these make you more boring rather than less and are not designed-as are the grape and the grain-to enliven company. Be careful about up-grading too far to single malt Scotch: when you are voyaging in rough countries it won't be easily available. Never even think about driving a car if you have taken a drop. It's much worse to see a woman drunk than a man: I don't know quite why this is true but it just is. Don't ever be responsible for it.
A near half hour passed as Salvatore weaved his way through the winding tunnel, his steps slowing as he tilted back his head to sniff the air. The scent of cur was still strong, but he was beginning to pick up the distant scent of other curs, and... pure-blood. Female pureblood. Coming to a sharp halt, Salvatore savored the rich vanilla aroma that filled his senses. He loved the smell of women. Hell, he loved women. But this was different. It was intoxicating. 'Cristo, ' he breathed, his blood racing, an odd tightness coiling through his body, slowly draining his strength. Almost as if... No. It wasn't possible. There hadn't been a true Were mating for centuries. 'Curs, ' Levet said, moving to his side. 'And a female pureblood.' 'Si, ' Salvatore muttered, distracted. 'You think it's a trap?' Salvatore swallowed a grim laugh. Hell, he hoped it was a trap. The alternative was enough to send any intelligent Were howling into the night. 'There's only one way to find out.' He moved forward, sensing the end of the tunnel just yards in front of him. 'Salvatore?' Levet tugged on his pants. Salvatore shook him off. 'What?' 'You smell funny. Mon Dieu, are you... ' With blinding speed, Salvatore grasped the gargoyle by one stunted horn and yanked him off his feet to glare into his ugly face. Until that moment, he hadn't noticed the musky scent that clung to his skin. Merda. 'One more word and you lose that tongue, ' he snarled. 'But... ' 'Do not screw with me.' 'I do not intend to screw with anyone.' The gargoyle curled his lips in a mocking smile. 'I am not the one in heat.
The following year the house was substantially remodeled, and the conservatory removed. As the walls of the now crumbling wall were being torn down, one of the workmen chanced upon a small leatherbound book that had apparently been concealed behind a loose brick or in a crevice in the wall. By this time Emily Dickinson was a household name in Amherst. It happened that this carpenter was a lover of poetry- and hers in particular- and when he opened the little book and realized that that he had found her diary, he was 'seized with a violent trembling, ' as he later told his grandson. Both electrified and terrified by the discovery, he hid the book in his lunch bucket until the workday ended and then took it home. He told himself that after he had read and savored every page, he would turn the diary over to someone who would know how to best share it with the public. But as he read, he fell more and more deeply under the poet's spell and began to imagine that he was her confidant. He convinced himself that in his new role he was no longer obliged to give up the diary. Finally, having brushed away the light taps of conscience, he hid the book at the back of an oak chest in his bedroom, from which he would draw it out periodically over the course of the next sixty-four years until he had virtually memorized its contents. Even his family never knew of its existence. Shortly before his death in 1980 at the age of eighty-nine, the old man finally showed his most prized possession to his grandson (his only son having preceded him in death), confessing that his delight in it had always been tempered by a nagging guilt and asking that the young man now attempt to atone for his grandfather's sin. The grandson, however, having inherited both the old man's passion for poetry and his tendency towards paralysis of conscience, and he readily succumbed to the temptation to hold onto the diary indefinitely while trying to decide what ought to be done with it.