No matter how his shot looks - funny to all of us - or if someone is right in his face, it doesn't matter. He only sees orange, that little round thing. As long as he's squared up, he'll make shots. He's too good a shooter. And he really works so hard at it. This, by the way, is far and away his best season.
Nico, you can do this," Jason said. "It might be embarrassing, but it's for the scepter." Nico didn't look convinced. In fact he looked like he was going to be sick. But he squared his shoulders and nodded. "You're right. I- I'm not afraid of a love god." Favonius beamed. "Excellent! Would you like a snack before you go?
Nico, you can do this, " Jason said. "It might be embarrassing, but it's for the scepter." Nico didn't look convinced. In fact he looked like he was going to be sick. But he squared his shoulders and nodded. "You're right. I- I'm not afraid of a love god." Favonius beamed. "Excellent! Would you like a snack before you go?
She stood, squared her shoulders. "We'll do it. Together." And then she did something that shocked them both. She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a swift kiss on his lips. "Thank you for returning to help me." When she tried to move away, he latched onto her forearms and held her in place. His eyes were gleaming. "Next time you decide to do that... " What?" she said, stiffening. "Give you a little warning?" No." He grinned. "Linger.
Older forms of indentured servanthood and the bond-service of biblical times had often been harsh, but Christian abolitionists concluded that race-based, life-long chattel slavery, established through kidnapping, could not be squared with biblical teaching either in the Old Testament or the New.
You know those nights where the day has unfolded in such a way that now, in the night, you can feel all the gaps in your body and you can see all the reasons you're not who you wish you were - you know those nights where the only sound is of you drinking and the people outside who have each other to drink with - those nights when you're unable to think or be or do because of the paralyzing loneliness - it feels like a hundred of those nights - stitched together and squared - and they come to me in a blush.
I see now how things even up, how they are squared away, and how they balance under the law of love and justice. No year of life is emotionally, spiritually or even materially, all drought or all rainfall; nor is it all sun. The road turns a little every day, and one day there's a sudden twist we didn't dream was there, and for every loss there is somewhere a gain, for every grief a happiness, for every deprivation a giving.
The debt we owe our parents can never be squared, and jolly good too, because doing so would threaten to nullify all relationship, all emotional commerce between the two generations. Being in debt, just like being in credit, means an active interest applies between the two parties and, once the debt is taken care of, the interest is bound to wane.
Robert Rowland Smith
I believe in kindness and karma-which could make me a Buddhist. I believe in mystic healing and crystals' powers-which could make me a witch. I believe in truth, honor, and forgiveness-which could make me a Christian. I even believe in the existence of past lives and that each and every one of us is watched over by guides from the other side-which, to some, would make me totally woo-woo squared.
I am a Prince," he replied, being rather dense. "It is the function of a Prince""value A""to kill monsters""value B""for the purpose of establishing order""value C""and maintaining a steady supply of maidens""value D. If one inserts the derivative of value A (Prince) into the equation y equals BC plus CD squared, and sets it equal to zero, giving the apex of the parabola, namely, the point of intersection between A (Prince) and B (Monster), one determines value E""a stable kingdom. It is all very complicated, and if you have a chart handy I can graph it for you.
Catherynne M. Valente
Demigodz. I'd like to thank J-Live for coming out tonight. Jumpin' on this track. It's a classic to me. Yeah. Peace to Divine Styler. Eric Vanderslice, the Beatminerz, Mr. Walt & Evil D, Benny Shake, Chris Hampson, K-Squared, shout out to my man Balab Basheer. Bishop Lamont, Poison Pen, Diabolic, my brother Vinnie Paz and the whole A.O.T.P. Peace to Ill Bill, Chino XL, K-Solo, Apathy and we out.
Any test that turns on what is offensive to the communitys standards is too loose, too capricious, too destructive of freedom of expression to be squared with the First Amendment. Under that test, juries can censor, suppress, and punish what they dont like, provided the matter relates to sexual impurity or has a tendency to excite lustful thoughts. This is community censorship in one of its worst forms. It creates a regime where in the battle between the literati and the Philistines, the Philistines are certain to win.
William O. Douglas
...to live differently, to love differently, to think differently, or to try to. Is the danger of beauty so great that it is better to live without it (the standard model)? Or to fall into her arms fire to fire? There is no discovery without risk and what you risk reveals what you value. Inside the horror of Nagasaki and Hiroshima lies the beauty of Einstein's E=MC squared
I hated meatloaf. It was like something that Satan pooped out after an eternity of constipation. So I told Mom because I was honest that way. I sat back, squared my shoulders, and met her eyes, all confident-like. "Mom, meatloaf's like something that Satan pooped out after an eternity of constipation. It should be outlawed, frankly, and serving it for dinner is like child abuse and should carry with it some pretty stiff penalties.
A lot of native culture has been destroyed. So you already feel lost inside your culture. And then you add up feeling lost and insignificant inside the larger culture. So you end up feeling lost squared. And to never be recognized, to never have any power, you know, other minority communities actually have a lot of economic, cultural power.
Every thought which enters the mind, every word we utter, every deed we perform, makes its impression upon the inmost fiber of our being and the result of these impressions is our character. The study of books, of music, or of the fine arts is not essential to a lofty character. It rests with the worker whether a rude piece of marble shall be squared into a horse-block or carved into an Apollo, a Psyche, or a Venus di Milo. It is yours, if you choose, to develop a spiritual form more beautiful than any of these, instinct with immortal life, refulgent with all the glory of character.
Orison Swett Marden
Naphta loathed the bourgeois state and its love of security. He found occasion to express this loathing one autumn afternoon when, as they were walking along the main street, it suddenly began to rain and, as if on command, there was an umbrella over every head. That was a symbol of cowardice and vulgar effeminacy, the end product of civilization. An incident like the sinking of the Titanic was atavistic, true, but its effect was most refreshing, it was the handwriting on the wall. Afterward, of course, came the hue and cry for more security in shipping. How pitiful, but such weak-willed humanitarianism squared very nicely with the wolfish cruelty and villainy of slaughter on the economic battlefield known as the bourgeois state. War, war ! He was all for it - the universal lust or war seemed quite honorable in comparison.
Q: Do you have any advice for upcoming writers who want to pen weird stories? A: READ, damn it. Fill your brain to the bursting point with the good stuff, starting with writers that you truly enjoy, and then work your way backward and outward, reading those writers who inspired the writers you love best. That was my path as far as Weird/Horror Fiction, starting with Lovecraft, and then working my way backward/outward on the Weird Fiction spiderweb. And don't limit your reading. Read it all, especially non-fiction and various news outlets. You'd be surprised by how many of my story ideas were born while listening to NPR, perusing a blog, or paging through Vanity Fair. Once you have your fuel squared away, just write what you love, in whatever style and genre. You'll never have fun being someone you're not, so be yourself. When a singer opens their mouth, what comes out is what comes out. Also, don't be afraid to fail, and don't be afraid to walk away. Writing isn't for everyone, and that's totally fine. One doesn't need to be a writer to enjoy being a reader and overall fan of genre or wider fiction.
The Janus Guard will also be out that night, ' he said, one hand reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. 'Just as we have been and will be for every night of the Nine.' 'Good.' 'Speaking of which-Kelley... ' Sonny seemed suddenly exhausted. He turned his face to the west, and she could see the fatigue etched into the lines and planes of his face. 'It's getting late. You need to leave the park. Please. Don't argue with me this time. Just go. The sun will set soon, and I have to go to work.' He squared his shoulders as though he expected her to put up a fight. She did-a little-but only out of actual concern for him. 'Shouldn't you be taking it easy? I mean, you try to hide it with the whole tough-guy-swagger thing and all, but I saw the bandages. You're really hurt. Aren't you?' 'It's not so bad.' 'Wow. You are a terrible liar.' He frowned fiercely at her. 'You also look like you haven't slept in a week.' She took a tentative step toward him and put a hand on his chest, looking up into his silver-gray eyes. He put his hand over the top of hers, and she could feel the rhythm of his heart beating under her palm, through his shirt and the bandages. 'I'm fine.' 'Are you sure?' With his other hand, Sonny reached up and brushed a stray auburn curl out of her eyes. 'I'm sure.' He smiled down at her, and she felt her insides melt a little. His whole face changed when he smiled. It was like the sun coming out. 'But, ' he continued, 'I'll be even better if you are safe at home and I don't have to worry about you for tonight.' 'I can take care of myself, Sonny Flannery, ' she bristled, halfheartedly. 'Please?' He turned up the wattage on his smile. 'I... okay.' She felt her own lips turn up in a shy, answering smile. 'I'll be good. This once.' 'That's my girl.' Kelley was silent. Those three words of Sonny's had managed to render her utterly speechless.
The eccentric passion of Shankly was underlined for me by my England team-mate Roger Hunt's version of the classic tale of the Liverpool manager's pre-game talk before playing Manchester United. The story has probably been told a thousand times in and out of football, and each time you hear it there are different details, but when Roger told it the occasion was still fresh in his mind and I've always believed it to be the definitive account. It was later on the same day, as Roger and I travelled together to report for England duty, after we had played our bruising match at Anfield. Ian St John had scored the winner, then squared up to Denis Law, with Nobby finally sealing the mood of the afternoon by giving the Kop the 'V' sign. After settling down in our railway carriage, Roger said, 'You may have lost today, but you would have been pleased with yourself before the game. Shanks mentioned you in the team talk. When he says anything positive about the opposition, normally he never singles out players.' According to Roger, Shankly burst into the dressing room in his usual aggressive style and said, 'We're playing Manchester United this afternoon, and really it's an insult that we have to let them on to our field because we are superior to them in every department, but they are in the league so I suppose we have to play them. In goal Dunne is hopeless- he never knows where he is going. At right back Brennan is a straw- any wind will blow him over. Foulkes the centre half kicks the ball anywhere. On the left Tony Dunne is fast but he only has one foot. Crerand couldn't beat a tortoise. It's true David Herd has got a fantastic shot, but if Ronnie Yeats can point him in the right direction he's likely to score for us. So there you are, Manchester United, useless... ' Apparently it was at this point the Liverpool winger Ian Callaghan, who was never known to whisper a single word on such occasions, asked, 'What about Best, Law and Charlton, boss?' Shankly paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, 'What are you saying to me, Callaghan? I hope you're not saying we cannot play three men.
And finally I saw that the very land itself had risen, that the sunbaked land had taken form as something vast and alive, and was in motion. The land walked as multitudes, their strides so utterly of the earth that they seemed the source of the very dust. The cloud they raised engulfed us, seeped into every pore, coated our teeth, seeped into our minds. Both flesh and metaphor. That big. And you could see their heads, like warriors' shields. Their great breaths, gushing in and out, resonant in the halls of their lungs. The skin as they moved, wrinkled with time and wear, batiked with the walk of ages, as if they lived within the creased maps of the lives they've traveled. Travelers across landscapes, and through timescapes. The skin moving like swishing corduroy, textured and rough but sensitive to the slightest touch. The grind of their cobblestone molars as, sheaf by sheaf and mouthful by mouthful, they acquire the world. All the while uttering the contented purring of mounds of memories. Their rumbles rolling through the air like distant thunder approaching, vibrating through the undulating ground and the roots of trees, rallying families and friends from the hills and rivers, sending among themselves greetings and recognitions and news of where they have been; sending to us a sign of something coming. A mind moves a mountainous mass of muscle and bone, the brown eyes light a landscape, and one elephant rumbles in. See her squared brow, trace the tracks of snake-size blood vessels. Heralded by her own trumpet, applauded by her own clapping ears, she strikes us as timeless and a bit sublime, aware and deliberative, peaceful and nurturing and deadly dangerous as needs arise. Wise only within the confines of her capabilities, like us. Vulnerable. As we all are. 'Delicate and mighty, awesome and enchanted, ' wrote Peter Matthiessen of them in The Tree Where Man Was Born, 'commanding the silence ordinarily reserved for mountain peaks, great fires, and the sea.' Silence. Watch. Simply listen. They will not speak to us, but to each other they say much. Some of it, we hear. The rest is beyond words.