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Quote by Rey Terciero

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Rise of the Knight

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Rey Terciero

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“There is a scene I love where a brother and sister meet after many years and little communication. They meet in an arranged café in mid-afternoon. The light is dying and the city outside rumbles softly in the complacent time before rush hour. The café is unexceptional and quiet. She comes first, sits at the far end, a table facing the door, nervous in her buttoned raincoat. The waiter is an older man. He leaves her be. The brother enters late with the look but not the words of apology. He kisses her cheek. They sit and the old man brings them teas they do not want, two pots, strong for him weak for her. It is long ago since they said each other’s names aloud, and saying them now has the extraordinary shyness of encounter I imagine on the Last Day. At first there is the full array of human awkwardness. But here is the thing: almost in an instant their old selves are immediately present. The years and the changes are nothing. They need few words. They recognise each other in each other, and even in silence the familiarity is powerfully consoling, because despite time and difference there remains that deep-river current, that kind of maybe communion that only exists within people joined in the word family. So now what washes up between them, foam-white and fortifying and quite unexpectedly, is love. I cannot remember what book it is in. But it’s in this one now.”

“Four-leaf clovers," she said. "I've been finding them everywhere, in the oddest places." Star stepped out of the garden bed and gently plucked the clover from Georgia's hand, pinching it between her fingers. "Well, look at that," she said softly. She glanced at Georgia. "My grandma Emma was Irish, raised near Galway---that's where our red hair comes from--- and she loved four-leaf clovers. Always felt they connected her with the country of her birth.”

“Hades allowed himself the faintest smile, but there was nothing cruel in his eyes. ‘I can entertain the possibility that you acted for multiple reasons. My point is this: you and I rose to the aid of Olympus because you convinced me to let go of my anger. I would encourage you to do likewise. My children are so rarely happy. I … I would like to see you be an exception.’ Nico stared at his father. He didn’t know what to do with that statement. He could accept many unreal things – hordes of ghosts, magical labyrinths, travel through shadows, chapels made of bones. But tender words from the Lord of the Underworld? No. That made no sense.”

“La vida es esencialmente injusta. De eso no cabe la menor duda. Pero creo que incluso de las situaciones injustas es posible extraer lo que de "justicia" haya en ellas. Puede que ello cueste tiempo y esfuerzo. Y puede que ese tiempo y esfuerzo sean en vano. Decidir si merece o no la pena intentar extraer esa "justicia" es algo que, queda al criterio de cada uno.”

“Statistics document startling increases in divorce, singles, patchwork families, single parents, and so on, which imply significant changes in our concept and experience of family in today's society. It is clear that everyday reality no longer corresponds to the ad industry's image is the "average family": mother, father, two children, a dog, happy smiling faces, and lots of time for each other. You can be sure, however, that these out-dated images are not sure to any ignorance on the post of the ad industry; the image creators are well aware of the chances that have taken place. In contrast to the social-demographic changes, there is still a strong undercurrent in it culture that carries longings that are connected to, and stimulated by, those images.”

“When trans ideology comes to a family, it is like a bomb drops and relationships are decimated, the profound ripple effects spreading from the point of detonation.”

“Look, I know there's a fondness between you and him and I'm happy about that. Envious, but happy. I mean that. He needs someone who . . . understands him, because God knows I don't. But something about Amir troubles me in a way that I can't express. It's like . . .' I could see him searching, reaching for the right words. He lowered his voice, but I heard him anyway. 'If I hadn't seen the doctor pull him out of my wife with my own eyes, I'd never believe he's my son.”

“Looking into my daughter’s eyes, I thought of my mother, who had faced these first hours alone after I was born. She had been made no promises, been offered no guarantees that either she or I would even live past that night. If something had been ruptured inside of her, no one would have noticed. If something had been broken inside of newborn me, perhaps no one but my mother would have cared. My daughter’s quiet yet well-monitored first night was perhaps the one my mother had dreamed for me, for herself, a dream of kind words, kisses, flowers.”

“I realized that afternoon that for nearly a year, while my mother, brothers and I had constantly carried food up to my father, we had rarely eaten with him. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to me that he missed sharing a table or aplate, passing a spice or a spoon. But he did. Just as he missed seeing certain faces and places and hearing certain voices that neither his friends nor family nor the television could successfully transport to his room”