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T Quotes

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All T Quotes

“This same Jesus, though, didn't say we had to be in relationship with everyone. We are not to 'throw [our] pearls to pigs.' (See Matthew 7:6.) He didn't deeply entrust his heart to Pharisees. You see him slipping through the throng of people bent on killing him. Often he withdrew from crowds in order to be with his Father. His is a story of connection with others, yes, but it's also a reminder that relationships don't come with an easy-to-understand blueprint.”

“This [sand-dollar hunting] had become one of our rituals together, and though she would search for other varieties of shells when I was out of town or unable to see her, she would wait until I appeared on her front porch before setting off to extract these mute delicate coins from their settings in the sand. At first, we had collected only the larger specimens, but gradually as we learned what was rare and to be truly prized, we began to gather only the smallest sand dollars for our collection. Our trophies were sometimes as small as thumbnails and as fragile as contact lenses. Annie Kate collected the tiniest relics, round and cruciform and white as bone china when dried of sea water, and placed them in a glass-and-copper cricket box in her bedroom. Often we would sit together and admire the modest splendor of our accumulation. At times it looked like the coinage of a shy, diminutive species of angel. Our quest to find the smallest sand dollar became a competition between us, and as the months passed and Annie Kate grew larger with the child, the brittle, desiccated animals we unearthed from the sand became smaller and smaller. It was all a matter of training the eye to expect less.”

“This Sarah Perez had the most beautiful eyes in the world, those green eyes spangled with gold that you love so much: the eyes of Antinous. In Rome, such eyes would have made her a concubine of Adrian; in Madrid they helped her become the princess of Eboli ensconced in the bed of the king. But Philip II was extremely jealous of those wonderful emerald eyes and their delicate transparency, and the princess - who was bored with the funereal palace and the even more funereal society of the king - had the fancy and the misfortune to cast her admirable gaze upon the Marquis de Posa while she was leaving church one day. It was on the threshold of the chapel, and the princess believed herself to be alone with her camarera mayor, but the vigilance of the clergy was equal to the challenge. She was betrayed, and that very evening, in the intimacy of their bedroom, in the course of some violent argument or tempestuous tussle, Philip threw his mistress to the floor. Blind with rage he leapt upon her, tore out her eye and devoured it in a single gulp. 'Thus was the princess covered in blood - a good title for a conte cruel, that, which Villiers de l'Isle Adam has somehow omitted to write! The princess was henceforth one-eyed: the royal pet had a gaping hole in her face. Philip II, who had the Jewess in his blood, could not cleave so closely to a princess who had only one eye. He made amends to her with some new titles and estates in the provinces and - regretful of the beautiful green eye that he had spoiled - he caused to be inserted into the empty and bloody orbit a superb emerald enshrined in silver, upon which surgeons then inscribed the semblance of a gaze. Oculists have made progress since then; the Princess of Eboli, already hurt by the ruination of her eye, died some little time afterwards, of the effects of the operation. The ways of love and surgery were equally barbarous in the time of Philip II! 'Philip, the inconsolable lover, gave the order to remove the emerald from the face of the dead princess before she was laid in the tomb, and had it mounted in a ring. He wore it about his finger, and would never take it off, even when he went to sleep - and when he died in his turn, he had the ring bearing the green tear clasped in his right hand.”

“This scene expresses the basic situation of immaturity; lyricism is an attempt to face that situation: the individual expelled from the protected enclosure of childhood wishes to enter the world, but at the same time, because he is frightened of it, he fashions an artificial replacement world out of his own verse. He makes his poems revolve around him like the planets around the sun; he becomes the center of a small universe in which nothing is alien, in which he feels as much at home as a child inside its mother, for everything here is fashioned only from the substance of his soul. Here he can accomplish everything that is so difficult "outside;" here he can, like the student Wolker, march with a proletarian crowd to make a revolution and, like the virginal Rimbaud, lash his "little girlfriends" because that crowd and those girlfriends are not fashioned out of the hostile substance of an alien world but out of the substance of his own dreams, and they are thus he himself and do not shatter the unity of the universe he has constructed for himself.”

“This scholarly shortfall did not happen by chance. Part of it has to do with particular discomforts characteristics of left-leaning academic social scientists. Conducting high-quality ethnographic or long-term participant observation research can require a great deal of empathy for one’s subjects. Such research involves more or less taking on the perspective of the people and culture being studied. It means listening to their stories with honesty and, if only for a moment, giving their experiences and their explanations the benefit of the doubt. But most social scientists know the facts about inequality, wealth, and privilege, and thus find the empathy required for ethnographic research in short supply when it comes to the ultra-wealthy. Empathy is more naturally given to the people and communities obviously suffering harm, rather than, say, a Wall Street financier who struggles with the life complexities and social-psychological dilemmas that accompany immense wealth and power.”

“This scrappy attitude is not the empty bluster of a fearful ego with a yellow comb-over seeking to preserve itself. It is a knowing of one's own strength, fortified by the mortal dangers of poverty, labor, mysogyny, White supremacy. It is the Statue of Liberty looking a bully in the eye in a barroom and saying to someone standing behind her, "Hold my torch.”

“This season carries a frequency unfamiliar to history,” says the Lord. “I am orchestrating alignments that make no earthly sense but unlock heavenly strategies. You won’t echo past victories — you will originate patterns that rewrite testimony. I’ve assigned favor to follow your footsteps like a shadow, not to remind you of yesterday, but to prove that glory goes where obedience walks. Watch how I weaponize your rest — even silence will thunder with deliverance.”

“This season is a leveler. The 'shege' is right in your breast pocket. I know families in this country (Nigeria) who have no access to justice, simply because they cannot afford the bills. This is a grim form of inequality we have not had enough conversation about. The scarcity of money is threatening both law and society. The affluent wax stronger, but the rest of us…Jack London calls The People of the Abyss.”

“This seat is for VIPs only," he said, removing the placard and lifting the pillow. "That would be you." Isabella felt like a piece of mozzarella cheese that'd been stretched and dunked and stretched again as it arrived at its final destination. A night that was supposed to be celebratory had become royally embarrassing, and now it was taking a turn toward the romantic? "This is so nice," she said, finally looking at Gabe as he escorted her to her stool. His face was open and eager and focused entirely on Isabella. Was it because of her hair? Her dress? Her makeup? Well, no: when he'd first met her, she was wearing overalls and a tie-dyed Ben & Jerry's T-shirt and hadn't showered in two days and was about to get fired, and he'd still seemed smitten. "Will you let me cook for you? Put yourself into my hands?" If Isabella had a kink, this would be it. "Ummm... a hundred percent yes?" she answered.”

“This seclusion of the artist with his work, sometimes misconceived as a selfish thing, is in truth as needful a tool as any, if a vision is to be made clear to others. And all the men I have known do creative work obtained it; either mechanically, by the walls of a workroom, or by that withdrawal into themselves which is part of their power.”

“This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.”