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“You know, my sister and I can’t understand what Dawson sees in you. You’re just a silly little human.” His arm shot out so fast it was a blur, picked up a strand of her hair. “And you’re really not even that pretty.” Oh…oh, that stung more than it should have. Tears burned her eyes as she fought to keep her voice level. “I guess it’s a good thing, then. A relationship between us would never work.” His eyes narrowed. “And why is that?” “Because I’m allergic to assholes.”

“You know, Naruto’s kind of a brat, but he wasn’t trying to be mean or hateful... he just... lacks finesse... Mr Tazuna told us about what happened to your father. Naruto grew up without a father, same as you. ...Actually without any parents. He doesn’t remember either one of them. Or have a single friend. His whole life is one big painful memory. And in all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him cry, or use his troubles as an excuse to sulk or be a coward, not once. He always... tries his hardest, hoping someone will notice and give him a kind word or a pat on the back. That’s his dream, and he’s risked his life for it. I think one day he must have just gotten fed up with crying. He understands what it means to be strong. He knows what it costs and what it’s worth... just as your father did.”

“You know not, yet, the sort of love that strikes like a lightning bolt; that clutches hold of you by the heart, as irrevocably as death; that becomes the lodestar by which you steer the rest of your life. I would not wish such a love on anyone, man or woman, for it can make your life a paradise, or it can destroy you utterly.”

“You know, nothing is stronger than blood bonds. What else is the reason for the success of life insurance policies? Why bother with what happens to your blood relatives after your death? After all, you stop existing. Why then bother about what is happening to your kids, and why be concerned about what is happening on Earth even? Well, it’s because, after one’s final exit, one lives through one’s children.”

“You know nothing of war. War is dark. Black as pitch. It is not a God. It does not laugh or weep. It rewards neither skill nor daring. It is not a trial of souls, not the measure of wills. Even less is it a tool, a means to some womanish end. It is merely the place where the iron bones of the earth meet the hollow bones of men and break them.”

“You know nothing says love like a man holding a bucket, waiting for you to hurl into it." "No, offense, you start hurling and I'm going to be needed immediately downstairs in the casino ... I guarantee it." She glared at him with only her one eye open. "That's not very romantic." He scoffed at her aggravated tone. "Excuse me? Did I miss something? What has ever been romantic about vomit?" "A man standing by your side when you're sick. Holding your hair back from your face ... that's romantic." "In what alternate universe do you live? Here in a place I like to call reality, that's disgusting. Who in their right mind would find that romantic?”

“You know now how deeply unhappy your mother was, and you also know that in his own fumbling way your father loved her, that is, to the extent he was capable of loving anyone, but they made a botch of it, and to be a part of that disaster when you were a boy no doubt drove you inward, turning you into a man who has spent the better part of his life sitting alone in a room.”

“You know obviously a big TV or film break would be lovely, but I find that I’m essentially a theatre trained actor and that’s what I love doing. I love fringe theatres in London, I love theatres like the Royal Court, Soho and the National obviously and if I could work in any of those and be a jobbing actor for a while then I’m very lucky.”

“You know of a girl and her apple,” The old woman's voice is steady, cutting through the noise. A patient presence that ensnares even the attention of the trees, their branches and thinning leaves stilling as the tongues below them do, too. “Or some version of it. You know of the snake, wise and guiding. The 'me too' and 'I know the way because I've walked the path' in its hiss and slither. But you do not know the tree itself.” And her story begins. You do not know the tree itself, but once you did. Once, all did. Every house had an altar and there the pillar sat. But, by the time the books were written, they found her impossible to erase, so they took her name and called her nothing but an object. It is no accident that the fruit and the snake found home in a tree. Just as it is no accident that the tree becomes a stationary fixture. But, surely, it, too was just as breathing, just as alive. As the old woman in red speaks, the children's very imaginations dance wildly around her blaze, some primal knowing stirring deep within. They meant to bury her, but like most of the stories they tried to eliminate through the permanence of ink and binding of pages, they hadn't realized she became a seed. A dew drop on all of our own spiderwebs, if we care to listen. The more you listen, the more you hear. You see. You feel. And the more you come to know… -Excerpt from “Her True Name: A Story from the Grandmother Tree” – featured in Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree.”

“You know of gimu. But have you studied ninjō?" It's hard to think the way he's looking at me. I rack my brain. "Ninjō?" "Ninjō is human emotion, and often conflicts with gimu. A classic example is a samurai who falls for a shogun's daughter. Bound by duty, he cannot act on his feelings." "Or an imperial guard who wishes to change careers but cannot out of familial obligation?”

“You know of her existence. You are a hunter of the vampire and you know duty and honor. Behave in an honorable manner. Court her as she deserves. Allow her to heal with Francesca and Gabriel that she might come to you wholly and of her own free will. That is the gift that you can give her - and it is more than most of us have given our lifemates.”

“You know of the disease in Central Africa called sleeping sickness. . . . There also exists a sleeping sickness of the soul. Its most dangerous aspect is that one is unaware of its coming. That is why you have to be careful. As soon as you notice the slightest sign of indifference, the moment you become aware of the loss of a certain seriousness, of longing, of enthusiasm and zest, take it as a warning. You should realize your soul suffers if you live superficially.”

“You know, once,” Robert said, “I was working in the shop, doing some repairs on a music box, and it was all going wrong. Da took me aside and told me to think of it like life: ‘It looks complicated when you see all the separate pieces, but the purpose of the music box is to play joyful music. You just have to remember how to fit them together so it will. The same with life really. It’s just about the living of it. That’s all you have, and all you can do: live and be happy.”

“You know one day, you're going to look back on these days. And everyone you went to high school with will either be getting married to each other, shitting out kids, or dropping dead like flies," when she spoke, Miss Jenson sighed at the end of every few words; she must have been narrating her own thoughts she might have otherwise kept to herself, "and everything you never did, you'll never be able to even try.”

“You know one scene I always think about is in 'The Godfather', when Marlon Brando's in the hospital. Al Pacino arrives there and enlists the help of the baker to protect his father. The two of them stand outside and the baker fiddles with a cigarette lighter, but Pacino's hands are rock steady. That's when we sort of realize that he can do this.”