Husband Turning 30 Quotes

"Maurency seems to be undergoing a remarkable and somewhat undesirable transformation."

"What?"

"He's changed hair color, put on some muscle and now seems to be cracking skulls rather than saying his prayers."

Mason rose and rounded the table.

"In short, it looks like Linnet's ideal hero might be turning into you."

[...]

"He looks improved, but I still don't like him."

"He's you, you fool," responded Oswald scathingly. ~ Alice Coldbreath

Once a renowned skirt-chaser, now an exceptionally devoted husband, St. Vincent knew as much about these matters as any man alive. When Cam had asked glumly if a decrease in physical urges was something that naturally occurred as a man approached his thirties, St. Vincent had choked on his drink.
"Good God, no," the viscount had said, coughing slightly as a swallow of brandy seared his throat. They had been in the manager's office of the club, going over account books in the early hours of the morning.
St. Vincent was a handsome man with wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Some claimed he had the most perfect form and features of any man alive. The looks of a saint, the soul of a scoundrel. "If I may ask, what kind of women have you been taking to bed?"
"What do you mean, what kind?" Cam had asked warily.
"Beautiful or plain?"
"Beautiful, I suppose."
"Well, there's your problem," St. Vincent said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Plain women are far more enjoyable. There's no better aphrodisiac than gratitude."
"Yet you married a beautiful woman."
A slow smile had curved St. Vincent's lips. "Wives are a different case altogether. They require a great deal of effort, but the rewards are substantial. I highly recommend wives. Especially one's own."
Cam had stared at his employer with annoyance, reflecting that serious conversation with St. Vincent was often hampered by the viscount's fondness for turning it into an exercise of w ~ Lisa Kleypas

But that doesn't mean to say, of course, there aren't occasions now and then - extremely desolate occasions - when you think to yourself: 'What a terrible mistake I've made with my life.' And you get to thinking about a different life, a better life you might have had. For instance, I get to thinking about a life I may have had with you, Mr. Stevens. And I suppose that's when I get angry about some trivial little thing and leave. But each time I do, I realize before long - my rightful place is with my husband. After all, there's no turning back the clock now. One can't be forever dwelling on what might have been. One should realize one has as good as most, perhaps better, and be grateful. ~ Kazuo Ishiguro

Sophie, what will you do to help Josh,to save him, to bring him back?" Tsagaglalal asked.
"Anything. Everything." Perenelle leaned forward to place both forearms on the table. Her hands were tightly locked together, knuckles white with tension. "And Sophie, what do you think I will do to help my husband?"
"Anything," Sophie said again. "Everything."
"We will do anything-everything-to help those we love. That is what seperates the humani from the Next Generation of the Elders or those who came before them. That is what makes us human.That is why the race thrives; it is why the race will always survive."
"But that type of love requires sacrifice," Tsagaglalal said slowly.
"Sometimes extraordinary sacrifices..."
The old woman's gray eyes suddenly swam with huge tears.
And Sophie had a flickering memory of a woman-younger, so much younger, but with the same high cheekbones and gray eyes of Tsagaglalal-turning away from a tall golden statue. The woman stopped and looked back, and Sophie discovered that the statue's bright gray eyes were alive and were following the woman. Then Tsagaglalal turned and raced down endless glass stairs. She was clutching a book in both hands: the Codex. And her tears dripped onto the metal surface. ~ Michael Scott

Closing The Cycle

One always has to know when a stage comes to an end. If we insist on staying longer than the necessary time, we lose the happiness and the meaning of the other stages we have to go through. Closing cycles, shutting doors, ending chapters - whatever name we give it, what matters is to leave in the past the moments of life that have finished.

Did you lose your job? Has a loving relationship come to an end? Did you leave your parents' house? Gone to live abroad? Has a long-lasting friendship ended all of a sudden?

You can spend a long time wondering why this has happened. You can tell yourself you won't take another step until you find out why certain things that were so important and so solid in your life have turned into dust, just like that. But such an attitude will be awfully stressing for everyone involved: your parents, your husband or wife, your friends, your children, your sister, everyone will be finishing chapters, turning over new leaves, getting on with life, and they will all feel bad seeing you at a standstill.

None of us can be in the present and the past at the same time, not even when we try to understand the things that happen to us. What has passed will not return: we cannot for ever be children, late adolescents, sons that feel guilt or rancor towards our parents, lovers who day and night relive an affair with someone who has gone away and has not the least intention of coming back.

Thi ~ Paulo Coelho

He licked his lips, still looking earnest. "Sara. We had such a special connection. It was real and it was fantastic. Maybe that's why I've spent so many years yearning for it too. We both knew what it was like, and we lost it. Even though you may not remember yet, it's somewhere in here." He reached over and touched my head. "And in there." He pointed a finger toward my heart.
I was speechless. I stared at Jack, knowing in my heart that he was being honest and truthful. And I was overwhelmed that he understood me so well.
Turning to face me, his eyes burned with intensity. He took my hands in his and said, "I love you Sara Jordan Hamilton, and I'm willing to give you all the desires of your heart, if only you'll let me. Nothing can take away my love for you. Not time, not distance, not even another husband. ~ Sharon Ricklin Jones

The car was on the FDR drive now and, turning her head, she glanced out at the bleak brown buildings of the projects that stretched for blocks along the drive. Something inside her sank at the sight of all that sameness, and she suddenly felt defeated.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. In the past year, she'd started experiencing these moments of desperate emptiness, as if nothing really mattered, nothing was ever going to change, there was nothing new; and she could see her life stretching before her--one endless long day after the next, in which every day was essentially the same. Meanwhile, time was marching on, and all that was happening to her was that she was getting older and smaller, and one day she would be no bigger than a dot, and then she would simply disappear. Poof! Like a small leaf burned up under a magnifying glass in the sun. These feelings were shocking to her, because she'd never experienced world-weariness before. She'd never had time. All her life, she'd been striving and striving to become this thing that was herself--the entity that was Nico O'Neilly. And then, one morning, time had caught up with her and she had woken up and realized that she was there. She had arrived at her destination, and she had everything she'd worked so hard for: a stunning career, a loving (well, sort of) husband, whom she respected, and a beautiful eleven-year-old daughter whom she adored.
She should have been thrilled. But instead, she felt tired. Like all tho ~ Candace Bushnell

All those years were now seeming like a betrayal of what she really was. While her body, her needs, her emotions–all of herself–had been turning like a sunflower after one man, all that time she had been holding in her hands something else, the something precious, offering it in vain to her husband, to her children, to everyone she knew–but it had never been taken, had not been noticed. But this thing she had offered, without knowing she was doing it, which had been ignored by herself and by everyone else, was what was real in her." (page 140) ~ Doris Lessing

Voluptuous?"
Grey smiled at the naughty light in her gaze. "A full subscription. Perhaps you will discover between the pages other activities you would like to sample with me."
It wasn't much of a gift, certainly not an expensive one, but Rose embraced him as though he had given her the world-and he had the wine stains on his cuffs to prove it. "Thank you!" She kissed his cheek. "Oh, Grey, thank you so much!"
"It's only a magazine, Rose, but you are welcome."
She pulled back so that he could see her face, the delighted flush in her cheeks. "It's not just a magazine. It's a gesture of…trust and respect. Do you know how many husbands would forbid their wives to read such literature?"
Yes, he did, and he would hardly call it literature. "I'm of the opinion that a husband can only benefit from his wife reading this kind of material."
A coy, seductive-wonderfully wicked-smile curved her full lips. "Perhaps we will both benefit."
He could shag her senseless right then and there. He gave her back her wine instead, and positioned himself with his back against the headboard. He tugged her close, turning her so that she sat with her back against his chest. "Read to me."
She looked horrified at the idea. "What? No, I couldn't."
Grey trailed his fingers down the side of her neck, smiling smugly as she shivered. "Read it. Please."
Her fingers trembled slightly as they parted the pages. "What would you like to hear?"
"A story," he repl ~ Kathryn Smith

I feel prematurely old. I'm actually having this major belated quarter-life crisis. I'm turning 30 in a couple of weeks. I've been thinking a lot about mortality. A lot about what I'm going to do with my life and how to enjoy it. One of the things I'm going to work on is being more spontaneous, letting go, embracing the beauty of come-what-may. ~ Chris Pine

Riley paused, turning back to face Jack. "Just so you know, we are gonna need some definite PDAs tonight.
Think you can handle that?" There was irritation in Riley's voice, a subtle change, a certain stress. Jack imagined it was a manifestation of fear, and it made him feel better to think that. In answer Jack moved carefully past Riley, sliding a hand over the younger man's black silk shirt, his fingers brushing Riley's left nipple. He heard a hiss of indrawn breath as his hard thigh touched Riley briefly.
"I can handle anything you need, Het-boy," he said, his voice low and growled. "Just follow my cues."
Riley followed him to the top of the stairs, and Jack held out his hand. "Husband?" he smirked.
Riley took his hand, and they started down the sweeping staircase. "Fuck you, asshole," Riley forced out behind a covering smile.
"Not if I fuck you first," Jack said, fast and clear, smirking again as Riley stumbled on the next step. ~ R.J. Scott

Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: "Get some chairs, why don‟t you, so somebody can sit down. ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

Mary!"
Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift.
"R-Reg?"
She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly.
The balding wizard gaped, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other.
"Hey--what's going on? What is this?"
"Seal the exit! SEAL IT!"
Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air.
"He's been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!" Harry shouted.
The balding wizard's colleagues set up an uproar, under cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole, pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed. "My wife! Who was that with my wife? What's going on?"
Harry saw Yaxley's head turn, saw an inkling of the truth dawn in that brutish face.
"Come on!" Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as Yaxley's curse sailed over Harry's head. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flung open the door; Ron was standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermol ~ J.K. Rowling

Turning 30 was when my parents both got cancer and were fighting it and beat it, but their mortality started to get to me. Everything wasn't as hunky-dory like it was. ~ Darren Aronofsky

Arrive before your Husband. Not that I can
See quite what good arriving first will do;
But still arrive before him. When he's taken
His place upon the couch and you go too
To sit beside him, on your best behavior
Stealthily touch my foot, and look at me,
Watching my nods, my eyes, my face's language;
Catch and return my signals secretly.
I'll send a wordless message with my eyebrows;
You'll read my fingers' words, words traced in wine.
When you recall our games of love together,
Your finger on rosy cheeks must trace a line.
If in your silent thoughts you wish to chide me,
Let your hand hold the lobe of your soft ear;
When, darling, what I do or say gives pleasure,
Keep turning to an fro the ring you wear.
When you wish well-earned curses on your husband,
Lay your hand on the table, as in prayer.
If he pours you wine, watch out, tell him to drink it;
Ask for what you want from the waiter there.
I shall take next the glass you hand the waiter
And I'll drink from the place you took your sips;
If he should offer anything he's tasted,
Refuse whatever food has touch his lips.
Don't let him plant his arms upon your shoulders,
Don't let him rest your gentle head on his hard chest,
Don't let your dress, your breasts, admit his fingers,
And--most of all--no kisses to be pressed!
You kiss--and I'll reveal myself your lover;
I'll say 'they're mi ~ Ovid

Standing at the window overlooking the lawn, Jordan and Alexandra Townsende watched the couple heading toward them. "If you'd asked me to name the last man on earth I would have expected to fall head over heels for a slip of a girl, it would have been Ian Thornton," he told her.
His wife heard that with a sidewise look of extreme amusement. "If I'd been asked, I rather think I would have named you."
"I'm sure you would have," he said, grinning. He saw her smile fade, and he put his arm around her waist, instantly concerned that her pregnancy was causing her discomfort. "Is it the babe, darling?"
She burst out laughing and shook her head, but she sobered again almost instantly. "Do you think," she asked pensively, "he can be trusted not to hurt her? He's done so much damage that I-I just cannot like him, Jordan. He's handsome, I'll grant you that, extraordinarily handsome-"
"Not that handsome," Jordan said, stung. And this time Alexandra dissolved in mirth. Turning, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him soundly. "Actually, he rather reminds me of you," she said, "in his coloring and height and build."
"I hope that hasn't anything to do with why you can't like him," her husband teased.
"Jordan, do stop. I'm worried, really I am. He's-well, he almost frightens me. Even though he seems very civilized on the surface, there's a forcefulness, maybe even a ruthlessness beneath his polished manners. And he stops at nothing when he wants something ~ Judith McNaught

Pasting on her most endearing smile, Bronwyn stood up and interrupted, "I must beg everyone's pardon for retiring early. I have been needing to speak with my husband all day. So, we will see you in the morning." She then looked down at Ranulf to ensure he understood that she was serious.
He arched a single brow, but said nothing as he rose to join her, ignoring the short coughs and snorts of laughter of his men. Bronwyn instantly froze as she realized what the small group-including her husband-believed she had meant. Mustering up the remnants of her pride,she forced herself to march on.
"It's nice to know you've been wanting me all day, but if you desire for us to be alone, there are more discreet ways of letting me know," Ranulf teased as he lifted the flap of their tent.
Bronwyn knew her already red face was turning an even more brilliant color, but she refused to let Ranulf believe he had totally won. "You,husband, are far more in need of a modesty lesson than I."
Ranulf let go the heavy material and then crossed his arms with a smug look of satisfaction Bronwyn wanted to both remove and indulge. "Don't believe in modesty.Never have.Kind of liking the fact that you don't either," he said, hinting at what he thought was about to come next.
Bronwyn took a step back and waved a finger. "I said I wanted to speak with you alone...about tomorrow. ~ Michele Sinclair

The beginning of 2015 marked a turning point for China's real estate market; land sales in both volume and proceeds plunged by 30 percent compared to the prior year. ~ Anonymous

I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Darcy and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid, determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cart-wheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenze sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Darcy had double-pierced ears and a sibling- even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was.

But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday- in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible baby-sitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out ~ Emily Giffin

Hitler was so modern, in that he was obsessed with being famous. He was caught up with this rush to be have achieved greatness before turning 30. ~ John Cusack

Try a 30-Day Project for Overcoming Avoidance Coping

Avoidance coping habits aren't something you can snap your fingers and change. A 30-day project focused on gradually turning around avoidance coping can help. You can use this approach as an alternative to the exposure hierarchy if doing a 30-day project seems more appealing or relevant to you.
During the 30 days, take as many opportunities as you can to be less avoidant than you usually would be. This will help you overcome any problems you might have with not knowing where to start in reducing your avoidance. As situations come up, focus on taking some action, even if you're not certain what the absolute right action is. For example, if you're confused by all the options for backing up your digital photos in the cloud, you might ask your most tech-savvy friend what she does, and just go with that. You can always switch later.
Don't be too all-or-nothing about overcoming avoidance coping. We all have only so much willpower available for dealing with things we'd prefer not to do. The goal is to start unraveling your avoidance coping habits bit by bit. If you sometimes fall back into the avoidance coping trap, that's to be expected. ~ Alice Boyes

I don't think people should do things because you know, 'I am turning this age, I must go have a husband.' If you find somebody and it works out then have kids, it's very nice. But if you don't, you don't. ~ Zaha Hadid

I see a wiser person than when I was younger: having babies, and passing 30, were the turning points. What women in their 40s - I am 39 - lack in gorgeousness, they make up for in wisdom. I love ageing, despite the drawbacks - thinner, drier skin. ~ Thandie Newton

FDR created today's 30 percent coalition. Obama wants to finish the job by turning it into a permanent ruling majority. There's nothing new about the Obama Narrative. It is the FDR Narrative on steroids. It is intended to lead to greater statism and political gain. ~ Arthur C. Brooks

She was no sworn wife, but Robin was the only man she ever loved as a husband ... though not as much as her crown and thrown. The truth that tore at her breast, turning her about in circles, because he had known ... he had known his love was greater than hers. Though it was not, she never could explain it rightly. No man understood, that he was not everything to the woman he loved. ~ Jeane Westin

The Time Around Scars:
A girl whom I've not spoken to
or shared coffee with for several years
writes of an old scar.
On her wrist it sleeps, smooth and white,
the size of a leech.
I gave it to her
brandishing a new Italian penknife.
Look, I said turning,
and blood spat onto her shirt.

My wife has scars like spread raindrops
on knees and ankles,
she talks of broken greenhouse panes
and yet, apart from imagining red feet,
(a nymph out of Chagall)
I bring little to that scene.
We remember the time around scars,
they freeze irrelevant emotions
and divide us from present friends.
I remember this girl's face,
the widening rise of surprise.

And would she
moving with lover or husband
conceal or flaunt it,
or keep it at her wrist
a mysterious watch.
And this scar I then remember
is a medallion of no emotion.

I would meet you now
and I would wish this scar
to have been given with
all the love
that never occurred between us. ~ Michael Ondaatje

If you expand the boundaries of mental illness, which is clealry what has happened in this country during the past twenty-five years, and you treat the people so diagnosed with psychiatric medications, do you run the risk of turning an anger-ridden teenager into a lifelong mental patient? (p. 30) ~ Robert Whitaker

Coward," Prudence shouted from the top of the steps. Sebastian saw several people stop and turn to stare in shock at the sight of the Countess of Angelstone yelling after her husband like a fishwife. Sebastian could not resist turning around, too. Prudence was standing in the doorway, glaring furiously. Even as he watched, she stamped one small foot in exasperation. Directly behind her loomed Flowers with an unholy grin on his normally dour face. It occurred to Sebastian that he had never seen Flowers smile like that. Sebastian's spirits lightened abruptly. He found himself grinning, too, in spite of his bedeviled mood. In addition to a host of other endearing wifely virtues, Prudence could play the shrew. Fresh confirmation of what he already knew, Sebastian decided. Life with her would never be dull. ~ Amanda Quick

The heartwood," Rob murmured, looking at me. "You wanted to marry me in the heart of Major Oak." I beamed at him grateful that he understood. "And Scar," he whispered. I leaned in close. "Are you wearing knives to our wedding?" Nodding, I laughed, telling him, "I was going to get you here one way or another, Hood."
He laughed, a bright, merry sound. Standing in the heart of the tree, he reached again for my hand, fingers sliding over mine. Touching his hand, a rope of lightening lashed round my fingers, like it seared us together. Now, and for always. His fingers moved on mine, rubbing over my hand before capturing it tight and turning me to the priest.
The priest looked over his shoulder, watching as the sun began to dip. He led us in prayer, he asked me to speak the same words I'd spoken not long past to Gisbourne, but that whole thing felt like a bad dream, like I were waking and it were fading and gone for good. "Lady Scarlet." he asked me with a smile, "known to some as Lady Marian of Huntingdon, will thou have this lord to thy wedded husband, will thou love him and honour him, keep him and obey him, in health and in sickness, as a wife should a husband, forsaking all others on account of him, so long as ye both shall live?"
I looked at Robin, tears burning in my eyes. "I will," I promised. "I will, always."
Rob's face were beaming back at me, his ocean eyes shimmering bright. The priest smiled.
"Robin of Locksley, will thou have this lady to thy ~ A.C. Gaughen

Liberating ourselves from the traditional strictures of marriage altogether, and/or transforming those strictures to include all of us -- gay, feminist, career-focused, baby crazy, monogamous, non-monogamous, skeptical, romantic, and everyone in between -- is the challenge facing this generation. As we consciously opt out or creatively reimagine marriage one loving couple at a time, we'll be able to shift societal expectations wholesale, freeing younger generations from some of the antiquated assumptions we've faced (that women always want to get married and men always shy away from commitment, that gender parity somehow disempowers men, that turning 30 makes an unmarried woman into an old maid). ~ Courtney E. Martin

At one point, my house was a school for autistic children. I opened up my doors to about 30 kids and their families at the time. I was turning into Mary Poppins because I had to do something for these kids who have nowhere to go. So my house was the school for two years. ~ Jenny McCarthy

I don't think we have to worry about Mr. Isidore," she said earnestly; she walked swiftly toward him, looked up into his face. "They don't treat him very well either, as he said. And what we did on Mars he isn't interested in; he knows us and he likes us and an emotional acceptance like that - it's everything to him. It's hard for us to grasp that, but it's true." To Isidore she said, standing very close to him once again and peering up at him, "You could get a lot of money by turning us in; do you realize that?" Twisting, she said to her husband, "See, he realizes that but still he wouldn't say anything."

"You're a great man, Isidore," Pris said. "You're a credit to your race."

"If he was an android," Roy said heartily, "he'd turn us in about ten tomorrow morning. He'd take off for his job and that would be it. I'm overwhelmed with admiration." His tone could not be deciphered; at least Isidore could not crack it. "And we imagined this would be a friendless world, a planet of hostile faces, all turned against us." He barked out a laugh.

"I'm not at all worried," Irmgard said.

"You ought to be scared to the soles of your feet," Roy said.

"Let's vote," Pris said. "As we did on the ship, when we had a disagreement."

"Well," Irmgard said, "I won't say anything more. But if we turn this down, I don't think we'll find any other human being who'll take us in and help us. Mr. Isidore is - " She searched for the word.< ~ Philip K. Dick

A rattle of dishes warned of a servant's entry into the hall, but Christopher was incensed, and half turning with a growl, he gestured Paine back.
"Get out of here, man!"
"Christopher!" Erienne gasped and took two halting steps to follow the befuddled servant, but Christopher came around to face her with a glare.
"Stay where you are, madam! I am not finished with you."
"You have no right to give orders here," she protested, her own ire growing. "This is my husband's house!"
"I'll give orders when and where I damn well please, and for once, you will stand and listen until I'm through!"
More than a trifle outraged herself, Erienne hurled back her answer. "You may command the men on your ship to your will, Mister Seton, but you have no such authority here! Good day to you!"
Catching up her skirts, she whirled and stalked toward the tower until she heard the sound of rapid footsteps coming behind her, then a sudden panic seized her that he would make such a scene that she would not be able to face the servants… or her husband. She raced into the entry, stepping over the puddle, and took to the stairs, forcing every bit of strength she could into her limbs. She had barely gained the fourth step when she heard sliding feet, a loud thump, and then a painful grunt followed by an angry curse.
When she whirled, Christopher was just coming to rest in a heap against the wall after sliding across the floor, partway on his back. For a moment ~ Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

Maybe it has something to do with turning 30. I don't feel as shy or nervous or self-conscious. I have more confidence that I can handle what life brings me. I don't feel scared to have an idea and express it. ~ Michelle Williams

Ten thousand years ago, her husband, Abraham the Mage, had presented her with the weapons and armor. "To keep you safe," he said, his speech a slurred mumble. "Now and always. When you wear it, think of me."
"I'll think of you even when I'm not wearing it," she promised, and never a day went by when she did not think of the man who had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to make and save the world. The memory of him was vivid.
Abraham stood tall and slender in a darkened room at the top of the crystal tower, the Tor Ri. He was wrapped in shadow, turned away from her so she wouldn't see the Change that had almost completely claimed his flesh, transforming it to solid gold. She remembered turning him to the light so she could look at him for what she knew might be the very last time. Then she had held him, pressing his flesh and metal against her skin, and wept against his shoulder. And when she looked into his face, a single tear, a solid bead of gold, rolled down his cheek. Rising up on her toes, she had kissed the tear off his face, swallowing it. Tsagaglalal pressed her hands to her stomach. It nestled within her still. ~ Michael Scott

Can't keep track of it no more, son's becoming husbands to their mothers, and old men turning your daughters into whores. ~ Bob Dylan

Laevsky's not loving Nadyezhda Fyodorovna showed itself chiefly in the fact that everything she said or did seemed to him a lie, or equivalent to a lie, and everything he read against women and love seemed to him to apply perfectly to himself, to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and her husband. When he returned home, she was sitting at the window, dressed and with her hair done, and with a preoccupied face was drinking coffee and turning over the leaves of a fat magazine; and he thought the drinking of coffee was not such a remarkable event that she need put on a preoccupied expression over it, and that she had been wasting her time doing her hair in a fashionable style, as there was no one here to attract and no need to be attractive. And in the magazine he saw nothing but falsity. He thought she had dressed and done her hair so as to look handsomer, and was reading in order to seem clever. ~ Anton Chekhov

He has not yet learned that the day begins with sleep!" said the woman, turning to her husband. "Tell him he must rest before he can do anything! ~ George MacDonald

When I first got pregnant, I freaked out. Then I had to remind myself: I'm turning 30. ~ Melissa Joan Hart

They hated knowledge And did not choose the fear of the LORD, 30 They would have none of my [Wisdom's] counsel And despised my every rebuke. 31 Therefore they shall eat the fruit of their own way, And be filled to the full with their own fancies. 32 For the turning away of the simple will slay them, And the complacency of fools will destroy them; 33 But whoever listens to me will dwell safely, And will be secure, without fear of evil. ~ Anonymous

We are provincials no longer. The tragic events of the 30 months of vital turmoil through which we have just passed have made us citizens of the world. There can be no turning back. ~ Woodrow Wilson

A man will teach his wife what is needed to arouse his desires. And there is no reason for a woman to know any more than what her husband is prepared to teach her. If she gets married knowing far too much about what she wants and doesn't want then she will be ready to find fault with her husband. ~ Barbara Cartland

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that gray vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.

First, there was the heaving oil,
heavy as chaos;
then, likea light at the end of a tunnel,

the lantern of a caravel,
and that was Genesis.
Then there were the packed cries,
the shit, the moaning:

Exodus.
Bone soldered by coral to bone,
mosaics
mantled by the benediction of the shark's shadow,

that was the Ark of the Covenant.
Then came from the plucked wires
of sunlight on the sea floor

the plangent harp of the Babylonian bondage,
as the white cowries clustered like manacles
on the drowned women,

and those were the ivory bracelets
of the Song of Solomon,
but the ocean kept turning blank pages

looking for History.
Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors
who sank without tombs,

brigands who barbecued cattle,
leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore,
then the foaming, rabid maw

of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal,
and that was Jonah,
but where is your Renaissance?

Sir, it is locked in them sea sands
out there past the reef's moiling shelf,
where the men-o'-war floated down;

strop on these goggles, I'll guide you there myself.
It's all subtle and sub ~ Derek Walcott

destruction. Turning to God can save your life, but, in the process, it can annihilate your soul. ~ Zia Haider Rahman