Suzanne Woods Fisher · 198 pages
Rating: (2.4K votes)
“When did wishing someone a Merry Christmas become politically incorrect?”
“Poor communication doesn't disconnet souls. It's the disconnected souls who poorly communicate.”
“But love is so much more than words.”
“It can be hard to say important things to the person in our life who matters the most.”
“Things can get good again. Even things like a marriage.”
“Better to stop one paddle short than one too far.”
“I love a man with dishpan hands!”
“but I believe that pain can be the most important tool in a person’s life. It forces a person to pay attention to something that needs to be changed.”
“I know I’m old school, but I believe that pain can be the most important tool in a person’s life. It forces a person to pay attention to something that needs to be changed. I worry that drugs like sleeping pills mask pain just enough that the real root of the problem gets buried, deeper and deeper. A problem—even something like grief—just doesn’t go away until it’s dealt with.”
“The days available to say a kind word to someone this year are rapidly drawing to a close. Lord God, teach us to be kind.”
“love—it isn’t going to come true. Not today, maybe not ever. Sometimes, we want more from people than they can give us. They simply don’t have it to give.”
“God never promised us a life without pain or suffering, Jaime. He’s promised to never leave us in the midst of that pain. He promised to bring purpose out of that pain. Emmanuel, God is with us. That was the name given to Jesus. Emmanuel.”
“Esto es lo que me pasó a mí. Pensé que tenía normas. Yo creía en mis absolutos. Lo hice para la mayoría de las situaciones. Entonces no lo hice. Conforme pasó el tiempo, mi mundo se volvió gris y mis absolutos se oscurecieron. El bien y el mal se
disolvieron en lo que sabía que tenía que hacer.”
“Are you aware, Mr Mayor, then when casually scrying the streets of London, you stand out like a giraffe on roller skates, yes?”
“Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas?
How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?”
“We were watching a sitcom, I don't remember which. There were many of them at the time that all could be lumped together under the title of Funny Minority and the White Guy.”
“He imagined a town called A. Around the communal fire they’re shaping arrowheads and carving tributes o the god of the hunt. One day some guys with spears come over the ridge, perform all kinds of meanness, take over, and the new guys rename the town B. Whereupon they hang around the communal fire sharpening arrowheads and carving tributes to the god of the hunt. Some climatic tragedy occurs — not carving the correct tributary figurines probably — and the people of B move farther south, where word is there’s good fishing, at least according to those who wander to B just before being cooked for dinner. Another tribe of unlucky souls stops for the night in the emptied village, looks around at the natural defenses provided by the landscape, and decides to stay awhile. It’s a while lot better than their last digs — what with the lack of roving tigers and such — plus it comes with all the original fixtures. they call the place C, after their elder, who has learned that pretending to talk to spirits is a fun gag that gets you stuff. Time passes. More invasions, more recaptures, D, E, F, and G. H stands as it is for a while. That ridge provides some protection from the spring floods, and if you keep a sentry up there you can see the enemy coming for miles. Who wouldn’t want to park themselves in that real estate? The citizens of H leave behind cool totems eventually toppled by the people of I, whose lack of aesthetic sense if made up for by military acumen. J, K, L, adventures in thatched roofing, some guys with funny religions from the eastern plains, long-haired freaks from colder climes, the town is burned to the ground and rebuilt by still more fugitives. This is the march of history. And conquest and false hope. M falls to plague, N to natural disaster — same climatic tragedy as before, apparently it’s cyclical. Mineral wealth makes it happen for the O people, and the P people are renowned for their basket weaving. No one ever — ever — mentions Q. The dictator names the city after himself; his name starts with the letter R. When the socialists come to power they spend a lot of time painting over his face, which is everywhere. They don’t last. Nobody lasts because there’s always somebody else. They all thought they owned it because they named it and that was their undoing. They should have kept the place nameless. They should have been glad for their good fortune, and left it at that. X, Y, Z.”
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