It doesn’t matter where you come from. There’s nothing you can do about it, so don’t waste energy thinking about it. what matters is where you are going.
As of May 25, 2018, Susanna’s line on this page is outdated: with the repeal of the eighth amendment to the Irish constitution, pregnant women will have the legal right to give or refuse consent to medical treatment.
Once you’re stuck with something, all you can do is make the best of it.
Where I’m seeing a dead end, he’s seeing a brilliant new twist to his amazing story. I wish I could take my holidays inside Steve’s head.
My mind is done for the night, shorted out; there’s nothing left but a dial tone.
I was twelve, after all, an age at which kids are bewildered and amorphous, transforming overnight, no matter how stable their lives are;.
This is the truth of bombed-out ruins: hit a city hard enough and the cheap arrogant veneer will crumble faster than you can snap your fingers; it’s the old stuff, the stuff that’s endured, that might just keep enduring. I.
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
A Retir’d Friendship Here let us sit and bless our Starres Who did such happy quiet give, As that remov’d from noise of warres. In one another’s hearts we live. Why should we entertain a feare? Love cares not how the world is turn’d. If crouds of dangers should appeare, Yet friendship can be unconcern’d. We weare about us such a charme, No horrour can be our offence; For mischief’s self can doe no harme To friendship and to innocence. Katherine Philips.
I’m not saying that owning a house makes life into some kind of blissful paradise; simply that it makes the difference between freedom and enslavement.
I thought of Mark’s reckless eyes – The only things I believe in are out on that there dig – and then of revolutionaries waving ragged, gallant banners, of refugees swimming swift nighttime currents; of all those who hold life so light, or the stakes so dear, that they can walk steady and open-eyed to meet the thing that will take or transform their lives and whose high cold criteria are far beyond our understanding.
If it was true. This case was jammed with lies, couldn’t grab hold of it without getting a handful.
Dublin was built for pedestrians and carriages, not for cars; it’s full of tiny winding medieval streets, rush hour lasts from seven in the morning till eight at night, and at the first hint of bad weather the whole city goes into prompt, thorough gridlock.
I tell you that was nothing, nothing at all, beside the power of putting your lives, simply and daily, into each other’s hands.
If you need a few tips on coping, ask me now.
I wish I could show you how an interrogation can have its own beauty, shining and cruel as that of a bullfight; how in defiance of the crudest topic or the most moronic suspect it keeps inviolate its own taut, honed grace, its own irresistible and blood-stirring rhythms; how the great pairs of detectives know each other’s every thought as surely as lifelong ballet partners.
In the hazy afternoon light through the windows he looked beautiful and dissolute, shirt open at the collar and streaks of golden hair falling into his eyes, like some Regency buck after a long night’s dancing.
There’s absolutely no evidence to indicate that. There never is. Homicidal satanic cults are the detective’s version of yetis; no one has ever seen one and there is no proof that they exist, but one big blurry footprint and the media turn into a gibbering, foaming pack, so we have to act as though we take the idea at least semi-seriously.
Boyle is a round, pancake-faced little oddball who gives you the impression that he has a room at home packed with disturbing magazines, neatly alphabetized, but he runs a scene impeccably.
Various therapists and psychiatrists have diagnosed various things along the way, but what it comes down to is that Dina is no good at life. It takes a knack that she’s never quite got hold of.