Most people are like sheep. Nice, harmless creatures who want nothing more than to be left alone so they can graze. But then of course there are wolves. Who want nothing more than to eat the sheep. But there's a third kind of person. The sheepdog. Sheepdogs have fangs like wolves. But their instinct isn't predation. It's protection. All they want, what they live for, is to protect the flock.
It's a strange thing, having a child," he said. It completely alters your most fundamental priorities. When my eldest daughter was born, I realized that I would do anything - anything - to protect her. If I had to set myself on fire to save her from something, I would do it with the utmost relief and gratitude. It's quite a thing, quite a privilege, to care about someone so much that the measure of worth of your own life is changed so much...
She remembered something her mother had told her when she was a teenager: "The boy you date is different from the boy you're engaged to, the boy you're engaged to is different from the man you marry, the man you marry is different from the father of your children." She might have added, "And your ex-husband is going to be different than all of them, too."
People have rituals for communing with the dead, rituals that depend more on the idiosyncrasies of the individual than on the influence of culture. Some visit gravesites. Some talk to portraits, or mantelpiece urns. Some go to spots favored by the deceased during life, or mouth silent prayers in houses of worship, or have trees planted in memory in some far-off land. The common denominator, of course, is a sense beyond logic that the dead a..
In my unpleasant experience, unarmed against a knife, you've basically got four options. Your best bet is to run like hell, if you can. Next best is to do something immediately that prevents the attack from getting started. Third is to create distance so you can deploy a longer-range weapon. Fourth is to go berserk and hope not to get fatally cut going through and over your attacker. I don't care how much training you've had, these are your..
The person who returns from living abroad isn't the same person who left originally... Your outlook changes. You don't take things for granted that you used to. For instance, I noticed in New York that when one cab cut off another, the driver who got cut off would always yell at the other driver... and I realized this was because Americans assume that the other person intended to do what he did, so they want to teach the person a lesson. Bu..
It's funny to consider how important things like that felt to me then. Proving people wrong. Fighting stupidity. Wanting formal recognition. It took me a long time to learn that proving people wrong is purposeless, fighting stupidity is futile, and formal recognition prevents people from underestimating you--and thereby from ceding to you surprise and other tactical advantages.
Sometimes I think the urge to believe in our own worldview is our most powerful intellectual imperative, the mind's equivalent of feeding, fighting, and fornicating. People will eagerly twist facts into wholly unrecognizable shapes to fit them into existing suppositions. They'll ignore the obvious, select the irrelevant, and spin it all into a tapestry of self-deception, solely to justify an idea, no matter how impoverished or self-destruct..
Prepping people to believe something was the hard part. Once the framework was established, they became eager to fill in the details themselves, and could be counted on to do so even if those details made little sense. Remar
But it's like swimming underwater, you know? At first you feel as though you could go along forever, seeing everything from this new perspective, but eventually you have to come up for air.
E acabei por ir a casa dela para lhe configurar o sistema todo. -- Harry, <>? -- perguntei, arregalando os olhos e fingindo-me pasmado. Baixou o olhar, mas nao conseguiu esconder um sorriso. -- Tu percebeste. -- Nao vais... penetrar as segurancas dela, pois nao? -- perguntei, incapaz de resistir.
It took me a long time to learn that proving people wrong is purposeless, fighting stupidity is futile, and formal recognition prevents people from underestimating you--and thereby from ceding to you surprise and other tactical advantages.
I didn't say, "I'll call you." I didn't hug her because of the wet clothes. Just a quick kiss. Then I turned and left. I made my way quietly down the hallway to the stairwell. I could tell she thought she wasn't going to see me again. I had to admit she might be right. The knowledge was as damp and dispiriting as my sodden clothes. I came to the first floor and looked out at the entranceway of the building. For a second I pictured the way s..
If I have to err, it's on the side of assuming the worst. This way, if I'm wrong, I can always apologize. Or send flowers. You err on the other side, the flowers will be coming to you.
I looked out at the street beyond the overhang. The rain was coming in at gray angled streaks. One of my hands moved to her cheek. I closed my eyes. Her skin was wet from the rain and I thought of tears.
And I resented you for that," she went on, "because I've always believed hate is such an unworthy emotion. So weak and ultimately pointless." I marveled briefly at how innocent a life someone would have to have led for such a philosophy to emerge credible and intact, and for a second I loved her for it."
killing is the ultimate expression of hatred and fear, as sex is the ultimate expression of romantic love and desire. And, as with sex, killing a stranger who has otherwise provoked no emotion is inherently unnatural. I suppose you could say that a man who kills a stranger is not unlike a woman who has sex under analogous circumstances. That a man who is paid to kill is like a woman who is paid to fuck. Certainly the man is subject to the s..
Fat droplets of rain started spattering against the city's concrete skin, against the glass windows of its eyes. A few people with umbrellas opened them. The rest ran for cover. I walked on, through it all. I tried to think of it as a baptism, a new beginning. Maybe it was. But what a lonely resurrection.
There are different kinds of truths for different kinds of people. There are truths appropriate for children; truths that are appropriate for students; truths that are appropriate for educated adults; and truths that are appropriate for highly educated adults, and the notion that there should be one set of truths available to everyone is a modern democratic fallacy. It doesn't work. --Irving Kristol
We could go from bliss and harmony to anger and recriminations as fast and with as little warning as a tropical storm. What made it bearable, what made it good, was that the foul weather would pass with equal suddenness, usually leaving something glorious in its wake.
Think about it. Ever look in a closet or under the bed, when you're alone in the house, to ensure an intruder isn't hiding there? Now, if you really believed the Man in the Black Ski Mask was lurking in those places, would you behave the same way? Of course not. But it's more comfortable to believe the danger only in the abstract, and to act on it only halfheartedly. That's denial.
He was blushing. Christ, the kid was so transparent. "Harry, are you going to tell me you've got a girlfriend?" I asked. The blush deepened, and I laughed. "I'll be damned," I said. "Good for you." He looked at me, checking to see whether I was going to tease him. "She's not exactly my girlfriend." "Well, never mind the taxonomy. How did you meet her?" "Work."
If there's one lesson I learned early on during the decades I've spent in this business, it's that of all the qualities that distinguish a hard target from everyone else, among the most important is self-control. Yes, you have to be able to think like the opposition, which enables you to spot the ambush. And yes, you have to be able to take immediate, violent action in case--oops--your ability to spot the ambush fails. And yes, sentiment is..
Relax," he said again, probably reading my thoughts from my expression. "I'll get you the other file." I considered telling him what would happen if he didn't, but recognized that doing so would have been childish, the product of ego. Worse, because he already knew what would happen, verbalizing it could only serve to dilute the strength of the threat. Because why would anyone waste breath describing what was already axiomatic? I didn't rea..
Gercek suydu ki, kotu anilar asla silinmiyordu. Hayir, en fazla duraksiyorlardi; acilmayi bekleyen bir kutunun icinde bekler gibi duruyor, Bizi ozledin mi? Merak etme, hala buradayiz! Ve hicbir yere gitmiyoruz! diyorlardi.
Benimle ilgili hicbir sey bilmiyorsun. - Seninle ilgili bircok sey biliyorum. Benim isim insanlarla ilgili bir seyler ogrenmek. + Oyle mi? Ne biliyorsun? - Senin kadar guzel bir kadinin bir iliskisi olmadiginda, bunun sebebinin kimseyle tanismamasi olmadigini biliyorum. Sebebi istememesidir. Sarah, oturusunu degistirme arzusuna karsi gelerek, ''Ve neden istemiyor musum?'' diye sordu. ''Bircok sebepten. Ofise bu sabah kacta geldin? Yedide mi..
Sometimes I go to her Facebook page. It's silly, I know. Pathetic. And every time I do, I promise myself next time I'll be stronger. I don't even know what impels me. Why are the most painful memories also the sweetest; why does the sweetness always draw us back no matter how long the pain might have kept us away beforehand? I don't know, any more than I know why sometimes I have to sit in the dark and listen to Terumasa Hino playing "Alone..
Is she your first girlfriend?" I asked, my tone gentle. "I told you, she's not really my girlfriend," he said, ducking the question. "If she's occupying enough of your attention to keep you in bed until the sun sets, I feel safe using the word as shorthand."
after our split, I wanted to believe that whatever had been between us was unique, that it could never happen again. Because if it was exceptional, it must be an exception, maybe even the exception that proved the rule. And the rule was that I would always be alone, and could never trust anyone.
I have no patience for anyone who enjoys meat but moans about slaughterhouses, who wears cheap clothes but deplores sweatshops, who weeps about climate change from behind the wheel of an SUV or from the window seat of an airplane.
Some vicious thing inside me stirred. I felt it in my gut, the back of my neck, my hands. I thought of Musashi, the master swordsman, who wrote, You must think of neither victory nor of defeat, but only of cutting and killing your enemy.
Now death was a place, a place to which people disappeared forever when they died, a place that gradually sucked away the clarity of memory afterward for a similar one-way journey.