But I have discovered something about modest people. They're just waiting for the call. Then they are the first over the wall and into the temple.
But I have discovered something about modest people. They're just waiting for the call. Then they are the first over the wall and into the temple.
You think you're safe. Until you see a picture like that. And then you know you'll always be a slave to the present because the present is more powerful than the past, no matter how long ago the present happened.
Do you think there's such a thing as a ghost who masquerades as a person? Do you believe that there are people whose bodies are still alive here on earth but whose souls are already in hell?
For once, Frances is stripped of irony. She is in the presence of something bigger--namely Herself. Or at least the self implied by her new body. This is how the Blessed Virgin visits us. She inhabits our own flesh and makes love out of it. Nothing is ironic in the moment of first love. And Frances is in love. With her body, and what it is bringing forth.
Having experienced her own disappearance, she is conscious of how important it is for people to be seen, so when she looks at them --even the blind one--she also looks for them, just in case they too have got lost and need finding.
He thought his heart would kill him, he'd had no clue what it was capable of.
He would have enough money...for a family that would fill his house with beautiful music and the silence of good books.
It's his last thrill and his last sting of love, as fresh and painful as youth transplanted over time and an ocean. There is nothing left for him now except to die, but that will take a while because he is a creature of habit, and he has got into the habit of being alive.
It's important to attend funerals. It is important to view the body, they say, and to see it committed to earth or fire because unless you do that, the loved one dies for you again and again.
Lies like that are not a sin, they are a sacrifice.
Memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable.
My first advantage: I have everything. My second advantage: this is just another island. My third advantage: I am bigger than it all.
She is why purgatory was invented.
She's no lady. Her songs are all unbelievably unhappy or lewd. It's called Blues. She sings about sore feet, sexual relations, baked goods, killing your lover, being broke, men called Daddy, women who dress like men, working, praying for rain. Jail and trains. Whiskey and morphine. She tells stories between verses and everyone in the place shouts out how true it all is.
The thief you must fear the most is not the one who steals mere things.
An unhappily married woman is necessarily a bad cook.
The world should not be organized to require heroines, and when one is required but fails to appear, we should not judge.
As for sin. I honestly can't believe God is so bored or so lecherous as to care how close my body and its various parts get to someone else's various parts.
They are so young, they forget that the world is not as in love with them as they are.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories