Should the king in exile pretend he is happy there?Should he not seek his own country?His miseries are his ally; they urge him on. Let them grow, if need be. But do not forsake the secret of life; do not despise those kingly desires. We abandon the most important journey of our lives when we abandon desire. We leave our hearts by the side of the road and head off in the direction of fitting in, getting by, being productive, what have you. Whatever we might gain – money, position, the approval of others, or just absence of the discontent self – it’s not worth it.

The snag in this business of falling in love, aged relative, is that the parties of the first part so often get mixed up with the wrong parties of the second part, robbed of their cooler judgement by the party of the second part's glamour. Put it like this: the male sex is divided into rabbits and non-rabbits and the female sex into dashers and dormice, and the trouble is that the male rabbit has a way of getting attracted by the female dasher (who would be fine for the non-rabbit) and realizing too late that he ought to have been concentrating on some mild, gentle dormouse with whom he could settle down peacefully and nibble lettuce.

Catherine," she exclaimed, embracing her, then standing back to view her with concern. "Why are you here? Is something wrong? Is everyone well?" "Your family is quite well," Catherine said hastily. "But there was…a situation. I had to leave." Her throat became very tight. Poppy looked at Leo with a frown. "Did you do something?" "Why do you ask that?" "Because if there is trouble of any kind, you're usually involved." "True. but this time I'm not the problem. I'm the solution." Harry approached them, his green eyes narrowed. "If you're the solution, Ramsay, I'm terrified to hear the problem."-Poppy, Catherine, Leo, & Harry

The trouble with most forms of transport, he thought, is basically one of them not being worth all the bother. On Earth — when there had been an Earth, before it was demolished to make way for a new hyperspace bypass — the problem had been with cars. The disadvantages involved in pulling lots of black sticky slime from out of the ground where it had been safely hidden out of harm's way, turning it into tar to cover the land with, smoke to fill the air with and pouring the rest into the sea, all seemed to outweigh the advantages of being able to get more quickly from one place to another — particularly when the place you arrived at had probably become, as a result of this, very similar to the place you had left, i.e. covered with tar, full of smoke and short of fish.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;Weep, and you weep alone;For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,But has trouble enough of its own.Sing, and the hills will answer;Sigh, it is lost on the air;The echoes bound to a joyful sound,But shrink from voicing care.Rejoice, and men will seek you;Grieve, and they turn and go;They want full measure of all your pleasure,But they do not need your woe.Be glad, and your friends are many;Be sad, and you lose them all,—There are none to decline your nectared wine,But alone you must drink life’s gall.Feast, and your halls are crowded;Fast, and the world goes by.Succeed and give, and it helps you live,But no man can help you die.There is room in the halls of pleasureFor a large and lordly train,But one by one we must all file onThrough the narrow aisles of pain.

I crawled back to bed, knowing I was done for. Hours later, the phone in our room started ringing. It was George. He was not happy."Room 312. Now!" he shouted.Bouldy got up. I tried to pull myself together, splashing my face with water and hauling on my shorts and flip flops. It was a lovely day outside, the sun was scorching hot and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, but it might as well have been a pissing wet morning in St Albans for all I cared. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach as we made the Walk of Death to Room 312, which I knew was Paul and Gus's room.When we walked in, I thought I'd arrived in downtown Baghdad. Water dripped from the ceiling. The board games were in pieces and all the plastic parts were scattered over the floor. The balcony window was wide open and I could see a bed upended by the pool outside.

The artist is often misunderstood because, stepping outside himself and holding most details in great tension, he's about as complex as a shape-shifter; or a head with faces on all sides, but not necessarily in the negative connotation as one being two-faced usually implies. For instance, to be misunderstood can mean to be improperly deemed a troublemaker when that is not one's true intent: you see, to troublemakers, the artist knows that the peacemaker may seem like a troublemaker; therefore he may, whether in honesty or in jest, at times, present himself as a troublemaker for perceptual, artistic flair. But then to the artless peacemakers, because of this they will interpret him as a troublemaker. This is why the artist has so few allies. To the troublemakers he's a troublemaker, yet still the peacemakers a troublemaker.

After six long hours of driving and three rest stops, Tiger pulls up to a snow-topped, metal speaker box just outside the State Penitentiary's first gate in Walla Walla. As he rolls down his window and snow flies in his face, Joshua starts begging for a Happy Meal.I turn around, snapping at him. "This ISN'T MCDONALDS and YOU AREN'T HUNGRY. NOW SHUT UP BRAT."A loud scratchy masculine voice blasts out of the speaker. "CAN I HELP YOU?"Tiger leans out the window, as he answers- We're here to visit Raven Chandler."HAVE YOU BEEN HERE BEFORE?""Yes sir. I've been here A LOT." "WHERE'S HIS MOTHER?""I don't know.. I haven't seen her in months.""NOT THE PRISONER'S MOTHER. THE BRAT IN THE BACK SEAT OF YOUR JEEP.""Oh- HIM-" As he turns, smiling and sticking his tongue out at Joshua, I lean towards his window to answer the guard's question. "SHE'S IN VEGAS, SIR. I'M BABYSITTING. HE'S MY GODSON." When the speaker remains disturbingly silent for far too long, I continue. "HE'S A GOOD BOY SIR. HE WON'T BE ANY TROUBLE- I SWEAR." "THAT'S RIGHT," Tiger said. "HE SWEARS ON THE LITTLE BRAT'S MOTHER'S GRAVE.

Kimmy, your papa has told you I'm not your uncle, has he not?" he asked the girl.Kimmy stared back at him with a quiet, solemn wisdom. "But you're my uncle because I picked you to be. But I understand you're upset with me and Mommy right now, 'cause you think we were mean to Daddy." She reached out to touch his cheek with her tiny hand. "I promise, we're gonna make Daddy very happy, though."His lips quirked sadly. Crowe realized that perhaps Kimmy was right, in some ways. Ivan had been furious since the night Kimmy had arrived."Yes, I know you make your papa very happy," he said softly. "And perhaps it's not so much anger I feel as it is jealousy, because my beautiful little girl no longer needs her papa.""All little girls need their daddy." Kimmy promised him then. "Just sometimes." She gave Crowe a very firm look before turning back to Ivan. "Our daddies just get silly and hurt our feelings really bad and don't know it. Did you hurt your little girl's feelings, Uncle Ivan?""I would hope I did not," he answered, almost amused."Well, I think you should ask her." Kimmy crossed her arms and stuck out one little sneaker-shod foot as she nodded wisely. "And just ask her nice, like you would ask her if she wanted ice cream. Maybe have ice cream when you ask her." She nodded again as she gave this advice.Ivan blinked back at her, then lifted his gaze to Crowe."You, my friend, are in so much trouble," he murmured.Kimmy turned back and flashed Crowe a grin so innocent he nearly winced.Oh Lord--"Yeah," he answered Ivan. "I am.""Come, little one." Focusing on Kimmy once more, he held out his hands. "You may call me Uncle Ivan then."An infectious giggle fell from her lips as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged with all the exuberance of an emotionally confident six-year-old."I didn't ask for permission, Uncle Ivan." She smacked a kiss to his cheek. "I already knew it was okay."Then she turned and bounced out of the room just as quickly.