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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #luc
<…>"You're part-goof all class. Never walked in a room, any room, with a woman on my arm, any woman, who's got your looks, your style, the kinda beauty you got and the light that shines from you. So I don't get it. I don't get how a woman leads a life full of shit and comes out of it bein' part-goof and all class. That shit's impossible but there you fuckin' are. Part-goof, all class." I felt my breath coming fast but managed to whisper, "I'm not part-goof." "You're right. I was bein' nice. You're a total goof." "Am not" "Babe, you call me 'hubby'," he pointed out but my breath came faster because he called me "babe" again. "You are my hubby." "No one says hubby," he told me. "I do," I told him. "All right, I'll rephrase. No one but a goof says hubby."….<…> ↗
Sometimes, I have to look twice at you just to see if you’re actually real. That much beauty is dangerous. ↗
She heard him close the door. “I was going to impress you with my romantic eloquence, of course. I’d thought to wax philosophical about the beauty of your brow.” Lucy blinked. “My brow?” “Mmm. Have I told you that your brow intimidates me?” She felt his warmth at her back as he moved behind her, but he didn’t touch her. “It’s so smooth and white and broad, and ends with your straight, knowing eyebrows, like a statue of Athena pronouncing judgment. If the warrior goddess had a brow like yours, it is no wonder the ancients worshiped and feared her.” “Blather,” she murmured. “Blather, indeed. Blather is all I am, after all.” She frowned and turned to contradict him, but he moved with her so that she couldn’t quite catch sight of his face. “I am the duke of nonsense,” he whispered in her ear. “The king of farce, the emperor of emptiness.” Did he really see himself so? “But—” “Blathering is what I do best,” he said, still unseen. “I’d like to blather about your golden eyes and ruby lips.” “Simon—” “The perfect curve of your cheek,” he murmured close. She gasped as his breath stirred the hair at her neck. He was distracting her with lovemaking. And it was working. “What a lot of talk.” “I do talk too much. It’s a weakness you’ll have to bear in your husband.” His voice was next to her ear. “But I’d have to spend quite a bit of time outlining the shape of your mouth, its softness and the warmth within. -Simon to Lucy on their wedding night. ↗
Amid the worry of a self- condemnatory soliloquy, his demeanour seemed grave, perhaps cold, both to me and his mother. And yet there was no bad feeling, no malice, no rancour, no littleness in his countenance, beautiful with a man's best beauty, even in its depression. When I placed his chair at the table, which I hastened to do, anticipating the servant, and when I handed him his tea, which I did with trembling care, he said: "Thank you, Lucy," in as kindly a tone of his full pleasant voice as ever my ear welcomed. ↗
For the few months that I was living vicariously through wine I came to the conclusion that what my heart desired reflected it’s damage; that I’m too spoiled to be eaten, I can’t live with not knowing how strange tongues taste, And that sometimes we’re all a kind of mosaic of feeling. There was one night in particular: Outside, I lit my cigarette and cuddled with it. You stood up with your back against the hard light that gave you the halo of a pseudo angel and Whisked me up like I was broken. I wasn’t. Was I to feel that in your touch I was but a million little pieces? Is that what you wanted? Were your weird intentions golden? The wine did the talking when I couldn’t say how much I didn’t understand your inner workings Perchance you’d try to explain. This was the same night the clock broke after I finally coughed out my distain for Your laziness, your lack of responsibility, your growing pains (even though you weren’t growing) and I think you kissed me to shut me up (even though the wine said it was love). I froze for a while. In time’s absence I studied you instead of my books. Each advancement in knowing you an even bigger advancement in the theory that I had That you were the opposite of beautiful. We are the artists of our mosaics. We choose its pallet and if your heart screams red, then blues and yellows will become the peripheries. You were muted with the desire for playing with the Colours you couldn’t make. The wine made me realize that what was broken didn’t require your mending that wine was the only way you could be anything but cowardly. ↗
The question is, did you get your life-changing experience?" Amy looked at Matt and smiled. "I did." Matt's entire heart turned over in his chest. "Damn," he said, pulling her in. "Damn, I love you." "Watch the arm!" Josh warned. "He's not watching that arm," Ty said as Matt kissed Amy again. ↗
Even you, the professional helper, often mistaken for the enlightened Guru or Staretz, can become lost in your thoughts that you must be competent without fault. You may become enthralled with your identity as a professional, even the pressures of the culture of mastery that expects you to heal your clients without fail. Never mind all of the variables over which you have no control, it is up to you, according to the canons of mastery, to control the health and well-being of those for whom you provide professional care. This potentiates a furthering alienation between you and your clients. You are at risk to become, if you have not already, the one who does to your clients; to be the one the active subject acting upon the passive and receptive objects, your clients; to be the one in possession of special knowledge, technique and mastery. All of this conspires to coax or coerce you into treating your client as reduced, a mere case. Unawareness to these influences gives you little chance to consider their influence on your practice in the clinical setting, much less give attentive efforts to resist or change them. ↗
#dbt #dialectical-behavior-therapy #luce-irigaray #mastery #mental-health
So sweet is this song that no one could resist it. For in it is all the passionate ache for the moonlight, and the great hunger of the sea, and the terror of desolate places,—all things that lure men to the unattainable. Omari tessala marax, tessala dodi phornepax amri radara poliax armana piliu amri radara piliu son; mari narya barbiton madara anaphax sarpedon andala hriliu Translation: I am the harlot that shaketh Death. This shaking giveth the Peace of Satiate Lust. Immortality jetteth from my skull, And music from my vulva. Immortality jetteth from my vulva also, For my Whoredom is a sweet scent like a seven-stringed instrument, Played unto God the Invisible, the all-ruler, That goeth along giving the shrill scream of orgasm. Every man that hath seen me forgetteth me never, and I appear oftentimes in the coals of the fire, and upon the smooth white skin of woman, and in the constancy of the waterfall, and in the emptiness of deserts and marshes, and upon great cliffs that look seaward; and in many strange places, where men seek me not. And many thousand times he beholdeth me not. And at last I smite myself into him as a vision smiteth into a stone, and whom I call must follow. ↗
<…>When I was done speaking I felt his body had gone still again, stone still. And silent. Then he asked quietly, "Nightmare?" "Nightmare," I replied firmly. Ty didn't move. By a miracle, I held it together. Then he moved but it was to rest his chin on my shoulder and I closed my eyes because I needed him to go, go, go so I could fall apart again on my own. Then he said, "Your nightmare, mama, was my dream." My heart clenched. He kept going. "Never had a home until you gave me one." My breath started sticking. "Never had anyone give to me the way you gave to me." My breath stopped sticking and clogged. "Never thought of findin' a woman who I wanted to have my baby." Oh God. "Never had light in my life, never, not once, I lived wild but I didn't burn bright until you shined your light on me." Oh God. "Whacked, fuckin' insane, but, at night, you curled in front of me, didn't mind I did that time that wasn't mine 'cause it meant I walked out to you." He had to stop. He had to. He didn't. "Your nightmare," he whispered, turned his head and against my neck he finished, "my dream."<…> ↗
