Naturally, every one does not feel this equally strongly. Chesterton — The modern philosopher had told me again and again that I was in the right place, and I still felt depressed even in acquiescence. But I had heard that I was in the wrong place, and my soul sang for joy like a bird in spring.
Chesterton — I had tried to be happy by telling myself that man is an animal, like any other which sought its meat from God. But now I really was happy, for I had learnt that man is a monstrosity. I had been right in feeling all things as odd, for I myself was at once worse and better than all things. The modern philosopher had told me again and again that I was in the right place, and I had still felt depressed even in acquiescence. But I had heard that I was in the wrong place, and my soul sang for joy, like a bird in spring. The knowledge found out and illuminated forgotten chambers in the dark house of infancy.
I knew now why grass had always seemed to me as queer as the green beard of a giant, and why I could feel homesick at home. I held them responsible. By God, yes, I did. All of them — I held them personally and individually responsible — the polyestered Kiwanis boys, the merchants and the farmers, the pious churchgoers, the chatty housewives, the PTA and the Lions club and the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the fine outstanding gentry out at the country club.
Thomas M. Disch — Though opposition is a hopeless task, acquiescence would be worse. Chesterton — No one doubts that an ordinary man can get on with this world: but we demand not strength enough to get on with it, but strength enough to get it on. Can he hate it enough to change it, and yet love it enough to think it worth changing? Can he look up at its colossal good without once feeling acquiescence?
Can he look up at its colossal evil without once feeling despair? Can he, in short, be at once not only a pessimist and an optimist, but a fanatical pessimist and a fanatical optimist? Is he enough of a pagan to die for the world, and enough of a Christian to die to it? In this combination, I maintain, it is the rational optimist who fails, the irrational optimist who succeeds. He is ready to smash the whole universe for the sake of itself. Sample sentences: For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day.
I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome possession of me. If it was sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet. Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it. The husband is the head of the wife just in so far as he is to her what Christ is to the Church — read on — and give his life for her Eph. V, This headship, then, is most fully embodied not in the husband we should all wish to be but in him whose marriage is most like a crucifixion; whose wife receives most and gives least, is most unworthy of him, is — in her own mere nature — least lovable.
For the Church has not beauty but what the Bride-groom gives her; he does not find, but makes her, lovely. As Christ sees in the flawed, proud, fanatical or lukewarm Church on earth that Bride who will one day be without spot or wrinkle, and labours to produce the latter, so the husband whose headship is Christ-like and he is allowed no other sort never despairs. He is a King Cophetua who after twenty years still hopes that the beggar-girl will one day learn to speak the truth and wash behind her ears.
Why do you want a letter from me? You take time to learn technical terms about electricity. Why do you accept mildewed old heresies as the language of the church, when any handbook on church history will tell you where they came from? You would be ashamed to know as little about internal combustion as you know about Christian beliefs.
I admit, you can practice Christianity without knowing much theology, just as you can drive a car without knowing much about internal combustion. But when something breaks down in the car, you go humbly to the man who understands the works; whereas if something goes wrong with religion, you merely throw the works away and tell the theologian he is a liar.
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Why do you want a letter from me telling you about God? Go away and do some work and let me get on with mine. Why should a man be scorned, if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it.
In using Escape in this way the critics have chosen the wrong word, and, what is more, they are confusing, not always by sincere error, the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter. The refusal to take sides on great moral issues is itself a decision. It is a silent acquiescence to evil. The Tragedy of our time is that those who still believe in honesty lack fire and conviction, while those who believe in dishonesty are full of passionate conviction.
As I go clowning my sentimental way into eternity, wrestling with all my problems of estrangement and communion, sincerity and simulation, ambition and acquiescence, I shuttle between worrying whether I matter at all and whether anything else matters but me. Take the time to make some sense for what you wanna say,And cast your words away upon the waves.
Sail them home with acquiesce on a ship of hope today,And as they land upon the shore,Tell them not to fear no more. That day, instead, I saw clearly the mothers of the old neighborhood.
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They were nervous, they were acquiescent. They were silent, with tight lips and stooping shoulders, or they yelled terrible insults at the children who harassed them. Extremely thin, with hollow eyes and cheeks, they lugged shopping bags and small children who clung to their skirts and wanted to be picked up.
And, good God, they were ten, at most twenty years older than me. Yet they appeared to have lost those feminine qualities that were so important to us girls and that we accentuated with clothes, with makeup. They had been consumed by the bodies of husbands, fathers, brothers, whom they ultimately came to resemble, because of their labors or the arrival of old age, of illness. When did that transformation begin? With housework? With pregnancies? This is the sweet boy she thought she loved as a child. He had smiled at her, exactly like that, the first day she met him and she felt her heart sing.
How foolish she had been. She has the bow that Katniss had so desperately wanted and she knocks an arrow and aims it at Katniss's head.
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She lets the arrow fly and it's so far off that Katniss doesn't even have to dodge away from it. She loads another arrow and it doesn't land any closer. Peeta steps away, his eyes looking off into the distance. Katniss follows his gaze along with the rest of the Careers. She has a better view than him up in the tree, but she doesn't see a thing. The District 11 Tribute was scored just as high as Cato, with a 10, making him high on the sponsors' lists as well as the Careers. Cato doesn't need anymore convincing and begins to run towards the cornucopia.
When the sound of their footsteps have faded, Peeta steps beside Glimmer at the base of the tree.
He takes the bow too. But he doesn't. His arms wrap around her and he pins her to the ground, jamming his forearm into her windpipe and blocking her screams with his hand. Katniss watches, holding her breath the entire time as if she were being strangled too. She lets out a whimper when Glimmer's limbs stop twitching. It's the only weapon she has, as useless as it may be to her in combat, and she hesitates.
His eyes are so serious that her fingers loosen around the blade, sending it flying to the forest floor. He uses it to slit Glimmer's throat. A cannon sounds. Then he turns the knife on himself, slashing it across his chest. He doesn't even flinch when the blade pierces his flesh. Before she can fully comprehend what has happened, he drops the knife and runs away, leaving the bow and arrow behind. She thinks about this all through the night, trying to figure out what it means. It would have been so easy to kill her.
He still would have gotten away with offing Glimmer, too, and have blamed it on Katniss if he had wanted. It was for the ointment, she decides. Her one reprieve for being kind to him when he was alone and bleeding in the meadow. The image of the knife scraping across his chest burns in her memory.
It was as if he didn't even feel it. She gathers herbs and creates a salve using one of her mother's recipes to treat the burn on her leg. Then she gathers the arrows that Glimmer had shot at her and arranges her weapons. She won't make the same mistake she made during her skills presentation. She selects a few targets and practices with the bow until its an extension of her own arm. She doesn't know how much time has passed. Maybe a week. She can't even remember how many tributes are left. She's not sure if she wants to know. She's still alive, though. She's surviving. With her arrows, she eats well.
She can shoot the animals on sight instead of waiting for the vermin to wander into her traps, which means she has protein every night now. She's just pulled an arrow from a rabbit's eye when a spear whizzes past her head. Blindly, she loads the arrow into her bow and shoots. It pierces the heart of the District 1 male, and he falls, lifelessly, to the forest floor.
There's another sound - too loud to be a cannon.
Acquiesce, Chapter 04, Page 24 (#0106)
Flames rise above the tree line in the direction of the cornucopia, and smoke bellows high into the sky. Katniss thinks the Gamemakers have set the arena on fire again, but then Peeta comes barreling through the trees, holding his thigh and limping as if he's been injured recently. She scoops up her bow and follows after him. She doesn't know if Cato's on his tail, and she doesn't want to wait around to find out.
They've only made it about a quarter of a mile before he's walking impossibly slow. The cut in his leg is deep and the leg of his pants has been stained a deep, dark red. She could kill him easily if she wanted to, or at least leave him and let another tribute pick him off like easy prey. She looks at Peeta, bracing himself against a tree and wincing from the pain. She holds his gaze through his heavy eyelids. He could have killed her before, but he didn't. He didn't even leave her to die, he left her with her weapon of choice.
She doesn't care what debt he thinks he repaid, she can't let him die. Not right now. She pins his soiled pants between some rocks to wash away the blood, and applies some of her burn salve to the wound to help flush it. He needs stitches, badly, but she has nothing in her supplies that could act as a needle and thread. She's trying to think up a paste she could use as an adhesive, when his hand touches her cheek, forcing her to look at him. His smile lingers and he looks at her lips. His eyes meet hers and he lifts his eyebrows expectantly, before his gaze is on her mouth again.
He wants to kiss her? She holds her breath and leans in closer. This will save him, if he gets the supplies he needs, and she owes that to him.
He saved her. She wants to save him. She wants to kiss him. His lips are soft and warm and her breath hitches when his fingers tangle into her braid to deepen the kiss.
They break the kiss as the parachute comes into view, gliding swiftly into her hands. She opens the hatch. She's seen her mother stitch up patients a thousand times, but she's never done it herself. She tries a few stitches until she thinks she has the hang of it and soon the wound is closed. She applies some more salve, and rips away the bottom of one of his pant legs to use as a bandage. She could leave him now. He couldn't climb a tree even before he injured his leg, and he's only going to slow her down from now on. She's stopped him from dying too, so she can erase that from her conscience.
As long as she's with him, though, she has sponsors. She hasn't needed them yet, but as the Games go on, even the smallest thing, like a loaf of bread can be an exorbitant fee. The sky has grown dark, even though it's early in the afternoon. A storm has gathered and a bolt of lightening strikes the tree beside them, charring and smoking the higher branches in its wake.
If this storm doesn't pass before nightfall, she won't have a place to sleep tonight. Not safely, at least. This storm isn't natural, nothing in the arena is. The sponsors are probably excited about her apparent reunion with Peeta and are paying big bucks to give them some time alone. No doubt, for as long as this storm lasts, they will be the only tributes featured on the live feed.
A rock slide has closed off most of the opening, which will give them decent cover. Already, his leg has improved, and although he walks with a slight gait, she doesn't have to drag him, as she did before. The Careers had claimed the cornucopia when the Games first began, including all the food and supplies. They couldn't have eaten it all already. She should kill him right now.
The storm will end and she'll sit in a tree and she'll pick off the last tributes until the Games are done. He's still trying to kill her, she has to remind herself again and again. Only one of them will make it out of this arena alive. She unrolls her sleeping bag and lets him crawl in with her, zipping up the side to keep in their warmth. When she's pressed against his chest she inhales his scent. It would be impossible, after the number of days they've been in the arena for this to be true, but she swears, he smells like cinnamon.
Two cannons sound, but the rain doesn't end. The animals in the area have probably all moved to higher ground, well outside the radius of the cave, and when Katniss sorts through their rations - a rabbit leg, a pouch of dried fruit, and a handful of nuts, she knows they'll have to find another source for food soon. The only benefit of the storm, is the time that allows for Peeta's leg to heal.
He's still sore, preferring to sit most of the day with his leg propped, but his wound isn't infected, as she had feared, and there isn't much to do in the cave anyway. Recognition flickers across his face. He looks at her mouth and she waits for him to kiss her. He hums an approving sound then pulls her into his lap. It still surprises her, the feel of his lips against hers. She's kissed boys before, at parties behind the slag heap when she'd sipped on too much white liquor, but it never felt like this. She never liked it this much. She tries not to appear too eager, stilling her hand when her fingers touch his hair.
Clenching her jaw to keep her mouth from opening too wide. Several minutes pass without a parachute appearing. Perhaps the Capitol isn't infatuated with their love affair as she had thought. She touches her swollen lips shyly, and distances herself as far as the small confounds of the cave will allow. The sponsors may be looking for more, and Peeta is a far better storyteller than she is. Her mother was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. I didn't think it was possible for anyone to be prettier than you.
She narrows her eyes and tries to mask her surprise at his words. The story rolls off his tongue far too easily to be a work of fiction. She shakes her head. The title is too big of a burden, one she does not deserve. It's only a game, she has to remind herself. A game that Peeta excels at. She watched him mercilessly strangle the girl from District One then slit her throat. He looks away. She moves to sit beside him, and her hand touches the place on his shoulder where he was bleeding when she found him all those years ago in the meadow.
He flinches like the wound is still fresh and shakes her away. He's crying. Large, hot tears flowing down his cheeks. I could never deserve you. She doesn't want him to think like that. He can't think that. Peeta Mellark is the most handsome boy she's ever known.
She's loved him since she was a child, from the first moment she saw him, because when he smiled, he touched something so deep and wonderful inside of her, her heart is still singing. Even now, after he's lied and manipulated and murdered to get to this place, her heart betrays her. She'll love him until she dies, there's no escaping it. She kisses away his doubts, her arms wrapping desperately around his neck to pull him closer. He hovers above her, the heavy weight of his body pinning her to the cave floor. His mouth leaves hers, lips seeking purchase on the sensitive spot of her throat, eliciting a gasp.
His hand is on her hip, then beneath her rib cage, then brushing over her breast. She keens and he pulls his hand away, but moments later his touch returns, massaging and coaxing her nipple between his fingers through her clothing. Her entire body aches for him. Every place his lips and fingers touch drawing new life. The buzzing between her legs can't be ignored a moment longer and she tightens her thighs around his hips, rocking against him to build the delicious friction.
She wants him so bad, she can't stand it. It's too much. Adversarial tribal politics is worse than useless when the main political blocs that should be capable of providing governance and a way out of this mess are irredeemably split. And the problem becomes even more intractable when a cabal of disaster capitalists is the tail wagging the dog of the current governing bloc, while the opposition bloc is being run by a clique of disaster socialists.
Brexit: MPs sink to a new collective low of incompetent acquiescence
Thank you. And I shocked myself by being vaguely reassured by John McDonnell, who appears to be tearing his hair out at the damaging antics of the clique surrounding Mr. Corbyn, threatening to go around the country listening to Labour MPs. How did we get to this point — Because Article 50 is flawed. Blaming the text of the article for the fact that it was invoked prematurely and with no plan is absurd. UK was perfectly free to discuss trade deals with other countries before invoking it but could not, of course, put them into effect while a member of the EU trade bloc. Giddens made us giddy with his status quo justifying hogwash.
As a consequence of Giddens, we have not had adversarial politics in this country since Tony Blair came on the scene and turned Labour into a Tory aping party, chasing swing voters and favouring market fundamentalism a la Clinton. Poor Labour. So hurt by their rejection by the population. They just gave up on us. And — with populism — policy is now guided by the myths and prejudices of the common man planted there by a generous fascist right and a few left wingers of course as our MPs seek to go into a popularity contest to satiate the demands of who exactly?
But if a society has been told year on year that the EU is a negative thing — what do you expect? Add that to anti-democracy attitudes on social media and you have a perfect storm of manufactured ignorance that is now biting the arse of the MPs. Talk about peeing in the wind! But that is a cheap shot. Truth be told our society has been malignly divided and conquered yet again. Because I realised that I have actually been wasting my time. Because I did not care enough or believe strongly enough in my values or my abilities, I did not stand for Parliament to make the country a better place to live.
And by doing that, I let too many below par, inferior people get voted in, in my place instead. And I also denied myself the opportunity to influence decision makers and power and to combat many of the really bad ideas that dominate this country. I have two children and I have to ask myself exactly what I have taught them by not doing more? How indeed have we reached this point? Through stupidity, fanaticism, cowardice, ignorance, incompetence, lying, complacency and arrogance, I suggest. The referendum was called by a complacent and arrogant PM who thought to silence the anti EU fanatics in the Tory party, and was so clueless about the effects of the austerity and inequality his neoliberal ideology had caused he never thought that a certain part of the electorate would use the vote as a protest.
Then, a cowardly Theresa May, totally unopposed by an incompetent Jeremy Corbyn, let herself be bullied by the fanatics of the ERG, and passed Article 50 before any proper planning. As you say Richard, I despair. And, with some honourable exceptions, the cowardice of moderate MPs who know full well how disastrous leaving the EU will be for the UK, but refuse to properly oppose it, continues. As the reputation and clout of Westminster inevitably continues to diminish due to this wretched debacle, I see that we are already losing influence in the world, with the recent court case at the International Court ruling against Britain in favour of the Chagos islanders, following a heavy defeat in the UN in due to EU countries and others that used to support the UK abstaining of voting against us.
Given the injustice done to the islanders by the UK, I suppose we can say every cloud has a silver lining! I despair of the situation too, but can I just point out that there is a logic to the three month extension. The EU Parliament sits a new session on 2nd of July and therefore a new deadline date can be set as 1 July.
I think the EU will grant the extension with provisos, however. If the WA is not agreed on that date then the EU close the book, hunker down and expect no-deal-Brexit. At the moment, and very sadly, I cannot see how a 2nd vote can be triggered. Govt seem to have blame all lined up ready for Brexiting or not, either will all be the fault of business or others, apparently, for not preparing. Is this the definitive vote we were supposed to have had in October…..
Normal rules do not apply but I also think we still expect them to.