88 Unforgettable Days Quotes — Niche Quotes 💬 (2023)

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People will walk in and walk out of your life, but the one whose footstep made a long lasting impression is the one you should never allow to walk out.

Michael Bassey Johnson

I think humans might be like butterflies; people die every day without many other people knowing about them, seeing their colors, hearing their stories... and when humans are broken, they're like broken butterfly wings; suddenly there are so many beauties that are seen in different ways, so many thoughts and visions and possibilities that form, which couldn't form when the person wasn't broken! So it is not a very sad thing to be broken, after all! It's during the times of being broken, that you have all the opportunities to become things unforgettable! Just like the broken butterfly wing that I found, which has given me so many thoughts, in so many ways, has shown me so many words, and imaginations! But butterflies need to know, that it doesn't matter at all if the whole world saw their colors or not! But what matters is that they flew, they glided, they hovered, they saw, they felt, and they knew! And they loved the ones whom they flew with! And that is an existence worthwhile!

C. JoyBell C.

Except for when I was very little and thought that being an "engineer" meant he drove a train. Then I imagined him in the seat of an engine car the color of coal, a string of shiny passenger cars trailing behind. One day my father laughed and corrected me. Everything snapped into focus. It's one of those unforgettable moments that happen as a child, when you discover that all along the world has been betraying you.

Nicole Krauss (The History of Love)

Ah, life's little surprises! They can make any day unforgettable... or make it your last.

T.A. Barron

You don’t go to Niagara Falls or the pyramids every day, but you remember them forever. That’s what I offer. An unforgettable night, and a taxi ride home.

J.D. Hawkins (Insatiable, Part One (Insatiable #1))

You accept that people are the way they are. There's nothing you can do about it, exceptlearn ways to minimize the damage they can do to you. It's like rain. We don't feel a need to forgivethe sky for raining on a day when we really wanted sunshine, do we? No. We might be upset anddisappointed, but the need to forgive never enters our mind.

Julie Ortolon (Unforgettable (Texas Heat Wave #3))

Let me begin with a heartfelt confession.I admit it. I am a biblioholic, one who loves books and whose life would seem incomplete without them. I am an addict, with a compulsive need to stop by nearly any bookstore I pass in order to get my fix. Books are an essential part of my life, the place where I have spent many unforgettable moments. For me, reading is one of the most enjoyable ways to pass a rainy afternoon or a leisurely summer day. I crave the knowledge and insights that truly great books bring into my life and can spend transported hours scouring used book stores for volumes which "I simply must have". I love the smell and feel of well-loved books and the look of a bookcase full of books waiting to be taken down and read.

Terry W. Glaspey (Book Lover's Guide to Great Reading: A Guided Tour of Classic & Contemporary Literature)

Your face is engraved in my mind. I can’t erase it. I don’t want to. Because as much as I hate you, I love you. And I love you unforgettably.

Richelle E. Goodrich (Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year)

The graveyard is not the final resting place of our dear departed but an ephemeral repository of their remains. The real graveyard, however, is somewhere deep in our heart, where we can always visit them at any time of the day, talk about some unforgettable summers, or cry in solitude as if they were always there for us to stay. And should our twilight come, when we can no longer see the light of the day, some people dear to us will build a graveyard in their hearts. They will let us stay for a while or perhaps longer, as long as they continue to remember, but it does not matter anymore. What is comforting to know, no matter how tragic or tranquil our death may be, somewhere somehow someone will always build a sublime place for us to stay. (Danny Castillones Sillada, The Graveyard In Our Heart)

Danny Castillones Sillada

I answered that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to write, nothing else but that, nothing. Jealous. She's jealous. No answer, just a quick glance immediately averted, a slight shrug, unforgettable. I'll be the first to leave. There are still a few years to wait before she loses me, loses this one of her children. For the sons there's nothing to fear. But this one, she knows, one day she'll go, she'll manage to escape.

Marguerite Duras (The Lover (The Lover, #1))

Was I happy after that? I think so. I experienced moments of pleasure, moments of unforgettable joy; I loved again and dreamed again like a wide-eyed boy. And yet I always felt there was something missing, something that left me somehow crippled, in short that I only every hovered on the fringes of happiness.

Yasmina Khadra (When the days owes the night)

I have nothing to complain of. For three days I have tramped the desert, have known the pangs of thirst, have followed false scents in the sand, have pinned my faith on the dew. I have struggled to rejoin my kind, whose very existence on earth I had forgotten. These are the cares of men alive in every fibre, and I cannot help thinking them more important than the fretful choosing of a night-club in which to spend the evening. Compare the one life with the other, and all things considered this is luxury! I have no regrets. I have gambled and lost. It was all in the day's work. At least I have had the unforgettable taste of the sea on my lips.I am not talking about living dangerously. Such words are meaningless to me. The toreador does not stir me to enthusiasm. It is not danger I love. I know what I love. It is life.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (Wind, Sand and Stars)

There will, one day, be an existence for us that will be the ultimate in reality and experience, and we can understand this truth only by faith. What we see by faith is true reality.

Joni Eareckson Tada (Joni: An Unforgettable Story)

when i go to bed i go to bed with the lights on"Every morning I look up at the moon and I thinkYou are a kiddie-pool and I will drown in you.I think about field trips and cold cuts.I think about dividends and other wordsI don’t understand. I make five hundredlunches in advance. I want to be prepared.I want new shoes. I want them to be waterproofand unforgettable. I want the kind of resumethat takes home all the prizes and a salarycommensurate with thunderstorms. I want to believethat there are people in this worldwhose lives are the size of houses and their billsare paid on time and when they see birds in the sky they thinkthat’s a nice thing to see. In my free time I clip couponsand put them in my wallet where I forgetto redeem them and this gnaws at meday in and day out and when I close my eyesI can feel my heart and it is trembling.

Sasha Fletcher

The Light in the Labyrinth is a beautifully written book, a gem. I savoured every word; words written with so much ‘colour’. Even though I know the story of Queen Anne Boleyn, Dunn’s perspective on her last days is missing in so many other books of the genre. Dunn gives grace to the history and an honest, and very compassionate look at Anne’s last days. I cried in the end, shedding tears for the young Kate, Anne and her little Bess. I have not yet read a Tudor book that has moved me to tears, as this wonderful journey does. Dunn’s dedication and research shines through in this unforgettable book, a book not just for young readers, but also for all.” — Lara Salzano, avid Tudor reader.

Wendy J. Dunn (The Light in the Labyrinth)

Life is an unforgettable journey. A journey where you plan things but the timings are planned by someone else. A journey where you set the goals but the day you achieve them are planned by the best of the planners. So we need to keep our dreams and passion alive. If they stay alive one day we will get them in the best of ways. Then when we will look back and search it will be revealed that every stupid move was a step forward, every tough time was a preparation and every delay was an attempt to fine tune the results.

Sameem ul Islam (A Beautiful Witch: Survival - Part 1)

While we took the children off to Disneyland. A visit to this magical kingdom should be a compulsory part of being an American---who else on earth would put so much ingenuity into simply having fun? The rides were fabulous: a real life pirate ship with real life pirates; a roller coaster that tppk you inside the Matterhorn (that was my favourite); and the Haunted House, with its flickering lights and a moving floor. By the end of the day, our feet were aching and our voices were hoarse, but it was well worth it. We all had a tremendous time !

Sallyann J. Murphey (The Metcalfe Family Album: The Unforgettable Saga of an American Family)

What is it I can do to repay you for your deeds?" He watched a sweet smile spread across her rosy lips, and in those unforgettably magical blue eyes, he caught a mischievous sparkle he'd not noticed before."I will think of something, Killian O'Brien. One day, I am certain, I will think of a way.

Leigh Ann Edwards (The Farrier's Daughter (Irish Witch #1))

Some people will tell you that Toronto, in the summer, is the nothing more than a cesspool of pollution, garbage, and the smells of a hundred ethnicities competing for top spot in a race won historically by curry, garlic, and the occasional cauldron of boiled cabbage. Take a walk down College Street West, Gerrard Street East, or the Danforth, and you'll see; then, they add—these people, complaining—that the stench is so pervasive, so incorrigible, nor merely for lack of wind, but for the ninety-nine percent humidity, which, after a rainstorm, adds an eradicable bottom-note of sweaty Birkenstocks and the organic tang of decaying plant life. This much is true; there is, however, more to the story. Take a walk down the same streets and you'll find racks of the most stunning saris—red with navy brocade, silver, canary, vermillion and chocolate; marts with lahsun and adrak, pyaz and pudina; windows of gelato, zeppole, tiramisu; dusty smoke shops with patio-bistros; you'll find dove-white statuary of Olympian goddesses, mobs in blue jerseys, primed for the World Cup—and more, still, the compulsory banter of couples who even after forty years can turn foul words into the bawdiest, more unforgettable laughter (and those are just the details). Beyond them is the container, the big canvas brushed with parks and valleys and the interminable shore; a backdrop of ferries and islands, gulls and clouds—sparkles of a million wave-tips as the sun decides which colours to leave on its journey to new days. No, Toronto, in the summer, is the most paradisiacal place in the world.

Kit Ingram (Paradise)

That's what coming face-to-face with six months in the woods will do to you: as soon as you realize you have the chance to be a different person, you become one. You can forget who you are. This is no accident when you've spent miles wondering, with every labored step, Who is this person who has decided to try this?--wondering who you are. You have nothing but time to answer the question, to give a new account of yourself. Your only witness might be a blanket of cool moss on a sunny day, or a panorama of endless mountains, or a young doe gazing by the Trail. You've yet to discover that the journey is the destination. So you lose yourself, then you find yourself again, farther along.

Winton Porter (Just Passin' Thru: A Vintage Store, the Appalachian Trail, and a Cast of Unforgettable Characters)

The story of Sisyphus is no different from what we have to go through every day of our lives. We wake up, toil during the day, come home eventide and rest only to begin toiling again the next day. The only difference is that we are mere mortals and one day, we will die. Death excuses us from our daily toils unlike Sisyphus who has to toil till eternity.

Nesta Jojoe Erskine (Unforgettable: Living a Life That Matters)

My day began with me feeling victorious. I feel powerful, blessed & loved. God is rock solid & steady, never waivering or slack in His promise. This day shall be amazing. Why? Because I said so. The words that flow from my mouth will accomplish that in which I sent it & will NOT return unto me void. Have an unforgettable, blessed day beautiful people : ) LK

LaNina King

Mosul, the native city of the historian Ibn al-Athir, was the capital of Jazira, or Mesopotamia, the fertile plain watered by the two great rivers Tigris and Euphrates. It was a political, cultural, and economic centre of prime importance. The Arabs boasted of its succulent fruit: its apples, pears, grapes, and pomegranates. The fine cloth it exported - called 'muslin', a word derived from the city's name - was known throughout the world. At the time of the arrival of the Franj, the people of the emir Karbuqa's realm were already exploiting another natural resource, which the traveller Ibn Jubayr was to describe with amazement a few dozen years later: deposits of naphtha. This precious dark liquid, which would one day make the fortune of this part of the world, already offered travellers an unforgettable spectacle.

Amin Maalouf (The Crusades Through Arab Eyes)

But Aiden wasn’t smiles and coyness. He didn’t know or care that he was unforgettable. He had a confidence that went deeper than that of a man who liked what he saw in the mirror; Aiden valued the skills he’d developed through hard work. He believed in every inch of himself. He cared about what he could do and pushed himself to be better than he was the day before, not any of the external crap so many other people valued so much.

Mariana Zapata (The Wall of Winnipeg and Me)

My time is limited. It is thence that one fine day, when all nature smiles and shines, the rack lets loose its black unforgettable cohorts and sweeps away the blue for ever. My situation is truly delicate. What fine things, what momentous things, i am going to miss through fear, fear of falling back into the old error, fear of not finishing in time, fear of revelling, for the last time, in a last outpouring of misery, impotence and hate. The forms are many in which the unchanging seeks relief from its formlessness.

Samuel Beckett (Malone Dies)

In the years since the disaster, I often think of my friend Arturo Nogueira, and the conversations we had in the mountains about God. Many of my fellow survivors say they felt the personal presence of God in the mountains. He mercifully allowed us to survive, they believe, in answer to our prayers, and they are certain it was His hand that led us home. I deeply respect the faith of my friends, but, to be honest, as hard as I prayed for a miracle in the Andes, I never felt the personal presence of God. At least, I did not feel God as most people see Him. I did feel something larger than myself, something in the mountains and the glaciers and the glowing sky that, in rare moments, reassured me, and made me feel that the world was orderly and loving and good. If this was God, it was not God as a being or a spirit or some omnipotent, superhuman mind. It was not a God who would choose to save us or abandon us, or change in any way. It was simply a silence, a wholeness, an awe-inspiring simplicity. It seemed to reach me through my own feelings of love, and I have often thought that when we feel what we call love, we are really feeling our connection to this awesome presence. I feel this presence still when my mind quiets and I really pay attention. I don’t pretend to understand what it is or what it wants from me. I don’t want to understand these things. I have no interest in any God who can be understood, who speaks to us in one holy book or another, and who tinkers with our lives according to some divine plan, as if we were characters in a play. How can I make sense of a God who sets one religion above the rest, who answers one prayer and ignores another, who sends sixteen young men home and leaves twenty-nine others dead on a mountain?There was a time when I wanted to know that god, but I realize now that what I really wanted was the comfort of certainty, the knowledge that my God was the true God, and that in the end He would reward me for my faithfulness. Now I understand that to be certain–-about God, about anything–-is impossible. I have lost my need to know. In those unforgettable conversations I had with Arturo as he lay dying, he told me the best way to find faith was by having the courage to doubt. I remember those words every day, and I doubt, and I hope, and in this crude way I try to grope my way toward truth. I still pray the prayers I learned as a child–-Hail Marys, Our Fathers–-but I don’t imagine a wise, heavenly father listening patiently on the other end of the line. Instead, I imagine love, an ocean of love, the very source of love, and I imagine myself merging with it. I open myself to it, I try to direct that tide of love toward the people who are close to me, hoping to protect them and bind them to me forever and connect us all to whatever there is in the world that is eternal. …When I pray this way, I feel as if I am connected to something good and whole and powerful. In the mountains, it was love that kept me connected to the world of the living. Courage or cleverness wouldn’t have saved me. I had no expertise to draw on, so I relied upon the trust I felt in my love for my father and my future, and that trust led me home. Since then, it has led me to a deeper understanding of who I am and what it means to be human. Now I am convinced that if there is something divine in the universe, the only way I will find it is through the love I feel for my family and my friends, and through the simple wonder of being alive. I don’t need any other wisdom or philosophy than this: My duty is to fill my time on earth with as much life as possible, to become a little more human every day, and to understand that we only become human when we love. …For me, this is enough.

Nando Parrado

The simple answer is that I have changed my techniques in order to avoid the relentless sameness of my material, but I have probably only found new costumes, not new creatures entirely. In the past, if I wanted to sound a note on a piano (in prose), I didn’t just have to purchase and install the piano, I had to build it. But before I built it I had to grow the trees whose wood would yield the piano, and probably I had to create the soil and landscape through which those trees would burst. Then there was the problem of the fucking seeds. Where did they come from? I had to source them. With such mania I was either onto something or I completely misunderstood what a fiction writer was supposed to do. Simple things, even entirely undramatic ones, could not occur unless I created them from whole cloth. I was superstitious about taking anything for granted, but it also locked me into a kind of fanatical object fondling that could, on a bad day, preclude any exploration of the human (even though the process of trying to remake the world on the page is fairly, pathetically, human). This set of interests kept me away from what is usually called narrative. It wasn’t some ideological position, or an artistic stance, it was just one set of obsessions winning out over another. On the other hand, I think that I have always tried to create feeling, and then to pulse it into the reader with language. It’s very difficult to figure out how to do this. Storytelling is one way — conventional narrative or whatever you want to call it — but are there other methods worth exploring? The ground shifts, and I change my mind about what might work. How to create immense, unforgettable feeling from language? This ambition hasn’t really changed, it’s just that I want to cultivate new approaches, to try to circle in on a more vivid way to accomplish it.

Ben Marcus

SOCIAL/GENERAL ICEBREAKERS 1. What do you think of the movie/restaurant/party?2. Tell me about the best vacation you’ve ever taken.3. What’s your favorite thing to do on a rainy day?4. If you could replay any moment in your life, what would it be?5. What one thing would you really like to own? Why?6. Tell me about one of your favorite relatives.7. What was it like in the town where you grew up?8. What would you like to come back as in your next life?9. Tell me about your kids.10. What do you think is the perfect age? Why?11. What is a typical day like for you?12. Of all the places you’ve lived, tell me about the one you like the best.13. What’s your favorite holiday? What do you enjoy about it?14. What are some of your family traditions that you particularly enjoy?15. Tell me about the first car you ever bought.16. How has the Internet affected your life?17. Who were your idols as a kid? Have they changed?18. Describe a memorable teacher you had.19. Tell me about a movie/book you’ve seen or read more than once.20. What’s your favorite restaurant? Why?21. Tell me why you were named ______. What is the origin of your last name?22. Tell me about a place you’ve visited that you hope never to return to.get over your mom’s good intentions.23. What’s the best surprise you’ve ever received?24. What’s the neatest surprise you’ve ever planned and pulled off for someone else?25. Skiing here is always challenging. What are some of your favorite places to ski?26. Who would star as you in a movie about your life?Why that person?27. Who is the most famous person you’ve met?28. Tell me about some of your New Year’s resolutions.29. What’s the most antiestablishment thing you’ve ever done?30. Describe a costume that you wore to a party.31. Tell me about a political position you’d like to hold.32. What song reminds you of an incident in your life?33. What’s the most memorable meal you’ve eaten?34. What’s the most unforgettable coincidence you’ve experienced or heard about?35. How are you able to tell if that melon is ripe?36. What motion picture star would you like to interview? Why?37. Tell me about your family.38. What aroma brings forth a special memory?39. Describe the scariest person you ever met.40. What’s your favorite thing to do alone?41. Tell me about a childhood friend who used to get you in trouble.42. Tell me about a time when you had too much to eat or drink.43. Describe your first away-from-home living quarters or experience.44. Tell me about a time that you lost a job.45. Share a memory of one of your grandparents.46. Describe an embarrassing moment you’ve had.47. Tell me something most people would never guess about you.48. What would you do if you won a million dollars?49. Describe your ideal weather and why.50. How did you learn to ski/hang drywall/play piano?

Debra Fine (The Fine Art of Small Talk: How to Start a Conversation, Keep It Going, Build Networking Skills and Leave a Positive Impression!)

Natasha and I used to go for walks in the orchard, and beyond that, there was a vast dank forest, where we once got lost… Unforgettable,golden days! Life was just beginning to assert itself, mysteriously and alluringly – and it was a sweet experience. It seemed then that behindevery bush, every tree, some mysterious and unknowable being lurked; the fairy-tale world merged into the real one, and when the eveningmist thickened in the deep valleys and its grey, sinuous wisps reached out towards the brambles clinging to the rocky ridges of our great gorge, Natasha and I would stand hand in hand on the edge, peering with bated breath into the depths, expecting at any moment to see someone emerge or call out to us from the mist at the bottom and turn our nursery stories into manifest reality.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait--there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop.My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair.Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.

Frank H. Wu (Yellow: Race in America Beyond Black and White)

What is so rewarding about friendship?” my son asked, curling his upper lip into a sour expression. “Making friends takes too much time and effort, and for what?” I sat on the edge of his bed, understanding how it might seem simpler to go at life solo. “Friendship has unique rewards,” I told him. “They can be unpredictable. For instance....” I couldn’t help but pause to smile crookedly at an old memory that was dear to my heart. Then I shared with my son an unforgettable incident from my younger years. “True story. When I was about your age, I decided to try out for a school play. Tryouts were to begin after the last class of the day, but first I had to run home to grab a couple props for the monologue I planned to perform during tryouts. Silly me, I had left them at the house that morning. Luckily, I only lived across a long expanse of grassy field that separated the school from the nearest neighborhood. Unluckily, it was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella. “Determined to get what I needed, I raced home, grabbed my props, and tore back across the field while my friend waited under the dry protection of the school’s wooden eaves. She watched me run in the rain, gesturing for me to go faster while calling out to hurry up or we would be late. “The rain was pouring by that time which was added reason for me to move fast. I didn’t want to look like a wet rat on stage in front of dozens of fellow students. Don’t ask me why I didn’t grab an umbrella from home—teenage pride or lack of focus, I’m not sure—but the increasing rain combined with the hollering from my friend as well as my anxious nerves about trying out for the play had me running far too fast in shoes that lacked any tread. “About a yard from the sidewalk where the grass was worn from foot traffic and consequently muddied from the downpour of rain, I slipped and fell on my hind end. Me, my props, and my dignity slid through the mud and lay there, coated. My things were dripping with mud. I was covered in it. I felt my heart plunge, and I wanted to cry. I probably would have if it hadn’t been for the wonderful thing that happened right then. My crazy friend ran over and plopped herself down in the mud beside me. She wiggled in it, making herself as much a mess as I was. Then she took my slimy hand in hers and pulled us both to our feet. We tried out for the play looking like a couple of swine escaped from a pigsty, laughing the whole time. I never did cry, thanks to my friend. “So yes, my dear son, friendship has its unique rewards—priceless ones.

Richelle E. Goodrich (Slaying Dragons: Quotes, Poetry, & a few Short Stories for Every Day of the Year)

Nothing calmer than that, a visible circle of calm-and yet, something that immediately made me see something else, not so calm, a calm not soothed, shivering, as though it hadn’t reached the point from which there is no longer any return, as though it wasn’t free, yet, from all faces, still desired one, feared being separated from it: sometimes giving me the feeling of wandering desperately around the face, sometimes the hope of drawing near it, the certainty of recapturing it, of having recaptured it, an unforgettable impression of its unity with the face, even though the face itself remains invisible, a marvelous unity, sensed as a happiness, a piece of luck that dispersed shadows, that went beyond the day, something for which one was prepared to sacrifice everything, a thrilling resemblance, the thrill of the unique, a force of a desire that again and again and again recaptures what it once held-but what is happening? resemblance does not cease to be present behind everything, it even imposes itself, becomes more majestic, I divine it as I have never seen it, it is the moving reflection of all space, and the smile also affirms its immensity, affirms the majesty of this resemblance which is almost too vast, the smile seems to lose itself in the resemblance and through the smile the resemblance seems to become a resemblance that strays, without resemblance.

Maurice Blanchot (The One Who Was Standing Apart from Me)

We need to leave as soon as possible.""Okay," Luce said. "I have to go home, then, pack, get my passport..." Her mind whirled in a hundred directions as she started making a mental to-do list. Her parents would be at the mall for at least another couple of hours, enough time for her to dash in and get her things together..."Oh, cute." Annabelle laughed, flitting over to them, her feet inches off the ground. Her wings were muscular and dark silver like a thundercloud, protruding through the invisible slits in her hot-pink T-shirt. "Sorry to butt in but...you've never traveled with an angel before, have you?"Sure she had. The feeling of Daniel's wings soaring her body through the air was as natural as anything. Maybe her flights had been brief, but they'd been unforgettable. They were when Luce felt closest to him: his arms threaded around her waist, his heart beating close to hers, his white wings protecting them, making Luce feel unconditionally and impossibly loved.She had flown with Daniel dozens of times in dreams, but only three times in her waking hours: once over the hidden lake behind Sword & Cross, another time along the coast at Shoreline, and down from the clouds to the cabin just the previous night."I guess we've never flown that far together," she said at last."Just getting to first base seems to be a problem for you two," Cam couldn't resist saying.Daniel ignored him. "Under normal circumstances, I think you'd enjoy the trip." His expression turned stormy. "But we don't have room for normal for the next nine days."Luce felt his hands on the backs of her shoulders, gathering her hair and lifting it off her neck. He kissed her along the neckline of her sweater as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Luce closed her eyes. She knew what was coming next. The most beautiful sound there was-that elegant whoosh of the love of her life letting out his driven-snow-white wings.The world on the other side of Luce's eyelids darkened slightly under the shadow of his wings, and warmth welled in her heart. When she opened her eyes, there they were, as magnificent as ever. She leaned back a little, cozying into the wall of Daniel's chest as he pivoted toward the window."This is only a temporary separation," Daniel announced to the others. "Good luck and wingspeed.

Lauren Kate (Rapture (Fallen, #4))

Or, in your case, as wide. Wait. Did you just say Gandalf?” “He is the founder of our order, and the first of the Five Warlocks. He comes from afar across the Western Ocean, from Easter Island, or perhaps from Japan.” “No, I think he comes from the mind of a story writer. An old-fashioned Roman Catholic from the days just before First Space Age. Unless I am confusing him with the guy who wrote about Talking Animal Land? With the Cowardly Lion who gets killed by a Wicked White Witch? I never read the text, I watched the comic.” “Oh, you err so! The Witches, we have preserved this lore since the time of the Fall of the Giants, whom we overthrew and destroyed. The tale is this: C. S. Lewis and Arthur C. Clarke were led by the Indian Maiden Sacagawea to the Pacific Ocean and back, stealing the land from the Red Man and selling them blankets impregnated with smallpox. It was called the Lewis and Clarke Expedition. When they reached the Pacific, they set out in the Dawn Treader to find the sea route to India, where the sacred river Alph runs through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea. They came to the Last Island, called Ramandu or Selidor, where the World Serpent guards the gateway to the Land of the Dead, and there they found Gandalf, returned alive from the underworld, and stripped of all his powers. He came again to mortal lands in North America to teach the Simon Families. The Chronicle is a symbolic retelling of their journey. It is one of our Holy Books.” “Your Holy Books were written for children by Englishmen.” “The gods wear many masks! If the Continuum chooses the lips of a White Man to be the lips through which the Continuum speaks, who are we to question? Tolkien was not Roman. He was of a race called the hobbits, Homo floresiensis, discovered on an isle in Indonesia, and he would have lived in happiness, had not the White Man killed him with DDT. So there were no Roman Catholics involved. May the Earth curse their memory forever! May they be forgotten forever!” “Hm. Earth is big. Maybe it can do both. You know about Rome? It perished in the Ecpyrosis, somewhat before your time.” “How could we not? The Pope in Rome created the Giants, whom the Witches rose up against and overthrew. Theirs was the masculine religion, aggressive, intolerant, and forbidding abortion. Ours is the feminine religion, peaceful and life-affirming and all-loving, and we offer the firstborn child to perish on our sacred fires. The First Coven was organized to destroy them like rats! When Rome was burned, we danced, and their one god was cast down and fled weeping on his pierced feet, and our many gods rose up. My ancestors hunted the Christians like stoats, and when we caught them, we burned them slowly, as they once did of us in Salem. What ill you do is returned to you tenfold!” “Hm. Are you willing to work with a Giant? I saw one in the pit, and saw the jumbo-sized coffin they pried him out from. What if he is a baptized Christian? Most of them were, since they were created by my pet pope and raised by nuns.” “All Christians must perish! Such is our code.” “Your code is miscoded.” “What of the Unforgettable Hate?” “Forget about it.

John C. Wright (The Judge of Ages (Count to the Eschaton Sequence, #3))

Along with its unforgettable description of the eerie space this woman inhabits, the poem also locates her very precisely in time, offering two almost unique words which transport the reader into the exact moment of her sorrow. First is uhtcearu, a compound which means ‘sorrow before dawn’ or ‘grief at early morning’. In Old English uht is the name for the last part of the night, the empty chilly hours just before the dawn, an especially painful time for grief and loneliness (as well as other kinds of threat: the dragon in Beowulf is called an uhtfloga, a creature who flies before dawn). The word suggests the sting of waking to the memory of sorrow, or the anxiety of lying awake in the early morning, worrying over what the day will bring.

Eleanor Parker (Winters in the World: A Journey through the Anglo-Saxon Year)

What is a pancake? Cooked batter, covered in sugar and butter. It is food. But it is not as food, not as sustenance that we crave the pancake. No, the pancake, or flapjack if you will, is a childish pleasure; smothered in syrup, buried beneath ice cream, the pancake symbolises our escape from respectability, eating as a form of infantile play. The environments where pancakes are served and consumed are, in this context, special playrooms for a public ravenous for sweetness, that delirious sweetness of long-ago breakfasts made by mother, sweetness of our infancy and our great, lost, toddler’s omnipotence. Look around. Notice, if you will, these lighting fixtures suspended from the ceiling like pretty mobiles over a crib. Notice the indestructible plastic orange seating materials designed to repel spills and stains. Notice these menus that unfold like colorful, laminated boards in those games we once played on rainy days at home, those unforgettable indoor days when we felt safe and warm, when we knew ourselves, absolutely, to be loved. We come to the Pancake House because we are hungry. We call out in our hearts to our mothers, and it is the Pancake House that answers. The Pancake House holds us! The Pancake House restores us to beloved infancy! The Pancake House is our mother in this motherless world!

Donald Antrim (The Verificationist)

No matter how many days or months or years went by, Molly was still unforgettable. The best I’d ever had.

Devney Perry (Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2))

The day we first made love was the day everything changed for me. One afternoon we snuck up into the bedroom and purposely ran out of conversation. He took his clothes off and stood there, a statue built by the gods. We made unforgettable

Jenifer Lewis (Walking in My Joy: In These Streets)

Public torture, in seventeenth-century Europe, created searing, unforgettable spectacles of pain and suffering in order to convey the message that a system in which husbands could brutalize wives, and parents beat children, was ultimately a form of love. Wendat torture, in the same period of history, created searing, unforgettable spectacles of pain and suffering in order to make clear that no form of physical chastisement should even be countenanced inside a community or household. Violence and care, in the Wendat case, were to be entirely separated. Seen in this light, the distinctive features of Wendat prisoner torture come into focus.It seems to us that this connection - or better perhaps, confusion - between care and domination is utterly critical to the larger question of how we lost the ability freely tor create ourselves by recreating our relations with one another. It is critical, that is, to understanding how we got stuck, and why these days we can hardly envisage our own past or future as anything other than a transition from smaller to larger cages.

David Graeber (The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity)

For all that little financial lesson in the Montreal hotel, Emily was still confused by British currency. She’d grown highly incensed not only with it but with me because she couldn’t understand it. It was the only thing I ever heard her admit to not understanding. It was in vain that I tried to show her the difference between a half crown and a two-shilling piece. She refused to admit they were anything but two versions of fifty cents, and persisted in being so stubbornly obtuse about it that I finally told her that if she just bring herself to read what was written on them, she’d know. This didn’t work out so well either because she’d keep taxi drivers waiting interminably while she’d scan the reading matter of each and every coin, turning it round and round, sometimes breathing on it and rubbing it clear. When I suggested that people might think her awfully queer, she said, not at all, they’d merely mistake her for a coin collector. I tried explaining to her that one florin meant two shillings but that only made her madder. The day we received a bill made out in guineas and I told her that there was no such thing as a guinea, it was a pound and one shilling, only the swanker shops charged you in guineas, and you paid in pound and shillings, but you called it guineas, although as I had said there really was no such thing, she slapped me.

Cornelia Otis Skinner (Our Hearts Were Young and Gay: An Unforgettable Comic Chronicle of Innocents Abroad in the 1920s)

The sadness, it causes so much pain The experience, it was all in vain And I am left completely alone Bitter right to my boneYou lied, you lied to meWhen you said you would stay I wanted us to be togetherA mixture of night and day

Aida Mandic (Unforgettably Unique)

The first time the power of art pulled the rug out from under me, I was nineteen years old. It was the early 1970s. I was in Europe for the first time, on my way through Paris to Warsaw with my Polish girlfriend, on a bizarre quest to sell blue jeans behind the Iron Curtain. On that day, during my first pilgrimage to the Louvre, I laid eyes on a painting that seemed the sum of all things. It was a cosmographic perpetual motion machine, a purgatorial charnel house—as far from the warmth of any human sun as anything I’d ever beheld. The moment I saw it, something like Krakatoa went off within me. That painting was Théodore Géricault’s The Raft of the Medusa. Standing before it, I felt the gravitational field of my life shift forever. The Raft of the Medusa is massive in scale, yet its subject matter is as simple as cows in a field, bathers by a river, or a birth in a manger. We see a large raft bearing a crowd of male figures, at the mercy of heaving seas. Their poses suggest a classical frieze, like Elgin marbles from hell—a collective ash heap of individually vivisected souls stripped bare of humanity. Each of the men is marked by a distinct, unforgettable gesture. Some are reckoning with their wounds; others seem to be coming to terms with death; some seem closer to damnation than to life. Every one of them appears hopeless. Our eyes are compelled by shafts of flickering phosphorescent light that rake at angles across the figures in the painting’s foreground, tracing its dark pyramidal structure. It’s a vision of jagged complexity and somehow also of profound grandeur.

Jerry Saltz (Art Is Life: Icons and Iconoclasts, Visionaries and Vigilantes, and Flashes of Hope in the Night)

All setbacks hurt, but not all setbacks need to haunt. And so often when we refuse to let setbacks stop us from pursuing a dream, the more unforgettable the heartaches along the way, the deeper the thrill of victory.

Tunde Salami

I Can Only ImagineA special Eulogy to my adorable MotherI can only imagineHow you may have feltThat very day you leftNot knowing how your children would fend for themselvesThank God He made provision for themI can only imagineThe questions you hadA few hours before you departedFrom wondering when you would take your last breathTo trying to understand how your loved ones would reactI can only imagine That unforgettable dayWhen we witnessed your transition to HeavenI still wonder how you wentBut I remember your peaceful smileEven as you steadily waved goodbyeI can only imagineThe place where you are nowFilled with nothing but joyAs you forget the sorrow of this worldWhile you admire the beauty of ParadiseI can only imagine!

Gift Gugu Mona (From My Mother's Classroom: A Badge of Honour for a Remarkable Woman)

I Can Only ImagineA special Eulogy to my adorable MotherI can only imagineHow you may have feltThat very day you leftNot knowing how your children would fend for themselvesThank God He made provision for themI can only imagineThe questions you hadA few hours before you departedFrom wondering when you would take your last breathTo trying to understand how your loved ones would reactI can only imagine That unforgettable dayWhen we witnessed your transition to HeavenI still wonder how you wentBut I remember your peaceful smileEven as you steadily waved goodbyeI can only imagineThe place where you are nowFilled with nothing but joyAs you forget the sorrow of this worldWhile you admire the beauty of ParadiseI can only imagine!

Gift Gugu Mona (From My Mother's Classroom: A Badge of Honour for a Remarkable Woman)

We were getting ready to close the store for what we thought might be as long as two months now. I was looking over the day’s reports when Dissatisfaction came into the building. His fingers roamed along the spines of the books, sometimes tracing one, pulling it out to read the first line. Since he’d read The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald, he and I had compiled a list of short perfect novels. Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai These are books that knock you sideways in around 200 pages. Between the covers there exists a complete world. The story is unforgettably peopled and nothing is extraneous. Reading one of these books takes only an hour or two but leaves a lifetime imprint. Still, to Dissatisfaction, they are but exquisite appetizers. Now he needs a meal. I knew that he’d read Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels and was lukewarm. He called them soap opera books, which I thought was the point. He did like The Days of Abandonment, which was perhaps a short perfect novel. ‘She walked the edge with that one,’ he said. He liked Knausgaard (not a short perfect). He called the writing better than Novocain. My Struggle had numbed his mind but every so often, he told me, he’d felt the crystal pain of the drill. In desperation, I handed over The Known World. He thrust it back in outrage, his soft voice a hiss, Are you kidding me? I have read this one six times. Now what do you have? In the end, I placated him with Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger, the latest Amitav Ghosh, NW by Zadie Smith, and Jane Gardam’s Old Filth books in a sturdy Europa boxed set, which he hungrily seized. He’d run his prey to earth and now he would feast. Watching him closely after he paid for the books and took the package into his hands, I saw his pupils dilate the way a diner’s do when food is brought to the table.

Louise Erdrich (The Sentence)

Let’s suppose you decide to dip your toe in dreams like relocating to the Caribbean for island-hopping or taking a safari in the Serengeti. It will be wonderful and unforgettable, and you should do it. There will come a time, however—be it three weeks or three months later—when you won’t be able to drink another piña colada or photograph another red-assed baboon. That day will come. Self-criticism and existential panic attacks usually start around this time. But this is what I always wanted! How can I be bored? Oh my god, what am I gonna do with myself? Don’t freak out and fuel the fire. This is normal among all high-performers who downshift after working hard for a long time. The smarter and more goal-oriented you are, the tougher these growing pains will be. Don’t be afraid of the existential or social challenges. Freedom is like a new sport. In the beginning, the sheer newness of it is exciting enough to keep things interesting at all times. Once you have learned the basics, though, it becomes clear that having less work is easy. It’s filling the void with more life that is hard. Finding excitement, as it turns out, takes more thought than simple workaholism. But don’t fret. That’s where all the rewards are. —TIM FERRISS, 38,

Rolf Potts (Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel)

In 2014 I traveled to New York City for the first time in my life. At that time I was forty-seven years old. Why did I wait so long to visit the Big Apple? Beats me! Most of my friends in Brazil had already been there several times and all of them had told me that if I went there I would love it. Therefore, when I finally got there, I had high expectations about the city. And, for busy fifteen days, I lived the best and the “worst” of New York. It was an astonishing, unbelievable and unforgettable experience.

Emilio Boechat (It's illegal, but it's Okay: The adventures of a Brazilian alien in New York City)

One day there was a misunderstanding about our appointment and when I called for Modigliani, I found him out - but I decided to wait for him a few minutes. I held an armful of red roses. The window, which was above the locked gates of the studio, was open. To while away the time, I started to throw the flowers into the studio. Modigliani didn't come and I left.--Anna Akhmatova on Amedeo Modigliani

Barbara Epstein (The Company They Kept: Writers on Unforgettable Friendships)

What is it about the fall that seems sentimental and romantic? There is something magical and mysterious about the way the leaves drop tothe ground and how they shimmer in red, gold, and brown, creating a blanket of memories. And as you watch the trees become bare, a sweet,nostalgic feeling exists inside of you as you stroll the sidewalks that glisten with traces of rain, sprinkled across each path like little jewels. Your heart beats in a different rhythm as your thoughts dwell and wander about. Youremember things that should be forgotten because they broke your heart once, and yet you allow them to linger for a while for the sake of reminiscing. You parade with the hopeless romantics and the brokenhearted downthe streets, alone, reliving moments that once were. You hold on to these memories until the last day of fall, hoping that by winter, you will forget them all.

Corey M.P. (High)

… happiness is not the same thing as satisfaction.

Nuseir Yassin (Around the World with Nas Daily: 1,000 Unpredictable Days, Unexpected Places, and Unforgettable People)

Life is about having a strong belief system.

Nuseir Yassin (Around the World with Nas Daily: 1,000 Unpredictable Days, Unexpected Places, and Unforgettable People)

The words: “Lazarus, come forth!” are perhaps one of the most unforgettable lines I have ever read in any form of literature. Because they were more than just words. A mummified man who was dead for four days heard them from beyond the grave and rose to life!

Valentine Okolo

The famous art deco architecture, fine dining, spas, and legendary nightlife make for an unforgettable vacation day in Miami Beach.

Scott Cooper Miami Beach

I have no regrets. I have gambled and lost. It was all in the day's work. At least I have had the unforgettable taste of the sea on my lips." - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Wind, Sand and Stars

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I have no regrets. I have gambled and lost. It was all in the day's work. At least I have had the unforgettable taste of the sea on my lips.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

As I sat pondering the continuing mystery, I realized that I’d actually been in this building and squad room before. It was in 2001, when I’d been in the NYPD’s ESU SWAT A team. We’d been assigned to assist the NYPD’s Dignitary Protection squad to protect George W. Bush when he came to New York three days after the Twin Towers fell on 9/ 11. I was actually right there among the firefighters and phone guys and welders in the crowd at the pile down at Ground Zero when he gave the famous bullhorn speech. It was a pretty unforgettable moment, the president standing on the pile of devastation, his rousing words lost after a moment in the overhead roar of the two F-16 fighter jets flying air cover around the perimeter of Manhattan.

James Patterson (Bullseye (Michael Bennett #9))

this collection was born and filled with writers whose minds work in ways that fascinate me. N. K. Jemisin (the Broken Earth trilogy) is writing fantasy and speculative fiction like you’ve never even fathomed. Paul Tremblay is the greatest horror novelist working today, and his novel A Head Full of Ghosts still gives me nightmares. Veronica Roth created an unforgettable world and populated it with amazing characters in her iconic Divergent trilogy. Andy Weir captured the imagination of the world and scienced the shit out of his already-a-classic The Martian. And Amor Towles, with A Gentleman in Moscow, has simply written one of the best novels I’ve ever read. I recommend it every day.

N.K. Jemisin (Emergency Skin)

Henry had no database to consult when asked what he would do the next day, week, or in the years to come. He could not imagine the future any more than he could remember the past.

Suzanne Corkin (Permanent Present Tense: The Unforgettable Life of the Amnesic Patient, H. M.)

was knocked out of the tournament with a cracked vertebra—but

The Wall Street Journal (The Unforgettable World Cup: 31 Days of Triumph and Heartbreak in Brazil)

Neymar went off on a stretcher, there was no sense around the stadium that his tournament was done. Everyone was far more preoccupied by Brazil hanging onto its slender lead.

The Wall Street Journal (The Unforgettable World Cup: 31 Days of Triumph and Heartbreak in Brazil)

But when you share the story like an impartial reporter commenting on the happenings of the previous day, you lose people. So don’t just share the news. Learn to operate in the two other modes of conversation.

Charlie Houpert (Captivate: Conversational Secrets To Be Instantly Likeable, Make Unforgettable Impressions, And Never Run Out Of Things To Say)

My parents took us to dinner but we came back early. Tomorrow was to be a day of days and we must get a good night's rest. Nothing, Emily said, was a greater aid to beauty than a long slumber; the eyes were made clear and sparkling and the skin like tinted porcelain.

Cornelia Otis Skinner (Our Hearts Were Young and Gay: An Unforgettable Comic Chronicle of Innocents Abroad in the 1920s)


The Wall Street Journal (The Unforgettable World Cup: 31 Days of Triumph and Heartbreak in Brazil)

We are all an unforgettable artwork and a story yet to be told.

Steven Cuoco

with fans seeking

The Wall Street Journal (The Unforgettable World Cup: 31 Days of Triumph and Heartbreak in Brazil)

As I now waded into the unfamiliar channel of middle age, with my knobby knees and aches and pains, various financial concerns, and more responsibilities than I ever imagined, I understood that life is often nothing more than a slow accumulation of days, that middle age is about coming to terms with what life is and not whatyou thought it would be.

James Campbell (Braving It: A Father, a Daughter, and an Unforgettable Journey into the Alaskan Wild)

Thank you for saving me," I said, and I meant that in every way. He'd not only saved my life, but he'd saved my soul. He'd saved my hope when I had none. The man I was lucky enough to wake up next to every day had brought me back to life, and as I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage, I knew that with him by my side, lifting me up as I did him, I'd never fall.And that was what dreams were made of.

Brooke Blaine (Remember Me When (The Unforgettable Duet, #2))

Spend every second of every day together as a moment that could never be replaced.


Someone comes in our life,stays for just few days and they walk away without saying anything... But they create unforgettable memories even in that short span of time which most people people are not able to do even after staying whole life... That's the complexity of our heart... Hard to understand,yet beautiful and sweet....

Amit Aarav

Over $500 Million Later, Brazil’s Maracanã Is Still Cursed

The Wall Street Journal (The Unforgettable World Cup: 31 Days of Triumph and Heartbreak in Brazil)

Hofbräuhaus Las Vegas is the first and only German beer hall and restaurant to call Las Vegas home. As an exact replica of the legendary Hofbräuhaus in Munich, Germany, we take great pride in giving you an experience as authentic and unforgettable as the 400-year-old original. From the traditional Beer Hall bursting with nightly live entertainment, to the tree-lined Beer Garden, everything has a touch of Bavaria you won't forget any time soon. Come see why it's Oktoberfest every day at our Haus!


Eichmann remembered this because it was unusual for him to receive social invitations from members of governments; it was an honor. Mach, as Eichmann recalled, was a nice, easygoing fellow who invited him to bowl with him. Did he really have no other business in Bratislava in the middle of the war than to go bowling with the Minister of the Interior? No, absolutely no other business; he remembered it all very well, how they bowled, and how drinks were served just before the news of the attempt on Heydrich’s life arrived. Four months and fifty-five tapes later, Captain Less, the Israeli examiner, came back to this point, and Eichmann told the same story in nearly identical words, adding that this day had been “unforgettable,” because his “superior had been assassinated.” This time, however, he was confronted with a document that said he had been sent to Bratislava to talk over “the current evacuation action against Jews from Slovakia.” He admitted his error at once: “Clear, clear, that was an order from Berlin, they did not send me there to go bowling.” Had he lied twice, with great consistency? Hardly. To evacuate and deport Jews had become routine business; what stuck in his mind was bowling, being the guest of a Minister, and hearing of the attack on Heydrich. And it was characteristic of his kind of memory that he could absolutely not recall the year in which this memorable day fell, on which “the hangman” was shot by Czech patriots.

Hannah Arendt (Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil)

In the days of old, when one married, they're given a breathing space to bond with each other for days or weeks—free from many activities. They're treated with kindness, affections and love—even offered with many services as in house chores and others. This was (is) not an European thing. In the Bible, God told the Israelites not to allow a man who has married to go for war. He's to stay home for a year for certain activities. In our era, we referred to the above scenario as Honeymoon. Now the questions: —Are we to go or not to?—Is it beneficial or not? —Is it a money wasting venture or not?—Is it part of the marriage preparation or not? —Does it do anything to the marriage or not? —And above all, what is its essence for us(family or humanity), couples and posterity?


3 Reasons Why You Should Visit Galapagos IslandsAre you have been planning to spend their vacation in most of the beautiful place in the world. Then the Galapagos Islands is one of the most beautiful places in the world. The famous archipelago in the Pacific Ocean is a demand and desired destination for travelers all around the world.The Galapagos isn’t probably the easiest and cheapest accessible place in the world but still attracts huge numbers of visitors, although there is a limit on how many people can arrive in the Galapagos. These are not budget-friendly travel destination Islands, but there are some ways how to arrange your week in paradise from cruising the living onboard and archipelago to making the day trip from one of the islands. You have most already heard or read all superlatives Galapagos Island can offer many visitors. But if you hesitate if the time and money will be worth it, we’ve put a list of three reasons why we should visit the Galapagos Islands. After reading these reasons, we believe that there won’t be any hesitation. The Galapagos Legend should be on every traveler. Pristine beachesYou come to Galapagos Island to see fantastic wildlife but firstly mention the beaches. The stretches of fine white sand are on every island, and although you won’t have that much time to relax and lay down here just because of that there is so much to do, so we are looking at you sea lions only walking on those beaches from one to another end is a great unforgettable experience. Never expect deck chairs, bars, or umbrellas beaches on the Galapagos have nothing familiar with those touristy and crowded places form travel catalogs. WildlifeWhen we think and talk about the Galapagos Islands, we have a suspicion that the wildlife would be something marvelous and unique. What we never know was that these superlatives would get a new dimension on the Galapagos. All the wildlife animal species from iguanas, birds, tortoises, sea lions crabs to fish are incredible, and nothing can make you on their natural behavior that is dissimilar from the animal's behavior we know from our countries. The Galapagos animals never feel fear human at all, so you can get close to them and take images of a lifetime. Island hikesThere are many designed ways on islands of Galapagos that will help you to walk through a unique landscape and will also help you to understand the evaluation process better, evaluation of not only the islands but also of the flora and fauna which live here in unbelievable symbiosis. The hikes are short, so visitors are allowed to walk on the island on their own so that you want a certified guide to show you around. Hikes were one of the best activities we did on the Galapagos as it combined the exploration of almost barren volcanic islands and watching wildlife.Galapagos Legend help you plan the trip you have dreamed about. You can choose onshore activities that cater to your interests, from a wildlife safari to a side trip to the fabulous annual Carnival in Rio, Brazil. As you stay on shore before and after your trip, you have the option of staying at a delightful boutique-style hotel or in a 5-star hotel setting.


The graveyard is not the final resting place of our dear departed but an ephemeral repository of their remains. The real graveyard, however, is somewhere deep in our heart, where we can always visit them at any time of the day, talk about some unforgettable summers, or cry in solitude as if they were always there for us to stay.

Danny Castillones Sillada

And so I suppose now, my Fellow Reader, comes the moment I assume you've all been waiting for - the Magnum Opus of this merry tale of absurd and inflammatory nonsense in which our Holy Protagonist sets out for adventure to find himself and seek a moment of astounding enlightenment amid daring trials and tribulations and perils and dangers and gallant quests and encounters with fascinating people and enlightening conversations and unforgettable sights and upon return from this great and wild journey a new discovery of himself and the world around him and an opportunity for you Oh Holy Noble Reader to live vicariously through these incredible experiences and to dream of YOUR one day when YOU will have the courage to undertake such a journey yourself. So sit back and enjoy the ride because Costa Rica has been one zany insaney psychobrainy fuck of a holy trip.

Yousef Alqamoussi (Chapter One: Costa Rica)

The Christmas KeyThe key hangs untouchedFor 364 daysFor the day after ChristmasIs the day I put it awayIt’s getting on to the Yule TideThe one that comes every yearWhere smiling eyes are all around And hearts that count are hereEach year is more of a struggleStill we reach the journeys endTo find that we’re not just familyWe are also the best of friendsThe holiday gift is not a packageNo price tag to cut and hideIt’s a celebration of a birthday Shared with loved ones by your sideWe remember the unforgettableGive thanks to all that’s newOnce again, savor the innocenceOf a child’s dream come trueOne more memory to add to the lastOf love, warmth, and joyOne more feeling of what wasThat still touches this little boyWhen the day is over The memories are locked awayAnd the key put back in its place

Thomas K. Hunt

Pressing a hand to her chest, Loretta glanced down in bewilderment. She had been so sure…Laughter bubbled up her throat. Aunt Rachel had missed? She never missed when she could draw a steady bead on a still target. Loretta’s throat tightened. The Comanche. She looked up, confusion clouding her blue eyes. He had shielded her with his own body?Waving his friends away, Hunter hunkered down and scooped a handful of dirt, pressing it to the shallow cut on his shoulder. Loretta stared at the blood trailing down his arm. If not for his quick thinking, it could have been her own. Survival instinct and common sense warred within her. She knew death might be preferable to what was in store for her, but she couldn’t help being glad she was alive.As if he felt her staring at him, the Comanche lifted his head. When his eyes met hers, the fury and loathing in them chilled her. He stood and jerked the feathers from his braid, wrapping them in his shirt. Never taking his gaze off her, he stuffed the bundle into a parfleche hanging from his surcingle.“Keemah,” he growled.Uncertain what he wanted and afraid of doing the wrong thing, Loretta stayed where she was. He caught her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.“Keemah, come!” He gave her a shake for emphasis, his eyes glittering. “Listen good, and learn quick. I have little patience with stupid women.”Grasping her waist, he tossed her on the horse and scooted her to the back of the blanket saddle. The hem of her nightgown rode high. She could feel all the men staring at her. Had he no decency? With trembling hands, she tugged at the gown and tried to cover her thighs. There wasn’t enough material to stretch. And it was so thin from years of wear, it was nearly transparent. The morning breeze raised gooseflesh on her naked arms and back.With a grim set to his mouth, her captor opened a second parfleche, withdrawing a length of braided wool and a leather thong. Before she realized what he was about to do, he knotted the wool around one of her ankles, looped it under his horse’s belly, and swiftly bound her other foot.“We must ride like the wind!” he yelled to the others. “Meadro! Let’s go!”The other men ran for their horses. Grasping the stallion’s mane, Hunter vaulted to its back and settled himself in front of her. When he reached for her arms and pulled them around him, she couldn’t stifle a gasp. Her breasts were flattened against his back.“Your woman does not like you, cousin,” someone called in English. Loretta turned to see who spoke and immediately recognized the brave who had encouraged Hunter to kill her that first day. His scarred face was unforgettable. He flashed her a twisted smile that seemed more a leer, his black eyes sliding insolently down her body to rest on her naked thighs. Then he laughed and wheeled his chestnut horse. “She won’t be worth the trouble she will make for you.”Hunter glanced over his shoulder at her. The fiery heat of his anger glowed like banked embers in his eyes. “She will learn.” With an expertise born of long practice, he lashed her wrists together with the leather. “She will learn quick.

Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))

I can’t breathe. I’m 97% sure that my nerve endings are literally on fire, and true to his promise, walking today, or the days in the near future, will be a challenge.God bless him.“God, Sarah.”If I could move right now, I’d open my eyes and look down at him, but I can’t. He’s still inside me, his body also still quivering. I didn’t think it was possible, but this round might be better than any of the previous six.Six. Rounds. Of sex.In one twelve-hour period.I collapse on his chest, bury my face in his neck, try to regain use of my extremities, and purr when he wraps his arms around my back and hugs me close.His arms make me want to bite him. In the best sexual way possible. I don’t know what he does to keep them so…awesome, but dear sweet Moses, am I thankful.“I’ll make you breakfast,” he murmurs against my neck, sending a fresh round of goose bumps over my skin.“Okay. I’ll get off of you in about a month.”He chuckles and slaps my ass, and then before I know it, I’m flat on my back and he’s leaning over me, smiling down at me with those amazing green eyes of his.“How can you move?”“Quick recovery,” he says and kisses my nose. “You stay here and collect yourself and I’ll go cook.”“Cook what?” I ask. “There’s nothing in your fridge.”“The bagel place delivers.” He winks, places a smacking kiss on my lips, then jumps up and saunters out of the bedroom.Naked.Holy shit.I cover my face with my hands and can’t help but smile. What a night! Adam didn’t wait until this morning to have his way with me again. No, that happened sometime around 2:00 a.m.It seems that man can’t keep his hands off of me, and that doesn’t hurt my feelings in the least. I was so right. One night with Adam Spencer was unforgettable and a giant boost to my ego.I giggle and sit up, sighing when my muscles complain. Good lord, muscles I didn’t even know existed are protesting after the night of exhausting sex I just had.I had sex. A lot. With the hottest man ever.I giggle once more and stand, groaning now at the uncomfortable pull of my inner thigh muscles, and walk into his bathroom to clean up.The shower is quick, and before I know it, I’m in his kitchen, wearing last night’s clothes, kind of excited about the walk of shame I’ll do when he drops me off.“I like that smile,” Adam says as he walks into the kitchen holding a brown bag that was just delivered.“You put it there,” I reply with a wink. “You put on shorts.”He raises a brow. “I can take them back off.”“No.” I shake my head and laugh as Adam opens the bag of food.He smirks and passes me a bagel, already toasted with cream cheese.“How do you feel?”“Sore.” I lick cream cheese off my thumb and grin at the sexy man taking a bite of his breakfast. “Well sexed.”“Mission accomplished then.” He reaches over the island and drags his thumb down my cheek. He kisses my forehead, then pulls away. “Thank you.”“For?”“Dinner. Breakfast.” The most amazing sex of my entire life.“You’re welcome.

Kristen Proby (Easy For Keeps (Boudreaux #3.5))

First Week of January 2013 Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 5) Hi Andy, Are you back from your Tasmanian rowing expedition? Did your team win? I hope so. If I remember correctly, you were always an excellent rower and your teammates at Daltonbury Hall venerated your feathering mastery. I’d love to hear your adventures.☺ Back To My OBSS Escapades As we headed to Jules’ makeshift office (a classroom temporarily converted), Kim was overtly skittish. He had surmised we would be consigned to cleaning the OBSS lavatories as punishment for our playful misdemeanour. I assured the teenager that that wouldn’t be the case; a more propitious outcome would be in order. Yet, he continued to brood, blaming me for my impertinence. Instead of arguing with him, I kept silent. I couldn’t help but notice a sardonic smug on Jules’ handsome face when we entered. “Young, will you keep watch outside while I have a word with this young man?” he instructed. I sat on a nearby bench, waiting my turn. Minutes passed, and I needed to use the restroom. I wasn’t sure if I should leave, in the event I would be called upon, but I decided to go. Just as I was finishing my business, I heard a commotion outside. In states of disarray, my leader and tent-mate were being escorted out of the office by a couple of burly guards from the senior officer’s HQ. I was shocked to witness such an unanticipated occurrence. For a brief moment, Kim looked my direction before they marched into the darkness. The unforgettable terror on his face was of a man about to be hanged. It didn’t take long for rumours to circulate around camp that the two were caught red-handed doing unspeakable things to one another. Yet, none of the gossipmongers could provide a definitive account. The next day, Jules and Kim were gone. They had both been hastily expelled without having a chance to say goodbye. My three remaining days at OBSS, I was flummoxed. It was my final evening in Singapore when the truth came to light. My ex-OBSS leader was coming out of a bar in Bugis Street when I stumbled upon him. It was then that I heard the entire narrative from the horse’s mouth.

Young (Turpitude (A Harem Boy's Saga Book 4))

Love doesn’t come around every day. When it does, you grab it and hold on to it as tightly as you can, because you never know how long you’re going to have it. There

Kathryn Andrews (Unforgettable Sun (Hale Brothers, #3))

less down the road. Brazilians are known to hang streamers and paint their streets in the green and yellow of the country’s flag at Cup time. There was almost none of that. On opening day, at the Itaquerão, São Paulo was cold, drizzly and flagless. Tension

The Wall Street Journal (The Unforgettable World Cup: 31 Days of Triumph and Heartbreak in Brazil)

Oh, Matthew," she whispered, moved to tears."I called it Grace. I hope you don't mind." For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence.Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. "It's your rose.""No, it's your rose."A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she'd ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom."It's perfect," she whispered. "It's a miracle."He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination? The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she'd reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting."I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy."An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She'd read of the string of honors he'd received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies.Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin."I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn't get it right." He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. "This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign.""And you brought it to me," she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn't occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart.Then she noticed something else."My glove," she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. "Have you kept it all this time?" "Of course." He wasn't smiling anymore and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber."You make me want to cry." Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn't sound like herself.She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove?Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady's favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.

Anna Campbell (Untouched)

Like the rainbow in clouds and the rain drop in mudYou irked like a torn of love in my heart.My naught desire is burning, as my beautiful hope is unfulfilled.Is it to raise the madness of love in me or to kill me?You are the girl I wished for, the damsel that left me, you are amerciless demon and the craze in my heart.You are a fish eyed beauty and a surprising sage, you are my moonlightin the dark... Come to me my beloved!!How do I live without you? Come to me my beloved!Can’t you be seen to my eyes? I am living in your thoughts this way...I considered you my heartbeat, how do I live without you? Come to memy beloved!My dear girl, oh beauty bird.. my heart slipped down magically andstarted roaming around you chanting your name in your quest, dancingjust like you to reach me.How many days or years it might be, I would be waiting to see you evenif it takes a hundred years.Let there be any dangers or whirlpools ahead, oh my love.. I will bebeside you in everything.Shall we exist as one together? This is a never-ending celebration.Oh my gosh, my gorgeous babe.. You are a sweet unforgettablethought. Glimpses of your twittering laugh and the gleam of your eyescan be seen tempting deep in my heart.Wherever I am and whatever I do. I keep seeing the love of billions ofmy dreams.Shall I place you deep inside my carved heard and workshop you withthe flowers of my blood?Shall we pull the time backwards and write our story again?How do I live without you? Come to me my beloved!

Karan M. Pai

Sometimes small matters make some moments truly unforgettable. And it’s so easy to encounter someone for a few seconds yet become a hero or villain in their story for a lifetime, without you ever knowing it.

Tunde Salami

1. Eternal insomnia for days on end, the brain does not rest at all. You never sleep, because you are at work all day and then you dream that you are at work, wake up in the morning, go to work. Or do you dream that you wander somewhere, in nature, in the city, run away or fight with someone, and in the morning you complain that you are not getting enough sleep. 2. All memory in the cartridge. Life as a compact cassette, the contents of the reality of the subconscious - this is the content of the same cassette tape, all the memory deja vu on the reels of the cassette representing the past and future.3. Artifacts of experience in the memory of past lives, live with us forever in the abyss of oblivion, and some like buoys emerge and warn of the depth of unconsciousness.4. The chain of optimism is the weak link of naivety in human evolution. Optimism from a smile for a stranglehold of reality leading to the comic surrealism of the dreaming paradoxes of the human world.5. Love is a night lamp from gloomy thoughts of the past.6. Genius is telepathy with eternity.7. Expressive horror, clownish smile of shock of truth, there are so many horrors and mental sufferings in it. An evil laugh of inevitability sounds. You are in the hands of a butcher of reality. All people from different dimensions of illusions do not hide from the truth, go play.8. You hear the shocking laugh of brutal awareness. You are in the clown horror, the smile of the reality in the form of a clown becomes gigantic and it eats you moving to the zone of eternal laughter of indifference, where you are among faceless people in chains, on them plastic masks on the floor of the face with terrible smiles of disappointment a mask of nervous laughter emanates from them souls are cremated by despair; they don’t respond to you because they are undead unscrupulous.9. Will turns life into a lucid dream.10. Life is a two-room apartment, where one room is a city, the other is a dream.11. The main thing in this world is family and awareness, the rest is decor.12. Materialism is a cell of the mind that suppresses the will of the mind.13. Enlarged or altered parts of the body are prostheses of pride, a disabled ego, you can see how the brain looks, but not the soul, a mutated mind exhausted by knowledge.14. For a single person, the heart will become a friend, the body will be the soul, and the mind will become a horse.15. Pride will take away the truth from the world without which there will be no future only spiritual poverty.16. A frightening schizoid, bloody smile of rage burns with fire several hundred meters. Tearing the face and psyche and the skull itself, a delightful light smile of insensibility.17. Time will show a complete psychological portrait of mankind to light and darkness.18. Faith is stronger than all torture; there is nothing more powerful in the whole universe than faith that feeds will.19. Truth - these are very strongly tightened strings, you need to play them very carefully and then you will hear an unforgettable melody of truth that may turn out to be the last in your life.20. Reality is decomposing and all the ridiculous horrors of reality are visible, since you are in the lush chronosphere, where the quantum genetic transformations of the instincts of despair are in, in the projection of an alternative reality of the ego of power in which everything is programmed for decomposition.21. An alternative is all that you have left.22. Around you are bodypainting instincts of despair, a reflection of naked and at the same time false inner sensations and complexes.23. Laughter and a frozen smile with tears is a state of doom that says that there is no more hope. Such laughter is heard in society, it is increasingly painful to look at the schizoid smiles of selfishness, under large bandanas in the form of eerie toothy smiles. You laugh until your heart stops.Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich

Musin Almat Zhumabekovich.

Public torture, in seventeenth-century Europe, created searing, unforgettable spectacles of pain and suffering in order to convey the message that a system in which husbands could brutalize wives, and parents beat children, was ultimately a form of love. … It seems to us that this connection – or better perhaps confusion – between care and domination is utterly critical to the larger questions of how we lost the ability freely to recreate ourselves by recreating our relationships with one another. It is critical, that is , to understanding how we got stuck, and why these days we can hardly envisage our own past or future as anything other than a transition from smaller to larger cages.

David Graeber, David Wengrow (The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity)

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