fate

If you__e in your life, chance. Viewed from the outside, like a book you__e reading, it__ fate all the way.

Jason decided there was nothing in the world scarier than a gang of bat-wielding grannies.

I don__ believe in coincidence or fateBut I know one thing for sureYour face was meant to beBurned into the deepest reachesOf my blackest memories.

If everything were anything," Chance said softly, "the barriers would break down, and we'd all lose ourselves to chaos. And then there would be no cotton candy.

The future was with Fate. The present was our own.~ The Poison Belt

Fate is shaped half by expectation, half by inattention.

Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.

Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence.

In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving

Fate's arrow, when expected, travels slow.

When an inner situation is not made conscious it appears outside as fate.

Certain things need not be said, and there__ nothing, not a whisper, prayer, not a sacrifice, not a payment of any price, that would change what__ about to happen.

Life has a way of kicking one along like a football, or so I've found. Fate had never dealt me personally a particularly easy time, but that was OK, that was normal. Most people, it seemed to me, took their turn to be football. Most survived. Some didn't.

I can't do nothing. Just put it off. And that don't do no good. I reckon it belong to me. I reckon what I going to get ain't no more than mine.

Fate has a twisted sense of humor.

Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I.

Chance. It weaves through our lives like a golden thread, sometimes knotting, tangling, and breaking along the way. Loose threads are left hanging, but the in and out, the back and forth continues, the weaving goes on. It doesn't stop.

That was how the heroine of a book would play it and Diana was still writing her own story the best heroines she'd always believed took their fate into their own hands.