women

In politics no permanent friends, no permanent enemies but permanent interest.

All photos speak a thousand words. This one contained a library.

I'm interested in things women do that aren't spoken about. Manto's stories let me breathe. They make me feel like less of a monster.

Yet Katie held fast to the dream that perhaps there were men in the world who appreciated good women - men capable of loving a woman enough to die for her.Something had to inspire the heroes in fairy tales and books.Her Aunt Augusta always said it was only womenfolk__ eternal wish for better men that inspired such stories_but Katie liked to believe that living or, at least, once-living men inspired them.

Already the people murmur that I am your enemybecause they say that in verse I give the world your me.They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos.Who rises in my verses is not your voice. It is my voicebecause you are the dressing and the essence is me;and the most profound abyss is spread between us.You are the cold doll of social lies,and me, the virile starburst of the human truth.You, honey of courtesan hypocrisies; not me;in all my poems I undress my heart.You are like your world, selfish; not mewho gambles everything betting on what I am.You are only the ponderous lady very lady;not me; I am life, strength, woman.You belong to your husband, your master; not me;I belong to nobody, or all, because to all, to allI give myself in my clean feeling and in my thought.You curl your hair and paint yourself; not me;the wind curls my hair, the sun paints me.You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,tied to the prejudices of men; not me;unbridled, I am a runaway Rocinantesnorting horizons of God's justice.You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you;your husband, your parents, your family,the priest, the dressmaker, the theatre, the dance hall,the auto, the fine furnishings, the feast, champagne,heaven and hell, and the social, "what will they say."Not in me, in me only my heart governs,only my thought; who governs in me is me.You, flower of aristocracy; and me, flower of the people.You in you have everything and you owe it to everyone,while me, my nothing I owe to nobody.You nailed to the static ancestral dividend,and me, a one in the numerical social divider,we are the duel to death who fatally approaches.When the multitudes run riotingleaving behind ashes of burned injustices,and with the torch of the seven virtues,the multitudes run after the seven sins, against you and against everything unjust and inhuman,I will be in their midst with the torch in my hand.

Although I love elegant parties, dancing and dining and spending the night with a sweet woman in my arms, my life belongs to literature.

Anything could happen in the company of a woman whose usual status is __pparition_.

The re-evaluation and rediscovery of minority art (including the cultural minority of women) is often conceived as a matter of remedying injustice and exclusiveness through doing justice to individual artists by allowing their work into the canon, which will thereby be more complete, but fundamentally unchanged.

She said she had learnt one thing from Balzac: that a woman's beauty is a treasure beyond price.

I want to be a woman who lives totally abandoned to the first commandment: to love my Lord, my God, with all my heart. I don__ want the reputation that I love God, I don__ want to write songs about loving God, I don__ want to talk about loving God. I want to actually love God. When I close my eyes, I want my heart to move. When I close my eyes and I look at Him, I want to feel alive on the inside. I want to look at Him with a fire in my heart and it__ real.

if there are many choices of 3.4 billion women/men in this world (2010 statistic: 65% from overall population or 2,2 billion are 15-64 years old women/men) , why should be narrowed with only view to the same beliefs ?

You have to take this with you too,_ she said, opening a box and holding up a silver necklace with the Syriac cross (a crucifix with a budding flower shape on each tip) dangling from it. __y mother gave it to me mother, who passed it to me. Now is the right time to give it to you. Not just because you__e leaving and will need something that always connects you to your roots, but also because tonight we remember her.

Some of these stories, it is understood, are not to be passed on to my father, because they would upset him. It is well known that women can deal with this sort of thing better than men can. Men are not to be told anything they might find too painful; the secret depths of human nature, the sordid physicalities, might overwhelm or damage them. For instance, men often faint at the sight of their own blood, to which they are not accustomed. For this reason you should never stand behind one in the line at the Red Cross donor clinic. Men, for some mysterious reason, find life more difficult than women do. (My mother believes this, despite the female bodies, trapped, diseased, disappearing, or abandoned, that litter her stories.) Men must be allowed to play in the sandbox of their choice, as happily as they can, without disturbance; otherwise they get cranky and won't eat their dinners. There are all kinds of things that men are simply not equipped to understand, so why expect it of them? Not everyone shares this believe about men; nonetheless, it has its uses.

i am everything _ i am nothing _ therefore _ i can be anything

Two years hence you will be as calm as I am now, - and far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man and free to act as you please

Then there are the simple things. The way she fits against my side when we__e sitting together. How she can silence my addled thoughts with one look. The sound of my name from her lips. The way she can make a moment, any moment, a thousands times better when she is there. How the simplest pleasures in life become exciting with the promise of sharing the experience with her.

It is so awkward that how our ancestors wasted their whole life and never thought about education or making difference for the future generations. My Grandfather lived more than a 100+ years, married 3 women and as he was illiterate he just wasted 115 fucking years. I wish I could live a hundred years like him to make difference, so the next generation does not use the same insulting words I am using today.

Who you are in Christ is far more important and meaningful than what has taken place in your past.