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Posts Tagged ‘kissing’

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Stay with me, baby stay with me,
Tonight don’t leave me alone.
Walk with me, come and walk with me,
To the edge of all we’ve ever known.

I can see you there with the city lights,
Fourteenth floor, pale blue eyes.
I can breathe you in.
Two shadows standing by the bedroom door,
No, I could not want you more than I did right then,
As our heads leaned in.

Well, I’m not sure what this is gonna be,
But with my eyes closed all I see
Is the skyline, through the window,
The moon above you and the streets below.
Hold my breath as you’re moving in,
Taste your lips and feel your skin.
When the time comes, baby don’t run, just kiss me slowly.

Stay with me, baby stay with me,
Tonight don’t leave me alone.
She shows me everything she used to know,
Picture frames and country roads,
When the days were long and the world was small.

She stood by as it fell apart,
Separate rooms and broken hearts,
But I won’t be the one to let you go.

Oh, I’m not sure what this is gonna be,
But with my eyes closed all I see
Is the skyline, through the window,
The moon above you and the streets below.

Hold my breath as you’re moving in,
Taste your lips and feel your skin.
When the time comes, baby don’t run, just kiss me slowly.

Don’t run away…
And it’s hard to love again,
When the only way it’s been,
When the only love you knew,
Just walked away…
If it’s something that you want,
Darling you don’t have to run,
You don’t have to go …

Just stay with me, baby stay with me,

Well, I’m not sure what this is gonna be,
But with my eyes closed all I see
Is the skyline, through the window,
The moon above you and the streets below. (Don’t let go)
Hold my breath as you’re moving in,
Taste your lips and feel your skin.
When the time comes, baby don’t run, just kiss me slowly.

Oh, I’m not sure where this is gonna go,
But in this moment all I know
Is the skyline, through the window,
The moon above you and the streets below. (Baby, don’t let go)
Hold my breath as you’re moving in,
Taste your lips and feel your skin.
When the time comes, baby don’t run, just kiss me slowly.

— Parachute, Kiss Me Slowly

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Postmark: July 27, 1819

Sunday Night

My sweet Girl—I hope you did not blame me much for not obeying your request of a Letter on Saturday: we have had four in our small room playing at cards night and morning leaving me no undisturb’d opportunity to write. Now Rice and Martin are gone I am at liberty. Brown to my sorrow confirms the account you give of your ill health. You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour—for what is in the world? I say you cannot conceive; it is impossible you should look with such eyes upon me as I have upon you: it cannot be.

Forgive me if I wander a little this evening, for I have been all day employ’d in a very abstract Poem and I am in deep love with you two things which must excuse me. I have, believe me, not been an age in letting you take possession of me; the very first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; but burnt the Letter as the very next time I saw you I thought you manifested some dislike to me. If you should ever feel for Man at the first sight what I did for you, I am lost. Yet I should not quarrel with you, but hate myself if such a thing were to happen—only I should burst if the thing were not as fine as a Man as you are as a Woman.

Perhaps I am too vehement, then fancy me on my knees, especially when I mention a part of your Letter which hurt me; you say speaking of Mr. Severn ‘but you must be satisfied in knowing that I admired you much more than your friend.’ My dear love, I cannot believe there ever was or ever could be any thing to admire in me especially as far as sight goes—I cannot be admired, I am not a thing to be admired. You are, I love you; all I can bring you is a swooning admiration of your Beauty. I hold that place among Men which snub-nos’d brunettes with meeting eyebrows do among women—they are trash to me—unless I should find one among them with a fire in her heart like the one that burns in mine.

You absorb me in spite of myself—you alone: for I look not forward with any pleasure to what is called being settled in the world; I tremble at domestic cares—yet for you I would meet them, though if it would leave you the happier I would rather die than do so.

I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your Loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute. I hate the world: it batters too much the wings of my self-will, and would I could take a sweet poison from your lips to send me out of it. From no others would I take it. I am indeed astonish’d to find myself so careless of all charms but yours—remembering as I do the time when even a bit of ribband was a matter of interest with me.

What softer words can I find for you after this—what it is I will not read. Nor will I say more here, but in a Postscript answer any thing else you may have mentioned in your Letter in so many words—for I am distracted with a thousand thoughts. I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

Your’s ever, fair Star,

My seal is mark’d like a family table cloth with my Mother’s initial F for Fanny: put between my Father’s initials. You will soon hear from me again. My respectful Compliments to your Mother. Tell Margaret I’ll send her a reef of best rocks and tell Sam I will give him my light bay hunter if he will tie the Bishop hand and foot and pack him in a hamper and send him down for me to bathe him for his health with a Necklace of good snubby stones about his Neck.

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THE THORN BIRDS by Colleen McCullough

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I’ve wanted to read this book for years, but I’m glad I waited till I was at a stage in my life when I might appreciate it the most (though it wasn’t deliberate). I didn’t know anything about the story before I started except that it’s a classic Australian novel, epic in scope, and was made into a mini-series or something starring Rachel Ward years ago. I like not knowing much about books before I read them, though: it leaves you wide-open for the story to be told, and absorbed.

This is indeed an epic book. It spans three generations of the Cleary family, focusing mostly on Meggie. Starting in New Zealand on the day of her fourth birthday, The Thorn Birds follows the large family of Paddy and Fee and their children Frank, Bob, Jack, Hughie, Stuart, Meggie and baby Hal as they sail to Australia at the invitation of Paddy’s wealthy land-owning sister Mary, who intends him to inherit the vast estate of Drogheda in northwest NSW. Even by Australian standards, it’s a big farm: 250,000 acres, 80 miles across at its widest point, home to over 100,000 merino sheep.

The Clearys, who had been poor farmhands in NZ, fall in love with Drogheda and learn the ways of the land, the climate, the weather, the animals, pretty quickly. The book is divided up into 7 sections titled Meggie 1915-1917; Ralph 1921-1928; Paddy 1929-1932; Luke 1933-1938; Fee 1938-1953; Dane 1954-1965; and Justine 1965-1969. These provide a slight focus, but the only characters who really dominate the story are Meggie, Ralph – the Catholic priest who falls in love with her – and Justine, Meggie’s daughter by Luke.

There is definitely tragedy in this book, but I never once found it depressing. It is similar in its structure to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, but completely different, and successful in a way the latter book was not (for me): The Thorn Birds made me care. Each character is so beautifully rendered, as if they were indeed living people whose memories were captured by a light, non-judgemental hand. Every character evoked strong feelings in me, which changed as the characters changed. Luke, for instance, I wanted to throttle and ended up pitying. Meggie, in her naivete, was at times exasperating, yet she learned and I was proud of her for that – then angry, for the way she set Dane above Justine. Sometimes I absolutely hated Ralph and wanted to smack him; at other times I felt so deeply for him and his emotional turmoil.

I can’t get over how well written this book is. It is simply told, in an omniscient third-person voice, only sometimes, when needed, delving in deeper into the hearts and minds of the main characters to reveal their thoughts and feelings. The clashing perceptions people have are accurately portrayed, the poor judgements, bad decisions, mistakes – all so life-like, so real. Inferences, connections and insights can be deduced from hints in the story, but McCullough leaves a lot for the reader to realise on their own. And behind it all, like a glorious backdrop, the gorgeous landscape, so vivid and true. History and politics are there also: two world wars, the Depression, the Great Drought that ended when WWII ended, everything from clothing to attitudes to cars, as well as changing Australian slang, attitudes, the quirks – most of it slipping in unobtrusively, at other times pivotal to the plot.

That there is a plot is undeniable: that it is noticeable, I doubt very much. I don’t like to predict stories anyway – the only ones I do that to are unavoidable, like Steven Seagal movies – but there was very little in this book that I could have predicted had I tried. Maybe I’m just out of practice, but there was no sense of an author dictating or pushing the characters towards certain goals. A few things I could see coming, like Dane turning out just like his father, but even then it felt completely natural, not as though McCullough was manipulating the story.

If you’re interested in reading about Australia (or just epic stories in general), this is a great book to start with. It’s not even out-of-date, things change so slowly! Just picture stockmen flying helicopters around herds of cattle instead of riding, their properties are so humungous. The droughts are still there, the floods, the flies, the fires, the vernacular – though the Catholics have almost disappeared. The religion aspect of the novel is equally fascinating, and handled diplomatically as well. It is a book about ordinary people living ordinary lives, and sometimes deliberately causing themselves pain: hence the reference to the thorn bird, which pierces its breast on a rose thorn as it sings, and dies.

Favourite quotes:

“There is a legend about a bird which sings only once in it’s life, more beautifully than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves it’s nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, it impales it’s breast on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it is dying, it rises above it’s own agony to outsing the Lark and the Nightingale. The Thornbird pays it’s life for that one song, and the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles, as it’s best is brought only at the cost of great pain; Driven to the thorn with no knowledge of the dying to come. But when we press the thorn to our breast, we know, we understand…. and still, we do it.”

“We’re working-class people, which means we don’t get rich or have maids. Be content with what you are and what you have.”

“You still think love can save us. It’s more killing than hate. Hate is so clean, so simple. Like being in the ring. With hate, you just keep hitting. You hit until they stop hitting back. With love… They never stop.”

“For the best is only brought at the cost of great pain. Or so says the legend.”

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