the buttons QUOTES

10 " Educated people, of course, know that perception, cognition, language, and emotion are rooted in the brain. But it is still tempting to think of the brain as it was shown in old educational cartoons, as a control panel with gauges and levers operated by a user — the self, the soul, the ghost, the person, the “me.” But cognitive neuroscience is showing that the self, too, is just another network of brain systems. [C]ognitive neuroscientists have not only exorcised the ghost but have shown that the brain does not even have a part that does exactly what the ghost is supposed to do: review all the facts and make a decision for the rest of the brain to carry out. Each of us feels that there is a single “I” in control. But that is an illusion that the brain works hard to produce, like the impression that our visual fields are rich in detail from edge to edge. The brain does have supervisory systems in the prefrontal lobes and anterior cingulate cortex, which can push the buttons of behavior and override habits and urges. But those systems are gadgets with specific quirks and limitations; they are not implementations of the rational free agent traditionally identified with the soul or the self. "

― Steven Pinker , The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature

12 " There was a lump in her throat as she watched him fidget with the buttons on his vest, and it struck her as the truest form of kindness, the most basic sort of love: to be worried about the one who was worrying about you. "

― Jennifer E. Smith , The Geography of You and Me

14 " Like, okay, look up at that cloud and tell me what you see,” Bree said, pointing up at the closest cloud above them. “What do you mean, what do I see? It’s a cloud. I see a cloud,” Alessandro insisted. “No, what do you see? Like when you go to a shrink and they make you look at ink blots,” Bree explained. Alessandro looked over at her. “How much wine did you drink?” She smacked his arm. “I’ll go first. I see a rabbit.” “A rabbit?” Alessandro asked, laughing. “Yeah, the top of that one is shaped like ears, long rabbit ears.” “Ah, I see what you’re doing now. All right then. That one there…looks like…” Alessandro squinted his eyes as if hard in concentration. “An airplane.” “Oh, yeah. I see that,” Bree agreed. “Okay, what about that one?” She pointed to a cloud to Alessandro’s right. “That one looks rather like my wife’s sweet pert little ass,” Alessandro joked. “After two kids? You’re delusional,” she said laughing. “My turn. I think that one looks like…” Bree tilted her head. “My wife’s beautiful round breasts,” Alessandro injected. “Stop that!” Bree said, giggling. “Excuse me, I’m just playing the game.” “No, you’re not. You’re being a horny guy.” Alessandro pressed a hand to his chest as if she had wounded him. “To prove it to you, I say we compare.” He undid the buttons of her blouse and Bree was laughing too hard to stop him. "

― E. Jamie , The Betrayal (Blood Vows, #2)

16 " ...DAMNATION!'

No device of the printer's art, not even capital letters, can indicate the intensity of that shriek of rage. Emerson is known to his Egyptian workers by the admiring sobriquet of Father of Curses. The volume as well as the content of his remarks earned him the title; but this shout was extraordinary even by Emerson's standards, so much so that the cat Bastet, who had become more or less accustomed to him, started violently, and fell with a splash into the bathtub.

The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled -- cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom.

The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me.

I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches...'

The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet's fault.'

It was mine, I suppose,' Emerson said mildly.

Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?'

No,' said Emerson.

He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.) "

― Elizabeth Peters , The Deeds of the Disturber (Amelia Peabody, #5)

18 " More wine for me, pour me some more!" " You smart girl, I knew you're a smart girl, just teasing...” Faces turn red, the dark earth blood is rising. They wink at Pelka, wink at the host: " He knows his goods!" The women feel the buttons constricting them - they undo one, another, a third. By twos the guests go outside to get some air. " Well, my dear guests, are you soaked to the gills? Eh? And now-to dance! Get lively!" The table and the chairs vanish. The middle of the room is empty. Ivan the Monk jumps out of his hole, a tambourine in his hands: " Tim-ta-a-am! Tim-ta-a-am!" “Eh-hey!" the redhead suddenly snatches the tambourine and sweeps off, tapping wildly in a circle. Eyes closed: a white sleepless sun-a white night on the meadow-white columns of smoke swaying over fires... " Eh-ah!" -to whirl herself to death, to whirl out everything, to empty herself - nothing has ever been... Heavy boots are thumping on the floor, beards fly in the wind, the frock-coat tails go flying... hey, get going, faster, faster - a hundred versts an hour! (" The North" ) "

20 " I feel shock splinter through him, his body going rigid. Then he relaxes, melting into me, stepping forward until I am caught between him and the wall, the torch crackling beside me. His hands slide down my back, over my hips and thighs, leaving a trail of fire. His heart beats fast enough for the both of us, its thunderous pulse echoing through me.
I bury my hands in his dark hair, fingers knotting around those thick locks. Desire pulls at my stomach, and I lean into him, lifting one leg and wrapping it around his waist. He lifts me, and my other leg coils around him, my skirts sliding up my thighs, my back pressed against the column.
His lips are soft and warm and gentle, underlined with barely restrained urgency. I cannot get enough of him. I pull his kurta over his head and let it fall on the floor. I press my hands against his bared chest, feel his heart against my palm, his lungs rising and falling. His shoulder is knotted with the scar from the arrow he took for me. He kisses me again, this time more strongly, and I run my hands down his jaw and neck, over his shoulders, the taut muscles of his back.
He turns, without letting me go or breaking our kiss, and we tumble onto the soft divan. Aladdin holds himself over me, his abdomen clenched and his hair hanging across his forehead. His lips wander downward, to my chin, to the curve of my jaw, to my neck.
My hands are ravenous, exploring the planes and angles of his body. His fingers find mine, and our hands knit together. He raises them over my head, pressing them into the pillow beneath my hair, as his kisses trace my collarbone, and then he sinks lower, parting the buttons of my dress and pressing his lips to my bare stomach.
I gasp and open my eyes wide, my borrowed body coursing with sensations I have never felt, never dared to feel, never thought I could feel.
“Aladdin,” I murmur. “We shouldn’t . . .”
“Sh.” He silences me with a kiss, and I lift my chin to meet him. A warm wind rushes through my body, stirring embers and setting them aflame. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to think about consequences. I only want Aladdin, everywhere. "

― Jessica Khoury , The Forbidden Wish