Aile Quotes

Reading is the perfect escape from whatever ails you.

Mankind is a single body and each nation a part of that body. We must never say "What does it matter to me if some part of the world is ailing?" If there is such an illness, we must concern ourselves with it as though we were having that illness.

To wish a healthy man to die is the wish from a mind of sickness. To wish an ailing man to die is the wish of the ambitious.

And what’s so bad about your being deprived of that?... All things seem unbearable to people who have become spoilt, who have become soft through a life of luxury, ailing more in the mind than they ever are in the body.

The best remedy for what ails me is being with you here under the sun.

Drink it,” I told her. “It’s good for what ails you. Caffeine and sugar. I don’t drink it, so I ran over to your house and stole the expensive stuff in your freezer. It shouldn’t be that bad. Samuel told me to make it strong and pour sugar into it. It should taste sort of like bitter syrup.” She gave me a smile smile, then a bigger one, and plugged her nose before she drank it down in one gulp. “Next time," she said in a hoarse voice, “I make the coffee.

Le Poëte est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

Sordukları zaman, bana ne iş yaptığımı, evli olup olmadığımı, kocamın ne iş yaptığını, ana babamın ne olduklarını sordukları zaman, ne gibi koşullarda yaşadığımı, yanıtlarımı nasıl memnunlukla onayladıklarını yüzlerinde okuyorum. Ve hepsine haykırmak istiyorum. Onayladığınız yanıtlar yalnızca bir yüzey. Ne düzenli bir iş, ne iyi bir konut, ne sizin medeni durum dediğiniz durumsuzluk, ne de başarılı bir birey olmak ya da sayılmak benim gerçeğim değil. Bu kolay olgulara, siz bu düzeni böylesine saptadığınız için ben de eriştim. Hem de hiç bir çaba harcamadan. Belki de hiç istediğim gibi çalışmadan. istediğiniz düzeye erişmek o denli kolay ki… Ama insanın gerçek yeteneğini, tüm yaşamını, kanını, aklını, varoluşunu verdiği iç dünyasının olgularının sizler için hiç bir değeri yok ki. bırakıyorsun insan onları kendisiyle birlikte gömsün. Ama hayır, hiç değilse susarak hepsini yüzünüze haykırmak istiyorum. Sizin düzeninizle, akıl anlayışınızla, namus anlayışınızla, başarı anlayışınızla bağdaşan hiç yönüm yok. Aranızda dolaşmak için giyiniyorum, hem de iyi giyiniyorum. İyi giyinene iyi değer verdiğiniz için. İçgüdülerimi hiç bir işte uygulamama izin vermediğiniz için. Hiç bir çaba harcamadan bunları yapabiliyorum, bir şey yapıldı sanıyorsunuz. Yaşamım boyunca içimi kemirttiniz. Evlenizle. Okullarınızla. İş yerlerinizle. Özel ya da resmi kuruluşlarınızla içimi kemirttiniz. Ölmek istedim, dirilttiniz. Yazı yazmak istedim, aç kalırsın, dediniz. Aç kalmayı dendim, serum verdiniz. Delirdim, kafama elektrik verdiniz. Hiç aile olmayacak insanla bir araya geldim, gene aile olduk. Ben bütün bunların dışındayım. Şimdi tek konuğu olduğum bu otelden ayrılırken, hangi otobüs ya da tren istasyonuna, hangi havaalanı ya da hangi limana doğru gideceğimi bilmediğim bu sabahta, iyi, başarılı, düzenli bir insandan başka her şey olduğumu duyuyorum.

You see, sometimes in life, the best thing for all that ails you has fur and four legs.

Aile bir mayın tarlasıdır, birey olabilmek için oradan sağ salim çıkabilmek gerekir.

Many persons grow insensibly attached to that which gives them a great deal of trouble, as a mother often loves her sick and ever-ailing child better than her more healthy offspring.

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.

By writing her self, woman will return to the body which has been more than confiscated from her, which has been turned into the uncanny stranger on display - the ailing or dead figure, which so often turns out to be the nasty companion, the cause and location of inhibitions. Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time. Write your self. Your body must be heard. Only then will the immense resources of the unconscious spring forth.

I wonder if much that ails our society stems from the fact that we have allowed ourselves to be cut off from that love of, and from, the land. It is medicine for broken land and empty hearts.

If it suddenly became impossible for us to cover up all the junk we normally hide from the rest of humanity, I have a feeling we would all get real motivated to deal with the source of what ails us.

I want money and a house with a pool and a partner who loves me and my own lab filled with only the most brilliant and strong women. I want a dog and a Nobel Prize and to find a cure to addiction and depression and everything else that ails us. I want everything and I want to want less.

As victims of hurt, we frequently don't bring up what ails us, because so many wounds look absurd in the light of day.

We have patiently suffered long enough, hoping that someone or some kind of luck would one day grant us more opportunity and happiness. But nothing external can save us, and the fateful hour is at hand when we either become trapped at this level of life or we choose to ascend to a higher plane of consciousness and joy. In this ailing and turbulent world, we must find peace within and become more self-reliant in creating the life we deserve.

… for there are times when disobedience heals a very ailing part of the self. It relieves the human spirit’s distress at being forced into narrow boundaries. For the nearly powerless, defying authority is often the only power available.

Sometimes you’re so hungry, so thirsty for something to fill you up, you’ve craved it for so long, but when you finally have it, it hurts going down. It’s not a medicine for what ails you. It might just be the thing that is keeping you sick.

After all, Ailes was perhaps the person most responsible for unleashing the angry-man currents of Trump’s victory: he had invented the right-wing media that delighted in the Trump character.

Time passes, people leave, we become alone again. If we don't accept that fact, memory erodes the present and exhausts the mind until it ages us and ails us.

You're Ma's own blood son, but did she take on that time Tony Fontaine shot you in the leg? No, she just sent for old Doc Fontaine to dress it and asked the doctor what ailed Tony's aim. Said she guessed the licker was spoiling his marksmanship.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

l'espace de l'esprit, là où il peut ouvrir ses ailes, c'est le silence. (chapitre XXIII, dernière phrase)

And like some part of himself that, two days ago, had thought pray and propriety were antidote enough to what ailed the world.

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunch-backed makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed form kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries' vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers, heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters' sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etiolated lacquerers; mottle-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men's wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night's rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

Be just the balm you need to heal what ails you

A plate of roast duck, steamed dumplings, spicy noodles with beef gravy, pickled cucumbers, stewed tongue and eggs if you have them, cold please, and sticky rice pearls, too,' Ai Ling said, before the server girl could open her mouth. "I don't know what he wants." Ai Ling nodded toward Chen Yong. 'I'm not sure I have enough coins to order anything more,' he said, laughing.

Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.

CLYTEMNESTRA What ails thee, raising this ado for us? SLAVE I say the dead are come to slay the living.

For above all, in behalf of an ailing world which sorely needs our defiance, may we, as Negroes or women, never accept the notion of - "our place.

Omitting sacrifice will gain you nothing... He is the striver, who sacrifices delight, ail, sympathy and slumber, and at the terminal Striver is the WINNER.

(When ailing seamen were shielded belowdecks from the adverse elements outside, they were said to be “under the weather.”)

Le dessin de Man Ray : toujours le désir, non le besoin. Pas un duvet, pas un nuage, mais des ailes, des dents, des griffes. [...] Man Ray dessine pour être aimé.

Finishing Year Twelve had been a blessed relief. Although, having read Looking for Alibrandi several times since Year Eight, I was disappointed when Year Twelve did not bring me a handsome, salt-of-the-earth boyfriend and ultimate emancipation from all that ailed my teenage soul.

I never get sick. Besides, I have this compulsion to take care of ailing Travises." "You would be the only one. We Travises are bad-tempered as hell when we're sick." "You're not all that nice when you're well either.

The quirky little melodrama that unfolded in Bosnia on 28 June 1914 played the same role in the history of the world as might a wasp sting on a chronically ailing man who is maddened into abandoning a sickbed to devote his waning days to destroying the nest

Pazar günleri... Şimdilerde... Sokak aralarından geçerken...gözüme pijamalı aile babaları ilişirse, kışın, yağmurlu gri günlerde tüten soba bacalarına ilişirse gözlerim... evlerin pencere camları buharlaşmışsa... odaların içine asılmış çamaşır görürsem... bulutlar ıslak kiremitlere yakınsa, yağmur çiseliyorsa, radyolardan naklen futbol maçları yayımlanıyorsa, tartışan insanların sesleri sokaklara dek yansıyorsa, gitmek, gitmek, gitmek, gitmek, gitmek......... isterim hep.

We do well to remember dolphins. If a dolphin ails, then others come alongside and nudge him gently through the waters; because a dolphin must keep moving in order to keep breathing. We all have need of our dolphins alongside us from time to time.

The viewers Ailes was trying to attract did not want television to tell them what happened in the world. They wanted television to tell them how to think about what happened in the world—the news itself would be secondary.

RAIN. First you Recognize the feeling. Then you Accept the feeling (rather than try to drive it away). Then you Investigate the feeling and its relationship to your body. Finally, the N stands for Nonidentification, or, equivalently, Nonattachment. Which is a nice note to end on, since not being attached to things was the Buddha’s all-purpose prescription for what ails us.

If anything ail a man,” says Thoreau, “so that he does not perform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels even … he forthwith sets about reforming—the world.”3

We all have private ails. The troublemakers are they who need public cures for their private ails.     44

Ailes had a suggestion: “Speaker Boehner.” (John Boehner had been the Speaker of the House until he was forced out in a Tea Party putsch in 2011.) “Who’s that?” asked Trump.

Our bones only ache while the flesh is on them. Stretch it thin as the temple flesh of an ailing woman and still it serves to ache the bone and to move the bone about; and in like manner the night is a skin pulled over the head of day that the day may be in a torment. We will find no comfort until the night melts away; until the fury of the night rots out its fire.

İçki, sevgili,ev, aile, arkadaş, eğlence, dünya işleri, bir aralık fikir bile... Hepsi, hepsi zarına iğne batırılmış, cigara tutulmuş kırmızı, yeşil, sarı, turuncu balonlara döndüğü günlerimiz olur. Her şey rengini, uçarlığını, sevincini lahzada boşaltır. Öyle zamanlarımız olmamasına imkan mı vardır? Balonlarına hiç iğne batırılmayan insanlar da yaşıyor. Onları gün olur kıskanır, gün olur küçük görürüm.

Nous ne pouvons savoir ! - Nous sommes accablés D'un manteau d'ignorance et d'étroites chimères ! Singes d'hommes tombés de la vulve des mères, Notre pâle raison nous cache l'infini ! Nous voulons regarder : - le Doute nous punit ! Le doute, morne oiseau, nous frappe de son aile... - Et l'horizon s'enfuit d'une fuite éternelle !...

Love's absence ailed me. I could not imagine loving my husband. He was a superior and I did not know how to love and be subservient together. Nor had he ever thought of me as a human being, let alone a woman. For no reason had he ever softened towards me, I had stirred him that little.

So, a little morphine, a good sweat, and a bowel movement—the cure for everything that ails you.

She complained that because of Purdue’s message about the drug being “good for whatever ails you,” OxyContin was “creeping into a whole population of people where it doesn’t belong.

Mastery of self is the endless battle in which we must pursue our consciousness straight forward, and head over heels transmute all our focus on what it is ailing our immediate reality. Question yourself without pride and ego, step out of your shoes and look from the outside it. What do you see? What do you hear? This is the reflection our your energy, your absolute control source. Does it benefit you?

When Jan was called up to service a fourth time...my mother waited outside...the two of them were convinced that this time Jan would have to go, that they would surely send him off to cure his ailing chest in the air of France, famed for its iron and lead content.

Sometimes you're so hungry, so thirsty for something to fill you up, you've craved it for so long, but when you finally have it, it hurts going down. It's not a medicine for what ails you. It might just be the thing that is keeping you sick.

we never know the battles others are facing. We don’t know the demons they are hiding. Everyone you have ever met is fighting something. You may have thought no one could’ve had the kind of raw deal you were dealt in life, being ailed with a mental illness, yet the truth is, many have the same or worse problems than that of your own.

Yani galiba seviyordum, sanırım sevmek böyle bir şeydi. Hiç yanımdan gitmesin istemekti. Yanımdan gitmesin, gündüz de gece de benimle dursun, başka odada uyumasındansa gelsin benimle balkonda başlı-kıçlı yatsın gerekirse, benimle simit satmaya, mahalle maçına, okula, denize de gelsin. Ekmeği, babamın sigarasını birlikte alalım, birlikte büyüyelim, okulumuzu bitirip evlenelim, el ele tutuşalım, annesi de iyileşsin, bayramlarda hem onun annesini hem benimkini ziyaret edelim. Ben askere gittiğimde bile o her hafta sonu beni görmeye gelsin. Onunla aile olalım, "Araba aldık çok borcumuz var," diyelim, "Çocuk ne zaman çocuk?" desinler, biz utanalım. Ama hiç ayrılmayalım.

Üzerinden sevişmek, kadınım Sigaranın, Asya'nın, omuzların, Üzerinden aile fotoğraflarının Eller nasıl duygandır nasıl yalın İki ses, iki bakış, gelişir nasıl Tek bir cümle gibi, sözlere karşın Sivri topuklar nasıl ortasına Gömülmüştür belleksiz halıların

A man cannot un-see the truth. He cannot willingly return to darkness or go blind once he has the gift of sight, anymore than he can be unborn. We are the only species capable of self-reflection. The only species with the toxin of self-doubt written into our genetic code. Unequal to our gifts we build, we buy, we consume. We wrap ourselves in the illusion of material success. We cheat and deceive as we claw our way to the pinnacle of what we define as achievement; superiority to other men. But there is a sickness inside us. Rising like the bile that leaves that bitter taste at the back of our throats. We do our best to deny its existence, dealing in lies and distraction. Until one day the body rebels against the mind and screams out… I am not a well man. Only when we know what ails us can we hope to find the cure.

Every morning, and every night, I resolved to start a new life, but I always procrastinated, acquiescing to my ailing willpower. And Saturday at eleven o’clock at night was not the right moment to make important decisions.

La Courbe de tes yeux La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur, Un rond de danse et de douceur, Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr, Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j'ai vécu C'est que tes yeux ne m'ont pas toujours vu. Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée, Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés, Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière, Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer, Chasseurs des bruits et sources des couleurs, Parfums éclos d'une couvée d'aurores Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres, Comme le jour dépend de l'innocence Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards.

When you’re a writer, the cure for whatever ails you is always writing.

Welcome, let’s all prepare to be whisked to the magical land of candy. Be warned, candy is very addicting and at Jubilee’s the candy is the tastiest in the world,

Her tedbirli aile başkanı için baş kural, evde yapılması, satın alınmasından pahalıya geleni, hiçbir zaman evde yapmaya kalkmamaktır.

Just the usual. Aspirin, vitamin C, a shot of whiskey.” That last was my great aunt Maureen’s remedy for whatever ailed you. She usually came down with “something” once a week.

İçimden “aile” diye geçireceğim, “mühim falan değil. Sosyologlar yanılıyor. Mühim olan annedir. O kadar.” Syf. 134.

Derrière les ennuis et les vastes chagrins Qui chargent de leur poids l'existence brumeuse, Heureux celui qui peut d'une aile vigoureuse S'élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins

Today television news is watched more often-than people read newspapers-than people read or gather any form of communication. The memo explained why: 'People are lazy. With television you just sit-watch-listen. The thinking is done for you.

The psychotherapist must not allow his vision to be coloured by the glasses of pathology; he must never allow himself to forget that the ailing mind is a human mind, and that, for all its ailments, it shares in the whole of the psychic life of man. The psychotherapist must even be able to admit that the ego is ill for the very reason that it is cut off from the whole, and has lost its connection with mankind as well as with the spirit.

Many of life's decisions are hard. What kind of career should you pursue? Does your ailing mother need to be put in a nursing home? You and your spouse already have two kids; should you have a third? such decisions are hard for a number of reasons. For one the stakes are high. There's also a great deal of uncertainty involved. Above all, decisions like these are rare, which means you don't get much practice making them. You've probably gotten good at buying groceries, since you do it so often, but buying your first house is another thing entirely.

La terre est bleue La terre est bleue comme une orange Jamais une erreur les mots ne mentent pas Ils ne vous donnent plus à chanter Au tour des baisers de s’entendre Les fous et les amours Elle sa bouche d’alliance Tous les secrets tous les sourires Et quels vêtements d’indulgence À la croire toute nue. Les guêpes fleurissent vert L’aube se passe autour du cou Un collier de fenêtres Des ailes couvrent les feuilles Tu as toutes les joies solaires Tout le soleil sur la terre Sur les chemins de ta beauté.

I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!)

So the beginning of this was a woman and she had come back from burying the dead. Not the dead of sick and ailing with friends at the pillow and the feet. She had come back from the sodden and the bloated; the sudden dead, their eyes flung wide open in judgment.

Black people rarely forgave whites for being ragged, unkempt and uncaring. There was a saying which explained the disapproval: 'You been white all your life. Ain't got no further along than this? What ails you?

The purpose of a pilgrimage is about setting aside a long period of time in which the only focus is to be the matters of the soul. Many believe a pilgrimage is about going away but it isn’t; it is about coming home. Those who choose to go on pilgrimage have already ventured away from themselves; and now set out in a longing to journey back to who they are. Many a time we believe we must go away from all that is familiar if we are to focus on our inner well-being because we feel it is the only way to escape all that drains and distracts us, allowing us to turn inward and tend to what ails us. Yet we do not need to go to the edges of the earth to learn who we are, only the edges of ourself.

Elle aimait la vie, il aimait la mort, Il aimait la mort, et ses sombres promesses, Avenir incertain d'un garçon en détresse, Il voulait mourir, laisser partir sa peine, Oublier tous ces jours à la même rengaine... Elle aimait la vie, heureuse d'exister, Voulait aider les gens et puis grandir en paix, C'était un don du ciel, toujours souriante, Fleurs et nature, qu'il pleuve ou qu'il vente. Mais un beau jour, la chute commença, Ils tombèrent amoureux, mauvais choix, Elle aimait la vie et il aimait la mort, Qui d'entre les deux allait être plus fort? Ils s'aimaient tellement, ils auraient tout sacrifié, Amis et famille, capables de tout renier, Tout donner pour s'aimer, tel était leur or, Mais elle aimait la vie et il aimait la mort... Si différents et pourtant plus proches que tout, Se comprenant pour protéger un amour fou, L'un ne rêvait que de mourir et de s'envoler, L'autre d'une vie avec lui, loin des atrocités... Fin de l'histoire : obligés de se séparer, Ils s'étaient promis leur éternelle fidélité. Aujourd'hui, le garçon torturé vit pour elle, Puisque la fille, pour lui, a rendu ses ailes... Il aimait la mort, elle aimait la vie, Il vivait pour elle, elle est morte pour lui »

Levin evleneli üç ay oluyordu. Mutluydu. Ama onun beklediği mutluluk değildi bu. Adımbaşı, eski hayallerinin kırıldığını hissediyor; yeni beklenmedik hayal kırıklıklarıyla karşılaşıyordu. Mutluydu, ama aile yaşamının içine girince her an, hayal ettiği şeyin bu olmadığını hissediyordu. Sıkça, durgun bir gölde küçücük bir kayığın düzgün, mutlu gidişini seyreden bir insanın, bu kayığa kendi bindiği anda hissedeceklerini hissediyordu. Bu kayıkta yolculuğun yalnızca sakin sakin, sallanmadan oturmak demek olmadığını, kayığın nereye gideceğini aklından bir an çıkarmamanın, durmadan düşünmenin, kafa yormanın; altında suyun olduğunu, kürek çekmek zorunda olduğunu unutmamasının, alışık olmadığı için avuç içleri acısa bile kürek çekmesinin gerektiğini, bunu seyretmenin hoş bir şey olduğunu, ama yapmanın, hoş olsa bile, çok güç olduğunu görüyordu. iletişim yayınları, sayfa:476.

Ailes said they were there for their weekly debate prep. The first presidential debate against Hillary Clinton was a month and a half away, on September 26. “Debate prep?” Bannon said. “You, Christie and Rudy?” “This is the second one.” “He’s actually prepping for the debates?” Bannon said, suddenly impressed. “No, he comes and plays golf and we just talk about the campaign and stuff like that. But we’re trying to get him in the habit.

When you spend any time at all paying attention to the proclivities of the natural world, you realize that nature has no problem including in its sorority the dead, dying, and ailing as fully as the lovely, healthy, and whole.

What are You, my God? I thought angrily. How do You compare to this stricken mass gathered to affirm to You their faith, their anger, their defiance? What does Your grandeur mean, Master of the Universe, in the face of all this cowardice, this decay, and this misery? Why do you go on troubling these poor people’s wounded minds, their ailing bodies?

To some, whiskey is a crutch. It's a drug, it leads to addiction, it dulls the senses and damages the mind. To others, whiskey is a medicine. A shot of bourbon can chase away what ails you, whethere it be a sore throat or a broken heart.

Repetition, Herschensohn wrote, is “the oldest and most effective propaganda technique.

A successful person expects a clapping hand, an ailing person expects an open hand.

Your arms around me…the prescription for all that ails me.

Books are worse than wine, I say. You read one and you need another - there's no end to it. What ails you that you cannot content yourself with just living on under the sun?

Man goes round in circles because the structure, the structure of man, is toric

If anything ail a man,” says Thoreau, “so that he does not perform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels even … he forthwith sets about reforming—the world.

I've studied the disease, I've lived in the swamp. It is my informed conclusion that we are suffering, as an ex-great nation, from top-down corporate rot. And that's not just the judgement of an ailing old fart. A lot of people in my Service make a profession of not seeing things in black and white. Do not confuse me with them. I'm a late-onset, red-toothed radical with balls. Still with me?

Her şey özlenebilir. Her şey tutku konusu olabilir. Her şey aynı ölçüde kutsal ve aynı ölçüde aşağılık olabilir. Tutkular çevreye göre değişen şeylerdir. Evli kadınlar toplantısında, en temiz pak aile kadını olmaya özenen aynı kadın, orospuların yanında en orospu olmayı niçin istemesin? Önemli olan istektir, hiçbir istek diğerinden soylu değildir, değildir, böyle düşünmüş olabilir Rosa gizliden.

Doctor Spielvogel, it alleviates nothing fixing the blame - blaming is still ailing, of course, of course - but nonetheless, what was it with these Jewish parents, what, that they were able to make us little Jewish boys believe ourselves to be princes on the one hand, unique as unicorns on the one hand, geniuses and brilliant like nobody has ever been brilliant and beautiful before in the history of childhood - saviors and sheer perfection on the one hand, and such bumbling, incompetent, thoughtless, helpless, selfish, evil little shits, little ingrates, on the other!

Crying lays you low and vulnerable, racks your body. If water is the cure for what ails us, the water that comes from our own faces and hearts is the wrong sort. It has absorbed our pain and is dangerous to let loose.

When the lad for longing sighs, Mute and dull of cheer and pale, If at death's own door he lies, Maiden, you can heal his ail. Lovers' ills are all to buy: The wan look, the hollow tone, The hung head, the sunken eye, You can have them for your own. Buy them, buy them: eve and morn Lovers' ills are all to sell. Then you can lie down forlorn; But the lover will be well.

No, what numbed these fields, peopled with bad dreams was not the oppressive grip of a plague but rather an ailing retreat, a sort of sad widowhood. Man had started to subdue these vacant expanses, then had grown weary of eating into it, and now even the desire to preserve what had been claimed had perished. He had established everywhere an ebb, a sorrowful withdrawal. His cuttings into the forest, which were seen at long intervals, had lost their hard edges, their distinct notches: now a thick brushwood had driven its sabbath into the broad daylight of the glades, hiding the naked trunks as high as their lowest branches.

Whoo-oop! I'm the old original iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Arkansaw!—Look at me! I'm the man they call Sudden Death and General Desolation! Sired by a hurricane, dam'd by an earthquake, half-brother to the cholera, nearly related to the small-pox on the mother's side! Look at me! I take nineteen alligators and a bar'l of whiskey for breakfast when I'm in robust health, and a bushel of rattlesnakes and a dead body when I'm ailing! I split the everlasting rocks with my glance, and I squench the thunder when I speak! Whoo-oop! Stand back and give me room according to my strength! Blood's my natural drink, and the wails of the dying is music to my ear! Cast your eye on me, gentlemen!—and lay low and hold your breath, for I'm bout to turn myself loose!

Love is an elixir, so poets claim, a frothy hormonal brew to cure what's ailing you. Drink it in. Sip it slowly. Savor its peculiar flavour as loneliness and pain all melt away. Dive headlong into the rush, ride the raging river up against the brink, careful not to drown. Drop over the edge. Negotiate your fall, for drug or love or object thrown, one thing is certain. What goes up eventually come down.

The dilemma, my dear sir, the tragedy, begins where nature has been cruel enough to split the personality, to shatter its harmony by imprisoning a noble and ardent spirit within a body not fit for the stresses of life. Have you heard of Leopardi, Engineer, or you, Lieutenant? An unhappy poet of my own land, a crippled, ailing man, born with a great soul, which his sufferings were constantly humiliating and dragging down into the depths of irony—its lamentations rend the heart to hear.

Health outweighs all other blessings so much that one may really say that a healthy beggar is happier than an ailing king. A quiet and cheerful temperament, happy in the enjoyment of a perfectly sound physique, an intellect clear, lively, penetrating and seeing things as they are, a moderate and gentle will, and therefore a good conscience—these are privileges which no rank or wealth can make up for or replace.

P.S. Mrs. Maugery lent me a book last week. It’s called The Oxford Book of Modern Verse, 1892–1935. They let a man named Yeats make the choosings. They shouldn’t have. Who is he—and what does he know about verse? I hunted all through that book for poems by Wilfred Owen or Siegfried Sassoon. There weren’t any—nary a one. And do you know why not? Because this Mr. Yeats said—he said, “I deliberately chose NOT to include any poems from World War I. I have a distaste for them. Passive suffering is not a theme for poetry.” Passive Suffering? Passive Suffering! I nearly seized up. What ailed the man? Lieutenant Owen, he wrote a line, “What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.” What’s passive about that, I’d like to know? That’s exactly how they do die. I saw it with my own eyes, and I say to hell with Mr. Yeats.

Though Ailes had spent more than four decades in Washington, D.C., and New York City, he still saw himself as a scrapper from a small town in a flyover state who’d had to fight for everything he had. When asked by one reporter what his antagonists thought of him, he replied, “I can pretty much pick the words for you: paranoid, right-wing, fat.

I know what ails you.

Toi, vois-tu, tu grandis tellement dans mon coeur que je crois que tu es plus grande que moi. Pourtant, tu ne sais pas voler. Mais tu es là, tout à côté de moi.

S:uch is Heaven on Earth, in all land A:s the sun brightens to the moon N:ails the Creation in a palm of a hand, D:ancing IT makes the desert bloom.

I suspected that the man was ailing, ailing in the spirit in some way, or in his temperament or character, and I shrank from him with the instinct of the healthy.

It is not the presence of despair that ails you, but the absence of hope.

Existence takes punished precedence in a world ailing with the agonies of consequence and misfortune. Once something becomes aware of its existence, once something is born to nothing, it cannot compel itself to cease except by cruelly wishing with futility for deliverance.

Let us live happily, without hate amongst those who hate. Let us dwell unhating amidst hateful men. Let us live happily, in good health amongst those who are sick. Let us dwell in good health amidst ailing men. Let us live happily, without yearning for sensual pleasures amongst those who yearn for them. Let us dwell without yearning amidst those who yearn. Let us live happily, we who have no impediments. We shall subsist on joy even as the radiant gods.

From the White House down, the myth holds that fatherhood is the great antidote to all that ails black people. But Billy Brooks Jr had a father,. Trayvon Martin had a father. Jordan Davis had a father. Adhering to middle-class norms has never shielded black people from plunder.

People retreated behind their front doors into the hidden zone of their private, family worlds and when outsiders asked how things were they answered, Oh, everything’s going along just fine, not much to report, situation normal. But everyone secretly knew that behind that door things were rarely humdrum. More typically, all hell was breaking loose, as people dealt with their angry fathers, drunken mothers, resentful siblings, mad aunts, lecherous uncles and crumbling grandparents. The family was not the firm foundation upon which society rested, but stood at the dark chaotic heart of everything that ailed us. It was not normal, but surreal; not humdrum, but filled with event; not ordinary, but bizarre. He remembered with what excitement he had listened, at the age of twenty, to the Reith Lectures delivered on BBC Radio by Edmund Leach, the great anthropologist and interpreter of Claude Lévi-Strauss who, a year earlier, had succeeded Noel Annan as provost of King’s. “Far from being the basis of the good society,” Leach had said, “the family, with its narrow privacy and tawdry secrets, is the source of all our discontents.” Yes! he thought. Yes! That is a thing I also know. The families in the novels he later wrote would be explosive, operatic, arm-waving, exclamatory, wild. People who did not like his books would sometimes criticize these fictional families for being unrealistic—not “ordinary” enough. However, readers who did like his books said to him, “Those families are exactly like my family.

Our ailing planet needs spiritual warriors, ones capable of standing up to the Western materialism machine, so we can create sustainable societies that care for their citizens, harmonize with the cycles of nature, and receive and honor the vast healing light that quietly connects us all.

Why should you want to exclude from your life all unsettling, all pain, all depression of spirit, when you don’t know what work it is these states are performing within you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where it all comes from and where it is leading? You well know you are in a period of transition and want nothing more than to be transformed. If there is something ailing in the way you go about things, then remember that sickness is the means by which an organism rids itself of something foreign to it. All one has to do is help it to be ill, to have its whole illness and let it break out, for that is how it mends itself. There is so much, my dear Mr Kappus, going on in you now. You must be patient as an invalid and trusting as a convalescent, for you are perhaps both. And more than that: you are also the doctor responsible for looking after himself. But with all illnesses there are many days when the doctor can do nothing but wait. And inasfar as you are your own doctor, “this above all is what you must do now.

He would come out of this campaign, Trump assured Ailes, with a far more powerful brand and untold opportunities. “This is bigger than I ever dreamed of,” he told Ailes in a conversation a week before the election. “I don’t think about losing because it isn’t losing. We’ve totally won.” What’s more, he was already laying down his public response to losing the election: It was stolen!

Who would ever want to read a novel about a punk and a drunk! Everybody knew a couple or a dozen; they were not to be taken seriously; nuisances and trouble-makers, nothing more; like queers and fairies, people were bell-sick of them; whatever ailed them, that was their funeral; who cared? - life presented a thousand things more important to be written about than misfits and failures.

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. Think rather,--call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long. Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born. Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done. Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation-- Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

New caution.— Let us stop thinking so much about punishing, reproaching, and improving others! We rarely change an individual, and if we should succeed for once, something may also have been accomplished, unnoticed: we may have been changed by him. Let us rather see to it that our own influence on all that is yet to come balances and outweighs his influence. Let us not contend in a direct fight—and that is what all reproaching, punishing, and attempts to improve others amount to. Let us rather raise ourselves that much higher. Let us color our own example ever more brilliantly. Let our brilliance make them look dark. No, let us not become darker ourselves on their account, like ail those who punish others and feel dissatisfied. Let us sooner step aside. Let us look away.46

Yoga stilled the fluctuations of the individual mind’s helpless thought waves, allowing it to see the one unchanging energy, the unborn, un-aging, un-ailing, sorrow-less and deathless state within

People are more likely to fall intensely in love when they are anxious and their self-esteem is lowest.... Feeling inadequate, unhappy, and empty are virtual prerequisites for falling and staying desperately in love; at least temporarily, the ecstasy of desire seems to cure everything that ails you. There is a connection between aversive states of mind -- loneliness, shame, even grief and horror -- and a propensity to feel overwhelming passion; this is one reason why romances blossom in times of war or natural disasters, as well as during the private disasters of our everyday lives.

Oh yes", said the old woman, "but I've heard these so-called stoves are by no means all they are supposed to be. I never saw a stove in my day, and yet never ailed a thing, at least as long as I could really be called alive, except for nettle rash one night when I was in my fifteenth year.. It was caused by some fresh fish that the boys used to catch in the lakes thereabouts." The man did not answer for a while, but lay pondering the medical history of this incredible old creature who, without ever setting eyes on a stove, had suffered almost no ailments in the past sixty-five years.

Mercerism isn’t finished,” Isidore said. Something ailed the three androids, something terrible. The spider, he thought. Maybe it had been the last spider on Earth, as Roy Baty said. And the spider is gone; Mercer is gone; he saw the dust and the ruin of the apartment as it lay spreading out everywhere—he heard the kipple coming, the final disorder of all forms, the absence which would win out.

Beceriksiz ve korkak bir hayvandır. İnsan boyunda olanları bile vardır. İlk bakışta, dış görünüşüyle, insana benzer.Yalnız, pençeleri ve özellikle tırnakları çok zayıftır. Dik arazide, yokuş yukarı hiç tutunamaz. Yokuş aşağı, kayarak iner. (Bu arada sık sık düşer).Tüyleri yok denecek kadar azdır. Gözleri çok büyük olmakla birlikte, görme duygusu zayıftır. Bu nedenle tehlikeyi uzaktan göremez. Erkekleri, yalnız bırakıldıkları zaman acıklı sesler çıkarırlar.Dişilerini de aynı sesle çağırırlar. Genellikle başka hayvanların yuvalarında (onlar dayanabildikleri sürece) barınırlar. ya da terkedilmiş yuvalarda yaşarlar. Belirli bir aile düzenleri yoktur. Doğumdan sonra ana, baba ve yavrular ayrı yerlere giderler. Toplu olarak yaşamayı da bilmezler ve dış tehlikelere karşı birleştikleri görülmemiştir. Belirli bir beslenme düzenleri de yoktur. Başka hayvanlarla birlikte yaşarken onların getirdikleri yiyeceklerle geçinirler.Kendi başlarına kaldıkları zaman genellikle yemek yemeyi unuturlar. Bütün huyları taklit esasına dayandığı için, başka hayvanların yemek yediğini görmezlerse, acıktıklarını anlamazlar. (Bu sırada çok zayıf düştükleri için avlanmaları tavsiye edilmez). İçgüdüleri tam gelişmemiştir. Kendilerini korumayı bilmezler. Fakat -gene taklitçilikleri nedeniyle- başka hayvanların dövüşmesine özenerek kavgaya girdikleri olur. Şimdiye kadar hiçbir tutunamayanın bir kavgada başka bir hayvanı yendiği görülmemiştir. Bununla birlikte, hafızaları da zayıf olduğu için, sık sık kavga ettikleri, bazı tabiat bilginlerince gözlemlenmiştir. (Aynı bilginler, kavgacı tutunamaynların sayısının gittikçe azaldığını söylemektedirler).Din kitapları, bu hayvanları yemeyi yasaklamışsa da gizli olarak avlanmakta ve etleri kaçak olarak satılmaktadır. Tutunamayanları avlamak çok kolaydır. Anlayışlı bakışlarla süzerseniz hemen yaklaşırlar size. Ondan sonra tutup öldürmek işten bile değildir. İnsanlara zararlı bazı mikroplar taşıdıkları tespit edildiğinden, belediye sağlık müdürlüğü de tutunamayan kesimini yasak etmiştir. Yemekten sonra insanlarda görülen durgunluk, hafif sıkıntı, sebebi bilinmeyen vicdan azabı ve hiç yoktan kendini suçlama gibi duygulara sebep oldukları, hekimlerce ileri sürülmektedir. Fakat aynı hekimler, tutunamayanların bu mikropları, kasaplık hayvanlara da bulaştırdıklarını ve bu sıkıntılardan kurtulmanın ancak et yemekten vazgeçmekle sağlanabileceğini söylemektedirler.Hayvan terbiyecileri de tutunamayanlarla uzun süre uğraşmış ve bunları sirklerde çalıştırmak istemişlerdir. Fakat bu hayvanların, beceriksizlikleri nedeniyle hiçbir hüner öğrenemediklerini görünce vazgeçmişlerdir. Ayrıca birkaç sirkte halkın karşısına çıkarılan tutunamayanlar, onları güldürmek yerine mahzun etmişlerdir. (Halk gişelere saldırarak parasını geri istemiştir). Filden sonra, din duygusu en kuvvetli hayvan olarak bilinir. Öldükten sonra cennete gideceği bazı yazarlarca ileri sürülmektedir. Fakat toplu, ya da tek gittikleri her yerde hadise çıkardıkları için, bunun pek mümkün olmayacağı sanılmaktadır.Başları daima öne eğik gezdikleri için, çeşitli engellere takılırlar ve her tarafları yara bere içinde kalır. Onları bu durumda gören bazı yufka yürekli insanlar, tutunamayanları ev hayvanı olarak beslemeyi denemişlerdir. Fakat insanlar arasında barınmaları -ev düzenine uyamamaları nedeniyle- çok zor olmaktadır. Beklenmedik zamanlarda sahiplerine saldırmakta ve evden kovulunca da bir türlü gitmeyi bilmemektedirler. Evin kapısında günlerce,acıklı sesleriyle bağırarak ev sahibini canından bezdirmektedirler.(Bir keresinde, ev sahibi dayanamayıp kaçmışsa da,tutunamayan, sahibini kovalayarak, gittiği yerdedeonarahat vermemiştir

In an official statement, Germany depicted Hess as an ailing man who was under the influence of “mesmerists and astrologers.” A subsequent commentary called Hess “this everlasting idealist and sick man.” His astrologer was arrested and sent to a concentration camp. Göring summoned Willy Messerschmitt for a meeting and took him to task for aiding Hess. The Luftwaffe chief asked Messerschmitt how he could possibly have let an individual as obviously insane as Hess have an airplane. To which Messerschmitt offered an arch rejoinder: “How am I supposed to believe that a lunatic can hold such a high office in the Third Reich?

When Debbie was fourteen, she felt "impressed by the Lord" to marry Ray Blackmore, the community leader. Debbie asked her father to share her divine impression with Prophet LeRoy Johnson, who would periodically travel to Bountiful from Short Creek to perform various religious duties. Because Debbie was lithe and beautiful, Uncle Roy approved of the match. A year later the prophet returned to Canada and married her to the ailing fifty-seven-year-old Blackmore. As his sixth wife, Debbie became a stepmother to Blackmore's thirty-one kids, most of whom were older than she was. And because he happened to be the father of Debbie's own stepmother, Mem, she unwittingly became a stepmother to her stepmother, and thus a step grandmother to herself.

Have you a room that you could let?" "Yes, I have a room that I could let, but I do not want to let it. I have only two rooms, and there are six of us already, and the boys and girls are growing up. But school books cost money, and my husband is ailing, and when he is well it is only thirty-five shillings a week. And six shillings of that is for the rent, and three shillings of that is for the rent, and three shillings for travelling, and a shilling that we may all be buried decently, and a shilling for the books, and three shillings is for clothes and that is little enough, and a shilling for my husband's beer, and a shilling for his tobacco, and these I do not grudge for he is a decent man and does not gamble or spend his money on other women, and a shilling for the Church, and a shilling for sickness. And that leaves seventeen shillings for food for six, and we are always hungry. Yes I have a room but I do not want to let it. How much could you pay?" "I could pay three shillings a week for the room." "And I would not take it." "Three shillings and sixpence." "Three shillings and sixpence. You can't fill your stomach on privacy. You need privacy when your children are growing up, but you can't fill your stomach on it. Yes, I shall take three shillings and sixpence.

Upon the further side, some way within the valley's arms, high on a rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Dúath, stood the walls and tower of Minas Morgul. All was dark about it, earth and sky, but it was lit with light. Not the imprisoned moonlight welling through the marble walls of Minas Ithil long ago, Tower of the Moon, fair and radiant in the hollow of the hills. Paler indeed than the moon ailing in some slow eclipse was the light of it now, wavering and blowing like a noisome exhalation of decay, a corpse-light, a light that illuminated nothing.

The point was, there didn’t need to be an answer because he wasn’t going to be president. Trump’s longtime friend Roger Ailes liked to say that if you wanted a career in television, first run for president. Now Trump, encouraged by Ailes, was floating rumors about a Trump network. It was a great future. He would come out of this campaign, Trump assured Ailes, with a far more powerful brand and untold opportunities. “This is bigger than I ever dreamed of,” he told Ailes in a conversation a week before the election. “I don’t think about losing because it isn’t losing. We’ve totally won.” What’s more, he was already laying down his public response to losing the election: It was stolen!

You come back here, you good-for-nothing! Come help me drag these ailing bones." The old man flees toward the Lethe as fast as his rickety legs will carry him. Like an army scouring the countryside, she surges in his wake, flattening grasses and bushes as she goes. The gap narrows. "Don't you recognize me?" she hollers. "It's me, your sweetie pie!

When Mamaw picked me up from school, I’d ask her not to get out of the car lest my friends see her—wearing her uniform of baggy jeans and a men’s T-shirt—with a giant menthol cigarette hanging from her lip. When people asked, I lied and told them that I lived with my mom, that she and I took care of my ailing grandmother. Even today, I still regret that far too many high school friends and acquaintances never knew Mamaw was the best thing that ever happened to me. My

You'll have all the pleasure you want,' he tells her, 'but you will care so deeply that it ails you, and you will suffer the pain of your wrongs like knives.' She laughs like the rush of the sea, and smiles like the crescent of a wave. 'At least I will suffer for something,' she replies. He sees trouble on her horizon. But she welcomes it, so he relents.

L'Amour qui n'est pas un mot Mon Dieu jusqu'au dernier moment Avec ce coeur débile et blême Quand on est l'ombre de soi-même Comment se pourrait-il comment Comment se pourrait-il qu'on aime Ou comment nommer ce tourment Suffit-il donc que tu paraisses De l'air que te fait rattachant Tes cheveux ce geste touchant Que je renaisse et reconnaisse Un monde habité par le chant Elsa mon amour ma jeunesse O forte et douce comme un vin Pareille au soleil des fenêtres Tu me rends la caresse d'être Tu me rends la soif et la faim De vivre encore et de connaître Notre histoire jusqu'à la fin C'est miracle que d'être ensemble Que la lumière sur ta joue Qu'autour de toi le vent se joue Toujours si je te vois je tremble Comme à son premier rendez-vous Un jeune homme qui me ressemble M'habituer m'habituer Si je ne le puis qu'on m'en blâme Peut-on s'habituer aux flammes Elles vous ont avant tué Ah crevez-moi les yeux de l'âme S'ils s'habituaient aux nuées Pour la première fois ta bouche Pour la première fois ta voix D'une aile à la cime des bois L'arbre frémit jusqu'à la souche C'est toujours la première fois Quand ta robe en passant me touche Prends ce fruit lourd et palpitant Jettes-en la moitié véreuse Tu peux mordre la part heureuse Trente ans perdus et puis trente ans Au moins que ta morsure creuse C'est ma vie et je te la tends Ma vie en vérité commence Le jour que je t'ai rencontrée Toi dont les bras ont su barrer Sa route atroce à ma démence Et qui m'as montré la contrée Que la bonté seule ensemence Tu vins au coeur du désarroi Pour chasser les mauvaises fièvres Et j'ai flambé comme un genièvre A la Noël entre tes doigts Je suis né vraiment de ta lèvre Ma vie est à partir de toi

Jesus’s gospel is not about a cosmic religious apocalypse upon rebellious pagans. His gospel is about a new messianic kingdom where He rules in the spirit of His Father, a kingdom full of joy, grace, freedom, and release from all that ails humanity.

the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator;

My master likewise mentioned another Quality which his Servants had discovered in several Yahoos, and to him was wholly unaccountable. He said, a Fancy would sometimes take a Yahoo, to retire into a Corner, to lie down and howl, and groan, and spurn away all that came near him, although he were young and fat, wanted neither Food nor Water; nor did the Servants imagine what could possibly ail him. And the only Remedy they found was to set him to hard Work, after which he would infallibly come to himself. To this I was silent out of Partiality to my own Kind; yet here I could plainly discover the true Seeds of Spleen, which only seizeth on the Lazy, the Luxurious, and the Rich; who, if they were forced to undergo the same Regimen I would undertake for the Cure.

The Yaksha asked, 'Who is the friend of the exile? Who is the friend of the householder? Who is the friend of him that ails? And who is the friend of one about to die?' Yudhishthira answered, 'The friend of the exile in a distant land is his companion, the friend of the householder is the wife; the friend of him that ails is the physician: and the friend of him about to die is charity

Our world is in turmoil. It is aging toward senility. It is very ill. Long ago it was born with brilliant prospects. It was baptized by water, and its sins were washed away. It was never baptized by fire, for that is still to come. It has had shorter periods of good health, but longer ones of ailing. Most of the time there have been pains and aches in some parts of its anatomy, but now that it is growing old, complications have set in, and all the ailments seem to be everywhere. The world has been ‘cliniced,’ and the complex diseases have been catalogued. The physicians have had summit consultations, and temporary salve has been rubbed on afflicted parts, but it has only postponed the fatal day and never cured it. It seems that while remedies have been applied, staph infection has set in, and the patient’s suffering intensified. His mind is wandering. It cannot remember its previous illnesses nor the cure which was applied. The political physicians through the ages have rejected suggested remedies as unprofessional since they came from lowly prophets. Man being what he is with tendencies such as he has, results can be prognosticated with some degree of accuracy.

Only man has turned away from the law of survival of the fittest, taken up the weak and ailing, and guaranteed their right to survival. So heroes perish, but the weak live on. One measure of a civilisation, in fact, is the percentage of misfits in its society. There's even a political scientist (anonymous) who claims that our modern age is an age "of the patient, by the patient, for the patient".

In many ways sci-fi is a natural progression from the magical worlds we inhabited as children. Speculative fiction opens up parallel universes to which we can escape and exercise our love for all things beyond our ken. close off these speculative worlds at your peril.

Mentally focus your attention on the part of you that needs healing. Now slowly take a deep breath, slowly filling your lungs to capacity while you send the oxygen to the part of you that needs healing. Now slowly breathe out, visualizing the ailing part being healed.

During the descent, she gave the doily to the man across the aisle, worried about his ailing son, and the needlework was so elegant it made him feel better just to hold it. That’s the thing with handmade items. They still have the person’s mark on them, and when you hold them, you feel less alone. This is why everyone who eats a Whopper leaves a little more depressed than they were when they came in.

Rağmen, edatlar içinde en devrimci olanı. Hiçbir şeyi göze almayan hiçbir şeyi değiştiremez. (...) İnsan kendisine rağmen kendi oluyor. Rağmen, iki kendi arasındaki edat şimdi de. İçindeki iki kişiden birini asimile edenler, rağmeni lügatten çıkararak yapabilirler bunu. Asimilasyona karşısın. Kişinin içindeki uzlaşmaz çelişkiler de en az toplumdakiler kadar gerekli. Bunları seçmeli derslerden öğrenmedin. Giremediğin zorunlu derslerden zaten öğrenemezdin. En küçük birimin aile olduğunu tekrarlamaktan vazgeçtiğin sıralarda kendi kendine keşfettin.

It's a bittersweet feeling to finally name what ails you after so long. On the one hand it's a relief because you can finally take action. On the other, endometriosis can feel overwhelming. There isn't enough useful information about it, nothing that encapsulates its all-encompassing nature or defines the all-involving path to recovery - except this book which is mind-blowingly relatable, relieving, and helpful.

Patience is all we have in a land where time is obsolete. I press on, armored stranger. I am not deceiving you. The willows have always grown silent in my wake. I see and feel your ailing mind and it worries me. The night that follows you grows stronger. You still have time to change.

We can offer women what they want most of all, cures for the most common ailments of this world... When children are ailing or babies refuse to be born, when men are unfaithful, when the sky is empty of rain, when the amulets buried beneath holy wall upon instructions of the minim offer not solace and all entreaties to the priests for guidance fail, when the rituals they offer bring no comfort and no consolation, they come to us.

While we were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared...The only time that I ever really suffered in body or mid, the only time that I ever fancied myself unwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by myself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North Seas. I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of imaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing ever ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience.

Anlaşılan ben zayıf bir insanım.İncil'i denedim;filozofları,şairleri,ama bir şekilde hepsi hedef şaşırmışlardı.Tamamen başka bir şeyden bahsediyorlardı. Ben de okumayı kestim uzun bir süre önce.İçki,kumar ve seks biraz işe yarıyordu ve bu yaşantımda cemiyetin,şehrin,ülkenin herhangi bir ferdi gibiydim; ancak tek fark, benim 'başarmak' isteği duymamamdı.Bir aile istemiyordum,ev istemiyordum,saygın bir iş istemiyordum.Böyleydim işte:Entelektüel değilim,sanatçı değilim,alalade bir insanı kurtaran köklerden yoksunum.Arada derede kalmış bir şey gibiyim ve sanırım bu da deliliğin başlangıcıdır.

I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse!

Nature of the Desire for Change: There is in us a tendency to locate the shaping forces of our existence outside ourselves. Success and failure are unavoidably related in our minds with the state of things around us. Hence it is that people with a sense of fulfillment think it a good world and would like to conserve it as it is, while the frustrated favor radical change. The tendency to look for all causes outside ourselves persists even when it is clear that our state of being is the product of personal qualities such as ability, character, appearance, health and so on. “If anything ail a man,” says Thoreau, “so that he does not perform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels even … he forthwith sets about reforming—the world.” It is understandable that those who fail should incline to blame the world for their failure. The remarkable thing is that the successful, too, however much they pride themselves on their foresight, fortitude, thrift and other “sterling qualities,” are at bottom convinced that their success is the result of a fortuitous combination of circumstances. The self-confidence of even the consistently successful is never absolute. They are never sure that they know all the ingredients which go into the making of their success. The outside world seems to them a precariously balanced mechanism, and so long as it ticks in their favor they are afraid to tinker with it. Thus the resistance to change and the ardent desire for it spring from the same conviction, and the one can be as vehement as the other.

Jesus, may Your pure and healthy blood circulate in my ailing organism, and may Your pure and healthy body transform my weak body, and may a healthy and vigorous life throb within me, if it is truly Your holy will that I should set about the work in question; and this will be a clear sign of Your holy will for me.

Bir hayalete karşı mücadeleye başlamak zorunda olduğumu keşfettim. Bu hayalet bir kadındı, onu daha iyi tanıdıkça "evin meleği" şiirindeki kahramanın adını verdim ona. Evin hayaleti korkunç tatlıydı. Olağanüstü alımlıydı. Genellikle hiç bencil değildi. Aile yaşamının zorlu sanatında mükemmeldi. Tavuk varsa kanadı o alırdı. Esiyorsa cereyanda o otururdu. Kısacası, öyle yaratılmıştı ki, hiçbir zaman kendi düşünceleri ya da istekleri olamazdı, tersine başkalarının düşünce ve isteklerine uymayı yeğlerdi o. Ve hepsinden öte -buna değinmeme gerek bile yok belki- arıydı. Yazmaya başladığımda daha ilk sözcüklerde onunla karşılaşıyordum. Kanatlarının gölgesi kağıdımın üzerine düşüyor, odamda eteklerinin hışırtısını duyuyordum... Arkamdan usulca yaklaşıyor ve fısıldıyordu... Sevimli ol, daha alımlı ol, kandır, cinsinin hilelerini kullan. Senin de kendine ait bir beynin olduğunu kimsenin anlamasına izin verme. Ve hepsinden önce: saf ol. Ve kalemimi yönlendirmeye çalışıyordu. Şimdi, haneme kazanç olarak geçirdiğim bir eylemi anımsıyorum... Arkama döndüm ve gırtlağına sarıldım. Onu öldürmek için elimden geleni yaptım. Eğer bu yüzden bir gün hesap vermem gerekirse, bunu kendimi korumak için yaptım, nefsi müdaafaydı. Eğer ben onu öldürmemiş olsaydım o beni öldürecekti.

When you are in readiness, you are in wakefulness. A smile can take you there. A simple smile. Just stop everything for one moment, and smile. At nothing. Just because it feels good. Just because your heart knows a secret. And because your soul knows what the secret is. Smile at that. Smile a lot. It will cure whatever ails you.

Préface J'aime l'idée d'un savoir transmis de maître à élève. J'aime l'idée qu'en marge des "maîtres institutionnels" que sont parents et enseignants, d'autres maîtres soient là pour défricher les chemins de la vie et aider à y avancer. Un professeur d'aïkido côtoyé sur un tatami, un philosophe rencontré dans un essai ou sur les bancs d'un amphi-théâtre, un menuisier aux mains d'or prêt à offrir son expérience... J'aime l'idée d'un maître considérant comme une chance et un honneur d'avoir un élève à faire grandir. Une chance et un honneur d'assister aux progrès de cet élève. Une chance et un honneur de participer à son envol en lui offrant des ailes. Des ailes qui porteront l'élève bien plus haut que le maître n'ira jamais. J'aime cette idée, j'y vois une des clefs d'un équilibre fondé sur la transmission, le respect et l'évolution. Je l'aime et j'en ai fait un des axes du "Pacte des MarchOmbres". Jilano, qui a été guidé par Esîl, guide Ellana qui, elle-même, guidera Salim... Transmission. Ellana, personnage ô combien essentiel pour moi (et pour beaucoup de mes lecteurs), dans sa complexité, sa richesse, sa volonté, ne serait pas ce qu elle est si son chemin n avait pas croisé celui de Jilano. Jilano qui a su développer les qualités qu'il décelait en elle. Jilano qui l'a poussée, ciselée, enrichie, libérée, sans chercher une seule fois à la modeler, la transformer, la contraindre. Respect. q Jilano, maître marchombre accompli. Maître accompli et marchombre accompli. Il sait ce qu'il doit à Esîl qui l'a formé. Il sait que sans elle, il ne serait jamais devenu l'homme qu'il est. L'homme accompli. Elle l'a poussé, ciselé, enrichi, libéré, sans chercher une seule fois à le modeler, le transformer, le contraindre. Respect. Évolution. Esîl, uniquement présente dans les souvenirs de Jilano, ne fait qu'effleurer la trame du Pacte des Marchombres. Nul doute pourtant qu'elle soit parvenue à faire découvrir la voie à Jilano et à lui offrir un élan nécessaire pour qu'il y progresse plus loin qu'elle. Jilano agit de même avec Ellana. Il sait, dès le départ, qu'elle le distancera et attend ce moment avec joie et sérénité. Ellana est en train de libérer les ailes de Salim. Jusqu'où s envolera-t-il grâce à elle ? J'aime cette idée, dans les romans et dans la vie, d’un maître transmettant son savoir à un élève afin qu a terme il le dépasse. J'aime la générosité qu'elle induit, la confiance qu'elle implique en la capacité des hommes à s'améliorer. J'aime cette idée, même si croiser un maître est une chance rare et même s'il existe bien d'autres manières de prendre son envol. Lire. Écrire. S'envoler. Pierre Bottero

First Love I ne’er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale, My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay. And then my blood rushed to my face And took my eyesight quite away, The trees and bushes round the place Seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing, Words from my eyes did start— They spoke as chords do from the string, And blood burnt round my heart. Are flowers the winter’s choice? Is love’s bed always snow? She seemed to hear my silent voice, Not love's appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no more.

I think about the destructiveness of desire: of wanting something unrealistic, of believing in the possibility of rescue. This stint in Boston only confirms my belief that there is no cure for what ails me. No matter how long I hold a stick with fluttering rags above my head, no trawler in the distance will be coming to my rescue.

Sagesse (I,X) Non. Il fut gallican, ce siècle, et janséniste ! C'est vers le Moyen Age énorme et délicat Qu'il faudrait que mon cœur en panne naviguât, Loin de nos jours d'esprit charnel et de chair triste. Roi, politicien, moine, artisan, chimiste, Architecte, soldat, médecin, avocat, Quel temps ! Oui, que mon cœur naufragé rembarquât Pour toute cette force ardente, souple, artiste ! Et là que j'eusse part - quelconque, chez les rois Ou bien ailleurs, n'importe, - à la chose vitale, Et que je fusse un saint, actes bons, pensers droits, Haute théologie et solide morale, Guidé par la folie unique de la Croix Sur tes ailes de pierre, ô folle Cathédrale !

The revisiting of an especially admired or loved book can become, perhaps, a five-year ritual, marking the passage of time in your life, helping you to see how you have changed, and how you have remained the same. Do not go always rushing after the new. Like the best friendships and wine, the best novels get better over the years.

Our medicines are not something you'll find at the drugstore, but at the bookshop, in the library, or downloaded onto your electronic reading device. We are bibliotherapists, and the tools of our trade are books. Our apothecary contains Balzacian balms and Tolstoyan tourniquets, the salves of Saramago and the purges of Perec and Proust.

Diagnostic reliability isn’t an abstract issue: If doctors can’t agree on what ails their patients, there is no way they can provide proper treatment. When there’s no relationship between diagnosis and cure, a mislabeled patient is bound to be a mistreated patient. You would not want to have your appendix removed when you are suffering from a kidney stone, and you would not want have somebody labeled as “oppositional” when, in fact, his behavior is rooted in an attempt to protect himself against real danger.

Storms of all sorts, were facts of our lives. Those images shown on the news of fellow citizens drowned, abandoned, and calling for help were not news to us, but still further evidence of what we long ago. I knew, for example, that we lived in an unequal, masquerading world when I was eight and crossing the dangerous Chef Menteur Highway with Alvin. I knew it at Livingston Middle School when I did not learn because no one was teaching me. I knew it in 1994, when we were petrified, afraid, the law might kill us—knew it before, during, and after the Water. Katrina's postscript—the physical wasteland—was only a manifestation of all that ailed me and my family in mind and spirit.

When I argue with devout statists, sometimes other voluntaryists tell me that I'm wasting my time, opining that a particular statist is never going to "get it." I often respond by saying that that's rarely my intention. Most of the time, when I argue with statists, the goal is for ME to learn more about the mentality and psychology of authoritarian indoctrination, and to hopefully help any SPECTATORS--whether statist or anarchist--learn something from the exchange. (Both of those goals can be achieved even if the statist continues to be a lunk-headed dupe.) Earlier today, a funny but possibly profound analogy came to mind about this: When I argue with "true believer" devout statists, I'm not being a doctor trying to heal an ailing patient; I'm being a coroner, doing an AUTOPSY on a patient who is already beyond any hope of saving, in the hopes that I, and anyone observing, may learn more about the "disease" of statism, in order to better understand the nature of it, and possibly prevent others from experiencing a similar fate.

But the blind did not go around very much. They sat, and didn’t seem to have any conversation, and soon you were aware of leisure gone bad. I had learned something of this during Einhorn’s days of dirty mental weather. Or of the soul, not the mind, the sick evil of not even knowing why anything should ail you since you’re resigned to accept all conditions.

Ben iyileşmeye inanmıyorum. Her insanın bir takıntısı vardır ya da en azından takıntılı olmaya müsait genleri vardır ve bunlar herhangi bir yerlerde kendini gösterme dürtüsüyle hareket eder, ama bu dürtüyü kesip atmak mümkün değildir, kendini boşluğa yansıtma arzusu olan bu aptal dürtü ancak başka yönlere kaydırılabilir. Her insanın, düşün insanının da ve hatta özellikle onun beyninde karanlık kalmış, kendi aklının aydınlatamadığı bir bölgesi vardır –Napoleon'un aile takıntısı vardı, Dostoyevski'nin kumar, Balzac ise hem oyun yazarı hem de işadamı olmak konusunda takıntılıydı. Bilgi hiçbir işe yaramaz. Kişisel takıntıları konusunda yardımcı olunabildiği herhangi biriyle daha tanışmadım, kendim de dahil olmak üzere.

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers, Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage, Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers. A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches, Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux, Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux. Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule ! Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid ! L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule, L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait ! Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer ; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

I don't know for sure what ever became of Hatsumomo. A few years after the war, I heard she was making a living as a prostitute in the Miyagawa-cho district. She couldn't have been there long, because on the night I heard it, a man at the same party swore that if Hatsumomo was a prostitute, he would find her and give her some business of his own. He did go looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found. Over the years, she probably succeeded in drinking herself to death. She certainly wouldn't have been the first geisha to do it. In just the way that a man can grow accustomed to a bad leg, we'd all grown accustomed to having Hatsumomo in our okiya. I don't think we quite understood all the ways her presence had afflicted us until long after she'd left, when things that we hadn't realized were ailing slowly began to heal. Even when Hatsumomo had been doing nothing more than sleeping in her room, the maids had known she was there, and that during the course of the day she would abuse them. They'd lived with the kind of tension you feel if you walk across a frozen pond whose ice might break at any moment. And as for Pumpkin, I think she'd grown to be dependent on her older sister and felt strangely lost without her. I'd already become the okiya's principal asset, but even I took some time to weed out all the peculiar habits that had taken root because of Hatsumomo. Every time a man looked at me strangely, I found myself wondering if he'd heard something unkind about me from her, even long after she was gone. Whenever I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the okiya, I still kept my eyes lowered for fear that Hatsumomo would be waiting there on the landing, eager for someone to abuse. I can't tell you how many times I reached that last step and looked up suddenly with the realization that there was no Hatsumomo, and there never would be again. I knew she was gone, and yet the very emptiness of the hall seemed to suggest something of her presence. Even now, as an older woman, I sometimes lift the brocade cover on the mirror of my makeup stand, and have the briefest flicker of a thought that I may find her there in the glass, smirking at me.

My mother, a woman who, amid abuse, stuffed hope and a way out into the slit of a mattress, is the very face of fortitude. I am an heir to her remarkable grit. However, beneath that tough exterior, I’ve also inherited my mother’s tender femininity, that part of her spirit susceptible to bruising and bleeding, the doleful Dosha who sat by the window shelling peanuts, pondering how to carry on. The myth of the Strong Black Woman bears a kernel of truth, but it is only a half-seed. The other half is delicate and ailing, all the more so because it has been denied sunlight.

Ultimately, musicians of the world must come realise the potential of their calling. Like the shamans, we may serve as healers, metaphysicians, inciters, exciters, spiritual guides and sources of inspiration. If the musician is illuminated from within, he becomes a lamp that lights other lamps. Then he is serving planet and its people, healing what ails us. Such music is truly important. It is said that “only one who obeys can truly command.” When the artist is immersed in a services, giving himself up over and over again, another paradox occurs: He is being seen by all others as a master.

Their causes of death differed: hangovers, nightmares, children who couldn’t stop crying, neighbors partying till 4 a.m., broken hearts, unpaid bills, roads not taken, ailing parents, midnight ice cream binges. But every morning.. they dragged themselves here, to the one thing in their lives that never changed, the one thing they could count on come rain, or shine, or dead pets, or divorce: work.

A Cephalopod Wish by Stewart Stafford O, to be an Octopus, Sporting three hearts, Two that won't break, To go on and love more. O, to have its nine brains, To spread a migraine load, Fogless coordinates clear, A tower fire, now contained. O, to have a boneless form, A body fitted to life problems, Not ail from a tumour's grasp, Flee to safety in inky clouds. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved

she was never to be allowed to exchange a word with him; and that she was forbidden to pay him a visit even when he was ailing. He was quarantined from her as if she had been suffering from the plague. She was actually forbidden to converse with Simon the shoemaker, the boy’s tutor, from whom she might have gleaned a little information about her son. His seclusion from her was to be unconditional and absolute.

It is possible, I think as I sit there on the cold wood of the bandstand bench, to see ailing marriages as brains that have undergone a stroke. Certain connections short-circuit, abilities are lost, cognition suffers, a thousand neural pathways close down forever. Some strokes are massive, seminal, unignorable; others imperceptible. I’m told it’s perfectly possible to suffer one and not realize it until much later.

The longer we spent on Tarawa the more Sylvia and I came to realize that to live on Tarawa is to experience a visceral form of bipolar disorder. There is the ecstatic high, when you find yourself swept away in a lagoonside maneaba rumbling to the frenzied singing and dancing of hundreds of rapturous islanders. And there are the crushing lows, when you succumb to a listless depression, brought about by the unyielding heat, sporadic sickness, pitiless isolation, food shortages, and the realization that so much of what ails Tarawa, the overpopulation and all its attendant health and social problems, need not be as bad as it is.

Dans tes yeux mon enfant j'ai lu l'exil. Toi? qui es né Loin du pays, Tes cheveux ont la couleur de l'olive A laquelle nous n'avons plus Le droit de toucher. Dans l'éclat de tes dents serrées, Mon enfant, Je regarde Des milliers d'étoiles calcinées, Nos terres volées, Nos maisons bombardées, Des bouquets de poings Tombants sous les orangers. Dans le mercure de tes larmes, Mon enfant, J'ai lu l’exil, L'exil d'un peuple.

At the very same time that we witnessed the explosion of white celebrity moms, and the outpouring of advice to a surveillance of middle-class mothers, the welfare mother, trapped in a "cycle of dependency," became ubiquitous in our media landscape, and she came to represent everything wrong with America. She appeared not in the glossy pages of the women's magazines but rather as the subject of news stories about the "crisis" in the American family and the newly declared "war" on welfare mothers. Whatever ailed America--drugs, crime, loss of productivity--was supposedly her fault. She was portrayed as thumbing her nose at intensive mothering. Even worse, she was depicted as bringing her kids into the realm of market values, as putting a price on their heads, by allegedly calculating how much each additional child was worth and then getting pregnant to cash in on them. For middle-class white women in the media, by contrast, their kids were priceless, these media depictions reinforced the divisions between "us" (minivan moms) and "them" (welfare mothers, working-class mothers, teenage mothers), and did so especially along the lines of race. For example, one of the most common sentences used to characterize the welfare mother was, "Tanya, who has_____ children by ______ different men" (you fill in the blanks). Like zoo animals, their lives were reduced to the numbers of successful impregnations by multiple partners. So it's interesting to note that someone like Christie Brinkley, who has exactly the same reproductive MO, was never described this way. Just imagine reading a comparable sentence in Redbook. "Christie B., who has three children by three different men." But she does, you know.

Lessons can be learned from past pandemics. In 1918, as Boston hospitals filled beyond capacity, a tent hospital was set up in nearby Brookline. Though exposing ailing patients to the chilly Boston autumn was condemned by Bostonians as “barbarous and cruel,” it turned out that the fresh breeze and sunshine seemed to afford the overflow patients far better odds of survival than those inside the overcrowded, poorly ventilated hospitals.2039

LA ROSE ET LE RESADA Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Tous deux adoraient la belle Prisonnière des soldats Lequel montait à l'échelle Et lequel guettait en bas Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Qu'importe comment s'appelle Cette clarté sur leur pas Que l'un fut de la chapelle Et l'autre s'y dérobât Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Tous les deux étaient fidèles Des lèvres du coeur des bras Et tous les deux disaient qu'elle Vive et qui vivra verra Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Quand les blés sont sous la grêle Fou qui fait le délicat Fou qui songe à ses querelles Au coeur du commun combat Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Du haut de la citadelle La sentinelle tira Par deux fois et l'un chancelle L'autre tombe qui mourra Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Ils sont en prison Lequel A le plus triste grabat Lequel plus que l'autre gèle Lequel préfère les rats Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Un rebelle est un rebelle Deux sanglots font un seul glas Et quand vient l'aube cruelle Passent de vie à trépas Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Répétant le nom de celle Qu'aucun des deux ne trompa Et leur sang rouge ruisselle Même couleur même éclat Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas Il coule il coule il se mêle À la terre qu'il aima Pour qu'à la saison nouvelle Mûrisse un raisin muscat Celui qui croyait au ciel Celui qui n'y croyait pas L'un court et l'autre a des ailes De Bretagne ou du Jura Et framboise ou mirabelle Le grillon rechantera Dites flûte ou violoncelle Le double amour qui brûla L'alouette et l'hirondelle La rose et le réséda

You are all too rich to be happy, child. For must not each of you be the constitutions of your family marry to be still richer? People who know in what their main excellence consists are not to be blamed (are they?) for cultivating and improving what they think most valuable? Is true happiness any part of your family-view?—So far from it, that none of your family but yourself could be happy were they not rich. So let them fret on, grumble and grudge, and accumulate; and wondering what ails them that they have not happiness when they have riches, think the cause is want of more; and so go on heaping up till Death, as greedy an accumulator as themselves, gathers them into his garner!

One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eyeing the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste. Tom said: "Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter." But Peter signified that he did want it. "You better make sure." Peter was sure. "Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self." Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter. "Tom, what on earth ails that cat?" "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy. "Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?

Love, but not the sensuous fire that burns, scorches and tortures, that inflicts more wounds than it cures—flaring up now, at the next moment being extinguished, leaving behind more coldness and loneliness than was felt before. Rather, love that lies like a soft but firm hand on the ailing beings, ever unchanged in its sympathy, without wavering, unconcerned with any response it meets. Love that is comforting coolness to those who burn with the fire of suffering and passion; that is life-giving warmth to those abandoned in the cold desert of loneliness, to those who are shivering in the frost of a loveless world; to those whose hearts have become as if empty and dry by the repeated calls for help, by deepest despair.

I used to be endlessly troubled by meat-eating people who were uneasy with hunters and hunting. ... How can someone suggest that paying for the slaughter of animals is more justifiable than taking the responsibility for one's food into one's own hands? ... Civilization is a mechanism that allows us to avoid the necessary but ugly aspects of life; most of us do not euthanize our own pets, we don't unplug the life support on our own ailing grandparents, we don't repair our own cars, and we don't process our own raw sewage. Instead, the delegations of our less-pleasant responsibilities is so widespread that taking these things on is almost like trying to swim upriver. It's easier not to do them, and those who insist on doing so are bound to look a little odd.

I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed a physician.

The Reverie of Poor Susan AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass’d by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. ’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass’d away from her eyes!

I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don’t consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can’t explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot “pay out” the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don’t consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well — let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time — twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!)

We would ideally remain able to laugh, in the gentlest way, when we are made the special target of a sulker’s fury. We would recognise the touching paradox. The sulker may be six foot one and holding down adult employment, but the real message is poignantly retrogressive: ‘Deep inside, I remain an infant, and right now I need you to be my parent. I need you correctly to guess what is truly ailing me, as people did when I was a baby, when my ideas of love were first formed.’ We do our sulking lovers the greatest possible favour when we are able to regard their tantrums as we would those of an infant. We are so alive to the idea that it’s patronising to be thought of as younger than we are, we forget that it is also, at times, the greatest privilege for someone to look beyond our adult self in order to engage with – and forgive – the disappointed, furious, inarticulate child within.

ls the Conjugial Angel stone That here he stands with heavy head The backward-looking pillared dead Inert, moss-covered, aIl alone? The Holy Ghost trawls ln the Void, With fleshly Sophy on His Hook The Sons of God crowd round to look At plumpy limbs to be enjoyed The Greater Man casts out the line With dangling Sophy as the lure Who howls around the Heavens' colure To clasp the Human Form Divine Rose-petals fall from fallen hair That in the clay is redolent Of liquid oozings and the scent Of the dark Pit, the Beastly lair And is my Love become the beast That was, and is not, and yet is, Who stretches scarlet holes to kiss And clasps with claws the fleshly feast Sweet Rosamund, adult'rous Rose May lie inside her urn and stink Whlle Alfred's tears tum into ink And drop into her quelque-chose The Angel spreads his golden wings And raises high his golden cock And man and wife together lock Into one corpse that moans and sings

Here’s a great home workout that allows you to train and work on the usual issues I find ailing most people: • Right-leg Bulgarian Split Squats with the dumbbell in the suitcase position, 10 reps • Left-leg Bulgarian Split Squats with the dumbbell in the suitcase position, 10 reps • Goblet Squats with the dumbbell cradled on the chest, 10 reps • Deep Push-ups, chest touching the floor, with the push-up handles, 10 reps • Doorway Chin-ups or Pull-ups, 10 reps • Ab Wheel, 10 reps Try to do these six exercises one after another straight through without resting much between movements. Repeat this sequence, after a minute or two of rest, three to five times.

I do not believe that there is anything inherently and unavoidably ugly about industrialism. A factory or even a gasworks is not obliged of its own nature to be ugly, any more than a palace or a dog-kennel or a cathedral. . . . But in any case, though the ugliness of industrialism is the most obvious thing about it and the thing every newcomer exclaims against, I doubt whether it is centrally important. And perhaps it is not even desirable, industrialism being what it is, that it should learn to disguise itself as something else. As Mr Aldous Huxley has truly remarked, a dark Satanic mill ought to look like a dark Satanic mill and not like the temple of mysterious and splendid gods. Moreover, even in the worst of the industrial towns one sees a great deal that is not ugly in the narrow aesthetic sense. A belching chimney or a stinking slum is repulsive chiefly because it implies warped lives and ailing children. Look at it from a purely aesthetic standpoint and it may have a certain macabre appeal. I find that anything outrageously strange generally ends by fascinating me even when I abominate it.

The Existentially Preoccupied Long Distance Runner Sometimes I like to run so hard and for so long with each mile I can feel the pain of my own awareness, my own heightened consciousness of what ails me, the ills of the world, the limitations of our existence, the losses we must endure, the superficial interactions. Sometimes I like to run so hard and for so long that I can feel all of these feelings seep out of the pours of my own skin, the sweat cleansing my very being, my awareness of beauty heightened, the experience of joy possible, each mile, each minute, ridding me of these feelings, washing away the illusions, showing me the truth. Sometimes I like to run so hard and for so long… until finally I feel free… until finally I AM free…

In Molecules of Emotion, Pert revealed how her study of information-processing receptors on nerve cell membranes led her to discover that the same “neural” receptors were present on most, if not all, of the body’s cells. Her elegant experiments established that the “mind” was not focused in the head but was distributed via signal molecules to the whole body. As importantly, her work emphasized that emotions were not only derived through a feedback of the body’s environmental information. Through self-consciousness, the mind can use the brain to generate “molecules of emotion” and override the system. While proper use of consciousness can bring health to an ailing body, inappropriate unconscious control of emotions can easily make a healthy body diseased,

What did I think? Right then I was thinking about my father, specifically his habit of treating everyone with courtesy and consideration, of how he used to stop on lower Division Street and converse genially with old black men from the Hill whom he knew from his early days as a route man. His kindness and interest weren't feigned, nor did they derive, I'm convinced, from any perceived send of duty. His behavior was merely an extension of who he was. But here's the thing about my father that I've come to understand only reluctantly and very recently. If he wasn't the cause of what ailed his fellow man, neither was he the solution. He believed in "Do unto Others." It was a good, indeed golden, rule to by and it never occurred to him that perhaps it wasn't enough. "You ain't gotta love people," I remember him proclaiming to the Elite Coffee Club guys at Ikey's back in the early days. Confused by mean-spirited behavior, he was forever explaining how little it cost to be polite, to be nice to people. Make them feel good then they're down because maybe tomorrow you'll be down. Such a small thing. Love, he seemed to understand, was a very big thing indeed, its cost enormous and maybe more than you could afford if you were spendthrift. Nobody expects that of you, asny more than they expected you to hand out hundred-dollar bills on the street corner. And I remember my mother's response when he repeated over dinner what he'd told the men at the store. "Really, Lou? Isn't that exactly what we're supposed to do? Love people? Isn't that what the Bible says?

It seems to be little noticed that this yearning to dragoon and terrify all persons who happen to be lucky is at the bottom of the puerile radicalism now prevailing among us, just as it is at the bottom of Ku Kluxery. The average American radical today likes to think of himself as a profound and somber fellow, privy to arcana not open to the general; he is actually only a poor fish, with distinct overtones of the jackass. What ails him, first and last, is simply envy of his betters. Unable to make any progress against them under the rules in vogue, he proposes to fetch them below the belt by making the rules over. He is no more an altruist than J. Pierpont Morgan is an altruist, or Jim Farley, or, indeed, Al Capone. Every such rescuer of the downtrodden entertains himself with gaudy dreams of power, far beyond his natural fortunes and capacities. He sees himself at the head of an overwhelming legion of morons, marching upon the fellows he envies and hates. He thinks of himself in his private reflections (and gives it away every time he makes a speech or prints an article) as a gorgeous amalgam of Lenin, Mussolini and Genghis Khan, with the Republic under his thumb, his check for any amount good at any bank, and ten million heels clicking every time he winks his eye.

Fay ve Bea aile hayatının idaresini ele almıştı. Jim ile ben emir almaktan memnunduk. Bu hepimiz ama özellikle kızlar için harika bir eğitimdi. Okul ve üniversite yaşamlarını mümkün olanın en fazlasını alarak tamamladıktan sonra sanat alanında ve BBCde başarılı kariyerleri oldu. Mutlu evlilikler yaptılar ve kendi ailelerine sahipler. Baştan itibaren, fırsat ve başarıya herhangi bir erkek kadar onların da hakkı olduğunu, hiçbir zaman hükmedilmeye veya sömürülmeye izin vermemeleri gerektigini kafalarına yerleştirdim. Sonunda boşuna konuşmuş olduğumu anladım; hayatta ne yapmak istediklerini gayet iyi biliyorlardı ve kararlıydılar. Bazı babalar iyi anne olur ve umarım ben de onlardan biriyim. Ama sanırım, beni tanıyan kadınlara sormuş olsalardı, büyük kısmı çok pasaklı bir anne olduğumu söylerdi. Ev işinden tamamen bihaber olduğum gibi, ara sıra evin temizlenmesi gerektiğinin de farkında değildim ve sık sık, bir elimde sigara, diğerinde de içki olurdu. Kısacası, her ne kadar sevgi dolu ve hoşgörülüysem de, sosyal hizmetlerin onaylamayacağı bir anneydim. Yıllar içinde benimle röportaj yapan kadın gazeteciler, ayrıntıları kaçırmayan bakışlarıyla evimin kullanılmayan köşelerinde keşfettikleri toza sık sık göndermede bulunmuştur. Galiba, mutluluğu gözlerinden okunan çocuklar (ki bundan hiç bahsetmezler) yetiştiren bir erkeğin varlığı, eski kafalılığın yol açtığı bir refleksi harekete geçiriyordu. Eğer kadınlar toz da almayacaksa, o zaman hiç mi ümit yoktu? Belki de aile yaşamının sürdüğü evin saplantılı bir şekilde sürekli temizlenmesi, gün ışığına çıkmaya çalışan bastırılmış duyguların silinmesi girişimiydi. Aşırı çalışan annenin hâkim olduğu çekirdek aile, birçok açıdan doğal değildi; tıpkı aslında erkek cinsini kontrol etmek için ödemek zorunda olduğumuz büyük bedel evlilik gibi.

Just as the Mediterranean separated France from the country Algiers, so did the Mississippi separate New Orleans proper from Algiers Point. The neighborhood had a strange mix. It looked seedier and more laid-back all at the same time. Many artists lived on the peninsula, with greenery everywhere and the most beautiful and exotic plants. The French influence was heavy in Algiers, as if the air above the water had carried as much ambience as it could across to the little neighborhood. There were more dilapidated buildings in the community, but Jackson and Buddy passed homes with completely manicured properties, too, and wild ferns growing out of baskets on the porches, as if they were a part of the architecture. Many of the buildings had rich, ornamental detail, wood trim hand-carved by craftsmen and artisans years ago. The community almost had the look of an ailing beach town on some forgotten coast.

It was a sad fact that the commonest complaint in the outpatient department was “Rasehn . . . libehn . . . hodehn,” literally, “My head . . . my heart . . . and my stomach,” with the patient’s hand touching each part as she pronounced the words. Ghosh called it the RLH syndrome. The RLH sufferers were often young women or the elderly. If pressed to be more specific, the patients might offer that their heads were spinning (rasehn yazoregnal) or burning (yakatelegnal ), or their hearts were tired (lib dekam), or they had abdominal discomfort or cramps (hod kurteth), but these symptoms were reported as an aside and grudgingly, because rasehn-libehn-hodehn should have been enough for any doctor worth his salt. It had taken Matron her first year in Addis to understand that this was how stress, anxiety, marital strife, and depression were expressed in Ethiopia—somatization was what Ghosh said the experts called this phenomenon. Psychic distress was projected onto a body part, because culturally it was the way to express that kind of suffering. Patients might see no connection between the abusive husband, or meddlesome mother-in-law, or the recent death of their infant, and their dizziness or palpitations. And they all knew just the cure for what ailed them: an injection. They might settle for mistura carminativa or else a magnesium trisilicate and belladonna mixture, or some other mixture that came to the doctor’s mind, but nothing cured like the marfey—the needle. Ghosh was dead against injections of vitamin B for the RLH syndrome, but Matron had convinced him it was better for Missing to do it than have the dissatisfied patient get an unsterilized hypodermic from a quack in the Merkato. The orange B-complex injection was cheap, and its effect was instantaneous, with patients grinning and skipping down the hill. T

Lynum had plenty of information to share. The FBI's files on Mario Savio, the brilliant philosophy student who was the spokesman for the Free Speech Movement, were especially detailed. Savio had a debilitating stutter when speaking to people in small groups, but when standing before a crowd and condemning his administration's latest injustice he spoke with divine fire. His words had inspired students to stage what was the largest campus protest in American history. Newspapers and magazines depicted him as the archetypal "angry young man," and it was true that he embodied a student movement fueled by anger at injustice, impatience for change, and a burning desire for personal freedom. Hoover ordered his agents to gather intelligence they could use to ruin his reputation or otherwise "neutralize" him, impatiently ordering them to expedite their efforts. Hoover's agents had also compiled a bulging dossier on the man Savio saw as his enemy: Clark Kerr. As campus dissent mounted, Hoover came to blame the university president more than anyone else for not putting an end to it. Kerr had led UC to new academic heights, and he had played a key role in establishing the system that guaranteed all Californians access to higher education, a model adopted nationally and internationally. But in Hoover's eyes, Kerr confused academic freedom with academic license, coddled Communist faculty members, and failed to crack down on "young punks" like Savio. Hoover directed his agents to undermine the esteemed educator in myriad ways. He wanted Kerr removed from his post as university president. As he bluntly put it in a memo to his top aides, Kerr was "no good." Reagan listened intently to Lynum's presentation, but he wanted more--much more. He asked for additional information on Kerr, for reports on liberal members of the Board of Regents who might oppose his policies, and for intelligence reports about any upcoming student protests. Just the week before, he had proposed charging tuition for the first time in the university's history, setting off a new wave of protests up and down the state. He told Lynum he feared subversives and liberals would attempt to misrepresent his efforts to establish fiscal responsibility, and that he hoped the FBI would share information about any upcoming demonstrations against him, whether on campus or at his press conferences. It was Reagan's fear, according to Lynum's subsequent report, "that some of his press conferences could be stacked with 'left wingers' who might make an attempt to embarrass him and the state government." Lynum said he understood his concerns, but following Hoover's instructions he made no promises. Then he and Harter wished the ailing governor a speedy recovery, departed the mansion, slipped into their dark four-door Ford, and drove back to the San Francisco field office, where Lynum sent an urgent report to the director. The bedside meeting was extraordinary, but so was the relationship between Reagan and Hoover. It had begun decades earlier, when the actor became an informer in the FBI's investigation of Hollywood Communists. When Reagan was elected president of the Screen Actors Guild, he secretly continued to help the FBI purge fellow actors from the union's rolls. Reagan's informing proved helpful to the House Un-American Activities Committee as well, since the bureau covertly passed along information that could help HUAC hold the hearings that wracked Hollywood and led to the blacklisting and ruin of many people in the film industry. Reagan took great satisfaction from his work with the FBI, which gave him a sense of security and mission during a period when his marriage to Jane Wyman was failing, his acting career faltering, and his faith in the Democratic Party of his father crumbling. In the following years, Reagan and FBI officials courted each other through a series of confidential contacts. (7-8)

We have plenty of natural springs in our area. The cool springs have the sweetest water you'll ever taste - hence the name of our town. And it's never too cold for a Montanan to sit in a natural hot spring, even if it means your wet hair turns into icicles." Her hand rose to cover her mouth, and her eyes widened. He laughed at her shocked expression. Pamela lowered her hand. "Hot springs outdoors? In the winter?" "Hot springs feel down right good to soak in anytime, especially when the air's cold outside. The hot water soothes sore muscles and is good for what ails you. But I also have a river through my property. I've dammed up a spot that makes for a nice swimming hole when it's hot in the summer." A blush rose in her cheeks, and she glanced to the side. "Very refreshing," he teased, just to watch the pink deepen.... Pamela couldn't help the dreamy vision of bathing with him in a hot spring, touching each other as the snowflakes swirled around them. She let out a sigh. So romantic.

We have no reason to harbor any mistrust against our world, for it is not against us. If it has terrors, they are our terrors; if it has abysses, these abysses belong to us; if there are dangers, we must try to love them. And if only we arrange our life in accordance with the principle which tells us that we must always trust in the difficult, then what now appears to us as the most alien will become our most intimate and trusted experience. How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races, the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love. So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloud shadows, passes over your hands and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall. Why should you want to exclude from your life all unsettling, all pain, all depression of spirit, when you don’t know what work it is these states are performing within you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where it all comes from and where it is leading? You well know you are in a period of transition and want nothing more than to be transformed. If there is something ailing in the way you go about things, then remember that sickness is the means by which an organism rids itself of something foreign to it. All one has to do is help it to be ill, to have its whole illness and let it break out, for that is how it mends itself. There is so much, my dear Mr Kappus, going on in you now. You must be patient as an invalid and trusting as a convalescent, for you are perhaps both. And more than that: you are also the doctor responsible for looking after himself. But with all illnesses there are many days when the doctor can do nothing but wait. And inasfar as you are your own doctor, this above all is what you must do now.

THE TEN MOST COMMON PROBLEMS Here are the ten most common problems in communications. Read the list. If any of them apply to you, the principles in this book will help you solve them. 1. Lack of initial rapport with listeners 2. Stiffness or woodenness in use of body 3. Presentation of material is intellectually oriented; speaker forgets to involve the audience emotionally 4. Speaker seems uncomfortable because of fear of failure 5. Poor use of eye contact and facial expression 6. Lack of humor 7. Speech direction and intent unclear due to improper  preparation 8. Inability to use silence for impact 9. Lack of energy, causing inappropriate pitch pattern, speech  rate, and volume 10. Use of boring language and lack of interesting material Various polls show that the ability to communicate well is ranked the number-one key to success by leaders in business, politics, and the professions. If you don’t communicate effectively, you may not die, like some POWs or neglected babies we mentioned earlier, but you also won’t live as fully as you should, nor will you achieve personal goals. This was a lesson drummed into me at a very early age.

Driving alone along the Northway, feeling more haunted than I really had the courage to be, I cried in the car the way one does when leaving someone in a bitter and unbearable way. I don't know why I should have picked that time to grieve, to summon everything before me--my own monsterousness, my two-bit affections, three-bit, four. It could have been sooner, it could have been later, it could have been one of the hot, awkward funerals (my grandmother's, LaRoue's, my father who one morning in Vero Beach clutched his fiery arm and fell dead off his chair mouthing to my mother, "Help. Heart. I love you" --how every death makes the world a lonelier place), it oculd have been some other time when the sun wasn't so bright, and there was no news on the raido, and my arms were not laced in a bird's nest on the steering wheel, my life going well, I believed, pretty well. It could have been any other time. But it was then: I cried for Sils and LaRoue, all that devotion and remorse, stars streaming light a million years after dying; I cried for the boyfriends I was no longer with, the people and places I no longer knew very well, for my parents and grandmother ailing and stuck in Florida, their rough, unchanging forms conjured only in memory; a jewel box kept in the medicine cabinet in the attic of a house on the moon; that's where their unchanging forms were kept. I cried for everyone and for all the scrabbly, funny love one sent out into the world like some hit song that enters space and bounds off to another galaxy, a tune so pretty you think the words are true, you do! There was never any containing a song like that, keeping it. It went off and out, speeding out of earshot or imagining or any reach at all, like a rocket invented in sleep.

This was no coincidence. The best short stories and the most successful jokes have a lot in common. Each form relies on suggestion and economy. Characters have to be drawn in a few deft strokes. There's generally a setup, a reveal, a reversal, and a release. The structure is delicate. If one element fails, the edifice crumbles. In a novel you might get away with a loose line or two, a saggy paragraph, even a limp chapter. But in the joke and in the short story, the beginning and end are precisely anchored tent poles, and what lies between must pull so taut it twangs. I'm not sure if there is any pattern to these selections. I did not spend a lot of time with those that seemed afraid to tell stories, that handled plot as if it were a hair in the soup, unwelcome and embarrassing. I also tended not to revisit stories that seemed bleak without having earned it, where the emotional notes were false, or where the writing was tricked out or primped up with fashionable devices stressing form over content. I do know that the easiest and the first choices were the stories to which I had a physical response. I read Jennifer Egan's "Out of Body" clenched from head to toe by tension as her suicidal, drug-addled protagonist moves through the Manhattan night toward an unforgivable betrayal. I shed tears over two stories of childhood shadowed by unbearable memory: "The Hare's Mask," by Mark Slouka, with its piercing ending, and Claire Keegan's Irishinflected tale of neglect and rescue, "Foster." Elizabeth McCracken's "Property" also moved me, with its sudden perception shift along the wavering sightlines of loss and grief. Nathan Englander's "Free Fruit for Young Widows" opened with a gasp-inducing act of unexpected violence and evolved into an ethical Rubik's cube. A couple of stories made me laugh: Tom Bissell's "A Bridge Under Water," even as it foreshadows the dissolution of a marriage and probes what religion does for us, and to us; and Richard Powers's "To the Measures Fall," a deftly comic meditation on the uses of literature in the course of a life, and a lifetime. Some stories didn't call forth such a strong immediate response but had instead a lingering resonance. Of these, many dealt with love and its costs, leaving behind indelible images. In Megan Mayhew Bergman's "Housewifely Arts," a bereaved daughter drives miles to visit her dead mother's parrot because she yearns to hear the bird mimic her mother's voice. In Allegra Goodman's "La Vita Nuova," a jilted fiancée lets her art class paint all over her wedding dress. In Ehud Havazelet's spare and tender story, "Gurov in Manhattan," an ailing man and his aging dog must confront life's necessary losses. A complicated, only partly welcome romance blossoms between a Korean woman and her demented

All gone for naught! Overnight it became merely a memory! — The Greeks! The Romans! Instinctive nobility, taste, methodical inquiry, genius for organization and administration, faith in and the will to secure the future of man, a great yes to everything entering into the Imperium Romanum and palpable to all the senses, a grand style that was beyond mere art, but had become reality, truth, life .... — All overwhelmed in a night, but not by a convulsion of nature! Not trampled to death by Teutons and others of heavy hoof! But brought to shame by crafty, sneaking, invisible, anemic vampires! Not conquered, — only sucked dry! ... Hidden vengefulness, petty envy, became master! Everything wretched, intrinsically ailing, and invaded by bad feelings, the whole ghetto-world of the soul, was at once on top! — One needs but read any of the Christian agitators, for example, St. Augustine, in order to realize, in order to smell, what filthy fellows came to the top. It would be an error, however, to assume that there was any lack of understanding in the leaders of the Christian movement:— ah, but they were clever, clever to the point of holiness, these fathers of the church! What they lacked was something quite different. Nature neglected — perhaps forgot — to give them even the most modest endowment of respectable, of upright, of cleanly instincts .... Between ourselves, they are not even men ....

La Belle Dame sans Merci O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’. She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Thee hath in thrall!’ I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

While thus engaged, I heard in a side-room the softest possible jingle of bracelets, crackle of dress, and footfall; and I felt certain that two curious eyes were watching me through a small opening of the window. All at once there flashed upon my memory a pair of eyes,—a pair of large eyes, beaming with trust, simplicity, and girlhood's love,—black pupils,—thick dark eyelashes,—a calm fixed gaze. Suddenly some unseen force squeezed my heart in an iron grip, and it throbbed with intense pain. I returned to my house, but the pain clung to me. Whether I read, wrote, or did any other work, I could not shake that weight off my heart; a heavy load seemed to be always swinging from my heart-strings. In the evening, calming myself a little, I began to reflect: ‘What ails me?’ From within came the question: ‘Where is your Surabala now?’ I replied: ‘I gave her up of my free will. Surely I did not expect her to wait for me for ever.’ But something kept saying: ‘Then you could have got her merely for the asking. Now you have not the right to look at her even once, do what you will. That Surabala of your boyhood may come very close to you; you may hear the jingle of her bracelets; you may breathe the air embalmed by the essence of her hair,—but there will always be a wall between you two.’ I answered: ‘Be it so. What is Surabala to me?’ My heart rejoined: ‘To-day Surabala is nobody to you. But what might she not have been to you?’ Ah! that's true. What might she not have been to me? Dearest to me of all things, closer to me than the world besides, the sharer of all my life's joys and sorrows,—she might have been. And now, she is so distant, so much of a stranger, that to look on her is forbidden, to talk with her is improper, and to think of her is a sin!—while this Ram Lochan, coming suddenly from nowhere, has muttered a few set religious texts, and in one swoop has carried off Surabala from the rest of mankind! I have not come to preach a new ethical code, or to revolutionise society; I have no wish to tear asunder domestic ties. I am only expressing the exact working of my mind, though it may not be reasonable. I could not by any means banish from my mind the sense that Surabala, reigning there within shelter of Ram Lochan's home, was mine far more than his. The thought was, I admit, unreasonable and improper,—but it was not unnatural.

The remedy for what ails our democracy is not simply better education (as important as that is) or civic education (as important as that can be), but the reestablishment of a genuine democratic discourse in which individuals can participate in a meaningful way—a conversation of democracy in which meritorious ideas and opinions from individuals do, in fact, evoke a meaningful response. And in today’s world, that means recognizing that it’s impossible to have a well-informed citizenry without having a well-connected citizenry. While education remains important, it is now connection that is the key. A well-connected citizenry is made up of men and women who discuss and debate ideas and issues among themselves and who constantly test the validity of the information and impressions they receive from one another—as well as the ones they receive from their government. No citizenry can be well informed without a constant flow of honest information about contemporary events and without a full opportunity to participate in a discussion of the choices that the society must make. Moreover, if citizens feel deprived of a meaningful opportunity to participate in the national conversation, they can scarcely be blamed for developing a lack of interest in the process. And sure enough, numerous surveys and studies have documented the erosion of public knowledge of basic facts about our democracy. For example, from the data compiled by the National Election Studies on one recent election, only 15 percent of respondents could recall the name of even one of the candidates in the election in their district. Less than 4 percent could name two candidates. When there are so few competitive races, it’s hard to blame them. Two professors, James Snyder and David Stromberg, found that knowledge of candidates increased in media markets where the local newspaper covered the congressional representative more. Very few respondents claimed to learn anything at all about their congressional elections from television news.

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike-topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunchbacked makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed from kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries’ vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers; heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters’ sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etoliated lacquerers; mottled-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men’s wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of the Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night’s rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.