Alphabet M Quotes

One time, Niall sat on the floor for hours trying to find a way of putting his M&M's in alphabetical order.

According to all the experts, it's time for me to talk about what I'm going through... I can't. I'd need a new alphabet, one made of falling, of tectonic plates shifting, of the deep devouring dark.

The Minotaur unstrapped his axe and swung it around. It was beautiful in a harsh I’m~going~togut~you~like~a~fish kind of way. Each of its twin blades was shaped like an omega: Ω—the last letter of the Greek alphabet. Maybe that was because the axe would be the last thing his victims ever saw

I met a girl in a U-Haul. A beautiful girl And I fell for her. I fell hard. Unfortunately, sometimes life gets in the way. Life definitely got in my way. It got all up in my damn way, Life blocked the door with a stack of wooden 2x4's nailed together and attached to a fifteen inch concrete wall behind a row of solid steel bars, bolted to a titanium frame that no matter how hard I shoved against it- It wouldn't budge. Sometimes life doesn't budge. It just gets all up in your damn way. It blocked my plans, my dreams, my desires, my wishes, my wants, my needs. It blocked out that beautiful girl That I fell so hard for. Life tries to tell you what's best for you What should be most important to you What should come in first Or second Or third. I tried so hard to keep it all organized, alphabetized, stacked in chronological order, everything in its perfect space, its perfect place. I thought that's what life wanted me to do. This is what life needed for me to do. Right? Keep it all in sequence? Sometimes, life gets in your way. It gets all up in your damn way. But it doesn't get all up in your damn way because it wants you to just give up and let it take control. Life doesn't get all up in your damn way because it just wants you to hand it all over and be carried along. Life wants you to fight it. It wants you to grab an axe and hack through the wood. It wants you to get a sledgehammer and break through the concrete. It wants you to grab a torch and burn through the metal and steel until you can reach through and grab it. Life wants you to grab all the organized, the alphabetized, the chronological, the sequenced. It wants you to mix it all together, stir it up, blend it. Life doesn't want you to let it tell you that your little brother should be the only thing that comes first. Life doesn't want you to let it tell you that your career and your education should be the only thing that comes in second. And life definitely doesn't want me To just let it tell me that the girl I met, The beautiful, strong, amazing, resilient girl That I fell so hard for Should only come in third. Life knows. Life is trying to tell me That the girl I love, The girl I fell So hard for? There's room for her in first. I'm putting her first.

After sex, after coffee, after everything there is to be said -- The hovering and beautiful alphabet as we form our first words after making love. And somehow I'm still alive.

Art is a visual language; I'm just perfecting my alphabet.

I’m intrigued that the same letters from the alphabet are used in the word silent and in the word listen. Perhaps it’s evidence that the most important part of listening involves remaining silent.

I’ve been telling you that you should hire Warren.” “Nat, I’m not going to hire Warren.” “Why not?” I opened my mouth to tell her exactly why not, but as I stared at her too-bright blue eyes and the way her chin was quivering, I chickened out. “Because…because I promised Angus when he left that he could have his job back.” “Adrien, he was involved in a murder.” “But he was very good at alphabetizing.

Tell me, if you teach someone the alphabet, how can you stop him from reading? When one has tasted the elixir of love, how can she not thirst for it? Once you have seen yourself through your beloved's eyes, you're not the same person any longer. I was blind all this time, and now that my eyes are open, i'm afraid of light. But i don't want to live like a mole. Not anymore.

On Algebra - "We're a month into it, and I'm planning to start a real protest movement, one to have X and Y removed from the alphabet. Z is also suspect as far as I'm concerned...Damn it! They put a man on the moon; can't they find some way to end the scourge of Algebra?

All Librarians are members of the Catalogue. That's what you call a coven when it's made up of Librarians instead of witches. Librarians have sorted and alphabetized all the magic that ever thought to put a rabbit and a hat together. Who do you think invented Special Collections?

Do you become in visible?' 'No. I'm there, if you know how to look. I stand between the place you look at and the place you see. Behind what you expect to see. If you expect to see me, you do. I listen in places where no one expects me to be.

I’m going to name my firstborn son 0123456789, because I want him to learn to count before he learns the alphabet. And my second son I’ll call 01, because I want him to get into computers at a young age.

...having bowed to the inevitability of the dictum that we must eat to live, we should ignore it and live to eat...

I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch – hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into – some fearful, devastating scourge, I know – and, before I had glanced half down the list of “premonitory symptoms,” it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it. I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever – read the symptoms – discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it – wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus’s Dance – found, as I expected, that I had that too, – began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically – read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid’s knee. ... I had walked into that reading-room a happy, healthy man. I crawled out a decrepit wreck. I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I’m ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. “What a doctor wants,” I said, “is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each.” So I went straight up and saw him, and he said: “Well, what’s the matter with you?” I said: “I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is NOT the matter with me. I have not got housemaid’s knee. Why I have not got housemaid’s knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I HAVE got.” And I told him how I came to discover it all. Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn’t expecting it – a cowardly thing to do, I call it – and immediately afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out. I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist’s, and handed it in. The man read it, and then handed it back. He said he didn’t keep it. I said: “You are a chemist?” He said: “I am a chemist. If I was a co-operative stores and family hotel combined, I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me.” I read the prescription. It ran: “1 lb. beefsteak, with 1 pt. bitter beer every 6 hours. 1 ten-mile walk every morning. 1 bed at 11 sharp every night. And don’t stuff up your head with things you don’t understand.” I followed the directions, with the happy result – speaking for myself – that my life was preserved, and is still going on.

His grip firmed on her arms. “I’m here. You’re not alone now.” Hardly poetry, those words. A simple statement of fact. They scarcely shared the same alphabet as kindness. If true comfort were a nourishing, wholemeal loaf, what he offered her were a few stale crumbs. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. She was a starving girl, and she hadn’t the dignity to refuse. “I’m so sorry,” she managed, choking back a sob. “You’re not going to like this.” And with that, Kate fell into his immense, rigid, unwilling embrace—and wept.

Rushing toward her are all the letters of the alphabet. Each one moves in its own way, X cartwheeling over and over, C hopping forward, M and N marching stiff-legged and resolute.

Orcs only know one language. Blood. I'm the fucking alphabet.

Well, Pip,’ said Joe, ‘be it so or be it son’t, you must be a scholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope! The king upon his throne, with his crown upon his ed, can’t sit and write his acts of Parliament in print, without having begun, when he were a unpromoted Prince, with the alphabet – Ah!’ added Joe, with a shake of the head that was full of meaning. ‘and begun at A too, and worked his way to Z. And I know what that is to do, though I can’t say I’ve exactly done it.’ There was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged me. ‘Whether common ones as to callings and earnings,’ pursued Joe reflectively, ‘mightn’t be the better of continuing for to keep company with common ones, instead of going out to play with oncommon ones – which reminds me to hope there were a flag, perhaps?’ ‘No, Joe.’ ‘(I’m sorry there weren’t a flag, Pip.) Whether that might be or mightn’t be, is a thing as can’t be looked into now, without putting your sister on the Rampage; and that’s a thing not to be thought of, as being done intentional. Lookee here, Pip, at what is said to you by a true friend. Which this to you the true friend say. If you can’t get to be oncommon through going straight, you’ll never get to do it through going crooked. So don’t tell no more on ‘em, Pip, and live well and die happy.’ Chapter 9

10 ways to raise a wild child. Not everyone wants to raise wild, free thinking children. But for those of you who do, here's my tips: 1. Create safe space for them to be outside for a least an hour a day. Preferable barefoot & muddy. 2. Provide them with toys made of natural materials. Silks, wood, wool, etc...Toys that encourage them to use their imagination. If you're looking for ideas, Google: 'Waldorf Toys'. Avoid noisy plastic toys. Yea, maybe they'll learn their alphabet from the talking toys, but at the expense of their own unique thoughts. Plastic toys that talk and iPads in cribs should be illegal. Seriously! 3. Limit screen time. If you think you can manage video game time and your kids will be the rare ones that don't get addicted, then go for it. I'm not that good so we just avoid them completely. There's no cable in our house and no video games. The result is that my kids like being outside cause it's boring inside...hah! Best plan ever! No kid is going to remember that great day of video games or TV. Send them outside! 4. Feed them foods that support life. Fluoride free water, GMO free organic foods, snacks free of harsh preservatives and refined sugars. Good oils that support healthy brain development. Eat to live! 5. Don't helicopter parent. Stay connected and tuned into their needs and safety, but don't hover. Kids like adults need space to roam and explore without the constant voice of an adult telling them what to do. Give them freedom! 6. Read to them. Kids don't do what they are told, they do what they see. If you're on your phone all the time, they will likely be doing the same thing some day. If you're reading, writing and creating your art (painting, cooking...whatever your art is) they will likely want to join you. It's like Emilie Buchwald said, "Children become readers in the laps of their parents (or guardians)." - it's so true! 7. Let them speak their truth. Don't assume that because they are young that you know more than them. They were born into a different time than you. Give them room to respectfully speak their mind and not feel like you're going to attack them. You'll be surprised what you might learn. 8. Freedom to learn. I realize that not everyone can homeschool, but damn, if you can, do it! Our current schools system is far from the best ever. Our kids deserve better. We simply can't expect our children to all learn the same things in the same way. Not every kid is the same. The current system does not support the unique gifts of our children. How can they with so many kids in one classroom. It's no fault of the teachers, they are doing the best they can. Too many kids and not enough parent involvement. If you send your kids to school and expect they are getting all they need, you are sadly mistaken. Don't let the public school system raise your kids, it's not their job, it's yours! 9. Skip the fear based parenting tactics. It may work short term. But the long term results will be devastating to the child's ability to be open and truthful with you. Children need guidance, but scaring them into listening is just lazy. Find new ways to get through to your kids. Be creative! 10. There's no perfect way to be a parent, but there's a million ways to be a good one. Just because every other parent is doing it, doesn't mean it's right for you and your child. Don't let other people's opinions and judgments influence how you're going to treat your kid. Be brave enough to question everything until you find what works for you. Don't be lazy! Fight your urge to be passive about the things that matter. Don't give up on your kid. This is the most important work you'll ever do. Give it everything you have.

You have to be very specific when it comes to magic,” A-Through-L said sheepishly. “You must say things as carefully as you can. Magic is like a machine that only does exactly what you tell it to do. So you have to speak to it in a way it can understand. And magic only understands you if you spell it out slowly. And use small words. You didn’t tell the card which Prince or how quickly you wanted to go. For all we know this is the shortest path—or it thought you meant our fragrant friend here! Or perhaps the Alleyman is some sort of Prince, too. The word Prince is very open-ended. You can’t really trust anything that far down in the alphabet.

He gave me so many anti-anxiety techniques. Reciting the alphabet backwards if I'm walking to a boozy party and feel my heart start to jackhammer. Tapping along to a song, which does something fancy in the brain. Or holding somebody's hand. I still use these tools to this day.

In the act of writing he experiences, today, an exceptional sensual pleasure -- in the feel of the pen, snug in the crook of his thumb, but even more in the feel of his hand being tugged back lightly from its course across the page by the strict, unvarying shape of the letters, the discipline of the alphabet.

I mean, I’ve always loved her, we’ve been best mates for years. When I started this thing, I thought that maybe, maybe there was something else – the germ of something else that could happen between us. But I don’t think I was entirely serious. It was speculative, you know. But, bloody hell, it’s bitten me in the arse. And now I love her. I think about her all the time. When I’m not with her, I’m just waiting for the next time I can be, and when I am, I’m just really happy. She’s funny, and smart, and.. gorgeous. I love her. Never felt like this before. Want-to-marry-her-and-be-with-her-all-the-rest-of-my-life kind of love her.

If we can break the code on what the word ‘Hagalaz’ meant to him, maybe we’ll have a lead. Nobody with the surname, so forget that. The anagram parsing leads nowhere. In fact, there is no known seven-letter anagram of the word. Or six letters. Now, there are some meanings of the word out there. It’s a Norse rune. The ninth rune in the twenty-four letter magical Norse alphabet. Its meaning is, to me, difficult to understand. Best I can decipher is, ‘Don’t try to fix what we should break before it breaks us.’” That got Pack’s attention.

B?  As in the second letter of the Latin alphabet?” he asked, walking closer to the desk.   “No, the Etruscan.  I’m wild like that,

No. This is stuff that is from the first half of the alphabet. But I’m not completely consistent. Sometimes I go by the first name and sometimes by the second, then forget which I’ve done.

YO MAMA SO STUPID... Yo mama so stupid she tried to put her M&Ms in alphabetical order. Yo mama so stupid she told me to meet her at the corner of "WALK" and "DON'T WALK." Yo mama so stupid she went to the dentist to get a blue tooth. Yo mama so stupid she got locked in a mattress store and slept on the floor. Yo mama so stupid she failed a survey. Yo mama so stupid she got fired from a blow job. Yo mama so stupid she thinks Taco Bell is a Mexican phone company. Yo mama so stupid she tried to climb Mountain Dew. Yo mama so stupid she went to the YMCA thinking it's Macy's. Yo mama is so stupid, she won't play Candy Crush cause she has diabetes.

I began to hate myself and pray that God would make me straight. I carried the fear that authenticity would be met with condemnation and shame for years. No one felt safe to share with anymore, so I hid it all deep within me.

I’ll also take neurospicy.” “Yeah,” she giggled, “that sounds better than rattling down the whole list of acronyms. ADHD, PTSD, SAD. I’m working on collecting the whole neurospicy alphabet.” I nodded. “GAD and autistic for me.

Ruby: I’ve decided. I’m putting my Gary on a diet. Rosie: You’re putting him on a diet? How on earth can you control what your twenty-one-year-old son eats? Ruby: Oh it’s easy; I’ll just nail down everything to the floor. Rosie: So what kind of diet is it? Ruby: I don’t know. I bought a magazine, but there are so many stupid diets out there I don’t know which one to pick. Remember that ridiculous one that you and I did last year? The alphabet one where we had to eat foods beginning with a certain letter every day? Rosie: Oh yeah! How long did we do that for?! Ruby: Em . . . that would be 26 days of course Rosie Rosie: Oh . . . right . . . of course. You put on weight on the third day. Ruby: That’s because the third day was the lucky letter “C” . . . Cakes . . . mmmm Rosie: Well we made up for it on the last day. I was bloody starving on “Z” day; I was practically chasing zebras with a kitchen knife around the zoo. Could have eaten the zoo I suppose . . . Ruby: You should have done what I did, I ate like a queen. I became German for the day and ate “ze cakes” and “ze buns.” Oh I don’t know Rosie. I think I’ll just invent a diet of my own and give those stupid magazines a run for their money

I would eat my soup in silence, but it’s alphabet soup. They’re all capital letters and they are shouting at me. I’m not anorexic or illiterate, so alphabet soup is like a nourishing novel. An anorexic should make a suicide note out of the letters.

They said Woody’s IQ was 186. His reading comprehension rate was 160 words per minute. Deduct 160 from 186, and you had the number of letters in the alphabet. He was born at 4:00 a.m., July 26. July was the seventh month. Twenty-six multiplied by seven was 182.

When I was a young girl, I studied Greek in school. It's a beautiful language and ever so many good things were written in it. When you speak Greek, it feels like a little bird flapping its wings on your tongue as fast as it can. This is why I sometimes put Greek words into my stories, even though not so many people speak Ancient Greek anymore. Anything beautiful deserves to be shared round, and anything I love goes into my stories for safekeeping. The word I love is Arete. It has a simple meaning and a complicated meaning. The simple one is: excellence. But if that were all, we'd just use Excellence and I wouldn't bring it up until we got to E. Arete means your own excellence. Your very own. A personal excellence that belongs to no one else, one that comes out of all the things that make you special and different. Arete means whatever you are best at, no matter what that is. You might think the Greeks only meant things like fighting with bronze swords or debating philosophy, but they didn't. They meant whatever you're best at. What makes you feel like you're doing the rightest thing in the world. And that might be fighting with bronze swords and it might mean debating philosophy—but it also might mean building machines, or drawing pictures, or playing the guitar, or acting in Shakespeare plays, or writing books, or making a home for people who need one, or listening so hard and so well that people tell you the things they really need to say even if they didn't mean to, or running faster than anyone else, or teaching people patiently and boldly, or even making pillow forts or marching in parades or baking bread. It could be lending out just the right library book to just the right person at just the right moment. It could be standing up to the powerful even if you don't feel very powerful yourself, even if you're lost and as far away from home as you can get. It could be loving someone with the same care and thoroughness that a Wyvern takes with alphabetizing. It could be anything in the world. And it isn't easy to figure out what that is. It's even harder to get that good at it, because nothing, not even being yourself, comes without practice. But your arete goes with you everywhere, just waiting for you to pay attention to it. You can't lose it. You can only find it. And that's my favorite thing that starts with A.

You have a job?” I’m paying the girl a fortune and she has another job? “I did. I was a waitress at Sharkey’s.” She crosses her arms again. Forcibly, I move my eyes to the coffee table. “Never heard of it.” “It’s a chain. They serve steak.” I roll my eyes. “Sounds like you loved it.” “I made good money there.” “Did Alphabet love it?” She scowls. “No, why?

He comments on how amazing it is that everything in the universe can be described by the twenty-six written characters with which they have been working.

Unfortunately, sometimes doing the right thing is a costly proposition.

THE CHRISTIAN ALPHABETS A = AMEN B = BAPTISM C = CHRISTIAN D = DISCIPLE F = FELLOWSHIP G = GOD H = HOLY SPIRIT I = INSPIRATION J = JESUS CHRIST K = KINGDOM L = LOVE M = MODERATION N = NEW BIRTH O = OBEDIENCE P = PRAYER Q = QUIET TIME R = RIGHTEOUSNESS S = SALVATION T = TESTIMONY U = UNDERSTANDING V = VISION W = WISDOM X = XMAS Y = YEA & AMEN Z = ZION BY : ADEWALE OSUNSAKIN

You coordinate intel from the alphabet soup that serves our great nation’s intelligence community. Oxymoron if ever I heard one. Now, I know I’m an ignorant yokel compared to a fancy DC suit like yourself. But that is your job description, yes?” “Yes, but—” “So there’s a question on my mind, John. How the hell did you coordinate this into such a colossal goddamn shit-show on wheels?

If only humankind would soon succeed in destroying itself; true, I'm afraid : it will take a long time yet, but they'll manage it for sure. They'll have to learn to fly too, so that it will be easier to toss firebrands into cities (a pretty sight : a portly, bronze boat perhaps, from which a couple of mail-clad warriors contemptuously hurl a few flaming armored logs, while from below they shoot at the scaly beasts with howling arrows. They could also easily pour burning oil out of steel pitchers. Or poison. In the wells. By night). Well, they'll manage it all right (if I can come up with that much !). For they pervert all things to evil. The alphabet : it was intended to record timeless poetry or wisdom or memories - but they scrawl myriads of trashy novels and inflammatory pamphlets. What do they deftly make of metals ? Swords and arrow tips. - Fire ? Cities are already smoldering. And in the agora throng the pickpockets and swashbucklers, cutpurses, bawds, quacks and whores. And at best, the rest are simpletons, dandies, and brainless yowlers. And every one of them self-complacent, pretending respectability, bows politely, puffs out coarse cheeks, waves his hands, ogles, jabbers, crows. (They have many words : Experienced : someone who knows plenty of the little underhanded tricks. - Mature : has finally unlearned every ideal. Sophisticated : impertinent and ought to have been hanged long ago.) Those are the small fry; and the : every statesman, politician, orator; prince, general, officer should be throttled on the spot before he has time or opportunity to earn the title at humankind's expense. - Who alone can be great ? Artists and scientists ! And no one else ! And the least of them, if an honest man, is a thousand times greater than the great Xerxes. - If the gods would grant me 3 wishes, one of them would be immediately to free the earth of humankind. And of animals, too (they're too wicked for me as well). Plants are better (except for the insectavores) - The wind has picked up.

I am a writer who does not enjoy writing. I can find innumerable ways to avoid it. But, to rip off Dorothy Parker, nothing else—nothing—gives me the same thrill as having written. I’m the same way with knitting. The process is fine, mind you, and keeps my hands busy. But nothing else—nothing—gives me the rush that I get from finishing something. "The parallels between writing and knitting go even further. Like writing, knitting has a finite number of raw ingredients. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet. Those letters can combine to give you David Foster Wallace or freshman composition papers. There are only two basic stitches: the knit and the purl. Those stitches can add up to a gorgeously complicated sweater or a pastel pink toilet paper cozy. The difference is in the mind that shapes them.

Brother Males and Shemales: Are you coming to the Health Bee?  It will be the livest Hop-to-it that this busy lil ole planet has ever see.  And it's going to be Practical.  We'll kiss out on all these glittering generalities and get messages from men as kin talk, so we can lug a think or two (2)home wid us. Luther Botts, the famous community-sing leader, will be there to put Wim an Wigor neverything into the program.  John F. Zeisser, M.A., M.D., nail the rest of the alphabet (part your hair Jack and look cute, the ladies will love you) will unlimber a coupla key-notes.  (On your tootsies, fellers, thar she blows!)  From time to time, if the brakes hold, we will, or shall in the infinitive, hie oursellufs from wherein we are apt to thither, and grab a lunch with Wild Wittles. Do it sound like a good show?  It do!  Barber, you're next.  Let's have those cards saying you're coming. This

Patrice a vingt-quatre ans et, la première fois que je l’ai vu, il était dans son fauteuil incliné très en arrière. Il a eu un accident vasculaire cérébral. Physiquement, il est incapable du moindre mouvement, des pieds jusqu’à la racine des cheveux. Comme on le dit souvent d’une manière très laide, il a l’aspect d’un légume : bouche de travers, regard fixe. Tu peux lui parler, le toucher, il reste immobile, sans réaction, comme s’il était complètement coupé du monde. On appelle ça le locked in syndrome.Quand tu le vois comme ça, tu ne peux qu’imaginer que l’ensemble de son cerveau est dans le même état. Pourtant il entend, voit et comprend parfaitement tout ce qui se passe autour de lui. On le sait, car il est capable de communiquer à l’aide du seul muscle qui fonctionne encore chez lui : le muscle de la paupière. Il peut cligner de l’œil. Pour l’aider à s’exprimer, son interlocuteur lui propose oralement des lettres de l’alphabet et, quand la bonne lettre est prononcée, Patrice cligne de l’œil.  Lorsque j’étais en réanimation, que j’étais complètement paralysé et que j’avais des tuyaux plein la bouche, je procédais de la même manière avec mes proches pour pouvoir communiquer. Nous n’étions pas très au point et il nous fallait parfois un bon quart d’heure pour dicter trois pauvres mots. Au fil des mois, Patrice et son entourage ont perfectionné la technique. Une fois, il m’est arrivé d’assister à une discussion entre Patrice et sa mère. C’est très impressionnant.La mère demande d’abord : « Consonne ? » Patrice acquiesce d’un clignement de paupière. Elle lui propose différentes consonnes, pas forcément dans l’ordre alphabétique, mais dans l’ordre des consonnes les plus utilisées. Dès qu’elle cite la lettre que veut Patrice, il cligne de l’œil. La mère poursuit avec une voyelle et ainsi de suite. Souvent, au bout de deux ou trois lettres trouvées, elle anticipe le mot pour gagner du temps. Elle se trompe rarement. Cinq ou six mots sont ainsi trouvés chaque minute.  C’est avec cette technique que Patrice a écrit un texte, une sorte de longue lettre à tous ceux qui sont amenés à le croiser. J’ai eu la chance de lire ce texte où il raconte ce qui lui est arrivé et comment il se sent. À cette lecture, j’ai pris une énorme gifle. C’est un texte brillant, écrit dans un français subtil, léger malgré la tragédie du sujet, rempli d’humour et d’autodérision par rapport à l’état de son auteur. Il explique qu’il y a de la vie autour de lui, mais qu’il y en a aussi en lui. C’est juste la jonction entre les deux mondes qui est un peu compliquée.Jamais je n’aurais imaginé que ce texte si puissant ait été écrit par ce garçon immobile, au regard entièrement vide.  Avec l’expérience acquise ces derniers mois, je pensais être capable de diagnostiquer l’état des uns et des autres seulement en les croisant ; j’ai reçu une belle leçon grâce à Patrice.Une leçon de courage d’abord, étant donné la vitalité des propos que j’ai lus dans sa lettre, et, aussi, une leçon sur mes a priori. Plus jamais dorénavant je ne jugerai une personne handicapée à la vue seule de son physique. C’est jamais inintéressant de prendre une bonne claque sur ses propres idées reçues .

From his beach bag the man took an old penknife with a red handle and began to etch the signs of the letters onto nice flat pebbles. At the same time, he spoke to Mondo about everything there was in the letters, about everything you could see in them when you looked and when you listened. He spoke about A, which is like a big fly with its wings pulled back; about B, which is funny, with its two tummies; or C and D, which are like the moon, a crescent moon or a half-full moon; and then there was O, which was the full moon in the black sky. H is high, a ladder to climb up trees or to reach the roofs of houses; E and F look like a rake and a shovel; and G is like a fat man sitting in an armchair. I dances on tiptoes, with a little head popping up each time it bounces, whereas J likes to swing. K is broken like an old man, R takes big strides like a soldier, and Y stands tall, its arms up in the air, and it shouts: help! L is a tree on the river's edge, M is a mountain, N is for names, and people waving their hands, P is asleep on one paw, and Q is sitting on its tail; S is always a snake, Z is always a bolt of lightning, T is beautiful, like the mast on a ship, U is like a vase, V and W are birds, birds in flight; and X is a cross to help you remember.

The Rebbe now spoke in a manner that anticipated the work that was later to be done by the shluchim whom he dispatched throughout the United States and the world: “One must go to a place where nothing is known of Godliness, nothing is known of Judaism, nothing is even known of the Hebrew alphabet, and while there, put one’s own self aside and ensure that the other calls out to God! . . . Indeed, if one wants to ensure his own connection to God, he must make sure that the other person not only becomes familiar with but actually calls out to God!” It was not enough, it was never enough, to simply practice Judaism by oneself or in an already religiously observant community; one has to bring others to embrace God as well

Instead of storing those countless microfilmed pages alphabetically, or according to subject, or by any of the other indexing methods in common use—all of which he found hopelessly rigid and arbitrary—Bush proposed a system based on the structure of thought itself. "The human mind . . . operates by association," he noted. "With one item in its grasp, it snaps instantly to the next that is suggested by the association of thoughts, in accordance with some intricate web of trails carried by the cells of the brain. . . . The speed of action, the intricacy of trails, the detail of mental pictures [are] awe-inspiring beyond all else in nature." By analogy, he continued, the desk library would allow its user to forge a link between any two items that seemed to have an association (the example he used was an article on the English long bow, which would be linked to a separate article on the Turkish short bow; the actual mechanism of the link would be a symbolic code imprinted on the microfilm next to the two items). "Thereafter," wrote Bush, "when one of these items is in view, the other can be instantly recalled merely by tapping a button. . . . It is exactly as though the physical items had been gathered together from widely separated sources and bound together to form a new book. It is more than this, for any item can be joined into numerous trails." Such a device needed a name, added Bush, and the analogy to human memory suggested one: "Memex." This name also appeared for the first time in the 1939 draft. In any case, Bush continued, once a Memex user had created an associative trail, he or she could copy it and exchange it with others. This meant that the construction of trails would quickly become a community endeavor, which would over time produce a vast, ever-expanding, and ever more richly cross-linked web of all human knowledge. Bush never explained where this notion of associative trails had come from (if he even knew; sometimes things just pop into our heads). But there is no doubt that it ranks as the Yankee Inventor's most profoundly original idea. Today we know it as hypertext. And that vast, hyperlinked web of knowledge is called the World Wide Web.

Noirtier looked towards the dictionary. Franz picked it up with a nervous shudder and said the letters of the alphabet until he reached ‘M’. Here the old man signalled ‘Yes’. ‘M!’ Franz repeated. The young man’s finger ran down the words but, at every one, Noirtier replied in the negative. Valentine’s head was buried in her hands. At last Franz reached the word: ‘MYSELF’. ‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘You!’ Franz cried, his hair rising on his head. ‘You, Monsieur Noirtier! Did you kill my father?’ ‘Yes,’ Noirtier replied, fixing the young man with an imperious look. Franz’s feet could no longer support him and he slumped into a chair. Villefort opened the door and fled, for he had just had an impulse to stifle the last dregs of life still remaining in the old man’s fearsome heart.

We cannot make ourselves known to each other; we are not healed and forgiven by each other’s presence. With words as valueless as poker chips, we play games whose object it is to keep us from seeing each other’s cards. Chit-chat games in which “How are you?” means “Don’t tell me who you are,” and “I’m alone and scared” becomes “Fine thanks.” Games where the players create the illusion of being in the same room but where the reality of it is that each is alone inside a skin in that room, like bathyspheres at the bottom of the sea. Blind man’s buff games where everyone is blind.

Truth About Love" I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom the mailman who is always kind. He makes his way every day no matter the mood of the sky with our words in a sack and Gandhi made the English give India back without taking a gun for a wife. My contribution to the common good is playing with the alphabet in a little room while the world goes foraging for food. I’m a better poet than man and it’s well known how little my verbs are worth. I am my only subject, being the god of my horizons. What saves me is that just beyond my skin the world of yours is where I’d rather live. The AMA says you’ve added seven point six years to my life. In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth. This is why Adam Smith gave up romantic verse. In trying to say what can’t be said I’ll take the Dragnet approach. Just the facts. I’d be dead sooner without you, you’ll die faster for being a Mrs., raw deal can’t be more clearly defined. To make amends I offer ten percent more kisses each year. Or do I do more harm the closer we become? If yes, leaving would be love and a better man might. But my thrills are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words into piles and whispering good night.

Emma, calm down. I had to know-" I point my finger in his face, almost touching his eyeball. "It's one thing for me to give your permission to look into it. But I'm pretty sure looking into it without my consent is illegal. In fact, I'm pretty sure everything that woman does is illegal. Do you even know what the Mafia is, Galen?" His eyebrows lift in surprise. "She told you who she is? I mean, who she used to be?" I nod. "While you were checking in with Grom. Once in the Mob, always in the Mob, if you ask me. How else would she get all her money? But I guess you wouldn't care about that, since she buys you houses and cars and fake IDs." I snatch my wrist away and turn back toward our hotel. At least, I hope it's our hotel. Galen laughs. "Emma, it's not Rachel's money; it's mine." I whirl on him. "You are a fish. You don't have a job. And I don't think Syrena currency has any of our presidents on it." Now "our" means I'm human again. I wish I could make up my mind. He crosses his arms. "I earn it another way. Walk to the Gulfarium with me, and I'll tell you how." The temptation divides me like a cleaver. I'm one part hissy fit and one part swoon. I have a right to be mad, to press charges, to cut Rachel's hair while she's sleeping. But do I really want to risk the chance that she keeps a gun under her pillow? Do I want to miss the opportunity to scrunch my toes in the sand and listen to Galen's rich voice tell me how a fish came to be wealthy? Nope, I don't. Taking care to ram my shoulder into him, I march past him and hopefully in the right direction. When he catches up to me, his grin threatens the rest of my hissy fit side, so I turn away, fixing my glare on the waves. "I sell stuff to humans," he says. I glance at him. He's looking at me, his expression every bit as expectant as I feel. I hate this little game of ours. Maybe because I'm no good at it. He won't tell me more unless I ask. Curiosity is one of my most incurable flaws-and Galen knows it. Still, I already gave up a perfectly good tantrum for him, so I feel like he owes me. Never mind that he saved my life today. That was so two hours ago. I lift my chin. "Rachel says I'm a millionaire," he says, his little knowing smirk scrubbing my nerves like a Brillo pad. "But for me, it's not about the money. Like you, I have a soft spot for history." Crap, crap, crap. How can he already know me this well? I must be as readable as the alphabet. What's the use? He's going to win, every time.

Every entry, whether revised or reviewed, goes through multiple editing passes. The definer starts the job, then it’s passed to a copy editor who cleans up the definer’s work, then to a bunch of specialty editors: cross-reference editors, who make sure the definer hasn’t used any word in the entry that isn’t entered in that dictionary; etymologists, to review or write the word history; dating editors, who research and add the dates of first written use; pronunciation editors, who handle all the pronunciations in the book. Then eventually it’s back to a copy editor (usually a different one from the first round, just to be safe), who will make any additional changes to the entry that cross-reference turned up, then to the final reader, who is, as the name suggests, the last person who can make editorial changes to the entry, and then off to the proofreader (who ends up, again, being a different editor from the definer and the two previous copy editors). After the proofreaders are done slogging through two thousand pages of four-point type, the production editors send it off to the printer or the data preparation folks, and then we get another set of dictionary pages (called page proofs) to proofread. This process happens continuously as we work through a dictionary, so a definer may be working on batches in C, cross-reference might be in W, etymology in T, dating and pronunciation in the second half of S, copy editors in P (first pass) and Q and R (second pass), while the final reader is closing out batches in N and O, proofreaders are working on M, and production has given the second set of page proofs to another set of proofreaders for the letter L. We all stagger our way through the alphabet until the last batch, which is inevitably somewhere near G, is closed. By the time a word is put in print either on the page or online, it’s generally been seen by a minimum of ten editors. Now consider that when it came to writing the Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition, we had a staff of about twenty editors working on it: twenty editors to review about 220,000 existing definitions, write about 10,000 new definitions, and make over 100,000 editorial changes (typos, new dates, revisions) for the new edition. Now remember that the 110,000-odd changes made were each reviewed about a dozen times and by a minimum of ten editors. The time given to us to complete the revision of the Tenth Edition into the Eleventh Edition so production could begin on the new book? Eighteen months.

Oh,Ella. I wish you'd had a better time at the ball." "Fuhgeddaboudit," I muttered. Greaseball. Freddy. Freak. "It's not like she and I were ever going to be BFFs." "I wasn't just referring to Amanda." Of course he wasn't. "I'll try," I moaned into the crook of my elbow. "Oh, Lord.I'll try to carry on." "That sounds rather dramatic, even for you." "It's Styx," I told him. "After your time, before mine. I don't know all the words,but those work for the moment. And for the record, I'm being ironic, not dramatic." "If you say so." I ignored him. "I have had my last flutter over Alex Bainbridge. I mean it. Frankie was right.How many signs do I need that we are never, ever going to have...anything...before I get it? Obviously, it doesn't matter that we realte to the same schizo seventies songs. Or that we can discuss antique Japanese woodblock prints. Or that when he sits next to me, he kinda takes my breath away. You would think that would count for a lot,wouldn't you?" Edward gets the concept of rhetorical questions, so I went on. "I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess about what makes Amanda's pulse go all skittery, but I would bet anything it's not Alex. And he's still with her. He doesn't belong with her, but apparently he feels he belongs to her. Explain that,please." "Oh,Ella.We men are not always the best at looking beyond the...er..." "Boobs,Edward. You can say it. Amanda Alstead has boobs and blonda hair. Beyond that, I can't see a single thing that's special about her." "Because there isn't a single thing. Beyond the...er, obvious. You,on the other hand,are a creature of infinite charms. Shall I list them alphabetically or from the top down?" I scowled up at him. "Y'know, you are beginning to sound a little too much like Frankie and Sadie,my deluded Greek chorus." "yes,well,I rather thought that's what friends are for." "You're not supposed to be my friend," I muttered. "You're supposed to be my Prince Charming." "Ahem." Edward's sculpted lips compressed into a grim line. "Have you looked at me lately? I am supposed to be startling and even a bit scary." "Nope.Neither." I rested my chin on my forearm. "To me,you are perfect. You are loyal and reliable and completely lacking in surprises." "That is a good thing?" "Absolutely," I said. "It's an excellent thing.I don't want any more surprises, over." "Hardly an admirable goal,that." "Maybe not," I agreed, "but pleasant. Among all the other bizarreness tonight, I found something new to be afraid of. Evil girlfriends." "Now,Ella. You can't go on being afraid forever." "Oh,yes,I can. As far as Amanda Alstead is concerned, I can." Edward tilted his head and studied me for a moment. He looked annoyed. "Why do you insist on having these conversations with me when you ignore everything I have to say?" It was a pretty good question. "Fine." I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. Home Truth time. "Go ahead. On this night when we celebrate the mysteries of life and death..Say something profound, something startling." There was a long silence. Then, "Boo," Edward said. "Thank you,Mr. Willing." "Don't mention it, Miss Marino. I am yours to command.

By March, front-line doctors around the world were spontaneously reporting miraculous results following early treatment with HCQ, and this prompted growing anxiety for Pharma. On March 13, a Michigan doctor and trader, Dr. James Todaro, M.D., tweeted his review of HCQ as an effective COVID treatment, including a link to a public Google doc.48,49 Google quietly scrubbed Dr. Todaro’s memo. This was six days before the President endorsed HCQ. Google apparently didn’t want users to think Todaro’s message was missing; rather, the Big Tech platform wanted the public to believe that Todaro’s memo never even existed. Google has a long history of suppressing information that challenges vaccine industry profits. Google’s parent company Alphabet owns several vaccine companies, including Verily, as well as Vaccitech, a company banking on flu, prostate cancer, and COVID vaccines.50,51 Google has lucrative partnerships with all the large vaccine manufacturers, including a $715 million partnership with GlaxoSmithKline.52 Verily also owns a business that tests for COVID infection.53 Google was not the only social media platform to ban content that contradicts the official HCQ narrative. Facebook, Pinterest, Instagram, YouTube, MailChimp, and virtually every other Big Tech platform began scrubbing information demonstrating HCQ’s efficacy, replacing it with industry propaganda generated by one of the Dr. Fauci/Gates-controlled public health agencies: HHS, NIH and WHO. When President Trump later suggested that Dr. Fauci was not being truthful about hydroxychloroquine, social media responded by removing his posts.

You can have Fitzy feed you the rest of these when I’m gone—otherwise I’m going to puke. Right now, we need to find Krakie a new home.” He grabbed a roll of wide gauze from one of the shelves and wrapped it carefully around her left wrist to form a loose-fitting cuff. Then carefully attached each of the pins. “Is that a K ?” Fitz asked, tilting his head to study the new arrangement. Keefe nodded. “Best letter in the whole alphabet! But don’t worry, Foster, this isn’t like when Dizznee gave you those bracelets.” “What bracelets?” Fitz asked. Keefe had the wisdom to look sheepish. “They were . . . a prototype,” Sophie told Fitz. “Dex has been trying to design a gadget to help me control my enhancing, and he needed something to camouflage what they were, so he used some bracelets he’d bought.” Fitz’s eyebrows shot up. “Cloth bracelets?” She was pretty sure he already knew the answer. But even if he did, she’d promised Dex she wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened between them. “It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “They . . . didn’t work.” “In more ways than one,” Keefe said under his breath—but Fitz still must’ve heard him. His eyes narrowed. “How do you know so much about it?” Keefe shrugged. “I’m the reigning president of the Foster Fan Club. It’s my job to know these things. But don’t worry, Fitzy, you’re still the runner-up.” If he’d been standing any closer, Sophie would’ve smacked him. But he was just out of her reach. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be teasing Fitz,” Sophie reminded him instead. “I’m not, but . . . he makes it so easy.” Fitz rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I can’t remember why we’re friends.” “Pretty sure everyone wonders that at some point,” Ro pointed out. Keefe flashed the smuggest of smiles. “It’s because I make everything better.

The woman glares at him and, after taking a breath, forges on. "One other issue I'd like to raise is how you have authors here separated by sex." "Yes, that's right. The person who was in charge before us cataloged these and for whatever reason divided them into male and female. We were thinking of recataloging all of them, but haven't been able to as of yet." "We're not criticizing you for this," she says. Oshima tilts his head slightly. "The problem, though, is that in all categories male authors are listed before female authors," she says. "To our way of thinking this violates the principle of sexual equality and is totally unfair." Oshima picks up her business card again, runs his eyes over it, then lays it back down on the counter. "Ms. Soga," he begins, "when they called the role in school your name would have come before Ms. Tanaka, and after Ms. Sekine. Did you file a complaint about that? Did you object, asking them to reverse the order? Does G get angry because it follows F in the alphabet? Does page 68 in a book start a revolution just because it follows 67?" "That's not the point," she says angrily. "You're intentionally trying to confuse the issue." Hearing this, the shorter woman, who'd been standing in front of a stack taking notes, races over. "Intentionally trying to confuse the issue," Oshima repeats, like he's underlining the woman's words. "Are you denying it?" "That's a red herring," Oshima replies. The woman named Soga stands there, mouth slightly ajar, not saying a word. "In English there's this expression red herring. Something that's very interesting but leads you astray from the main topic. I'm afraid I haven't looked into why they use that kind of expression, though." "Herrings or mackerel or whatever, you're dodging the issue." "Actually what I'm doing is shifting the analogy," Oshima says. "One of the most effective methods of argument, according to Aristotle. The citizens of ancient Athens enjoyed using this kind of intellectual trick very much. It's a shame, though, that at the time women weren't included in the definition of 'citizen.'" "Are you making fun of us?" Oshima shakes his head. "Look, what I'm trying to get across is this: I'm sure there are many more effective ways of making sure that Japanese women's rights are guaranteed than sniffing around a small library in a little town and complaining about the restrooms and the card catalog. We're doing our level best to see that this modest library of ours helps the community. We've assembled an outstanding collection for people who love books. And we do our utmost to put a human face on all our dealings with the public. You might not be aware of it, but this library's collection of poetry-related material from the 1910s to the mid-Showa period is nationally recognized. Of course there are things we could do better, and limits to what we can accomplish. But rest assured we're doing our very best. I think it'd be a whole lot better if you focus on what we do well than what we're unable to do. Isn't that what you call fair?

I heard

Clark couldn’t resist. “I’ve heard they call Bon Bon the chocolate rocket. Dips the old fuselage in fudge before blasting off.

He’s so stupid. Honestly, when he makes alphabet soup it spells out D-U-M-B.

There was little the mainstream auto industry could do to slow Tesla down. But that didn’t stop executives from trying to be difficult whenever possible. Tesla, for example, wanted to call its third-generation car the Model E, so that its lineup of vehicles would be the Model S, E, and X—another playful Musk gag. But Ford’s then CEO, Alan Mulally, blocked Tesla from using Model E, with the threat of a lawsuit. “So I call up Mulally and I was like, ‘Alan, are you just fucking with us or are you really going to do a Model E?’” Musk said. “And I’m not sure which is worse. You know? Like it would actually make more sense if they’re just fucking with us because if they actually come out with a Model E at this point, and we’ve got the Model S and the X and Ford comes out with the Model E, it’s going to look ridiculous. So even though Ford did the Model T a hundred years ago, nobody thinks of ‘Model’ as being a Ford thing anymore. So it would just feel like they stole it. Like why did you go steal Tesla’s E? Like you’re some sort of fascist army marching across the alphabet, some sort of Sesame Street robber. And he was like, ‘No, no, we’re definitely going to use it.’ And I was like, ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s such a good idea because people are going to be confused because it’s not going to make sense. People aren’t used to Ford having Model something these days. It’s usually called like the Ford Fusion.’ And he was like, no, his guys really want to use that. That’s terrible.” After that, Tesla registered the trademark for Model Y as another joke. “In fact, Ford called us up deadpan and said, ‘We see you’ve registered Model Y. Is that what you’re going to use instead of the Model E?’” Musk said. “I’m like, ‘No, it’s a joke. S-E-X-Y. What does that spell?’ But trademark law is a dry profession it turns out.

He unstrapped his axe and swung it around. It was beautiful in a harsh I’m-going-to-gut-you-like-a-fish kind of way. Each of its twin blades was shaped like an omega: Ω—the last letter of the Greek alphabet. Maybe that was because the axe would be the last thing his victims ever saw. The shaft was about the same height as the Minotaur, bronze wrapped in leather. Tied around the base of each blade were lots of bead necklaces. I realized they were Camp Half-Blood beads—necklaces taken from defeated demigods.

It’s always a party. At six a.m., he bounds out of bed, juggles eggs, whips OJ, makes pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse or the alphabet. He sings, he dances. He leads the kids in jumping jacks. I roll over, hoping he’ll close the door behind him.” —Lucy, West Hempstead, NY

I can’t,” he said. “I’d always be on the run. Too many people want me dead.” That was true enough, he thought. Mogilenko and the Syndikat, even with their deal. Gorobets. Kulyakov and the SBU, the SVR, even the CIA. “A whole alphabet wants me dead. Even worse, they would use me against you.” He looked into her eyes. “It won’t work. Either you get on the plane to Frankfurt with me or we’re done. I can’t stay.” She leaned back and let go of his hands. “You work for the CIA, don’t you? That’s what they could use against you, us, isn’t it?” “No, I told you. I’m independent.” “But you were with the CIA at one time?” He nodded. “Of course. It had to be something like that,” she said. “Politically, it’s impossible. We’re impossible.

The host read the question off a card as it appeared on a studio monitor. “John’s father has five sons: Alan, Blan, Clan, and Dlan. What did he call his fifth son?” The pinochle champ was the first to buzz in. “Mr. Fontaine?” said the host. “Elan,” he said confidently. “The five names obviously follow a logical alphabetical progression, A, B, C, D. So E-lan would be next.” The college professor made a face. She would have given the same answer. “I’m sorry,” said the host. “That is incorrect.” Jake buzzed in. “Mr. McQuade?” “Um, the fifth son’s name was John. Because in your question you said, ‘John’s father had five sons.’ So one of the sons has to be, you know, named John.” “That is correct!

There was little the mainstream auto industry could do to slow Tesla down. But that didn't stop executives from trying to be difficult whenever possible. Tesla, for example, wanted to call its third-generation car the Model E, so that its lineup of vehicles would be the Model S, E and X - another playful Musk gag. But Ford's then CEO, Alan Mulally, blocked Tesla from using Model E, with the threat of a lawsuit. "So I call up Mulally and I was like, 'Alan, are you just fucking with us or are you really going to do a Model E?'" Musk said. "And I'm not sure which is worse. You know? Like it would actually make more sense if they're just fucking with us because if they actually come out with a Model E at this point, and we've got the Model S and the X and Ford comes out with a Model E, it's going to look ridiculous. So even though Ford did the Model T a hundred years ago, nobody thinks of 'Model' as being a Ford thing anymore. So it would just feel like they stole it. Like why did you going stealing Tesla's E? Like you're some sort of fascist army marching across the alphabet, some sort of Sesame Street robber. And he was like, 'No, no, we're definitely going to use it.' And I was like, 'Oh, I don't think that's such a good idea because people are going to be confused because it's not gong to make sense. People aren't used to Ford having Model something these days. It's usually called like the Ford Fusion.' And he was like, no, his guys really want to use that. That's terrible." After that, Tesla registered the trademark for Model Y as another joke. "In fact, Ford called us up deadpan and said, 'We see you've registered Model Y. Is that what you're gong to use instead of the Model E?'" Musk said. "I'm like, 'No, it's a joke. S-E-X-Y. What does that spell?' But trademark law is a dry profession it turns out.

Getting It Right" Your ankles make me want to party, want to sit and beg and roll over under a pair of riding boots with your ankles hidden inside, sweating beneath the black tooled leather; they make me wish it was my birthday so I could blow out their candles, have them hung over my shoulders like two bags full of money. Your ankles are two monster-truck engines but smaller and lighter and sexier than a saucer with warm milk licking the outside edge; they make me want to sing, make me want to take them home and feed them pasta, I want to punish them for being bad and then hold them all night long and say I’m sorry, sugar, darling, it will never happen again, not in a million years. Your thighs make me quiet. Make me want to be hurled into the air like a cannonball and pulled down again like someone being pulled into a van. Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing. Your thighs, the long breath of them under the blue denim of your high-end jeans, could starve me to death, could make me cry and cry. Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place, a hill I fell in love with once when I was falling in love with hills. Your ass is a string quartet, the northern lights tucked tightly into bed between a high-count-of-cotton sheets. Your back is the back of a river full of fish; I have my tackle and tackle box. You only have to say the word. Your back, a letter I have been writing for fifteen years, a smooth stone, a moan someone makes when his hair is pulled, your back like a warm tongue at rest, a tongue with a tab of acid on top; your spine is an alphabet, a ladder of celestial proportions. I am navigating the North and South of it. Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey, their heat, their inexhaustible love-making dark. I am bright yellow for them. I am always thinking about them, resting at your side or high in the air when I’m pulling off your shirt. Your arms of blue and ice with the blood running to make them believe in God. Your shoulders make me want to raise an arm and burn down the Capitol. They sing to each other underneath your turquoise slope-neck blouse. Each is a separate bowl of rice steaming and covered in soy sauce. Your neck is a skyscraper of erotic adult videos, a swan and a ballet and a throaty elevator made of light. Your neck is a scrim of wet silk that guides the dead into the hours of Heaven. It makes me want to die, your mouth, which is the mouth of everything worth saying. It’s abalone and coral reef. Your mouth, which opens like the legs of astronauts who disconnect their safety lines and ride their stars into the billion and one voting districts of the Milky Way. Darling, you’re my President; I want to get this right! Matthew Dickman, The New Yorker: Poems | August 29, 2011 Issue

Mi sol, you are enough for an army of men.” “Oh my God, that’s a lot of men. A lot of peen too. I’d have to work out an extensive rota. Maybe do it alphabetically, but would I do it by first names or last names? Oh no, I don’t want all those men, Mateo, I’d have to clone my vagina, and I definitely don’t know the science involved for that. I mean, I’m sure there’s glue and a photocopier involved somewhere, but I don’t know where exactly.

at five foot seven was a couple inches shorter than me

And what was the registration of the other vehicle?”I asked. Why, oh why, do people try and use the phonetic alphabet when they haven’t got a clue? “Ooh, let’s see. It was N for … mmmm, oh, I can’t think. What starts with an N? N for… oh yes! N for….oh dear, it’s gone …N for …” “N. I’ve got the idea. It starts with an N,” I interrupted tersely. “N for pneumatic, dear, then it was an F for phlegm…” “NF, what else?” I said tapping my pen on the table. “Then four for …for …” “Four, four, four?” I queried. “No, dear. I’m just running through the twelve days of Christmas in my head. Four for four calling birds, that’s it! And then Five for Hawaii Five O.” She looked pleased with herself. As for me, I had just snapped my pen.

People are scared of anything that doesn’t make sense. But we need a new alphabet, a purer language. I want to get it right. Will I? Will I ever?

The letter M is the 13th letter of English, Greek and Hebrew alphabets. M is also the astrological symbol for Virgo. In Ptolemaic Egyptian Hieroglyphs, the letter M was represented by an owl—a creature that can see in darkness. The owl was also the companion of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, an incarnation of Isis. In Egyptian hieroglyphs of the Owl, the letter M is clearly depicted on the top of its head.

think of Halley—the first time we met, on the first day of Basic, bunkmates by the luck of the alphabet—and I feel a profound gratitude for the interrupted, hectic, and strange relationship we’ve had, intense and exciting despite all the obstacles thrown into our path by an uncaring military. I think of Mom, and about the sadness she will feel at the loss of her only child, but I’m glad that we got to spend some time together just before I shipped out on this particular goat rope.

I’ve come to realize that life’s a choice between fear and love. We all make a decision about which one to embrace. When we choose fear, it pulls us down into the darkness of despair and loss of control. Love, on the other hand, shows us how to find the beauty, meaning, and purpose in everything we do.

Peeking at him where he sat perusing the stock market on his phone while chewing on some crisp bacon, she blurted out the momentous news. “I love you.” “I know.” Smugly said. She blinked. “What do you mean you know?” “Because of the letter A.” “What does A have to do with anything other than being the first letter in your name?” “Because it also stands for awesome.” “And arrogant.” “Are we back to alphabetizing my attributes? B is for brave.” She laughed. “Don’t you dare start again. Besides, there’s only one set of four letters that interest me.” “Oh?” he said, putting down his phone and ignoring his meal. “And what might those be?” “M.I.N.E.” The only word she needed to have him drag her onto his lap for a scorching kiss. A whispered, “I love you,” vibrated against her lips, his softly growled admission fueling her passion. And after they were done, panting, glowing, and cradled together, ignoring the pounding at the door, she held still as she tried to figure out what she heard. It should have been impossible. Arik was a lion, and yet he was— “Purring?” Indeed, he was. And when an alpha purrs, pleasure is sure to follow.

The technical name for this is the Brazilian Nut Effect. The phrase is descriptive of the phenomenon in which larger objects tend to surface when a mixture of different sized particles is disturbed.” He pointed to the bowl. “The biggest nuts always come right to the top.” I nodded. “Can’t argue with that.” Tex went on, “I’m doing a study. My theory is that this phenomenon correlates to the social structures in our society. The larger nuts always come to surface.” I thought about my friends, the police department, our political system. “I think maybe you’re onto something, Tex.

I wouldn’t pay her any more attention than a fart in a twister.

She’s slower than a dead turtle in the desert.

You mean other than Michael?” I nodded. Marley

I keep a pen clipped inside the right pocket of my jeans in case I’m ever attacked by a man wielding a sword. 
I remember another comment Zelda said about me: “He thinks he’s a writer. He couldn’t write the alphabet, even if you spotted him the first 25 letters.

The books never really sing. You have to make sense for people. People are scared of anything that doesn’t make sense. But we need a new alphabet, a purer language. I want to get it right. Will I? Will I ever?

softly sang as I drifted into dreams:   F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P,   Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X,    Y and Z A,

Can we check it out of the library?” Natalie asked. “Got me library card right here in me purse.” “I’m afraid not,” Canfield said. “The film is in Hutchinson.” “Where?” I asked. “It’s an underground film vault in Kansas, really just a big salt mine that absorbs moisture and prevents deterioration of prints and negatives. All the originals of anything anyone wants to preserve are sent there.

  The nineteenth letter of the Greek alphabet, it was a symbol steeped in sacred meaning. A visual depiction of the spiritual precinct where the earth meets the heavens, it harkened to the Templum Hierosolyma, the Temple of Jerusalem from which the Templars took their name. The Tau.

It was

I am going to the City myself, human girl. After my mother was widowed, my siblings and I went each our separate ways: M-Through-S to be a governess, T-Through-Z to be a soldier, and I to seek our old grandfather—the Municipal Library of Fairyland, which owns all the books in all the world. I hope that he will accept me and love me as a grandson and teach me to be a librarian, for every creature must know a trade. I know I have bad qualities that stand against me—a fiery breath being chief among these—but I am a good beast, and I enjoy alphabetizing, and perhaps, I may get some credit for following in the family business.” The Wyverary pursed his great lips. “Perhaps we might travel together for a little while? Those beasts with unreliable fathers must stick together after all. And I may be a good deal of help in the arena of Locating Suppers.

buy their

looked at us and held up a scalpel. “You both ready?

ended the call, and then my phone chirped.

Why do you think I'm obsessed with this idea of giving the world an alphabet-soup enema?' (This was our code language for wanting to be a writer.) After a very long, Viennese pause, he said, 'Why do you think you are?' And I said, 'I don't know...Prolonged exposure to radiation from violent events in deep space?

Blessings be the inventor of the alphabet, pen and printing press! Life would be--to me in all events--a terrible thing without books.

What do you do when you can’t go on, Monsieur Perdu?” he asked wearily. “Me? Nothing.” Next to nothing. I take night walks through Paris until I’m tired. I clean Lulu’s engine, the hull and the windows, and I keep the boat ready to go, right down to the last screw, even though it hasn’t gone anywhere in two decades. I read books—twenty at a time. Everywhere: on the toilet, in the kitchen, in cafés, on the metro. I do jigsaw puzzles that take up the whole floor, destroy them when I’ve finished and then start all over again. I feed stray cats. I arrange my groceries in alphabetical order. I sometimes take sleeping tablets. I take a dose of Rilke to wake up. I don’t read any books in which women like —— crop up. I gradually turn to stone. I carry on. The same every day. That’s the only way I can survive. But other than that, no, I do nothing. Perdu

You're all Helen talks about. She's been reading Welsh history books and plaguing the family with accounts of Owain Glynd and something called the Eistedfodd." His eyes sparkled with friendly mockery. "Helen was hacking and spitting so much the other day that we thought she was coming down with a cold, until we realized she was practicing the Welsh alphabet." Ordinarily Rhys would have made some sarcastic retort, but he'd barely noticed the gibe. His chest had gone tight with pleasure. "She doesn't have to do that," he muttered. "Helen wants to please you," Devon said. "It's her nature. Which leads to something I want to make clear: Helen is like a younger sister to me. And although I'm obviously the last man alive who should lecture anyone about propriety, I expect you to behave like an altar boy with her for the next few days." Rhys gave him a surly glance. "I *was* an altar boy, and I can tell you that reports of their virtue are highly exaggerated.

Newbury Street was the tony promenade listed in every Boston guidebook, beginning downtown at the Public Garden and riding out in orderly alphabetical blocks, Arlington to Berkeley to Clarendon, all the way to Hereford before skipping impatiently to M, the broad Massachusetts Avenue that formed the unofficial western border of the Back Bay. Newbury Street continued beyond that dividing line, but with its spirit broken, forced to run alongside the ugly turnpike more or less as a back alley for Commonwealth Avenue, its humiliation ending at the suicide bridge.

You’ve got Hangul memorized, right?” he asks, referencing the Korean writing system, but I don’t respond. “You’ve had days all alone in that room to study; you better have it memorized.” I still refuse to look at him, but damn, he’s charming. “King Sejong—that is, a Korean king—he invented this alphabet. He was once quoted as saying something like, a smart man can learn it in a morning, a stupid man can learn it in ten days.

Hello?” “Autumn? I’m sorry.” “Finny?” “Yeah, it’s me.” I fall back on my pillows and close my eyes. I feel relieved, but I’m too tired to try to sort out why. It’s just that it’s him, so it’s okay. “What was that?” “Some guys got ahold of my phone—I’m at a party—I guess they called you because you’re first in my phone—” “I’m first in your phone?” I feel the corners of my mouth turn up and hope he cannot hear my surprised pleasure. “Well, yeah. Alphabetical order. You know.” His voice trails off at the end. “Oh, right.” I rub my eyes and sigh. “I’m still half asleep.” “I’m sorry,” Finny says. “It’s okay,” I say. “Really.

K is for Kite Today we have gone fishing. Dad's excited, so am I. He's angling in the ocean. Me? I'm fishing in the sky. Dad cast his line. Hours have passed. He hasn't had one bite. I feel a sharp tug on my string. Hurray, I've caught a kite. My catch is big and colorful, and trails a bow-tied tail. My dad is packing up his bait, his hooks, his rod and reel. When I get home, I'll show my prize and put it on display. When Dad gets home he'll tell tall tales of fish that got away.

I’ve always known what I’ve wanted, and it wasn’t just the V in Havoc; it was every letter in their wicked, little alphabet.

What’s wrong?” “That’s a loaded question, Seamus. There are so many things; I’m not sure where to start.” “Alphabetically, by order of importance… wherever you need to.

G

ŞİİR ALFABESİ TÜMÜ - 2/3 Hasret A ile başlayan kelime eğer İ harfi ile devam etmezse, cümledeki tüm Ö harflerinin önüne ve arkasına H harfi eklenir. Izdırap A ve U harfleriyle aynı kelimede yer alırsa, sertleşerek kelimenin anlamını güçlendirir. İkimiz Kelimede S harfiyle birlikte kullanılırsa vurguyu M harfine kaydırır. T ve O harflerinin ikisinin birden karşıt anlamlısıdır. Jest Geçmişte çok kullanılan, şu an sadece Y harfinin anlamını güçlendirmek için kullanılan harftir. Kalp A harfinin eski dildeki hali. Laf Kelimede kullanıldığı yere göre anlam kazanır. Az kullanılması makbuldür, çok kullanılırsa I harfiyle aynı manaya gelir. Mutluluk S ve İ harfleriyle aynı kelimede kullanılırsa vurguyu İ harfine kaydırır. Naz Bir kelimede birden çok kez kullanılırsa o kelimede A harfi kullanılamaz. O İ harfinin olumsuz halidir, mutlaka U harfiyle birlikte kullanılır. Ömür S harfiyle birlikte kullanılırsa uzun okunur, I harfiyle birlikte bir kelimede yer alırsa sessizleşir. Papatya Yer aldığı kelimede tüm ünlüleri yumuşatır.

I know my alphabet,' I said sharply as he laid a piece of paper in front of me. 'I'm not that stupid.' I twisted my fingers in my lap, then pinned my restless hands under my thighs. 'I didn't say you were stupid,' he said. 'I'm just trying to determine where we should begin.' I leaned back in the cushioned seat. 'Since you've refused to tell me a thing about how much you know.' My face warmed. 'Can't you hire a tutor?' He lifted a brow. 'Is it that hard for you to even try in front of me?' 'You're a High Lord- don't you have better things to do?' 'Of course. But none as enjoyable as seeing you squirm.' 'You're a real bastard, you know that?' Rhys huffed a laugh. 'I've been called worse. In fact, I think you've called me worse.' He tapped the paper in front of him. 'Read that.' A blur of letters. My throat tightened. 'I can't.' 'Try.' The sentence had been written in elegant, concise print. His writing, no doubt. I tried to open my mouth, but my spine locked. 'What exactly, is your stake in all this? You said you'd tell me if I worked with you.' 'I didn't specify when I'd tell you.' I peeled back from him as my lip curled. He shrugged. 'Maybe I resent the idea of you letting those sycophants and war-mongering fools in the Spring Court make you feel inadequate. Maybe I indeed enjoy seeing you squirm. Or maybe-' 'I get it.' He snorted. 'Try to read it, Feyre.' Prick. I snatched the paper to me, nearly ripping it in half in the process. I looked at the first word, sounding it out in my head. 'Y-you...' The next I figured out with a combination of my silent pronunciation and logic. 'Look...' 'Good,' he murmured. 'I didn't ask for your approval.' Rhys chuckled. 'Ab... absolutely.' It took me longer than I wanted to admit to figure that out. The next word was even worse. 'De... Del...' I deigned to glance at him, brows raised. 'Delicious,' he purred. My brows knotted. I read the next two words, then whipped my face toward him. 'You look absolutely delicious today, Feyre?! That's what you wrote?' He leaned back in his seat. As our eyes met, sharp claws caressed my mind and his voice whispered inside my head. It's true, isn't it? I jolted back, my chair groaning. 'Stop that!' But those claws now dug in- and my entire body, my heart, my lungs, my blood yielded to his grip, utterly at his command as he said, The fashion of the Night Court suits you.