Appellate Quotes

Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence. True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to appellation.

Citizens by birth or choice of a common country, that country has a right to concentrate your affections. The name of American, which belongs to you, in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of Patriotism, more than any appellation derived from local discriminations.

The continent is too large to describe. It is a veritable ocean, a separate planet, a varied, immensely rich cosmos. Only with the greatest simplification, for the sake of convenience, can we say 'Africa'. In reality, except as a geographical appellation, Africa does not exist.

No touching Baby Jesus.” “But we’re his parents!” proclaimed Mary Beth, who was being generous to include poor Joseph under this appellation. “Mary Beth,” Barb Wiggin said, “if you touch the Baby Jesus, I’m putting you in a cow costume.

And there it was. Just like that I had my next case and my curiosity was piqued. Connecting to the ship’s Wi-Fi, I did a Google search of Judge Russell Hastings of Tallahassee, Florida. Wow. Wow. Wow. Perusing just a few of the hundreds of listings it became quickly apparent that the judge was both well-known and well-respected. The murder of a high-profile appellate judge in his own chambers was a mystery that had baffled the Tallahassee police for over a year. There were pictures of the judge and his family; including a beautiful wife and three grown daughters.

When she smiled it was as though she embraced the world.

In French, there’s a phrase for the random urge to jump from high places, the irrational desire to swerve into traffic despite imminent destruction: l'appel du vide, the call of the void.

I experienced what can only be described as a surreal moment in time; giddy with the prospect of a challenging case, but disheartened with the senseless death of a highly respected judge and family man. Why had he been murdered? Who was the killer? Why hadn’t the Tallahassee police been able to solve the case?

It had taken me a full three days to read and study the police reports. My initial thought was to find what I thought I wanted to see, but I quickly abolished that idea because I couldn’t tell what I needed to see. There was just too much information. I never really knew where that break was going to come from and I didn’t want to miss anything.

There were no clues left by the murderer inside the judge’s chambers. No fingerprints. Nothing. The only thing found that was out of the ordinary was a single strand of long auburn hair on the window ledge. A single strand of hair from an unknown female. All dead ends. From my initial perspective, the police were as thorough as they could have been.

Maybe life involves the pairing of unsuitable people, those who wait and those who keep others waiting, and the key to happiness is finding the one person with whom you share the same internal chronometer.

Mr. Ludefance? This is Barnett Hooks. We’re a law firm over here in Tallahassee. I’ve been trying to reach you for over a week as I’m representing a client who is interested in hiring you.” “I’m currently out of the country, Mr. Hooks. Why don’t you tell me about the nature of the problem? Mind you, I don’t take infidelity cases anymore.” “No, it’s not that type of case. This is about the late Judge Russell Hastings. He was an appellate judge with the First District Court of Appeals here in Tallahassee who unfortunately was murdered about a year ago.

L’appel du vide. That’s what binds us,” she told me. “Who?” “Our family.” Our family? “Kai, Banks, Michael, Rika, Will, Alex…” she went on. “You and me. We all hear it. L’appel du vide. The call of the void.

It was at moments like this, high enough to inhale the promise of risk, that the whittled lines of city streets brought out his lingering melancholy; that l'appel du vide, the call of the void.

Cindy extended her hand. I got up, faced her, and shook her hand. A strong handshake. This was definitely a no-nonsense young woman. “I recognize you from your pictures, Mr. Ludefance.” “Pleasure to meet you, Cindy. And you can call me Jack. I’m afraid you have the advantage. You probably did a Google search on me and have all my background information?” She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet.” “I don’t.

l'imagination m'apportait des délices infinies. En recouvrant ce que les hommes appellent la raison, faudra-t-il regretter de les avoir perdues...? My imagination gave me infinite delight. In recovering what men call reason, do I have to regret the loss of these joys?...

This is how most stories end in the hospital. Not with crash carts and sirens and electric shocks to the chest, but with an empty room, a crisp white bed, silence.

Marriage is like a series of opposing reflections, inverse images getting ever smaller like nesting dolls, each one of your trying to squeeze yourself smaller to fit inside the hopes of the other, until one of you cracks or stops existing.

L’appel du vide.

Before I could answer, there was a soft knock on the door. I turned to see an auburn-haired, green-eyed, freckle-faced young woman walk in. Her hair was a mass of soft curls and she wore no makeup. My first impression was to describe her as a plain-Jane. On closer inspection, hers was a strong and unique face. She dressed in slacks, silk blouse, and no visible jewelry. All of which, to me, indicated serene confidence. Her green eyes were piercing with almost a wild look to them. She handed the contract copies to the lawyer.

The only thing more difficult than persuading someone else to start having sex with you is persuading yourself to stop.

The most dangerous ideas are not those that challenge the status quo. The most dangerous ideas are those so embedded in the status quo, so wrapped in a cloud of inevitability, that we forget they are ideas at all.

Lawson, also known by his call sign of Hiker, had been my best friend since our navy days. He now had the distinction of being the sheriff of Santa Rosaria. “Where the hell are you? It sounds like you’re far away.” “I’m on the top deck of a cruise ship in the Panama Canal.” “Swamp, I’m busy. I don’t have time for your jokes.” “Then why the hell did you call me?” “I’m calling because some hot shot lawyer called my office for a character reference on you.” “Why?” “I’ll ask you the same question. Why? Are you in some kind of trouble?” “Of course I’m not in any kind of trouble! What did you say to him?” “I told him you’re some kind of character.

Mr. Hooks?” “Mr. Ludefance? Pleasure to meet you and thank you for coming in.” As he extended his hand to me, I noticed the girl at the desk staring at my face. Hooks looked back at her staring and must have given her a look of some kind. “Mr. Ludefance, this is my secretary, Cholia.” She stood up and continued to stare at my scar. Black hair, cute face, maybe five-foot-four at the most, and a little on the plump side with rosy cheeks. Young. Very young. Looked like a teenager to me. Or was I just getting ‘older?

J'ai aimé jusqu'à atteindre la folie, ce que certains appellent la folie mais ce qui est pour moi la seule façon d'aimer.

Wadsworth opened the bottle and handed me the cork. What the heck? What do I do now? Take it? Smell it? Lick it? A slight trickle of sweat ran down the nape of my neck as he, Margeaux and Deloris stared at me. “Uh, what am I supposed to do with it?” “Take a sniff, sir. Just to make sure.” “Of course, of course.” Smelled just fine to me and I looked up at him with a big silly grin on my face as he poured a small amount of wine into my glass. I stared up at him. “Aren’t you going to fill my glass?” “Take a sip, sir. Just to make sure.” “Make sure of what?” “That it is to your liking, sir.” It was all I could do from turning red-faced. But I took that sip and smiled again. He then poured the wine into our glasses, nestled the bottle in the silver wine chiller and left. At that point I burst out laughing and my sweet ladies joined me.

لا أدري إلى أین یؤدّي طریقي، ولكنني أسیر بشكلٍ أفضل حینما تمسك یدي بیدك. - ألفرد دو موسیه

This is Detective Ashford Ishikawa. Who am I speaking with?” “My name is Jack Ludefance. I’m a private investigator from Santa Rosaria and I’ve been retained by Cindy Hastings through her lawyer, Mr. Hooks, to investigate her father’s murder. Is there way we can get together to talk?” “Why? What are we going to talk about, Mr. Ludefance?” “As I said, Detective Ishikawa, I’ve been hired to investigate the case. I’ve read the police reports. My hat is off to you. Very thorough work.” “Just doing my job. If you’ve read them, and I won’t ask how you got them, I’ll ask you again, what is there for us to talk about?” “Detective, I’m not trying to do your job and I’m not asking you to do my job. This is of mutual interest to both of us. The sooner we solve the crime the better, yes? Think of it this way. I’m your helper.

لا یتحرّر المرء بھذه السھولة من ماضيه, لا یتخلّص المرء بھذه الطریقة من ھذه الرمال المتحرّكة لوساوسه.

Not to change the subject, but…you do realize you’ve been going over the speed limit for quite a few miles? Never mind. And thank you Professor Ludefance. Somehow, I think this lecture is meant for me, but I have a lot more interchange of material and energy with my environment than most.” “In a physical sense, you’re not decaying at all, you’re a very vibrant young woman. The decay I’m speaking about for you is emotional. As for the professorship, that very lecture was given to me from a Turkish friend who had inherited a great deal of wealth and didn’t know what to do with himself. I learned this from him. As for you, you interact with your environment, but you are predatory, fearless, irritable, and listless. You’re getting no emotional feedback.” “And just where do you suggest I go to look for ‘emotional feedback,’ Mr. Professor?” “Aha. That’s the catch. You can’t. It’s not that mechanical. You merely have to be receptive and hope it comes along.” “Meanwhile, I’m being ground down by the second law of thermodynamics.” “In a sense, yes.” “Thank you so much, Professor. I never would have known.

Maybe that is the greatest of wonders: that we can be shaped so much by those we've known closely, and equally by those we've never known at all - and that we too can change the world long after we've left it.

العاطفة والشغف أشبه بالمخدرات، في البدایة تعتقد بأنّك تسیطر علیھا وتتحكّم بھا، ثمّ یأتي یوم، تضطّر لكي تقرّ وتعترف بأنّھا ھي التي تسیطر علیك وتتحكّم بك...

Nothing spices up one's sex life like having a partner.

Nothing sells tombstones like a Girl Scout in uniform.

Kijk,' zei zijn moeder. Ze stond voor het gasstel en wees achter zich op het aanrecht. 'Bedoel je die fles?' vroeg hij. Er stond een fles met donkerrode vloeistof. Op de hals zat een oranje capsule. Hij trad naderbij. 'Wat is dat?' vroeg hij. 'Ik heb een fles wijn gekocht voor vanavond ,' antwoordde ze, een aantal oliebollen uit de braadpan wippend. 'Dat is prachtig,' zei Frits. Hij nam de fles bij de hals op. Er zat een blauw etiket op met een gele rand. 'Bessen-appel,' las hij zacht. 'Bessen-appel,' zei hij bij zichzelf, 'bessen-appel. Help ons, eeuwige, onze God. Zie onze nood. Uit de diepten roepen wij tot u. Verschrikkelijk.

If my life be not my own, it were criminal for me to put it in danger, as well as to dispose of it; nor could one man deserve the appellation of hero, whom glory or friendship transports into the greatest dangers, and another merit the reproach of wretch or misereant who puts a period to his life, from the same or like motives.

Cindy, have you heard of the second law of thermodynamics?” “Yes. Something about heat energy can never be created or destroyed?” “That’s the first law of thermodynamics. The second one is this…all organized systems tend to slide slowly into chaos and disorder. Energy tends to run down. The universe itself heads inevitably towards darkness and stasis. Our own star system eventually will die, the sun will become a red giant, and the earth will be swallowed by the red giant.” “Cheery thought.” “But mathematics has altered this concept; rather one particular mathematician. His name was Ilya Prigogine, a Belgian mathematician.” “Who and what does that have to do with your being a PI and a great psychologist?” “Are you being sarcastic? Of course you are. Anyway, what I was trying to say was that Prigogine used the analogy of a walled city and open city. The walled city is isolated from its surroundings and will run down, decay, and die. The open city will have an exchange of materials and energy with its surroundings and will become larger and more complex; capable of dissipating energy even as it grows. So my point is, this analogy very much pertains to a certain female. The walled person versus the open person. The walled person will eventually decline, fade, and decay.

You can measure a man's sorrow, and the world's, in the number of stories that perish unheard.

L’appel du vide. The call of the void.

S'appeler Plectrude, c'était à double tranchant : soit on était laide et ce prénom soulignait votre laideur, soit on était belle et l'étrange sonorité de Plectrude démultipliait votre beauté.

An unbroken horse erects his mane, paws the ground and starts back impetuously at the sight of the bridle; while one which is properly trained suffers patiently even whip and spur: so savage man will not bend his neck to the yoke to which civilised man submits without a murmur, but prefers the most turbulent state of liberty to the most peaceful slavery. We cannot therefore, from the servility of nations already enslaved, judge of the natural disposition of mankind for or against slavery; we should go by the prodigious efforts of every free people to save itself from oppression. I know that the former are for ever holding forth in praise of the tranquillity they enjoy in their chains, and that they call a state of wretched servitude a state of peace: miserrimam servitutem pacem appellant. But when I observe the latter sacrificing pleasure, peace, wealth, power and life itself to the preservation of that one treasure, which is so disdained by those who have lost it; when I see free-born animals dash their brains out against the bars of their cage, from an innate impatience of captivity; when I behold numbers of naked savages, that despise European pleasures, braving hunger, fire, the sword and death, to preserve nothing but their independence, I feel that it is not for slaves to argue about liberty.

Il ne fait aucun doute pour moi que la sagesse est le but principal de la vie et c'est pourquoi je reviens toujours aux stoïciens. Ils ont atteint la sagesse, on ne peut donc plus les appeler des philosophes au sens propre du terme. De mon point de vue, la sagesse est le terme naturel de la philosophie, sa fin dans les deux sens du mot. Une philosophie finit en sagesse et par là même disparaît.

I have vicarious morning sickness. Other people's babies make me nauseous.

من یغمس یدیھ بالدم سوف یغسلھما بالدموع . - مثلٌ ألماني

Life is nasty, brutish, and short. Death is easy.

Harlem sleeps late.

O, ik weet het niet, maar besta, wees mooi. Zeg: kijk, een vogel en leer me de vogel zien. Zeg: het leven is een brood om in te bijten en de appels zien nog rood van plezier, en nog, en nog, zeg iets. Leer me huilen, en als ik huil, leer me zeggen: het is niets.

In French, there’s a phrase for the random urge to jump from high places, the irrational desire to swerve into traffic despite imminent destruction: l'appel du vide, the call of the void. Those sudden feral impulses tend to be shoved away immediately, but humans still experience them. What if you jumped? What if you touched the fire? What if? What if? When I looked at him, staring at me, the void called.

The question is this—do poor, plainly guilty defendants have a right to a complete defense? I do not believe that the State of Kansas would be either greatly or for long harmed by the death of these appellants. But I do not believe it could ever recover from the death of due process.

Philosophy is to the mind of the architect as eyesight to his steps. The Term 'genius' when applied to him simply means a man who understands what others only know about. A poet, artist or architect, necessarily 'understands' in this sense and is likely, if not careful, to have the term 'genius' applied to him; in which case he will no longer be thought human, trustworthy or companionable. Whatever may be his medium of expression he utters truth with manifest beauty of thought. If he is an architect, his building is natural. In him, philosophy and genius live by each other, but the combination is subject to popular suspicion and appellation 'genius' likely to settle him--so far as the public is concerned.

L'absurde naît de cette confrontation entre l'appel humain et le silence déraisonnable du monde.

If you give a man a hammer, he thinks he can solve all problems by pounding. Well, God gave men penises....

Patriotism is being convinced your country is better because you were born in it.

An American man endowed with sufficient wealth can purchase anything, but an American woman endowed with sufficient beauty does not need to.

Choose old people for enemies. They die. You win.

Nixon’s offences had been so long in the past, so much part of a different era that he now seemed like some lovable but bigoted uncle you tolerated at Christmas and Thanksgiving.

Self-denial can lock women into a smug and critical condescension to other, less devout women. According to Appel, cult members develop..."an attitude of moral superiority, a contempt for secular laws, rigidity of thought, and the diminution of regard for the individual." A premium is placed on conformity to the cult group; deviation is penalized. "Beauty" is derivative; conforming to the Iron Maiden [an intrinsically unattainable standard of beauty that is then used to punish women physically and psychologically for failure to achieve and conform to it] is "beautiful." The aim of beauty thinking, about weight or age, is rigid female thought. Cult members are urged to sever all ties with the past: "I destroyed all my fat photographs!"; "It's a new me!

l'homme se trouve devant l'irrationnel. Il sent en lui son désir de bonheur et de raison. L'absurde naît de cette confrontation entre l'appel humain et le silence déraisonnable du monde.

The Puffer Fish: Wherein the author flaunts his vocabulary. His father was IRA and his mother was Quebecois, and they had reliquished their mortal coils in the internecine conflagration that ended their conjoined separatist movement, IRA-Q. The appellation he was given by his progenitors was Ray O'Vaque ("Like the battery," he'd elucidate, with an adamantine stare that proscribed any mirth). In his years of incarceration, however, he had earned the sobriquet "Uncle Milty" for his piscine amatory habits. He had been emancipated from the penitentiary for three weeks, and now his restless peregrinations had conveyed him to this liminal place, seeking compurgation in the permafrost of the hyperborean tundra, which was an apt analogue of the permafrost in his heart. He insinuated himself into the caravansary with nugatory expectations, which were confirmed by the exiguous provisions for comfort. But then the bartender looked up from laving the begrimed bar, his eyes growing luminous as he ejactulated, "Milt!

الخیر والشرّ یتعایشان في كلّ فرد. وأنّ بعضھم یكتشفون، باختیارھم أو رغماً عنھم، أسوأ ما بدواخلھم.

على العكس من علاقات الزوجین، تستمرّ علاقات الأبوین مع الأطفال طیلة الحیاة.

Be optimistic. Always put on clean underwear if you're going on a date.

I used to dream of true love; now I'm open to false, but convincing....

A century ago, people laughed at the notion that we were descended from monkeys. Today, the individuals most offended by that claim are the monkeys.

Many of those who elected to remain might have escaped. 'Chivalry' is a mild appellation for their conduct. Some of the vaunted knights of old were desperate cowards by comparison. A fight in the open field, or jousting in the tournament, did not call out the manhood in a man as did the waiting till the great ship took the final plunge, in the knowledge that the seas round about were covered with loving and yearning witnesses whose own salvation was not assured.

I insert the bevel and draw back the plunger. I know that the syringe contains more than sodium chloride-that even as the toxic contents fill my fathers veins, he is sharing with me his final gift: the horror and thrill of saving lives.

Il y a des journées illuminées de petites choses, des riens du tout qui vous rendent incroyablement heureux ; un après-midi à chiner, un jouet qui surgit de l’enfance sur l’étal d’un brocanteur, une main qui s’attache à la votre, un appel que l’on attendait pas, une parole douce, vote enfant qui vous prend dans ses bras sans rien vous demander d’autre qu’un moment d’amour. Il y a des journées illuminées de petits moments de grâce, une odeur qui vous met l’âme en joie, un rayon de soleil qui entre par la fenêtre, le bruit de l’averse alors qu’on est encore au lit, les trottoirs enneigés ou l’arrivée du printemps et ses premiers bourgeons.

They also told me how I got the name “My.” After Bailey learned definitely that I was his sister, he refused to call me Marguerite, but rather addressed me each time as “Mya Sister,” and in later more articulate years, after the need for brevity had shortened the appellation to “My,” it was elaborated into “Maya.

One thing led to another. That was the only way to explain how Arnold Brinkman, who considered both professional sports and young children unjustifiable, had ended up at Yankee Stadium with a nine-year-old boy.

Paissez, bons peuples, L'appel de l'honneur ne vous réveillera pas. Les cadeaux de la liberté Ne sont rien pour des troupeaux. Ils doivent être abattus ou tondus.

Leven is het weer. Leven is maaltijden. Lunch op een blauw-geruit kleed waar zout op is gemorst. De geur van tabak. Brie, gele appels, messen met houten handvaten.

La seule chance de survie, lorsqu'on est sincèrement épris, consiste à le dissimuler à la femme qu'on aime, à feindre en toutes circonstances un léger détachement. Quelle tristesse, dans cette simple constatation !... Il ne m'était cependant jamais venu à l'esprit de contester cette loi, ni d'envisager de m'y soustraire : l'amour rend faible, et le plus faible des deux est opprimé, torturé et finalement tué par l'autre, qui de son côté opprime, torture et tue sans penser à mal, sans même en éprouver de plaisir, avec une complète indifférence ; voilà ce que les hommes, ordinairement, appellent l'amour. (La possibilité d'une île, Daniel 1,13)

J’ai réfléchi, je ne me fais pas d’illusions, je t’aime mais je n’ai pas confiance en toi. Puisque ce que nous vivons n’est pas réel, alors c’est un jeu. Je n’ai plus l’âge de jouer à chat. Ne cherche pas à m’appeler, ni à savoir où je suis, ni comment je vis, je crois que ce n’est plus le problème. J’ai réfléchi, je pense que c’est la meilleure solution, faire comme toi, vivre de mon côté en t’aimant bien mais de loin. Je ne veux pas attendre tes coups de téléphone, je ne veux pas m’empêcher de tomber amoureuse. J’ai réfléchi, je veux bien essayer. C’est à prendre ou à laisser…

From this day forward, because we are clearly the most interesting people who ever fucking lived," said Ethan, "because we are just so fucking compelling, our brains swollen with intellectual thoughts, let us be known as the Interestings. And let everyone who meets us fall down dead in our path from just how fucking interesting we are.

Isn’t everyone on the planet or at least everyone on the planet called me stuck between the two impulses of wanting to walk away like it never happened and wanting to be a good person in love, loving, being loved, making sense, just fine? I want to be that person, part of a respectable people, but I also want nothing to do with being people, because to be people is to be breakable, to know that your breaking is coming, any day now and maybe not even any day but this day, this moment, right now a plane could fall out of the sky and crush you or the building you’re in could just crumble and kill you or kill the someone you love— and to love someone is to know that one day you’ll have to watch them break unless you do first and to love someone means you will certainly lose that love to something slow like boredom or festering hate or something fast like a car wreck or a freak accident or flesh-eating bacteria— and who knows where it came from, that flesh-eating bacteria, he was such a nice-looking fellow, it is such a shame— and your wildebeest, everyone’s wildebeest, just wants to get it over with, can’t bear the tension of walking around the world as if we’re always going to be walking around the world, because we’re not, because here comes a cancer, an illness a voice in your head that wants to jump out a window, a person with a gun, a freak accident, a wild wad of flesh-eating bacteria that will start with your face.

As soon as A observes something which seems to him to be wrong, from which X is suffering, A talks it over with B, and A and B then propose to get a law passed to remedy the evil and help X. Their law always proposes to determine what C shall do for X, or in the better case, what A, B, and C shall do for X…. What I want to do is to look up C. I want to show you what manner of man he is. I call him the Forgotten Man. Perhaps the appellation is not strictly correct. He is the man who never is thought of…. He works, he votes, generally he prays—but he always pays…. —WILLIAM GRAHAM SUMNER, YALE UNIVERSITY, 1883

The passion for naming things is an odd human trait. It is strange that men always feel so much more at ease when they have put appellations on the things around them and that a wild, new region almost seems familiar and subdued once enough names have been used on it, even though in fact it is not changed in the slightest. Or, on second thought, it is perhaps not really strange. The urge to name must be as old as the human race, as old as speech which is one of the really fundamental characteristics by which we rise above the brutes, and thus a basic and essential part of the human spirit or soul. The naming fallacy is common enough even in science. Many a scientist claims to have explained some phenomenon when in truth all he has done is to give it a name.

Battery Park resonates with lust as the sun approaches its zenith. A primal impulse takes hold of the young couples strolling the gravel walkways, the newlyweds who have paused to admire DeModica’s bronze bull, the truant teens laid out on the cool grass. Maybe because all flesh tantalizes in the early summer, in the right light, or because, at this time of year, there is more flesh exposed, midriffs, cleavage, inner thighs, the park is suddenly transformed into a dynamo of panting and groping. This desire is not the tender affection of evening, the wistful intimacy of the twilight’s last gleam. It is raw, concupiscent hunger.

The most splendid thing about the Amish is the names they give their towns. Everywhere else in America towns are named either after the first white person to get there or the last Indian to leave. But the Amish obviously gave the matter of town names some thought and graced their communities with intriguing, not to say provocative, appellations: Blue Ball, Bird in Hand, and Intercourse, to name but three. Intercourse makes a good living by attracting passers-by such as me who think it the height of hilarity to send their friends and colleagues postcards with an Intercourse postal mark and some droll sentiment scribbled on the back.

She remembers this phrase from his final months of law school, when he brought home the books on starting up a business. He'd read ravenously for several weeks and then predicted: "Well, darling, we're going to be rich." Now he slaps shut the last of his books and announces, with equal assurance: "We're all going to die.

Billie lies awake for a long time, watching the passing lights of cars on the highway and thinking about a strange phenomenon the French call l’appel du vide, the call of the void. It’s when you stand up high, staring into an abyss, and have a strong desire to throw yourself into it. It can take other forms. You might be driving and suddenly think about jerking the wheel, sending your car into oncoming traffic. Or you might be out for a hike and fantasize about hurling yourself off a cliff. It is not a suicidal impulse. In fact, it is the opposite. Psychologists say it’s actually about how much a person wants to live. They perceive a nearby threat to themselves and they think about that threat because they want so much to survive.

One problem for the analyst of ideologies is that many holders of ideology, especially but not solely conservatives, have denied that they are ideological. Instead they have seen themselves as pragmatic, reserving the appellation 'ideology' only for the ideas of those political movements that issue plans for radical and total change. This undoubtedly reflects the problem that open contestation, and consequently the need for justification, have been largely absent in the totalitarian regimes.

A qui écris-tu? -A toi. En fait, je ne t'écris pas vraiment, j'écris ce que j'ai envie de faire avec toi... Il y avait des feuilles partout. Autour d'elle, à ses pieds, sur le lit. J'en ai pris une au hasard: "...Pique-niquer, faire la sieste au bord d'une rivière, manger des pêches, des crevettes, des croissants, du riz gluant, nager, danser, m'acheter des chaussures, de la lingerie, du parfum, lire le journal, lécher les vitrines, prendre le métro, surveiller l'heure, te pousser quand tu prends toute la place, étendre le linge, aller à l'Opéra, faire des barbecues, râler parce que tu as oublié le charbon, me laver les dents en même temps que toi, t'acheter des caleçons, tondre la pelouse, lire le journal par-dessus ton épaule, t'empêcher de manger trop de cacahuètes, visiter les caves de la Loire, et celles de la Hunter Valley, faire l'idiote, jacasser, cueillir des mûres, cuisiner, jardiner, te réveiller encore parce que tu ronfles, aller au zoo, aux puces, à Paris, à Londres, te chanter des chansons, arrêter de fumer, te demander de me couper les ongles, acheter de la vaisselle, des bêtises, des choses qui ne servent à rien, manger des glaces, regarder les gens, te battre aux échecs, écouter du jazz, du reggae, danser le mambo et le cha-cha-cha, m'ennuyer, faire des caprices, bouder, rire, t'entortiller autour de mon petit doigt, chercher une maison avec vue sur les vaches, remplir d'indécents Caddie, repeindre un plafond, coudre des rideaux, rester des heures à table à discuter avec des gens intéressants, te tenir par la barbichette, te couper les cheveux, enlever les mauvaises herbes, laver la voiture, voir la mer, t'appeler encore, te dire des mots crus, apprendre à tricoter, te tricoter une écharpe, défaire cette horreur, recueillir des chats, des chiens, des perroquets, des éléphants, louer des bicyclettes, ne pas s'en servir, rester dans un hamac, boire des margaritas à l'ombre, tricher, apprendre à me servir d'un fer à repasser, jeter le fer à repasser par la fenêtre, chanter sous la pluie, fuire les touristes, m'enivrer, te dire toute la vérité, me souvenir que toute vérité n'est pas bonne à dire, t'écouter, te donner la main, récupérer mon fer à repasser, écouter les paroles des chansons, mettre le réveil, oublier nos valises, m'arrêter de courir, descendre les poubelles, te demander si tu m'aimes toujours, discuter avec la voisine, te raconter mon enfance, faire des mouillettes, des étiquettes pour les pots de confiture..." Et ça continuais comme ça pendant des pages et des pages...

- Offre ton identité au Conseil, jeune apprentie. La voix était douce, l’ordre sans appel. - Je m’appelle Ellana Caldin. - Ton âge. Ellana hésita une fraction de seconde. Elle ignorait son âge exact, se demandait si elle n’avait pas intérêt à se vieillir. Les apprentis qu’elle avait discernés dans l’assemblée étaient tous plus âgés qu’elle, le Conseil ne risquait-il pas de la considérer comme une enfant ? Les yeux noirs d’Ehrlime fixés sur elle la dissuadèrent de chercher à la tromper. - J’ai quinze ans. Des murmures étonnés s’élevèrent dans son dos. Imperturbable, Ehrlime poursuivit son interrogatoire. - Offre-nous le nom de ton maître. - Jilano Alhuïn. Les murmures, qui s’étaient tus, reprirent. Plus marqués, Ehrlime leva une main pour exiger un silence qu’elle obtint immédiatement. - Jeune Ellana, je vais te poser une série de questions. A ces questions, tu devras répondre dans l’instant, sans réfléchir, en laissant les mots jaillir de toi comme une cascade vive. Les mots sont un cours d’eau, la source est ton âme. C’est en remontant tes mots jusqu’à ton âme que je saurai discerner si tu peux avancer sur la voie des marchombres. Es-tu prête ? - Oui. Une esquisse de sourire traversa le visage ridé d’Ehrlime. - Qu’y a-t-il au sommet de la montagne ? - Le ciel. - Que dit le loup quand il hurle ? - Joie, force et solitude. - À qui s’adresse-t-il ? - À la lune. - Où va la rivière ? L’anxiété d’Ellana s’était dissipée. Les questions d’Ehrlime étaient trop imprévues, se succédaient trop rapidement pour qu’elle ait d’autre solution qu’y répondre ainsi qu’on le lui avait demandé. Impossible de tricher. Cette évidence se transforma en une onde paisible dans laquelle elle s’immergea, laissant Ehrlime remonter le cours de ses mots jusqu’à son âme, puisque c’était ce qu’elle désirait. - Remplir la mer. - À qui la nuit fait-elle peur ? - À ceux qui attendent le jour pour voir. - Combien d’hommes as-tu déjà tués ? - Deux. - Es-tu vent ou nuage ? - Je suis moi. - Es-tu vent ou nuage ? - Vent. - Méritaient-ils la mort ? - Je l’ignore. - Es-tu ombre ou lumière ? - Je suis moi. - Es-tu ombre ou lumière ? - Les deux. - Où se trouve la voie du marchombre ? - En moi. Ellana s’exprimait avec aisance, chaque réponse jaillissant d’elle naturellement, comme une expiration après une inspiration. Fluidité. Le sourire sur le visage d’Ehrlime était revenu, plus marqué, et une pointe de jubilation perçait dans sa voix ferme. - Que devient une larme qui se brise ? - Une poussière d’étoiles. - Que fais-tu devant une rivière que tu ne peux pas traverser ? - Je la traverse. - Que devient une étoile qui meurt ? - Un rêve qui vit. - Offre-moi un mot. - Silence. - Un autre. - Harmonie. - Un dernier. - Fluidité. - L’ours et l’homme se disputent un territoire. Qui a raison ? - Le chat qui les observe. - Marie tes trois mots. - Marchombre.

Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of moys? Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French What is his name. Boy- Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appele? French Soldier- Monsieur le Fer. Boy- He says his name is Master Fer. PISTOL- Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him: discuss the same in French unto him. Boy- I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.

On Virtue O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach. I cease to wonder, and no more attempt Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound. But, O my soul, sink not into despair, Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head. Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse, Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss. Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread, And lead celestial Chastity along; Lo! now her sacred retinue descends, Arrayed in glory from the orbs above. Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years! O leave me not to the false joys of time! But guide my steps to endless life and bliss. Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee, To give an higher appellation still, Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay, O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day!

The unity of government which constitutes you one people is also now dear to you. It is justly so, for it is a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence, the support of your tranquility at home, your peace abroad; of your safety; of your prosperity; of that very liberty which you so highly prize. But as it is easy to foresee that, from different causes and from different quarters, much pains will be taken, many artifices employed to weaken in your minds the conviction of this truth; as this is the point in your political fortress against which the batteries of internal and external enemies will be most constantly and actively (though often covertly and insidiously) directed, it is of infinite moment that you should properly estimate the immense value of your national union to your collective and individual happiness; that you should cherish a cordial, habitual, and immovable attachment to it; accustoming yourselves to think and speak of it as of the palladium of your political safety and prosperity; watching for its preservation with jealous anxiety; discountenancing whatever may suggest even a suspicion that it can in any event be abandoned; and indignantly frowning upon the first dawning of every attempt to alienate any portion of our country from the rest, or to enfeeble the sacred ties which now link together the various parts. For this you have every inducement of sympathy and interest. Citizens, by birth or choice, of a common country, that country has a right to concentrate your affections. The name of American, which belongs to you in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of patriotism more than any appellation derived from local discriminations. With slight shades of difference, you have the same religion, manners, habits, and political principles. You have in a common cause fought and triumphed together; the independence and liberty you possess are the work of joint counsels, and joint efforts of common dangers, sufferings, and successes. But these considerations, however powerfully they address themselves to your sensibility, are greatly outweighed by those which apply more immediately to your interest. Here every portion of our country finds the most commanding motives for carefully guarding and preserving the union of the whole.

Know your load. That’s rule numero uno in this business, which is why I make them count the penguins out in front of me one at a time. I’m not going to be the schmuck who shows up in Orlando two birds short of a dinner party....I know I’m pulling out of Houston with exactly forty-two Gentoo penguins, seventeen Jamaican land iguanas, four tuataras from New Zealand, and a pair of rare, civet-like mammals called linsangs. No more, no less.

This fatalistic indifference is something that drives the optimistic American liberal quite mad; he is prone, in his more exasperated moments, to refer to Negroes as political children, an appellation not entirely just. Negro liberals, being consulted, assure us that this is something that will disappear with “education,” a vast, all-purpose term, conjuring up visions of sunlit housing projects, stacks of copybooks and a race of well-soaped, dark-skinned people who never slur their R’s. Actually, this is not so much political irresponsibility as the product of experience, experience which no amount of education can quite efface. It is, as much as anything else, the reason the Negro vote is so easily bought and sold, the reason for that exclamation heard so frequently on Sugar Hill: “Our people never get anywhere.

In French, there’s a phrase for the random urge to jump from high places, the irrational desire to swerve into traffic despite imminent destruction: l'appel du vide, the call of the void. Those sudden feral impulses tend to be shoved away immediately, but humans still experience them. What if you jumped? What if you touched the fire? What if? What if? When I looked at him, staring at me, the void called. What if?

In jargon nobody ever does anything, feels anything, or causes anything; nobody has an opinion. Opinions are had; causes result in; factors affect. Everything is reduced to vague abstraction. The writer can even abolish himself, for jargon never sounds as though anybody had written it; it seems simply to come about, as from a machine, and it talks mechanically of things that come about, through some indistinct interaction of forces.” —Robert Waddell, “Formal Prose and Jargon,” in Modern Essays on Writing and Style 84, 89 (Paul C. Wermuth ed., 1964).

Tu t'imagines qu'un mensonge en vaut un autre, mais tu as tort. Je peux inventer n'importe quoi, me payer la tête des gens, monter toutes sortes de mystifications, faire toutes sortes de blagues, je n'ai pas l'impression d'être un menteur ; ces mensonges-là, si tu veux appeler cela des mensonges, c'est moi, tel que je suis ; avec ces mensonges-là, je ne dissimule rien, avec ces mensonges-là je dis en fait la vérité. Mais il y a des choses à propos desquelles je ne peux pas mentir. IL y a des choses que je connais à fond, dont j'ai compris le sens, et que j'aime. Je ne plaisante pas avec ces choses-là. Mentir là-dessus, ce serait m'abaisser moi-même, et je ne le peux pas, n'exige pas ça de moi, je ne le ferai.

Je disais que le monde est absurde et j'allais trop vite. ce monde en lui-même n'est pas raisonnable, c'est tout ce qu'on en peut dire. Mais ce qui est absurde, c'est la confrontation de cet irrationnel et de ce désir éperdu de clarté dont l'appel résonne au plus profond de l'homme. L'absurde dépend autant de l'homme que du monde. Il est pour le moment leur seul lien. Il les scelle l'un à l'autre comme la haine seule peut river les êtres. C'est tout ce que je puis discerner clairement dans cet univers sans mesure où mon aventure se poursuit.

....It was to complete his marriage with Maimuna, the daughter of Al Hareth, the Helalite. He had become betrothed to her on his arrival at Mecca, but had post-poned the nuptials until after he had concluded the rites of pilgrimage. This was doubtless another marriage of policy, for Maimuna was fifty-one years of age, and a widow, but the connection gained him two powerful proselytes. One was Khaled Ibn al Waled, a nephew of the widow, an intrepid warrior who had come near destroy- ing Mahomet at the battle of Ohod. He now became one of the most victorious champions of Islamism, and by his prowess obtained the appellation of " The Sword of God." The other proselyte was Khaled's friend, Amru Ibn al Aass ; the same who assailed Mahomet with poetry and satire at the commencement of his prophetic career ; who had been an ambassador from the Koreishites to the king of Abyssinia, to obtain the surrender of the fugitive Moslems, and who was henceforth destined with his sword to carry victoriously into foreign lands the faith he had once so strenuously opposed. Note.— Maimuna was the last spouse of the prophet, and, old as she was at her marriage, survived all his other wives. She died many years after him, in a pavilion at Serif, under the same tree in the shade of which her nuptial tent had been pitched, and was there interred. The pious historian, Al Jannabi, who styles himself "a poor servant of Allah, hoping for the pardon of his sins through the mercy of God," visited her tomb on returning from a pilgrimage to Mecca, in the year of the Hegira 963, a.d. 1555. "I saw there," said he, "a dome of black marble erected in memory of Maimuna, on the very spot on which the apostle of God had reposed with her. God knows the truth ! and also the reason of the black color of the stone. There is a place of ablution, and an oratory ; but the building has fallen to decay.

Be informed, also, that this good and savoury Parish is the home of Hectors, Trapanners, Biters who all go under the general appelation of Rooks. Here are all the Jilts, Cracks, Prostitutes, Night-walkers, Whores, Linnen-lifters, who are like so many Jakes, Privies, Houses of Office, Ordures, Excrements, Easments and piles of Sir-reverence: the whores of Ratcliffe High-way smell of Tarpaulin and stinking Cod from their continuall Traffick with seamen's Breeches. There are other such wretched Objects about these ruined Lanes, all of them lamentable Instances of Vengeance. And it is not strange (as some think) how they will haunt the same Districts and will not leave off their Crimes until they are apprehended, for these Streets are their Theatre. Theft, Whoredom and Homicide peep out of the very Windows of their Souls; Lying, Perjury, Fraud, Impudence and Misery are stamped upon their very Countenances as now they walk within the Shaddowe of my Church.

To the bankrupt poet, to the jilted lover, to anyone who yearns to elude the doubt within and the din without, the tidal strait between Manhattan Island and her favorite suburb offers the specious illusion of easy death. Melville prepared for the plunge from the breakwater on the South Street promenade, Whitman at the railing of the outbound ferry, both men redeemed by some Darwinian impulse, maybe some epic vision, which enabled them to change leaden water into lyric wine. Hart Crane rejected the limpid estuary for the brackish swirl of the Caribbean Sea. In each generation, from Washington Irving’s to Truman Capote’s, countless young men of promise and talent have examined the rippling foam between the nation’s literary furnace and her literary playground, questioning whether the reams of manuscript in their Brooklyn lofts will earn them garlands in Manhattan’s salons and ballrooms, wavering between the workroom and the water. And the city had done everything in its power to assist these men, to ease their affliction and to steer them toward the most judicious of decisions. It has built them a bridge.

A un moment j’ai même laissé échapper un son qui s’est prolongé malgré moi en prenant de plus en plus de force, un son qui avait attendu ce jour précis pour partir du fond de mes années de ténèbres à mal aimer des hommes qui m’ont mal aimée en retour et recouvrir ta poitrine comme une brûlure ; c’était d’abord un son rauque et traînant, une plainte animale qui n’avait rien du sanglot et qui en un véritable appel à la mort. A ce moment tout s’est arrêté, je me suis soudain rappelé cette même scène vécu avec toi alors qu’on venait de se rencontrer ; ce hurlement avait déjà eu lieu et sa répétition implacable m’a fait taire une fois pour toute. A ce moment aussi tu t’es écarté de moi, sans doute pour la même raison, tu t’es levé dans une brusquerie qui a délogé Oréo de la chaise de ton bureau. Ne voulant pas te regarder dans les yeux, j’ai regardé tes pieds. Mon hurlement avait tracé une ligne infranchissable entre nous, en hurlant je venais de sonner le glas de notre histoire. Tu as dit des paroles que tu avais déjà prononcées en d’autres circonstances et je suis partie, je savais que plus jamais on ne se reparlerait.

Il est un côté de la « culture bourgeoise » qui en dévoile toute la petitesse, c'est son aspect de « roulement » conventionnel, de manque d'imagination, bref d'inconscience et de vanité : on ne se demande pas un instant « à quoi bon tout cela » ; aucun auteur ne se demande s'il vaut la peine d'écrire une nouvelle histoire après tant d'autres histoires ; on semble en écrire simplement parce que d'autres en ont écrit, et parce qu'on ne voit pas pourquoi on ne le ferait pas et pourquoi on ne gagnerait pas une gloire que d'autres ont gagnée. C'est un perpetuum mobile que rien ne peut arrêter, sauf une catastrophe ou, moins tragiquement, la disparition progressive des lecteurs ; sans public point de célébrité, nous l'avons dit plus haut. Et ceci est arrivé dans une certaine mesure : on ne lit plus d'anciens auteurs dont le prestige paraissait assuré ; le grand public a d'autres besoins, d'autres ressources et d'autres distractions, fussent-elle des plus basses. La culture c'est, de plus en plus, l'absence de culture : la manie de se couper de ses racines et d'oublier d'où l'on vient. Une des raisons subjectives de ce que nous pouvons appeler le « roulement culturel » est que l'homme n'aime pas se perdre tout seul, qu'il aime par conséquent trouver des complices pour une perdition commune ; c'est ce que fait la culture profane, inconsciemment ou consciemment, mais non innocemment car l'homme porte au fond de lui-même l'instinct de sa raison d'être et de sa vocation. On a souvent reproché aux civilisations orientales leur stérilité culturelle, c'est-à-dire le fait qu'elles ne comportent pas un fleuve habituel de production littéraire, artistique et philosophique ; nous croyons pouvoir nous dispenser à présent de la peine d'en expliquer les raisons.

The Levellers . . . only change and pervert the natural order of things: they load the edifice of society by setting up in the air what the solidity of the structure requires to be on the ground. . . . Far am I from denying in theory, full as far is my heart from withholding in practice (if I were of power to give or to withhold), the real rights of men. In denying their false claims of right, I do not mean to injure those which are real, and are such as their pretended rights would totally destroy. . . . In this partnership all men have equal rights; but not to equal things. . . . Government is a contrivance of human wisdom to provide for human wants. Men have a right that these wants should be provided for by this wisdom. Among these wants is to be reckoned the want, out of civil society, of a sufficient restraint upon their passions. Society requires not only that the passions of individuals should be subjected, but that even in the mass and body, as well as in the individuals, the inclinations of men should frequently be thwarted, their will controlled, and their passions brought into subjection. This can only be done by a power out of themselves, and not, in the exercise of its function, subject to that will and to those passions which it is its office to bridle and subdue. In this sense the restraints on men, as well as their liberties, are to be reckoned among their rights. . . . Society is, indeed, a contract. Subordinate contracts for objects of mere occasional interest may be dissolved at pleasure; but the state ought not to be considered as nothing better than a partnership agreement in a trade of pepper and coffee, calico or tobacco, or some other such low concern, to be taken up for a little temporary interest, and to be dissolved by the fancy of the parties. It is to looked on with other reverence; because it is not a partnership in things subservient only to the gross animal existence of a temporary and perishable nature. It is a partnership in all science, a partnership in all art, a partnership in every virtue and in all perfection. As the ends of such a partnership cannot be obtained in many generations, it becomes a partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born. . . . You would not cure the evil by resolving that there should be no more monarchs, nor ministers of state, nor of the Gospel— no interpreters of law, no general officers, no public councils. You might change the names: the things in some shape must remain. A certain quantum of power must always exist in the community, in some hands, and under some appellation. Wise men will apply their remedies to vices, not to names— to the causes of evil, which are permanent, not to the occasional organs by which they act, and the transitory modes in which they appear. Otherwise you will be wise historically, a fool in practice. . . . The effects of the incapacity shown by the popular leaders in all the great members of the commonwealth are to be covered with the 'all-atoning name' of Liberty. . . . But what is liberty without wisdom and without virtue? It is the greatest of all possible evils; for it is folly, vice, and madness, without tuition or restraint. Those who know what virtuous liberty is cannot bear to see it disgraced by incapable heads, on account of their having high-sounding words in their mouths. . . . To make a government requires no great prudence. Settle the seat of power, teach obedience, and the work is done. To give freedom is still more easy. It is not necessary to guide; it only requires to let go the rein. But to form a free government, that is to temper together these opposite elements of liberty and restraint in one consistent work, requires much thought, deep reflection, a sagacious, powerful, and combining mind.

Cette qualité de la joie n’est-elle pas le fruit le plus précieux de la civilisation qui est nôtre ? Une tyrannie totalitaire pourrait nous satisfaire, elle aussi, dans nos besoins matériels. Mais nous ne sommes pas un bétail à l’engrais. La prospérité et le confort ne sauraient suffire à nous combler. Pour nous qui fûmes élevés dans le culte du respect de l’homme, pèsent lourd les simples rencontres qui se changent parfois en fêtes merveilleuses… Respect de l’homme ! Respect de l’homme !… Là est la pierre de touche ! Quand le Naziste respecte exclusivement qui lui ressemble, il ne respecte rien que soi-même ; il refuse les contradictions créatrices, ruine tout espoir d’ascension, et fonde pour mille ans, en place d’un homme, le robot d’une termitière. L’ordre pour l’ordre châtre l’homme de son pouvoir essentiel, qui est de transformer et le monde et soi-même. La vie crée l’ordre, mais l’ordre ne crée pas la vie. Il nous semble, à nous, bien au contraire, que notre ascension n’est pas achevée, que la vérité de demain se nourrit de l’erreur d’hier, et que les contradictions à surmonter sont le terreau même de notre croissance. Nous reconnaissons comme nôtres ceux mêmes qui diffèrent de nous. Mais quelle étrange parenté ! elle se fonde sur l’avenir, non sur le passé. Sur le but, non sur l’origine. Nous sommes l’un pour l’autre des pèlerins qui, le long de chemins divers, peinons vers le même rendez-vous. Mais voici qu’aujourd’hui le respect de l’homme, condition de notre ascension, est en péril. Les craquements du monde moderne nous ont engagés dans les ténèbres. Les problèmes sont incohérents, les solutions contradictoires. La vérité d’hier est morte, celle de demain est encore à bâtir. Aucune synthèse valable n’est entrevue, et chacun d’entre nous ne détient qu’une parcelle de la vérité. Faute d’évidence qui les impose, les religions politiques font appel à la violence. Et voici qu’à nous diviser sur les méthodes, nous risquons de ne plus reconnaître que nous nous hâtons vers le même but. Le voyageur qui franchit sa montagne dans la direction d’une étoile, s’il se laisse trop absorber par ses problèmes d’escalade, risque d’oublier quelle étoile le guide. S’il n’agit plus que pour agir, il n’ira nulle part. La chaisière de cathédrale, à se préoccuper trop âprement de la location de ses chaises, risque d’oublier qu’elle sert un dieu. Ainsi, à m’enfermer dans quelque passion partisane, je risque d’oublier qu’une politique n’a de sens qu’à condition d’être au service d’une évidence spirituelle. Nous avons goûté, aux heures de miracle, une certaine qualité des relations humaines : là est pour nous la vérité. Quelle que soit l’urgence de l’action, il nous est interdit d’oublier, faute de quoi cette action demeurera stérile, la vocation qui doit la commander. Nous voulons fonder le respect de l’homme. Pourquoi nous haïrions-nous à l’intérieur d’un même camp ? Aucun d’entre nous ne détient le monopole de la pureté d’intention. Je puis combattre, au nom de ma route, telle route qu’un autre a choisie. Je puis critiquer les démarches de sa raison. Les démarches de la raison sont incertaines. Mais je dois respecter cet homme, sur le plan de l’Esprit, s’il peine vers la même étoile. Respect de l’Homme ! Respect de l’Homme !… Si le respect de l’homme est fondé dans le cœur des hommes, les hommes finiront bien par fonder en retour le système social, politique ou économique qui consacrera ce respect. Une civilisation se fonde d’abord dans la substance. Elle est d’abord, dans l’homme, désir aveugle d’une certaine chaleur. L’homme ensuite, d’erreur en erreur, trouve le chemin qui conduit au feu.