Arcade Time Quotes

Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t? A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing. Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on. What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon. Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere. I can tell already you think I’m the dragon, that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either. Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later. Let me do it right for once, for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes, you know the story, simply heaven. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing and when you open your eyes only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer. Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion. Hello darling, sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up in a stranger’s bathroom, standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away from the dirtiest thing you know. All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness, suddenly only darkness. In the living room, in the broken yard, in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light, my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away. I arrived in the city and you met me at the station, smiling in a way that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade, up the stairs of the building to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things, I looked out the window and said This doesn’t look that much different from home, because it didn’t, but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights. We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud. Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you. Okay, if you’re so great, you do it— here’s the pencil, make it work … If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing river water. Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things I want to ask you. I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again, years later, in the chlorinated pool. I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have these luxuries. I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together. I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

Lilies, I rule, heads, you do," he [the King] said, and threw the coin into the air. "Lilies, you rule, heads, you throw again," said Attolia. The coin dropped. Eugenides looked at it and then showed it to her. "No need," he said. The coin sat in his palm, obverse, showing the lilies of Attolia. He flipped it again and again and again. Each time it landed showing the lilies. ... (Relius) He wanted to dismiss the coin toss as slight of hand. Any circus performer could control the drop of a coin, but he'd been puzzled. The queen had been undismayed; she had seemed almost vindicated in her manner. It had been the King who was more disturbed with each toss of the coin. He'd looked almost sick, Relius thought, by the time he put the coin away. ... Walking away along the arcade that lay perpendicular to the one where Relius lurked, the king pulled the coin from his pocket. He looked at the gold stater in sudden disgust and pitched it hard between the columns of the arcade into the shrubbery.

It's a token for the arcade games at Laser Sport Time!" Dan hissed. "Uncle Alistair doesn't think so," Amy murmured. "He's a numismatist." "He takes his clothes off in public?" Dan said.

Penny Arcade said: At that time, the DRUG world and the ART world ran through each other. (1971 - 1974)

Life's not some slot machine in an arcade with a sign that flashes up saying 'I'm sorry, you have been killed. Would you like another go?' But we might get put through the same test each time, get faced with the same situations until we've learned how to cope.

Imagine that Dungeons and Dragons and an ’80s video arcade made hot, sweet love, and their child was raised in Azeroth. If you’re not already experiencing a nerdgasm at the thought, I don’t want to know you.” —John Scalzi, New York Times bestselling author of Old Man’s War

In desperation, I’d tried to find a part-time after-school job, just to earn some walking-around money. I applied for dozens of tech support and programming jobs (mostly grunt construction work, coding parts of OASIS malls and office buildings), but it was completely hopeless. Millions of college-educated adults couldn’t get one of those jobs. The Great Recession was now entering its third decade, and unemployment was still at a record high. Even the fast-food joints in my neighborhood had a two-year waiting list for job applicants. So I remained stuck at school. I felt like a kid standing in the world’s greatest video arcade without any quarters, unable to do anything but walk around and watch the other kids play.

Quentin found himself staring at the end of his Brakebills careers across the perilously slender gap of only two months of time. It was like he'd been wending his way though a vast, glittering city, zig-zagging through side streets and wandering through buildings and haunted de Chrico arcades and little hidden piazzas, the whole time thinking that he'd barely scratched the surface, that he was just seeing a tiny sliver of one little neighborhood. And then suddenly he turned a corner and it turned out that he'd been through the whole city, it was all behind him, and all that was left was one short street leading straight out of town.

We had a very Tom and Jerry relationship, me and my mom. She was the strict disciplinarian; I was naughty as shit. She would send me out to buy groceries, and I wouldn’t come right home because I’d be using the change from the milk and bread to play arcade games at the supermarket. I loved videogames. I was a master at Street Fighter. I could go forever on a single play. I’d drop a coin in, time would fly, and the next thing I knew there’d be a woman behind me with a belt. It was

The city, to her, meant a few particular blocks - the best blocks - lying together in a neat rectangle, linked by arcades and department stores; three streets one way, cut by four at right angles, bound at the top by gardens, self-enclosed at the bottom and either end. Three or four times a week she walked the streets of these blocks, smelt the coffee, the flowers, the rich expensive leather, the cosmetics.

...leaning over the bright display among the back aisles of a forbidden arcade, rows of other players silent, unnoticed, closing time never announced, playing for nothing but the score itself, the row of numbers, a chance of entering her initials among those of other strangers for a brief time, no longer the time the world observed but game time, underground time, time that could take her nowhere outside its own tight and falsely deathless perimeter.

But by the time the first bombs fell, we were already bored.

There was no time real or otherwise at the Arcade and we could sit for hours with a handful of stragglers, spinning words or content within commiserating silence.

She remembered the days when she and her best friend would draw hearts on the beach, the waves erasing their ephemeral creations. Those carefree moments seemed like a distant dream now—afternoons at the arcade, junk food on the boardwalk. She couldn’t recall the last time she did anything so wonderfully silly.

There are times when we want to be aliens and strangers, to feel how the shape of our lives is not the only shape, to drift before a catalog of possible lives, staring at the glass arcades of shoes that are sensible and of shoes for taking a chance, buses leaving town and the gray steam railway depot where men and women hurry by with their bags.

Sam felt a peacefulness come over him when he was playing Donkey Kong in his grandparents' pizza parlor. When he could time the little Japanese Italian plumber's jumps and ascend the staircases at the right pace, it felt as if the universe was capable of being ordered. It felt as if it were possible to achieve a perfect timing. It felt like synchronicity.

It felt warm sitting around the dhuni. I felt connected to the sadhus, to the temple, and even to Shiva. Is this it? Am I on the precipice of something? Is this what I've been looking for? It feels so close, I can nearly reach out and grab it, the answer to all my questions could be right in this circle, I could follow this path, I could grow my hair six feet long, I could stand in one spot for six years with my arm in the air, I could cover myself in ash, I could smoke chillums all day and chant all night, yes, this is what it's all been leading to, already, I feel my mind emptying out, it's slowing down just like in Greece, but this time the filmstrip is coming into focus, this time I can almost make it out, this time things are making sense, yes, of course, Paul is right, I must act like a sadhu, I must do what's right, and now the film stops for one brief second and I take a look, and there it is, my journey, yes, it's anything but a straight line, it's more like a spiral that twists all over the place, just like the lines in my palm, it's a spiral that at any moment could point up or down, in or out, and now, sitting at the feet of the holy men, looking into the warm pools of the sadhu's eyes - I suddenly realize what this is all about. Each person's journey is different, and this spiral of mine isn't finished spinning. At least, not here - not now, not in this magical arcade. It's as I always suspected. I don't want a guru. I don't want an ashram. I need to find my own way.

It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us to start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills.

One night, he left Stephen and me in the arcade and rushed off to a – this hurt my feelings – “real” game. That night, he missed a foul shot by two feet and made the mistake of admitting to the other players that his arms were tired from throwing miniature balls at a shortened hoop all afternoon. They laughed and laughed. ‘In the second overtime,’ Joel told me, ‘when the opposing team fouled me with four seconds left and gave me the opportunity to shoot from the line for the game, they looked mighty smug as they took their positions along the key. Oh, Pop-A-Shot guy, I could hear them thinking to their smug selves. He’ll never make a foul shot. He plays baby games. Wa-wa-wa, little Pop-A-Shot baby, would you like a zwieback biscuit? But you know what? I made those shots, and those songs of bitches had to wipe their smug grins off their smug faces and go home thinking that maybe Pop-A-Shot wasn’t such a baby game after all.” I think Pop-A-Shot’s a baby game. That’s why I love it. Unlike the game of basketball itself, Pop-A-Shot has no standard socially redeeming value whatsoever. Pop-A-Shot is not about teamwork or getting along or working together. Pop-A-Shot is not about getting exercise or fresh air. It takes place in fluorescent-lit bowling alleys or darkened bars. It costs money. At the end of a game, one does not swig Gatorade. One sips bourbon or margaritas or munches cupcakes. Unless one is playing the Super Shot version at the ESPN Zone in Times Square, in which case, one orders the greatest appetizer ever invented on this continent – a plate of cheeseburgers.

I told mom that she was confusing happiness with pleasure. That's common today. A trip to the video arcade may be a source of pleasure, but it will not give lasting and enduring happiness. This mother's son derives pleasure from playing video games, but playing video games in an online world is unlikely to be a source of real fulfillment. The pleasure derived from a video game may last for weeks or even months. But it will not last many years, in my firsthand observation Of many young men over the past two decades. The boy either moves on to something else, or the happiness undergoes a silent and malignant transformation into addiction. The hallmark of addiction is decreasing pleasure over time. Tolerance develops. Playing the game becomes compulsive, almost involuntary. It no longer gives the thrill and pleasure it once did. But the addict can no longer find pleasure in anything else. Pleasure is not the same thing as happiness. The gratification Of desire yields pleasure, not lasting happiness. Happiness comes from fulfillment, from living up to your potential, which means more than playing online video games.

She had driven him downtown in the old Plymouth, and while she was at the doctor's seeing about her arthritis, Ignatius had bought some sheet music at Werlein's for this trumpet and a new string for his lute. Then he had wandered into the Penny Arcade on Royal Street to see whether any new games had been installed. He had been disappointed to find the miniature mechanical baseball game gone. Perhaps it was only being repaired. The last time he had played it the batter would not work and, after some argument, the management had returned his nickel, even though the Penny Arcade people had been base enough to suggest that Ignatius had himself broken the baseball machine by kicking it.

You have to have approached a place from all four cardinal points if you want to take it in, and what’s more, you also have to have left it from all these points. Otherwise it will quite unexpectedly cross your path three or four times before you are prepared to discover it. One stage further, and you seek it out, you orient your-self by it. The same thing with houses. It is only after having crept along a series of them in search of a very specific one that you come to learn what they contain. From the arches of gates, on the frames of house doors, in letters of varying size, black, blue, yellow, red, in the shape of arrows or in the image of boots or freshly-ironed laundry or a word stoop or a stairway’s solid landing, the life leaps out at you, combative, determined, mute. You have to have traveled the streets by streetcar to realize how this running battle con-tinues up along the various stories and finally reaches its decisive pitch on the roofs.

rice cooker looked neat, too—when Cecilia wasn’t drawing up orders for her custom bullet journals, she loved cooking, so she’d probably want to try it. Maybe she could borrow Ojiichan’s phone and call her sisters to meet up— “Tessa-chan, over here!” Ojiichan hollered from the corner. “But, look!” Tessa gestured at the next shop. The sparkling clear displays of the arcade games reeled her in, teeming with a special kind of magic. The machines were stuffed with all sorts of plushies and even themed chocolate and snacks from her favorite animes. Ojiichan smiled. “We’re going to be late. I still have to fill out the paperwork for you two.” “Why do I need to register for an antique store?” Tessa asked. Couldn’t they spend time looking around Tokyo instead of just staying in a musty old shop? Jin’s jaw dropped, his eyes already glued to something. “Wait, we’re going here?” Tessa followed his gaze to the building Ojiichan was standing in front of. Exercise Land? That sounded like the polar opposite of cool. Slowly, she read the big poster board set in front: Starting at noon! Move to the beat, and join us for our most popular senior aerobics

Simple Twist Of Fate" They sat together in the park As the evening sky grew dark She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones It was then he felt alone and wished that he'd gone straight And watched out for a simple twist of fate. They walked alone by the old canal A little confused I remember well And stopped into a strange hotel with a neon burning bright He felt the heat of the night hit him like a freight train Moving with a simple twist of fate. A saxophone someplace far off played As she was walking on by the arcade As the light bust through a-beat-up shade where he was waking up She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate And forgot about a simple twist of fate. He woke up the room was bare He didn't see her anywhere He told himself he didn't care pushed the window open wide Felt an emptiness inside to which he just could not relate Brought on by a simple twist of fate. He hears the ticking of the clocks And walks along with a parrot that talks Hunts her down by the waterfront docks where the sailers all come in Maybe she'll pick him out again how long must he wait One more time for a simple twist of fate. People tell me it's a sin To know and feel too much within I still believe she was my twin but I lost the ring She was born in spring but I was born too late Blame it on a simple twist of fate. Bob Dylan, Blood On The Tracks (1975)

The late American golfing coach and writer, Harvey Penick, held that any who played golf was his friend – in the politer sense of Arcades ambo, I gather. … I myself hold with Honest Izaak that there is – and that I am a member of – a communion of, if not saints, at least anglers and very honest men, some now with God and others of us yet upon the quiet waters. … The man is a mere brute, and no true angler, whose sport is measured only in fish caught and boasted of. For what purpose do we impose on ourselves limits and conventions if not to make sport of a mere mechanical harvest of protein? The true angler can welcome even a low river and a dry year, and learn of it, and be the better for it, in mind and in spirit. So, No: the hatch is not all that it might be, for if it is warm enough and early with it, it is also in a time of drought; and, No: I don’t get to the river as often as I should wish. But these things do not make this a poor year: they are an unlooked-for opportunity to delve yet deeper into the secrets of the river, and grow wise. … Rejoice, then, in all seasons, ye fishers. The world the river is; both you and I, And all mankind, are either fish or fry. We must view it with judicious looks, and get wisdom whilst we may. And to all honest anglers, then, I wish, as our master Izaak wished us long ago, ‘a rainy evening to read this following Discourse; and that if he be an honest Angler, the east wind may never blow when he goes a-fishing.

The Suburbs In the suburbs I I learned to drive And you told me we'd never survive Grab your mother's keys we're leavin' You always seemed so sure That one day we'd fight in In a suburban world your part of town gets minor So you're standin' on the opposite shore But by the time the first bombs fell We were already bored We were already, already bored Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling again Kids wanna be so hard But in my dreams we're still screamin' and runnin' through the yard And all of the walls that they built in the seventies finally fall And all of the houses they build in the seventies finally fall Meant nothin' at all Meant nothin' at all It meant nothin Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling and into the night So can you understand? Why I want a daughter while I'm still young I wanna hold her hand And show her some beauty Before this damage is done But if it's too much to ask, it's too much to ask Then send me a son Under the overpass In the parking lot we're still waiting It's already passed So move your feet from hot pavement and into the grass Cause it's already passed It's already, already passed! Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling again I'm movin' past the feeling I'm movin' past the feeling In my dreams we're still screamin' We're still screamin' We're still screamin

La cachucha, is that for us, maestro? Will it be danced across the tottering floorboards of the cavaliers' wing, between cramped walls, blackened with smoke and greasy with grime, under its low ceiling? Curse you, the way you play! La cachucha, is that for us, for us cavaliers? Outside the snowstorm howls. Do you mean to teach the snowflakes to dance in rhythm, are you playing for the light-footed children of the blizzard? Female bodies, which tremble under the pulse beat of hot blood, small sooty hands, which have thrown aside the cooking pot to grasp the castanets, naked feet under tucked-up skirts, yard coated with flakes of marble, crouching gypsies with bagpipe and tambourine, Moorish arcades, moonlight and black eyes, do you have those, maestro? If not, let the fiddle rest! Cavaliers are drying their wet clothes by the fire. Should they swirl around in their tall boots with iron-shod heels and thumb-thick soles? They have waded through the ell-deep snow the whole day to reach the bear's winter lair. Do you think they should dance in their wet, steaming homespun clothes, with the shaggy bruin as a partner? Evening sky, glittering with stars, red roses in dark female hair, tormenting sweetness in the evening air, untaught grave in the movements, love rising out of the earth, raining from the sky, hovering in the air, do you have this, maestro? If not, why force us to long for such things? Cruelest of men, are you sounding the attack for a tethered warhorse? Rutger von Orneclou is lying in his bed, imprisoned by gout pains. Spare him the torment of sweet memories, maestro! He too has worn a sombrero and a gaudy hairnet, he too has owned a velvet jacket and a sash with a dagger tucked in it. Spare old Orneclou, maestro!

The Arcades Project further elaborates the relation of the dialectical image to history as it emerges in the scene of reading. As Benjamin tells us: What distinguishes images from the ‘essences’ of phenomenology is their historical index. (Heidegger seeks in vain to rescue history for phenomenology abstractly through ‘historicity’.) These images are to be thought of entirely apart from the categories of the ‘human sciences,’ from so-called habitus, from style, and the like. For the historical index of the images not only says that they belong to a particular time; it says, above all, that they attain to legibility only at a particular time. And, indeed, this acceding ‘to legibility’ constitutes a specific critical point in the movement at their interior. Every present day is determined by the images that are synchronic with it: each ‘now’ is the now of a particular recognizability. In it, truth is charged to the bursting point with time. (This point of explosion, and nothing else is the death of the intentio, which thus coincides with the birth of authentic historical time, the time of truth.) It is not that what is past casts its light on what is present, or what is present its light on what is past; rather, image is that wherein what has been comes together in a flash with the now to form a constellation. In other words: image is dialectics at a standstill. For while the relation of the present to the past is purely temporal, the relation of what-has-been to the now is dialectical: not temporal in nature but figural [bildlich]. Only dialectical images are genuinely historical – that is, not archaic – images. The image that is read – which is to say, the image in the now of its recognizability – bears to the highest degree the imprint of that critical, dangerous moment that lies at the ground of all reading [den Stempel des kritischen, gefährlichen Momentes, welcher allem Lesen zugrunde liegt].51

It’s a common thing for Xhosa parents to say to their kids. Any time I heard it I knew it meant the conversation was over, and if I uttered another word I was in for a hiding—what we call a spanking. At the time, I attended a private Catholic school called Maryvale College. I was the champion of the Maryvale sports day every single year, and my mother won the moms’ trophy every single year. Why? Because she was always chasing me to kick my ass, and I was always running not to get my ass kicked. Nobody ran like me and my mom. She wasn’t one of those “Come over here and get your hiding” type moms. She’d deliver it to you free of charge. She was a thrower, too. Whatever was next to her was coming at you. If it was something breakable, I had to catch it and put it down. If it broke, that would be my fault, too, and the ass-kicking would be that much worse. If she threw a vase at me, I’d have to catch it, put it down, and then run. In a split second, I’d have to think, Is it valuable? Yes. Is it breakable? Yes. Catch it, put it down, now run. We had a very Tom and Jerry relationship, me and my mom. She was the strict disciplinarian; I was naughty as shit. She would send me out to buy groceries, and I wouldn’t come right home because I’d be using the change from the milk and bread to play arcade games at the supermarket.

The boomers finished their song. After a few high fives, they replaced their mics and shuffled offstage, heading back to the arcade. Typical boomer timing: have a blast, then leave right before everything goes sideways.

Schools, corporations, and government facilities blessed with fam computers, high-speed modems and, most important, people familia enough to make them work were overtaken by the game-sometimes literally. Over the first weekend of Doom's release, computer networks slowed to a crawl from all the people playing and downloading the game. Eager gamers flooded America Online. "It was a mob scene the night Doom came out," said Debbie Rogers, forum leader of AOL game section. "If we weren't on the other side of a phone line, ther would have been bodily harm." Hours after the game was released, Carnegie-Mellon's compute systems administrator posted a notice online saying, "Since today's lease of Doom, we have discovered [that the game is] bringing the campus network to a halt.... . Computing Services asks that all Doom players please do not play Doom in network-mode. Use of Doom is network-mode causes serious degradation of performance for the > player's network and during this time of finals, network use is already at its peak. We may be forced to disconnect the PCs of those who ar playing the game in network-mode. Again, please do not play Doom is network-mode." Intel banned the game after it found its system swamped. Tens A&M erased it from its computer servers. ...The once-dull PC now bursts with power.... For the first time, arcade games are hot on the PC... the floodgates are now open.

But the challenges were increasingly severe. Shoghi Effendi’s secretary had commented on this the previous year in a letter to the struggling British Bahá’í community: It would seem as if all our tasks, including here at the World Centre, are becoming increasingly more of a challenge to us. As the time approaches for the ending of the various Plans, Six Year ones, Seven Year, Five Year, etc., the obstacles seem to become greater, and the friends are made to realise that very real, hard, often back-breaking effort and sacrifice is involved! ... He himself, having undertaken at such a disturbed time to raise at least the first story or arcade of the new part of the Báb’s Shrine, finds himself beset with worries, problems and complications which have not only doubled his work, but exhaust and harass him all the time. So at least, let the British friends know that when they struggle and feel hard beset, they are not struggling and worrying alone! Far from it! We must expect these things ... We must have no illusions about how much depends on us and our success or failure. All humanity is disturbed and suffering and confused; we cannot expect to not be disturbed and not to suffer − but we don’t have to be confused. On the contrary, confidence and assurance, hope and optimism are our prerogative. The successful carrying out of our various Plans is the greatest sign we can give or our faith and inner assurance, and the best way we can help our fellow-men out of their confusion and difficulties.[905]

Being a kid in 1978 was pretty amazing. Not only were arcades on the rise, but Garfield, that lovable lasagna-eating orange cat, was in just about every newspaper across the country, Superman was in theaters for the first time, the Bee Gees were topping the music charts with songs from Saturday Night Fever, and The Incredible Hulk was the number one TV show in America. Like I said, it was a good time to be a kid.

Space Invaders went on to set record after record after it invaded the planet. More than four hundred thousand arcade cabinets were made, and the game pulled in more than 3.8 billion dollars by 1982. If you factor in inflation, that would be THIRTEEN BILLION DOLLARS today, making it one of the highest-grossing video games of all time. Yeah. Billion. With a B!

He set me up a couple of times. Without my knowing it—I found out later—he used me as a getaway driver on a hit-and-run jewel theft in the Burlington Arcade. “Here, Keith, I’ve got this Jag. Want to try it out?” What they wanted was a clean car and a clean driver. And Tony had obviously told these blokes that I was a good night driver. So I waited outside this place, not knowing what was happening. Tony was a good mate of mine, but he used to stitch me up.

So far as the beggar woman is concerned, there was certainly neither anything good nor anything bad in it, I was simply too distracted or too much preoccupied with one thing to act in any other way but according to vague memories. And one such memory says, for instance: 'Don't give too much to beggars, you'll regret it later.' Once as a very small boy I was given a Sechserl and felt a great urge to hand it to an old beggar woman who sat between the Grosse and the Kleine Ring. But the sum seemed to me enormous, a sum which probably never before had been given to a beggar, so I was ashamed in front of the beggar woman to do something so unheard-of, but give it to her I felt I must. I therefore changed the Sechserl into ten Kreuzers, gave one to the beggar woman, ran round the whole block of the Town Hall and the arcade near the Kleine Ring, arrived from the left as a completely new benefactor, gave the beggar woman another Kreuzer, started to run again and actually made this round ten times (or maybe not quite so many, for I believe the beggar woman lost her patience later and disappeared). In any case, toward the end I was so exhausted, morally as well, that I ran straight home and cried until my mother replaced the Sechserl. You see, I have bad luck with beggars, but I declare myself prepared to pay out my entire present and future fortune in the smallest Viennese bank notes to a beggar woman standing by the Opera, on condition that you're present and I may feel you close to me.

1 It was early December. The streets of Milan glistened with Christmas decorations, with people coming and going carefree, carrying elegant shopping bags. It was past eight, and several minutes earlier I had closed behind me the door of Passerella, the modelling agency I ran. I had let my assistant, Giovanni, file the photos of the new faces we had initially chosen for Dante’s summer collection. He was an up-and-coming designer. The minute I walked down Monte Napoleone, one of the city’s most commercial streets, the chilly air forced me to wrap up well in my brand new light green coat. An original piece of cashmere, the five letters embossed on its lapel making it even more precious in that cold weather. My fingers contentedly groped for the word “Prada” before I stuck my hand into its warm pocket, while clutching my favourite handbag tight. A huge red ostrich Hermes where you could find cosmetics, scarves, and accessories, which I could use throughout the day, giving a different twist to my appearance. I wanted to walk a little bit to let off steam. My job may have been pleasant as it had to do with the world’s most beautiful creatures, men and women, but it wasn’t without its tensions. Models went to and fro, trade representatives looking for new faces, endless castings, phone calls, text messages, tailors, photographers, reports from my secretary and assistants—a rowdy disorder! I had already left the building where my job was, and I was going past another two entrances of nearby premises, when my leg caught on something. I instantly thought of my brand new Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’d only put them on for the second time, and they were now falling victim to the rough surface of a cardboard box, where a homeless man slept, at the entrance of a building. My eyes sparked as I checked if my high heels were damaged. On the face of it, they were intact. But that wasn’t enough for me. I found a lighter, and tried to check their red leather in the dim light. Why should the same thing happen over and over again every time I buy new shoes? I wondered and walked on, cursing. Why had that bloke chosen that specific spot to sleep, and why had I headed for his damn cardboard box! As I held my lighter, my angry gaze fell on the man who was covered with an impermeable piece of nylon, and carried on sleeping. He looked so vulnerable out in the cold that I didn’t dare rouse him from his sleep. After all, how could I hold him responsible in this state? I quickened my gait. Bella was waiting for me to start our night out with a drink and supper at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the imposing arcade with a dome made of glass, its ambience warm and romantic. Bella’s office was nearby, and that meeting place was convenient for both of us. That’s where we made up our minds about how to spend the night.I walked several metres down the road, but something made me stop short. I wanted to have a second look at that man. I retraced my steps. He was a young man who, despite his state, seemed so out of place. His unkempt hair and unshaven face didn’t let me see anything else but his profile, which reminded of an ancient Greek statue, with pronounced cheekbones and a chiselled nose. This second time, he must have sensed me over him. The man’s body budged, and he eyed me without making me out, dazzled by the lighter flame. As soon as I realised what I had done, I took to my heels. What had made me go back? Maybe, the sense of guilt I felt inside my warm Prada coat, maybe, the compassion I had to show as Christmas was just around the corner. All I knew was that a small bell jingled within, and I obeyed it. I walked faster, as if to escape from every thought. As I left, I stuck my hand in my bag, and got hold of my mobile. My secretary’s voice on the other end of the line sounded heavy and imposing. Giovanni wasn’t the embodiment of “macho” man, but he had all it takes to be the perfect male. Having chosen to quit modelling, he still looked gorgeous at the age of

Shopping Dana Gioia I enter the temple of my people but do not pray. I pass the altars of the gods but do not kneel Or offer sacrifices proper to the season. Strolling the hushed aisles of the department store, I see visions shining under glass, Divinities of leather, gold, and porcelain, Shrines of cut crystal, stainless steel, and silicon. But I wander the arcades of abundance, Empty of desire, no credit to my people, Envying the acolytes their passionate faith. Blessed are the acquisitive, For theirs is the kingdom of commerce. Redeem me, gods of the mall and marketplace. Mercury, protector of cell phones and fax machines, Venus, patroness of bath and bedroom chains, Tantalus, guardian of the food court. Beguile me with the aromas of coffee, musk, and cinnamon. Surround me with delicately colored soaps and moisturizing creams. Comfort me with posters of children with perfect smiles And pouting teenage models clad in lingerie. I am not made of stone. Show me satins, linen, crepe de chine, and silk, Heaped like cumuli in the morning sky, As if all caravans and argosies ended in this parking lot To fill these stockrooms and loading docks. Sing me the hymns of no cash down and the installment plan, Of custom fit, remote control, and priced to move. Whisper the blessing of Egyptian cotton, polyester, and cashmere. Tell me in what department my desire shall be found. Because I would buy happiness if I could find it, Spend all that I possessed or could borrow. But what can I bring you from these sad emporia? Where in this splendid clutter Shall I discover the one true thing? Nothing to carry, I should stroll easily Among the crowded countertops and eager cashiers, Bypassing the sullen lines and footsore customers, Spending only my time, discounting all I see. Instead I look for you among the pressing crowds, But they know nothing of you, turning away, Carrying their brightly packaged burdens. There is no angel among the vending stalls and signage. Where are you, my fugitive? Without you There is nothing but the getting and the spending Of things that have a price. Why else have I stalked the leased arcades Searching the kiosks and the cash machines? Where are you, my errant soul and innermost companion? Are you outside amid the potted palm trees, Bumming a cigarette or joking with the guards, Or are you wandering the parking lot Lost among the rows of Subarus and Audis? Or is it you I catch a sudden glimpse of Smiling behind the greasy window of the bus As it disappears into the evening rush?

What exactly are you looking for in a job? Like, what’s your best-case scenario for a new career?” “I haven’t really thought that far. The best-case scenario is just that I look back on this entire era of my life and laugh and say, ‘What a weird time that was. I can’t believe I did that.

It bothered me that we behaved differently when other people were at the arcade. It bothered me that we had to be different at different times. I wished we could always be ourselves.

One of the early stage AI companies Google purchased is DeepMind, based in London. In 2015 researchers at DeepMind published a paper in Nature describing how they taught an AI to learn to play 1980s-era arcade video games, like Video Pinball. They did not teach it how to play the games, but how to learn to play the games—a profound difference. They simply turned their cloud-based AI loose on an Atari game such as Breakout, a variant of Pong, and it learned on its own how to keep increasing its score. A video of the AI’s progress is stunning. At first, the AI plays nearly randomly, but it gradually improves. After a half hour it misses only once every four times. By its 300th game, an hour into it, it never misses. It keeps learning so fast that in the second hour it figures out a loophole in the Breakout game that none of the millions of previous human players had discovered. This hack allowed it to win by tunneling around a wall in a way that even the game’s creators had never imagined. At the end of several hours of first playing a game, with no coaching from the DeepMind creators, the algorithms, called deep reinforcement machine learning, could beat humans in half of the 49 Atari video games they mastered.

The staff at the Arcade played a game to pass the time, a game prompted unwittingly when customers asked a question that was exceedingly difficult to answer. The game was called Who Knows? and it did make a long day pass more quickly, but it also served the practical purpose of sharpening the skills required to work in the Arcade. A sense of humor was necessary as well, particularly about the demands placed on one’s memory. There were no reference guides, save Books in Print (the place most likely not to list a book sought by a customer at the Arcade), so the only reliable source of reference was the staff and their collective memory. Memory was the yardstick of achievement at the Arcade, the measure of one’s value to Pike.

Marlins Park was a creature all its own, the brainchild of either a surrealist artist or a 15-year-old kid who set out to build an arcade and accidentally constructed a baseball field. Ben, holding Fenway as the standard, felt like a classical pianist hearing rap for the first time.

I’d learn over time to insist on chatting by phone before hooking up. It was prudent, I thought, to see if the guy sounded like the type who might ejaculate and then murder me in the throes of shame, or lock me in his basement for the remainder of my life, or hold me down and rape me. Or drill holes in my head and inject boiling water and hydrochloric acid into my brain, the way Jeffrey Dahmer did with his hook-ups to try and turn them into sex zombies.

In this sense, the events of spring 1929 represent the heightening of an arrangement that had already defined Benjamin’s life for the previous ten years.13 He was torn between at least two women (Dora and Asja), two cities (Berlin and Moscow), two professions (journalist and philosopher), two intimate friends (the Judaic scholar Gershom Scholem and Bertolt Brecht), two major endeavors (the founding of the magazine and the start of a new major work of his own, which would later become The Arcades Project), as well as working off debts of all kinds. There can be few intellectuals whose biographies exemplify and encapsulate the tensions of the countries of their birth more than Walter Benjamin in the spring of 1929. He was a one-man Weimar, by his own account incapable of “making a cup of tea” (for which he naturally blamed his mother).

So much that it seems consistent only for porosity37—seen as a kind of productive fragility that overcomes rigid dualisms—to be the key concept by which the nature of the city is revealed and interpreted in all its profundity. Porosity is the principle of the true life of Naples: At the base of the cliff itself, where it touches the shore, caves have been hewn. As in the paintings of hermits from the Trecento, a door appears here and there in the cliffs. If it is open, one looks into large cellars that are at once sleeping places and storerooms. Steps also lead to the sea, to fishermen’s taverns that have been installed in natural grottoes. Faint light and thin music rise up from there in the evening. As porous as those stones is the architecture. Buildings and action merge in courtyards, arcades, and staircases. The space is preserved to act as a stage for new and unforeseen configurations. What is avoided is the definitive, the fully formed. No situation appears as it is, intended forever, no form asserts its “thus and not otherwise.” . . . Because nothing is finished and concluded. Porosity results not only from the indolence of the southern craftsman but above all from the passion for improvisation. For that space and opportunity must be preserved at all costs. Buildings are used as a popular stage. They are divided into innumerable theaters, animated simultaneously. All share innumerable stages, brought to life simultaneously. Balcony, forecourt, window, gateway, staircase, roof are at once stage and theater box. Even the most miserable wretch is sovereign in his dim, twofold awareness of contributing, however deprived he may be, to one of the images of the Neapolitan street that will never return and, in his poverty, the leisure of enjoying the grand panorama. What is played out on the stairs is the highest school in theatrical direction. The stairs, never entirely revealed, but closed off in the dull northern house-

He spent the autumn of 1929 commuting back and forth between Berlin and Frankfurt. He met up with Adorno and his wife, Gretel Karplus, and Max Horkheimer and Lacis several times in a vacation home at the spa resort of Königstein. There Benjamin read to the group from the current sketches for the Arcades Project. Those weekends devoted to discussion in Königstein are now seen as the actual founding events of the so-called Frankfurt School, which would dominate German intellectual life for fifty years after the war.

Besides, there was a strangely calming element of cosmic beauty in the hypnotic landscape through which we climbed and plunged fantastically. Time had lost itself in the labyrinths behind, and around us stretched only the flowering waves of faery and the recaptured loveliness of vanished centuries—the hoary groves, the untainted pastures edged with gay autumnal blossoms, and at vast intervals the small brown farmsteads nestling amidst huge trees beneath vertical precipices of fragrant brier and meadow-grass. Even the sunlight assumed a supernal glamour, as if some special atmosphere or exhalation mantled the whole region. I had seen nothing like it before save in the magic vistas that sometimes form the backgrounds of Italian primitives. Sodoma and Leonardo conceived such expanses, but only in the distance, and through the vaultings of Renaissance arcades. We were now burrowing bodily through the midst of the picture, and I seemed to find in its necromancy a thing I had innately known or inherited, and for which I had always been vainly searching.

What a strange mood would descend upon me while walking in the arcade along San Marco if someone should be looking at me admiringly. I would turn about, taking my time, and double back perhaps, and only reluctantly move away, rather like a bird of some northern clime, enjoying the warmth of the sun on its wings.

Doodle Jump – The “unlimited jumping” game that will keep you glued to your eyes! Have you ever challenged yourself with a simple but addictive game? Doodle Jump is the cute “addiction” you never knew you needed. With super simple but addictive gameplay, Doodle Jump has become a legend in the mobile gaming world. Let's discover why you should join this non-stop jumping journey today! What is Doodle Jump? First released in 2009, Doodle Jump is a fun arcade game developed by Lima Sky. You will control a tiny character named "The Doodler", jumping from platform to platform, avoiding obstacles and destroying monsters along the way. With a simple but cute hand-drawn graphic style, Doodle Jump has quickly won the hearts of millions of players around the world. Why is Doodle Jump so addictive? 1. Simple, accessible gameplay You just need to tilt your phone to control the character to jump. No complicated buttons, no long instructions – anyone can play in just a few seconds! 2. Never-ending score competition You will constantly want to beat your own records or those of your friends. This friendly competition is the factor that makes players come back every day. 3. Diverse and surprising worlds From jungles, outer space to oceans or special festivals – Doodle Jump offers many attractive themes, each time you play is a new journey. 4. Play anytime, anywhere Just a few minutes of free time – on the bus, during lunch break, or before bed – you can join a fun Doodle Jump game right away. "Doodle jump" together - are you ready? Doodle Jump is not just a game, it is a constant challenge for you. How many points can you get? Are you skillful enough to overcome all the obstacles? And most importantly – can you become a legend in the rankings?

An Outrageous Farmyard Challenge If you're looking for a chaotic, hilarious, and action-packed arcade experience, Crazy Cattle is the game for you. Set in a rural farmyard turned battleground, this quirky game throws you into the middle of a full-blown cow stampede, where you must run, dodge, and survive as long as possible. With fast-paced gameplay, unpredictable cow behavior, and comic visuals, Crazy Cattle offers an addictive experience that keeps you on your toes from the very first second. This isn’t your average farm simulator—this is a high-speed test of reflexes and survival instincts where only the quickest players will come out on top. Gameplay Overview In Crazy Cattle, your main objective is simple: stay alive. The game starts calmly, but quickly turns into mayhem as angry, confused, and chaotic cows begin charging across the field. Your task is to maneuver through waves of stampeding cattle without getting trampled. The gameplay features: Simple tap or arrow controls to move and dodge Increasing difficulty with each wave of cows Dynamic movement patterns from the cattle Power-ups like speed boosts and shields Random obstacles such as hay bales, fences, and water troughs The longer you survive, the faster and wilder things get. Timing and reaction speed are critical to avoiding getting flattened. Fun and Accessible Design One of Crazy Cattle’s biggest strengths is its accessible design. Whether you're playing on desktop or mobile, the game runs smoothly with intuitive controls and quick restarts. The visual style is lighthearted and cartoonish, making it appealing to players of all ages. The cows are the real stars of the show—animated with exaggerated expressions and unpredictable movements. Some sprint, others zigzag, and a few even jump. Their erratic behavior adds humor and challenge to every run. Combined with upbeat country-style background music and goofy sound effects (moo!), Crazy Cattle creates a playful atmosphere that encourages players to keep coming back for “just one more try.” What Makes Crazy Cattle Addictive? Fast-paced action with no loading delays Funny animations and unpredictable cows Randomly generated patterns for unique runs every time No complex rules or menus—just press play and start dodging Great for quick sessions or long play streaks Unlike many arcade games that rely on high scores alone, Crazy Cattle adds layers of strategy through its item system. For example, grabbing a magnet may attract useful coins, while a shield gives you a brief period of invincibility to plow through danger. Tips to Stay Alive Longer Want to last more than 30 seconds? Here are a few survival tips: Stay near the center to give yourself room to dodge Watch for patterns in cow movement before committing to a direction Use power-ups wisely—especially shields during dense waves Don’t panic! Stay calm when things get hectic Practice makes perfect: every failed run helps you improve reflexes Perfect for All Ages and Devices Crazy Cattle is a browser-based game, so there’s no need to download or install anything. It runs directly on both mobile and desktop platforms, making it a great pick for casual players, kids, and anyone who loves quick and silly games. It’s also an excellent choice for short breaks, since matches are typically under a minute—unless you’re a dodging master, of course. Conclusion Crazy Cattle is a refreshingly fun and chaotic arcade game that blends fast reflex gameplay with comedic charm. With simple mechanics, humorous visuals, and endless replay value, it stands out as a must-try for fans of action-packed casual games. Whether you’re dodging for dear life or laughing as cows fly past, Crazy Cattle delivers pure entertainment in every round. Jump in now and prove that you can survive the stampede! From slope-ball.io

Jailbreak: Roblox Jumper – Jump, Escape, and Survive in Style If you’re a fan of fast-paced platformers with a twist of creativity and chaos, Jailbreak: Roblox Jumper is the perfect game to test your reflexes and strategy. Set in a prison escape scenario inspired by the popular Roblox universe, this game combines platforming mechanics, obstacle navigation, and high-speed jumping action for a unique experience. Whether you're dodging guards, leaping over electric fences, or hopping from rooftop to rooftop, Jailbreak: Roblox Jumper keeps you on your toes with every second of gameplay. And if you're into jump-based games, we’ll also introduce some related titles like Mine Jump, which bring a similar sense of excitement and challenge. What Is Jailbreak: Roblox Jumper? Jailbreak: Roblox Jumper is an action-packed arcade game where you play as a daring inmate trying to escape a high-security prison. Your main tool? The power of jumping. The objective is simple: survive, escape, and stay ahead of traps, guards, and deadly drops. Inspired by the aesthetics and creative style of Roblox games, it features blocky 3D visuals, customizable characters, and a world full of dynamic obstacles. Each level or run gets progressively more difficult, challenging you to jump with precision, time your moves carefully, and avoid getting caught. What makes it exciting: Dynamic environments – From prison cells to rooftops and escape tunnels. Fast reflex gameplay – Quick jumps, rolling traps, and fast-paced chases. Customizable avatars – Add your personal Roblox-style flair. Endless replayability – Try to beat your own escape time or challenge friends. Why Jailbreak and Jump Mechanics Work So Well Jumping games have always had a special place in the world of arcade and casual gaming. They’re easy to pick up but require practice to master. Jailbreak: Roblox Jumper taps into that formula while adding fun themes and storytelling. The jailbreak concept adds urgency, while the jump-based controls make every level feel like a puzzle. It’s not just about jumping high — it’s about jumping smart. Related Games You Should Try If you're enjoying the energy of Jailbreak: Roblox Jumper, here are a few other jumping games you’ll probably love, starting with the pixel-perfect world of Mine Jump.

Angry Gran Toss – Launch, Fly, and Upgrade in This Hilarious Arcade Adventure Get ready for a wild ride with Angry Gran Toss in slope-ball.io , a wildly entertaining arcade game that turns an angry grandma into a flying projectile. This offbeat and hilarious title combines distance-launching mechanics with quirky upgrades, crazy gadgets, and an endless sky to conquer. Whether you're here for the laughs or the challenge, Angry Gran Toss delivers high-flying fun that will keep you coming back for more. What Is Angry Gran Toss? In Angry Gran Toss, you play as a cranky grandmother who’s just broken out of the retirement home. Armed with a giant cannon and an attitude to match, she’s ready to soar through the skies. Your mission is simple: launch Grandma as far as you can, collect coins, dodge obstacles, and upgrade your equipment to achieve greater distances. The game blends elements of timing, strategy, and chaos. Each launch is unpredictable, making every round feel fresh and fun. Whether she’s bouncing off rooftops, flying through billboards, or smashing into helicopters, Grandma's journey is anything but boring. Game Features Addictive Launch Gameplay: Tap to launch at the perfect angle and power, then use gadgets to extend flight. Wacky Power-Ups: From jetpacks to rocket pants, unlock insane equipment to keep Granny airborne. Fun Physics: Hilarious ragdoll physics make every crash and bounce unpredictable and funny. Upgradable Gear: Spend the coins you earn on new launchers, gadgets, and boosts to fly farther. Colorful Visuals: Cartoon-style graphics bring the chaos to life in a lighthearted and vibrant world. Why Angry Gran Toss Is So Fun At its core, Angry Gran Toss is simple but incredibly rewarding. The satisfaction of watching your upgrades pay off as you launch further and further each time is what makes the gameplay loop so addictive. The humorous visuals and unexpected obstacles keep things from ever feeling repetitive. There’s also a level of strategy involved. Do you spend your coins on a stronger cannon, or invest in mid-air boosts? Do you time your launches for maximum efficiency, or rely on luck and chaos? The balance between skill and unpredictability is what keeps players hooked.

He couldn’t spot them, and the minor foot traffic on the sidewalk was not enough to hide. They must have entered a building or alley. Rather than searching all of them, he let his nose do its job. Big breath in. Filter the smells. Aha. There, up the sidewalk a few more storefronts then into an arcade. The wolves that dragged her probably hoped to hide their scent and sneak out the back. Except Hayder knew this place. He knew where the door to the alley was, thus, when the steel door swung open, he stood there, arms crossed waiting for them. “Shit, he’s here. Get back inside,” the chubby one grunted. “Oh, don’t leave on my account. I insist you stay.” And to make sure they did, he kicked the door shut. The two thugs backed away from him, the one who needed to invest in a treadmill holding Arabella, who hung limp in his grasp, before him as a shield. She was alive. However, her eyes bore a resigned expression Hayder didn’t like at all. “Baby, are you all right? Did they hurt you?” The answer was moot. At this point, he was going to punish them no matter what, violently. They’d done the unforgivable when they’d taken Arabella and scared her. However, if they’d actually hurt her, or if she cried… We’ll make them wish their mother had a headache the night they were conceived. Rawr. Her reply emerged so soft he almost missed it. “I told you this would happen. They’ll never let me be free.” How utterly convinced she seemed and miserable. Totally unacceptable. “Don’t you dare take this without a fight,” he growled. The chubby one should have spent more time on expanding his mind instead of his waistline because he showed no sense at all when he said, “Bella here knows her place, and after the next full moon, it will be on her knees, serving the new alpha of the pack.” Hell no. Hayder didn’t even think twice about it. His fist shot out, and it connected to the idiot’s nose with a satisfying crunch, and that left one wolf. An even dumber wolf that seemed to think the switchblade he’d pulled out of a pocket and waved around would really make a difference. “Are you stupid enough to think you can take me with that puny knife?” Hayder couldn’t stem the incredulity in his query. “Stay back, cat, or else. It’s silver.” Silver, which meant painful if he got sliced with it. Harder to heal, too. But a three-inch blade wasn’t going to keep Hayder away from his woman. As beta, though, he did try to give the idiot a chance. Show patience before acting, or so he’d been taught as part of those anger management courses Leo made him take. Hayder employed one of the tricks to control impulsive acts. He counted. “Three.” “I’ll cut you.” Slash. Slash. The knifeman sketched lines in the air. “Two.” “I mean it.” “One. You’re dead.” Hayder took a step forward even as the last dumb wolf took a step back, one hand clamped around Arabella’s arm. Lightning fast, Hayder shot a hand out to grab the wrist of the guy wielding the knife. This fellow had slightly faster reflexes than his pack brothers and actually managed to score a line of red across his palm. The blood didn’t bother Hayder. ’Twas but a scratch. However, the coppery scent did something to Arabella. Up snapped her head. Her nostrils flared. Her brown eyes took on a wildness. Her lips pulled back in a snarl. “Don’t. Touch. Him!” With a screech, she turned on her captor and then proceeded to go rabid on his ass. How cool.

The scraps of information she’d gathered knocked against each other, like balls in a pinball machine in one of the arcades on the front. Secrets drew her in every time – the unsaid.

A 12-year-old Japanese boy loved Space Invaders so much, he robbed a bank with a shotgun to get money to play the game at the arcade. He asked for coins instead of notes so he didn’t have to convert the money at the arcade. At the start of the game, the ships move very slowly. Each time a ship is destroyed, the ships gradually move faster. By the end of the game, the final ship moves at top speed. What many people don’t know is that the final ship is moving at the speed that the developers intended all of the ships to move from the beginning. So why don’t they? If

I asked my daughter how many kids would come to her birthday party if all we offered was cake. No games, no entertainment. They could come to the house to spend time with her and bring gifts to celebrate her, but we wouldn’t have anything else for them. She thought for a minute and said, “Maybe just a couple.” Then I asked her how many would come if I rented out Dave & Buster’s and let them have unlimited tokens, food, and prizes. She laughed and said confidently that the whole school would show up. So let’s say that for her birthday party I rent out the arcade and her whole school comes. They’re all going nuts, having the time of their lives. Imagine if I pulled her aside during the party, put my arm around her, and said, “Look at all the people who came to be with you!” Would she actually believe those people were there because they love her and want to spend time with her? Or would my comment actually be insulting? Isn’t this basically what we do with God? We have learned that we can fill church buildings if we bring in the right speaker or band. Make things exciting enough and people will come. We say, “God, look how many people are coming because they love being with You!” But do we really think God is fooled by this? Do we think God is pleased? He knows how many would show up if it was just Him. He knows there might be only a few if all we offered was Communion or prayer.

In its full splendour, before centuries of spoliation stripped it of its treasures, the interior of Holy Wisdom was a magnificent tumult of gold, silver, porphyry, lapislazuli and polychromatic marbles. It was adorned with immense mosaic icons (added in many cases long after Justinian’s time), and with inlays of semi-precious stone. One of its most remarkable features, however, was the quality of the light that filled the enormous central space of the building – a light not infrequently described as ‘ethereal’ or ‘celestial’ or ‘mystical’. The peculiar quality of this light resulted from the single most impressive architectural feature of the edifice: the gigantic dome that seemed to ‘hover’ above the nave. The appearance of weightlessness was achieved by constructing a continuous arcade of 40 windows at the base of the dome, above the main oblong structure of the building, making it appear that the dome floated above the church on a ring of light. In fact, the great weight of the dome was supported by four large and elegantly tapered pendentives resting on four large piers and creating four enormous arches. To the east and west of the central dome, lesser semi-domes descend in a kind of cascade.

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