Au Day Quotes

The minute you land in New Orleans, something wet and dark leaps on you and starts humping you like a swamp dog in heat, and the only way to get that aspect of New Orleans off you is to eat it off. That means beignets and crayfish bisque and jambalaya, it means shrimp remoulade, pecan pie, and red beans with rice, it means elegant pompano au papillote, funky file z'herbes, and raw oysters by the dozen, it means grillades for breakfast, a po' boy with chowchow at bedtime, and tubs of gumbo in between. It is not unusual for a visitor to the city to gain fifteen pounds in a week--yet the alternative is a whole lot worse. If you don't eat day and night, if you don't constantly funnel the indigenous flavors into your bloodstream, then the mystery beast will go right on humping you, and you will feel its sordid presence rubbing against you long after you have left town. In fact, like any sex offender, it can leave permanent psychological scars.

United in Our Father’s favor, we carry infinite love within us just as we always have, fearlessly now, into a brand new day.

You may think that being chic has nothing to do with the most insignificant and mundane moments of the day. Moments like preparing your meals, emptying the dishwasher, and paying bills. But the secret is: those moments aren’t insignificant. Au contraire. They are very significant. That’s right—if you can change your attitude about making the pasta sauce, choosing your clothes for the day, folding the laundry, setting the table, or dealing with the incoming mail, you can completely change your life.

It was a pleasant café, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a café au lait. The waiter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write. I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story.

Méfie-toi, ma fille, tous les hommes de ce pays sont des monstres pour les femmes. Ils sont obsédés par les apparences, ils sont ligotés par les coutumes, ils sont rongés par Dieu, ils sont bouffés par leurs mères, ils sont taraudés par le fric, ils passent leur vie à offrir sur un plateau leur cul au bon Dieu, ils ouvrent leur braguette comme on arme une mitraillette, ils lâchent leur sexe sur les femmes, comme on lâche des pitbulls. Quels chiens !" (p.10)

Come what may, for every day of this life and every moment of the next, I will love you, Lacie.

Three days passed before Andrée could find time to see me again; we arranged to meet at the tea shop at Au Printemps. All around me, women wearing perfume ate cakes and talked about the cost of living. Since the day she was born, Andrée was destined to be like them: but she wasn’t

J’applaudis jusqu’à en avoir mal aux mains. J’applaudis comme si cela pouvait prolonger la soirée et la sensation que j’éprouve. Et parce que je sais qu’au moment où je vais arrêter, il arrivera la même chose qu’à la fin d’un beau film, quand le générique me renvoie à la réalité qui m’attend et me laisse le cœur serré.

When the farmer arises in the morning unreconciled to get out of bed, he feels no anxiety that he has wasted time through his sleep; au contraire, he is confident that the seed has continued to grow during the night. So, too, the spiritual woman does not fret and flap over opportunities missed, does not hammer herself for not working hard enough, and does not have a panic attack wondering whether she has received grace in vain. She lives in quiet confidence that God is working in her by day and by night. Like the farmer, she is not totally passive or presumptuous. The woman knows that she has her full measure of work to do, but she realizes that the outcome rests with God and that the decisive factor is unearned grace. Thus, she works as if everything depends on God and prays as if everything depends on her.

What is worse is that one wonders how, to-morrow, one will find strength enough to go on doing what one has been doing the day before, and for so much too long before that, – strength for the whole mad business, for a thousand and one vain projects: attempts to escape crushing necessity; attempts which are always stillborn....

That was the problem these days--everything was considered disposable--clothes, cell phones, relationships.

In the end the secrecy of your revolt poisons you like a secret disease. Your whole life is a life of lies. Year after year you sit in Kipling-haunted little Clubs, whisky to right of you, Pink’un to left of you, listening and eagerly agreeing while Colonel Bodger develops his theory that these bloody Nationalists should be boiled in oil. You hear your Oriental friends called ‘greasy Little babus’, and you admit, dutifully, that they are greasy little babus. You see louts fresh from school kicking grey-haired servants. The time comes when you burn with hatred of your own countrymen, when you long for a native rising to drown their Empire in blood. And in this there is nothing honourable, hardly even any sincerity. For, au fond, what do you care if the Indian Empire is a despotism, if Indians are bullied and exploited? You only care because the right of free speech is denied you. You are a creature of the despotism, a pukka sahib, tied tighter than a monk or a savage by an unbreakable system of taboos.

Oh ! qu'on m'aille donc, au lieu de cela, chercher quelque jeune vicaire, quelque vieux curé, au hasard, dans la première paroisse venue, qu'on le prenne au coin de son feu, lisant son livre et ne s'attendant à rien, et qu'on lui dise : – Il y a un homme qui va mourir, et il faut que ce soit vous qui le consoliez. Il faut que vous soyez là quand on lui liera les mains, là quand on lui coupera les cheveux; que vous montiez dans sa charrette avec votre crucifix pour lui cacher le bourreau; que vous soyez cahoté avec lui par le pavé jusqu'à la Grève : que vous traversiez avec lui l'horrible foule buveuse de sang; que vous l'embrassiez au pied de l'échafaud, et que vous restiez jusqu'à ce que la tête soit ici et le corps là. Alors, qu'on me l'amène, tout palpitant, tout frissonnant de la tête aux pieds; qu'on me jette entre ses bras, à ses genoux; et il pleurera, et nous pleurerons, et il sera éloquent, et je serais consolé, et mon cœur se dégonflera dans le sien, et il prendra mon âme, et je prendrais son Dieu.

Spleen Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux, Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux, Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes, S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes. Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon, Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon. Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade; Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau, Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau, Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette. Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu De son être extirper l'élément corrompu, Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent, Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent, II n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé // I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch, one who escapes his tutor's monologues, and kills the day in boredom with his dogs; nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry, his people dying by the balcony; the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite no longer gets him through a single night; his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb; even the ladies of the court, for whom all kings are beautiful, cannot put on shameful enough dresses for this skeleton; the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent washes to cleanse the poisoned element; even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy, our tyrants' solace in senility, he cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood. — Robert Lowell, from Marthiel & Jackson Matthews, eds., The Flowers of Evil (NY: New Directions, 1963)

By now I was feeling the shame but also defiance. Like here, I'm carrying the banner for all of you who cut off a little piece of cake wanting a big one, who spend a good third of your waking hours feeling bad about your desires, who infect those with whom you work and live with your judgements and pronouncements, you on the program who tally points all day long, every day, let's see, 7 for breakfast, I'm going to need only 3 or 4 for lunch, what the hell can I have for so little, oh, I know, broth and a salad with very little dressing. And broth is good! Yes! So chickeny! That's what we tell ourselves, we who cannot eat air without gaining, we who eat the asparagus longing for the potatoes au gratin, for the fettucine Alfredo, for the pecan pie. And if you're one of those who doesn't, stop right here, you are not invited to the rest of this story.

So, it wasn’t until I was living in Mexico that I first started enjoying chocolate mousse. See, there was this restaurant called La Lorraine that became a favorite of ours when John and I were living in Mexico City in 1964–65. The restaurant was in a beautiful old colonial period house with a large courtyard, red tile floors, and a big black and white portrait of Charles de Gaulle on the wall. The proprietor was a hefty French woman with grey hair swept up in a bun. She always welcomed us warmly and called us mes enfants, “my children.” Her restaurant was very popular with the folks from the German and French embassies located nearby. She wasn’t too keen on the locals. I think she took to us because I practiced my French on her and you know how the French are about their language! At the end of each evening (yeah, we often closed the joint) madame was usually seated at the table next to the kitchen counting up the evening’s receipts. Across from her at the table sat a large French poodle, wearing a napkin bib and enjoying a bowl of onion soup. Ah, those were the days… Oh, and her mousse au chocolate was to DIE for!

Il n'y a que deux ou trois crimes à faire dans le monde, dit Curval, et, ceux-là faits, tout est dit; le reste est inférieur et l'on ne sent plus rien. Combien de fois, sacredieu, n'ai-je pas désiré qu'on pût attaquer le soleil, en priver l'univers, ou s'en servir pour embraser le monde? Ce serait des crimes cela, et non pas les petits écarts où nous nous livrons, qui se bornent à métamorphoser au bout de l'an une douzaine de créatures en mottes de terre.

CHIEF JUSTICE DAY, in a Decision of the U. S. Supreme Court, June 3, 1918: "If Congress can regulate matters entrusted to local au thority, the power of the States may be eliminated and thus our system of government be practically destroyed.

I had to leave Paris the next morning. As always I would wonder why and start counting the days before I could go back. And then lose count and be lost again in the life that, by some strange twist of fate, I lived somewhere else. Au revoir Paris. Bonjour tristesse.

Satan was seen buying a cafe au lait of Friday the thirteenth in the year of the dog. He was wearing a Mexican wrestling mask and a monocle on a gold chain the color of the sun. The lights of the casino filled his good eye. Our days are numbered, our weeks are fading away.

Cand prima dragoste se sfarseste, cei mai multi dintre oameni stiu ca vor veni si altele. N-au terminat cu iubirea. Iubirea nu a terminat cu ei. Nu va fi niciodata la fel ca prima, dar va fi mai buna in diferite feluri. Eu nu am o astfel de consolare. De asta ma agat din rasputeri. De asta e atat de greu.

The Chablis runs smooth throughout. Then the vol-au-vents, light as a puff of summer air, then elderflower sorbet followed by plateau de fruits de mer with grilled langoustines, gray shrimps, prawns, oysters, berniques, spider crabs and the bigger torteaux- which can nip off a man's fingers as easily as I could nip a stem of rosemary- winkles, palourdes, and atop it all a giant black lobster, regal on its bed of seaweed. The huge platter gleams with reds and pinks and sea greens and pearly whites and purples, a mermaid's cache of delicacies that gives off a nostalgic salt smell, like childhood days at the seaside. We distribute crackers for the crab claws, tiny forks for the shellfish, dishes of lemon wedges and mayonnaise.

linens and sixty-dollar chickens, but a wide bright world in which value was ascribed to food made not for sustenance, not out of obligation or need, but out of love: real food. One day, I’d believed, I would, having proven my worth, arrive at my own space in a city capacious enough for coq au vin and truffle fried rice too, those New Yorks and Londons and San Franciscos. But

Both the Glory and the destroyer We are Proud to Honor Clan Sub-Leader Rash-au-Tal Vergent who Inspires us Every Day had gathered vital intelligence about Ruhar defense tactics and capabilities.

Hurry hurry, cram yourself full of dreams to carry you through the life that’s waiting for you outside, when you leave here, to help you last a few days more in that nightmare of things and people

I knew it was my duty to my own legend to survive this trial. But I was still crippled by my own devices. Imagine me as a great fully-rigged man-of-war. Four masts, great bulwarks of oak and five score cannon. All my life I have sailed smooth seas and waters that parted for me by virtue of my own splendor. Never tested. Never riled. A tragic existence, if ever there was one. “But at long last: a storm! And when I met it I found my hull . . . rotten. My planks leaking brine, my cannon brittle, powder wet. I foundered upon the storm. Upon you, Darrow of Lykos.” He sighs. “And it was my own fault.” I war between wanting to punch him in the mouth and surrendering into my curiosity by letting him continue. He’s a strange man with a seductive presence. Even as an enemy, his flamboyance fascinated me. Purple capes in battle. A horned Minotaur helmet. Trumpets blaring to signal his advance, as if welcoming all challengers. He even broadcast opera as his men bombarded cities. After so much isolation, he’s delighting in imposing his narrative upon us. “My peril is thus: I am, and always have been, a man of great tastes. In a world replete with temptation, I found my spirit wayward and easy to distract. The idea of prison, that naked, metal world, crushed me. The first year, I was tormented. But then I remembered the voice of a fallen angel. ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, or a hell of heaven.’ I sought to make the deep not just my heaven, but my womb of rebirth. “I dissected the underlying mistakes which led to my incarceration and set upon an internal odyssey to remake myself. But—and you would know this, Reaper—long is the road up out of hell! I made arrangements for supplies. I toiled twenty hours a day. I reread the books of youth with the gravity of age. I perfected my body. My mind. Planks were replaced; new banks of cannon wrought in the fires of solitude. All for the next storm. “Now I see it is upon me and I sail before you the paragon of Apollonius au Valii-Rath. And I ask one question: for what purpose have you pulled me from the deep?” “Bloodyhell, did you memorize that?” Sevro mutters.

[I] tried to enjoy the last half hour of full sun. I liked to sit and watch the waning day spread itself out into pre-dusk light. This was when one went for a late afternoon swim, but it was good to read then as well.

Je suis heureuse et fière de moi, même quand je fais les courses. Je sors si j’en ai envie, sinon je reste à la maison pour lire, regarder un film ou bien cuisiner pour moi ou mes amis. Parfois, je mange à table. D’autres fois, je m’assieds par terre, adossée au canapé. J’ouvre une bouteille de vin même quand je suis seule. Je n’ai pas besoin de négocier. Je suis indépendante. Je suis prête à me battre de toutes mes forces pour préserver cette situation. Pour toujours. Pourtant, moi aussi, j’aurais quelquefois besoin qu’on m’enlace. Besoin de baisser la garde et de me perdre dans les bras d’un homme. De me sentir protégée. Même si je me débrouille très bien toute seule, parfois, j’aimerais feindre le contraire juste pour le plaisir que quelqu’un s’occupe de moi. Seulement, je ne veux pas rester avec un homme pour ça. Je ne veux pas devoir accepter des compromis et je n’arrive pas à renoncer à tout ce que j’ai.

ce qui diffère essentiellement entre un livre et un ami, ce n’est pas leur plus ou moins grande sagesse, mais la manière dont on communique avec eux, la lecture, au rebours de la conversation, consistant pour chacun de nous à recevoir communication d’une autre pensée, mais tout en restant seul, c’est-à-dire en continuant à jouir de la puissance intellectuelle qu’on a dans la solitude et que la conversation dissipe immédiatement, en continuant à pouvoir être inspiré, à rester en plein travail fécond de l’esprit sur lui-même.

Et c’est là, en effet, un des grands et merveilleux caractères des beaux livres (et qui nous fera comprendre le rôle à la fois essentiel et limité que la lecture peut jouer dans notre vie spirituelle) que pour l’auteur ils pourraient s’appeler « Conclusions » et pour le lecteur « Incitations ». Nous sentons très bien que notre sagesse commence où celle de l’auteur finit, et nous voudrions qu’il nous donnât des réponses, quand tout ce qu’il peut faire est de nous donner des désirs. Et ces désirs, il ne peut les éveiller en nous qu’en nous faisant contempler la beauté suprême à laquelle le dernier effort de son art lui a permis d’atteindre. Mais par une loi singulière et d’ailleurs providentielle de l’optique des esprits (loi qui signifie peut-être que nous ne pouvons recevoir la vérité de personne, et que nous devons la créer nous-même), ce qui est le terme de leur sagesse ne nous apparaît que comme le commencement de la nôtre, de sorte que c’est au moment où ils nous ont dit tout ce qu’ils pouvaient nous dire qu’ils font naître en nous le sentiment qu’ils ne nous ont encore rien dit.

The Muslims in this day and age are enduring nadir and are being earmarked far and wide in the orb. In order to get the better of this predicament, we are in a moral obligation to foster and precipitate genius scientists, doctors, physists, chemists, intellectuals philosophers and politicians. But, I have a fancy for scientists like Hazen, doctors viz Avicenna, physists like Al-Kindus, chemists viz Jabir, the literati like Rumi and Iqbal; Philosophers viz Ghazzali and leaders like Omar (Radihallahuanhu) by virtue of whose, we would au fond be effectual in getting out of these angst stalemates.

Demain, dès l’aube Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps. Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit. Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur. Tomorrow, At Dawn Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside whitens, I will set out. You see, I know that you wait for me. I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain. I can no longer remain far from you. I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, Seeing nothing of outdoors, hearing no noise Alone, unknown, my back curved, my hands crossed, Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as the night. I will not look at the gold of evening which falls, Nor the distant sails going down towards Harfleur, And when I arrive, I will place on your tomb A bouquet of green holly and of flowering heather

You see I'm wearing the tie," said Bingo. "It suits you beautiful," said the girl. Personally, if anyone had told me that a tie like that suited me, I should have risen and struck them on the mazzard, regardless of their age and sex; but poor old Bingo simply got all flustered with gratification, and smirked in the most gruesome manner. "Well, what's it going to be today?" asked the girl, introducing the business touch into the conversation. Bingo studied the menu devoutly. "I'll have a cup of cocoa, cold veal and ham pie, slice of fruit cake, and a macaroon. Same for you, Bertie?" I gazed at the man, revolted. That he could have been a pal of mine all these years and think me capable of insulting the old tum with this sort of stuff cut me to the quick. "Or how about a bit of hot steak-pudding, with a sparkling limado to wash it down?" said Bingo. You know, the way love can change a fellow is really frightful to contemplate. This chappie before me, who spoke in that absolutely careless way of macaroons and limado, was the man I had seen in happier days telling the head-waiter at Claridge's exactly how he wanted the chef to prepare the sole frite au gourmet au champignons, and saying he would jolly well sling it back if it wasn't just right. Ghastly! Ghastly! A roll and butter and a small coffee seemed the only things on the list that hadn't been specially prepared by the nastier-minded members of the Borgia family for people they had a particular grudge against, so I chose them, and Mabel hopped it.

Tant que la lecture est pour nous l’incitatrice dont les clefs magiques nous ouvrent au fond de nous-même la porte des demeures où nous n’aurions pas su pénétrer, son rôle dans notre vie est salutaire. Il devient dangereux au contraire quand, au lieu de nous éveiller à la vie personnelle de l’esprit, la lecture tend à se substituer à elle, quand la vérité ne nous apparaît plus comme un idéal que nous ne pouvons réaliser que par le progrès intime de notre pensée et par l’effort de notre coeur, mais comme une chose matérielle, déposée entre les feuillets des livres comme un miel tout préparé par les autres et que nous n’avons qu’à prendre la peine d’atteindre sur les rayons des bibliothèques et de déguster ensuite passivement dans un parfait repos de corps et d’esprit.

Well, Harry, while we’ve still got you here, you won’t mind helping with the preparations for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, will you? There’s still so much to do.” “No--I--of course not,” said Harry, disconcerted by this sudden change of subject. “Sweet of you,” she replied, and she smiled as she left the scullery. From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept Harry, Ron, and Hermione so busy with preparations for the wedding that they hardly had any time to think. The kindest explanation of this behavior would have been that Mrs. Weasley wanted to distract them all from thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of their recent journey. After two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of color-matching favors, ribbons, and flowers, of de-gnoming the garden and helping Mrs. Weasley cook vast batches of canapés, however, Harry started to suspect her of a different motive. All the jobs she handed out seemed to keep him, Ron, and Hermione away from one another; he had not had a chance to speak to the two of them alone since the first night, when he had told them about Voldemort torturing Ollivander. “I think Mum thinks that if she can stop the three of you getting together and planning, she’ll be able to delay you leaving,” Ginny told Harry in an undertone, as they laid the table for dinner on the third night of his stay. “And then what does she think’s going to happen?” Harry muttered. “Someone else might kill off Voldemort while she’s holding us here making vol-au-vents?

They had seemed to me then, as now, like paintings about time. It felt like the artist was looking at the field with two gazes. The first was the gaze of youth, awakening to a dawn of pink light on the grass, and looking with possibility on everything, the work he had done just the day before, the work he had still to do in the future. The second was the gaze of an older man, perhaps older than Monet had been when he painted them, who was looking at the same view, and remembering these earlier feelings and trying to recapture them, only he was unable to do so without infusing them with his own sense of inevitability.

I thought that some of it was true and some of it was not, but the real truth was how such things allowed someone to talk about you, or what you had done or why you did it, in a way that unraveled your character into distinct traits. It made you seem readable to them, or to yourself, which could feel like a revelation. But who’s to say how anyone would act on a given day, not to mention the secret places of the soul, where all manner of things could exist? I wanted to talk more about this, if only to chase the thought further, to pin it down for myself, but I knew too that she needed, and wanted, to believe in such things:

Invizibilii. Îi vînam peste tot, îi colecționam, îmi populam paradisul interior cu ei. Trăim într-o civilizație a imaginii, se spune peste tot, într-un Ev Media, zice un filozof contemporan, what you see is what you get, spune înțelepciunea populară. Însă lucrurile stau, de fapt, pe dos: cînd în corpul realului imaginile au metastazat, imaginile care ni se refuză sunt cu atît mai hipnotice, ce nu se vede e cu atît mai prețios, nevăzutele și nevăzuții sunt obiecte de cult. Îi colecționam, prin urmare, pe invizibili cum ar fi colecționat un mistic dement fragmente din Graal. Pe nicicînd văzutul Thomas Pynchon, de pildă. Pe aproape nevăzutul Salinger. [...] Pe Terrence Malick, care, după ce Days of Heaven ia, la Cannes, în 1979 premiul pentru cel mai bun director și Oscarul pentru cea mai bună cinematografie, se retrage brusc din lume vreme de douăzeci de ani. [...] Pe Steve Ditko, creatorul lui Doctor Strange și co-creatorul lui Spider-Man, numit cîndva de presă un J.D. Salinger al revistelor comics, care s-a făcut invizibil în 1968 și n-a mai dat niciun interviu de atunci încoace (deși unii dintre vecini pretind că l-au mai văzut la supermarket, iar Stan Lee, mult mai celebrul lui coleg, celălalt co-creator al lui Spider-Man și inventatorul aproape tuturor marilor eroi de comics, declară că a avut o scurtă întîlnire întîmplătoare cu el prin '96). [...] Duzini, centurii, brigăzi, divizii întregi de eroi invizibili îmi populau creierul invizibil și inima invizibilă. Armada mea Invizibilă. Fără ea, lupta cu realul ar fi fost pierdută înainte de a începe. [...]

Sans doute, l’amitié, l’amitié qui a égard aux individus, est une chose frivole, et la lecture est une amitié. Mais du moins c’est une amitié sincère, et le fait qu’elle s’adresse à un mort, à un absent, lui donne quelque chose de désintéressé, de presque touchant. C’est de plus une amitié débarrassée de tout ce qui fait la laideur des autres. Comme nous ne sommes tous, nous les vivants, que des morts qui ne sont pas encore entrés en fonctions, toutes ces politesses, toutes ces salutations dans le vestibule que nous appelons déférence, gratitude, dévouement et où nous mêlons tant de mensonges, sont stériles et fatigantes. De plus, – dès les premières relations de sympathie, d’admiration, de reconnaissance, – les premières paroles que nous prononçons, les premières lettres que nous écrivons, tissent autour de nous les premiers fils d’une toile d’habitudes, d’une véritable manière d’être, dont nous ne pouvons plus nous débarrasser dans les amitiés suivantes ; sans compter que pendant ce temps-là les paroles excessives que nous avons prononcées restent comme des lettres de change que nous devons payer, ou que nous paierons plus cher encore toute notre vie des remords de les avoir laissé protester. Dans la lecture, l’amitié est soudain ramenée à sa pureté première. Avec les livres, pas d’amabilité. Ces amis-là, si nous passons la soirée avec eux, c’est vraiment que nous en avons envie. Eux, du moins, nous ne les quittons souvent qu’à regret. Et quand nous les avons quittés, aucune de ces pensées qui gâtent l’amitié : Qu’ont-ils pensé de nous ? – N’avons-nous pas manqué de tact ? – Avons-nous plu ? – et la peur d’être oublié pour tel autre. Toutes ces agitations de l’amitié expirent au seuil de cette amitié pure et calme qu’est la lecture. Pas de déférence non plus ; nous ne rions de ce que dit Molière que dans la mesure exacte où nous le trouvons drôle ; quand il nous ennuie nous n’avons pas peur d’avoir l’air ennuyé, et quand nous avons décidément assez d’être avec lui, nous le remettons à sa place aussi brusquement que s’il n’avait ni génie ni célébrité. L’atmosphère de cette pure amitié est le silence, plus pur que la parole. Car nous parlons pour les autres, mais nous nous taisons pour nous-mêmes. Aussi le silence ne porte pas, comme la parole, la trace de nos défauts, de nos grimaces. Il est pur, il est vraiment une atmosphère. Entre la pensée de l’auteur et la nôtre il n’interpose pas ces éléments irréductibles, réfractaires à la pensée, de nos égoïsmes différents. Le langage même du livre est pur (si le livre mérite ce nom), rendu transparent par la pensée de l’auteur qui en a retiré tout ce qui n’était pas elle-même jusqu’à le rendre son image fidèle, chaque phrase, au fond, ressemblant aux autres, car toutes sont dites par l’inflexion unique d’une personnalité ; de là une sorte de continuité, que les rapports de la vie et ce qu’ils mêlent à la pensée d’éléments qui lui sont étrangers excluent et qui permet très vite de suivre la ligne même de la pensée de l’auteur, les traits de sa physionomie qui se reflètent dans ce calme miroir. Nous savons nous plaire tour à tour aux traits de chacun sans avoir besoin qu’ils soient admirables, car c’est un grand plaisir pour l’esprit de distinguer ces peintures profondes et d’aimer d’une amitié sans égoïsme, sans phrases, comme en soi-même.

Winter was come indeed bringing with it those pleasures of which the summer dreamer knows nothing—the delight when the fine and glittering day shows in the window, though one knows how cold it is outside; the delight of getting as close as possible to the blazing range which in the shadowy kitchen throws reflections very different from the pale gleams of sunlight in the yard, the range we cannot take with us on our walk, busy with its own activity, growling and grumbling as it sets to work, for in three hours time luncheon must be ready; the delight of filling one's bowl with steaming café-au-lait—for it is only eight o'clock—and swallowing it in boiling gulps while servants at their tasks come in and out with a, 'Good morning: up early, aren't you?' and a kindly, 'It's snug enough in here, but cold outside,' accompanying the words with that smile which is to be seen only on the faces of those who for the moment are thinking of others and not of themselves, whose expressions, entirely freed from egotism, take on a quality of vacillating goodness, a smile which completes that earlier smile of the bright golden sky touching the window-panes, and crowns our every pleasure as we stand there with the lovely heat of the range at our backs, the hot and limpid flavour of the café-au-lait in our mouths; the delight of night-time when, having had to get up to go shiveringly to the icy lavatory in the tower, into which the air creeps through the ill-fitting window, we later return deliciously to our room, feeling a smile of happiness distend our lips, finding it hard not to jump for sheer joy at the thought of the big bed already warm with our warmth, of the still burning fire, the hot-water bottle, the coverlets and blankets which have imparted their heat to the bed into which we are about to slip, walled in, embattled, hiding ourselves to the chin as against enemies thundering at the gates, who will not (and the thought brings gaiety) get the better of us, since they do not even know where we have so snugly gone to earth, laughing at the wind which is roaring outside, climbing up all the chimneys to every floor of the great house, conducting a search on each landing, trying all the locks: the delight of rolling ourselves in the blankets when we feel its icy breath approaching, sliding a little farther down the bed, gripping the hot-water bottle between our feet, working it up too high, and when we push it down again feeling the place where it has been still hot, pulling up the bedclothes to our faces, rolling ourselves into a ball, turning over, thinking—'How good life is!' too gay even to feel melancholy at the thought of the triviality of all this pleasure.

IT is not impossible that among the English readers of this book there may be one who in 1915 and 1916 was in one of those trenches that were woven like a web among the ruins of Monchy-au-Bois. In that case he had opposite him at that time the 73rd Hanoverian Fusiliers, who wear as their distinctive badge a brassard with ' Gibraltar ' inscribed on it in gold, in memory of the defence of that fortress under General Elliot; for this, besides Waterloo, has its place in the regiment's history. At the time I refer to I was a nineteen-year-old lieutenant in command of a platoon, and my part of the line was easily recognizable from the English side by a row of tall shell-stripped trees that rose from the ruins of Monchy. My left flank was bounded by the sunken road leading to Berles-au-Bois, which was in the hands of the English ; my right was marked by a sap running out from our lines, one that helped us many a time to make our presence felt by means of bombs and rifle-grenades. I daresay this reader remembers, too, the white tom-cat, lamed in one foot by a stray bullet, who had his headquarters in No-man's-land. He used often to pay me a visit at night in my dugout. This creature, the sole living being that was on visiting terms with both sides, always made on me an impression of extreme mystery. This charm of mystery which lay over all that belonged to the other side, to that danger zone full of unseen figures, is one of the strongest impressions that the war has left with me. At that time, before the battle of the Somme, which opened a new chapter in the history of the war, the struggle had not taken on that grim and mathematical aspect which cast over its landscapes a deeper and deeper gloom. There was more rest for the soldier than in the later years when he was thrown into one murderous battle after another ; and so it is that many of those days come back to my memory now with a light on them that is almost peaceful.

The next day, Angelina was tending a fresh pot of red gravy on the stove. She was going to make Veal Parmigiana for dinner, to be accompanied by pasta, fresh bread, and salad. She left the sauce on low and went to put the finishing touches on the pie she had planned. Earlier, she had made 'a vol-au-vent'- the word means "windblown" in French- a pastry that was as light and feathery as a summer breeze, that Angelina had adapted to serve as a fluffy, delicately crispy pie crust. The crust had cooled and formed a burnished auburn crown around the rim of the pie plate. She took a bowl of custardy creme anglaise out of the refrigerator and began loading it into a pie-filling gadget that looked like a big plastic syringe. With it, she then injected copious amounts of the glossy creme into the interior of the pie without disturbing the perfect, golden-crusty dome. That done, she heated the chocolate and cream on the stove top to create a chocolate ganache, which she would use as icing on the pie, just to take it completely over the top.

Line of AuNor, dragon bold Flows to me from days of old, And through years lost in the mist My blood names a famous list. By Air, by Water, by Fire, by Earth In pride I claim a noble birth. From EmLar Gray, a deadly deed By his flame Urlant was freed, Of fearsome hosts of blighters dark And took his reward: a golden ark! My Mother’s sire knew battle well Before him nine-score villages fell. When AuRye Red coursed the sky Elven arrows in vain would fly, He broke the ranks of men at will In glittering mines dwarves he’d kill. Grandsire he is through Father’s blood A river of strength in fullest flood. My egg was one of Irelia’s Clutch Her wisdom passed in mental touch. Mother took up before ever I woke The parent dragon’s heavy yoke; For me, her son, she lost her life Murderous dwarves brought blackened knife. A father I had in the Bronze AuRel Hunter of renown upon wood and fell He gave his clutch through lessons hard A chance at life beyond his guard. Father taught me where, and when, and how To fight or flee, so I sing now. Wistala, sibling, brilliant green Escaped with me the axes keen We hunted as pair, made our kill From stormy raindrops drank our fill When elves and dwarves took after us I told her “Run,” and lost her thus. Bound by ropes; by Hazeleye freed And dolphin-rescued in time of need I hid among men with fishing boats On island thick with blown sea-oats I became a drake and breathed first fire When dolphin-slaughter aroused my ire. I ran with wolves of Blackhard’s pack Killed three hunters on my track The Dragonblade’s men sought my hide But I escaped through a fangèd tide Of canine friends, assembled Thing Then met young Djer, who cut collar-ring. I crossed the steppes with dwarves of trade On the banks of the Vhydic Ironriders slayed Then sought out NooMoahk, dragon black And took my Hieba daughter back To find her kind; then took first flight Saw NooMoahk buried in honor right. When war came to friends I long had known My path was set, my heart was stone I sought the source of dreadful hate And on this Isle I met my fate Found Natasatch in a cavern deep So I had one more promise to keep. To claim this day my life’s sole mate In future years to share my fate A dragon’s troth is this day pledged To she who’ll see me fully fledged. Through this dragon’s life, as dragon-dame shall add your blood to my family’s fame.

Kama miaka 1000 ya duniani ni sawa na siku moja ya Mungu; hivyo basi, miaka 930 aliyoishi Adamu ni sawa na siku 0.93 au saa 22:32 za Mungu. Kwa hiyo, ili siku ya Mungu itimie Adamu alipaswa kuishi miaka 70 (siku 0.07 au saa 1:68) zaidi! Ukiidadavua saa 1:68 unapata saa 2:08. Kulingana na muda wa mbinguni tunapaswa kuishi kwa muda wa saa 2:08! Muda huo ni mfupi sana.

Kulingana na muda wa Mungu, maisha ya Adamu yalikuwa siku 0.93 au saa 22:32! Maisha ya mwanadamu ni siku 0.07 au saa 1:68!

TATTOOED NUMBERS, AS BLOOM had already established, were used to identify prisoners at just one concentration camp—the Auschwitz complex in Upper Silesia—and then just from 1941 onward. Only prisoners selected for work received a serial number, Epstein explained. Those who were sent directly to the gas chambers—including the elderly, the weak, and children—were not tattooed, although in the early days of the camp those who were in the infirmary or marked for execution were also tattooed on the chest using a metal stamp made up of interchangeable centimeter-long needles that allowed the tattoo to be created using a single blow, after which ink was rubbed into the wound. The digits were generally tattooed on the outer side of the left forearm, although some prisoners from transports in 1943 received tattoos on the inner forearm. The numbering sequences used varied over time, according to intake and the nature of the prisoners involved. An AU series denoted a Soviet prisoner, a Z series a Gypsy. A and B sequences up to 20,000 were used to identify male and female prisoners arriving at the camp after 1944, although an administrative error resulted in the B series exceeding 20,000. The Nazis’ original intention was to get as far as the final letter of the alphabet if required.

There are many things I would like to believe in, because they would accord life coherence. One of them is God. Another is the notion that on the brink of death one’s life dances before one’s eyes in kaleidoscopic fragments: dramas, traumas, transcendent highs, troughs of gloom, or the crystallize moments that encapsulate a certain mood on a certain day, like - for me - the smell of forsythia blossom at nursery school, or a turn of phrase - “ca va tourner au vinaigre “ - used by my mother, bitterly, to someone on the phone, or the pop of the dog fleas Pierre and I picked from our terrier and flicked onto the barbecue, or the appalling intimacy of my first kiss, or the body blow of my mother’s death, or the chaos of Pierre’s wedding, or the aching realization that dawned when my father said “Mesopotamia” instead of “kitchen”, or the night I shouted at Alex and he swerved, or the morning the doctors gave me the final assessment of my paraplegia and, for want of anything better to do, I glanced at the clock and noted that it was 11:23.

One Sunday a girl from our study group, Jenny, invited us all to her mom's house in Hyde Park for a true Sunday Soul Food Dinner. Jenny's mom, Billie, a tiny woman with skin the color of café au lait, and silvery hair in a perfect chignon, laid out a soul food spread that brought a tear to the eye. Barbecue ribs, macaroni and cheese, collard greens with ham hocks, bread dressing, green beans, biscuits, candied sweet potatoes, creamed corn, and in the center of the table, a huge pile of fried chicken. I had never tasted anything like that fried chicken. The perfect balance of crisp batter to tender juicy meat. Everything that day was delicious, but the fried chicken was transcendent.

These things are bad for you: sex, high-rise buildings, chocolate, lack of exercise, dictatorship, racism! No, au contraire! Celibacy damages the brain, high-rise buildings bring us closer to God, tests show that a bar of chocolate a day significantly improves chilren's academic performance, exercise kills, tyranny is just a part of our culture so I'll thank you to keep your cultural-imperialist ideas off my fucking fiefdom, and as for racism, let's not get all preachy about this, it's better out in the open than under some grubby carpet. That extremist is a moderate! That universal right is culturally specific! This circumcised woman is culturally happy! That Aboriginal whistlecockery is culturally barbaric! Pictures don't lie! This image has been faked! Free the press! Ban nosy Journalists! The novel is dead! Honor is dead! God is dead! Aargh, they're all alive and they're coming after us! That star is rising! No, she's falling! We dined at nine! We dined at eight! You were on time! No, you were late! East is West! Up is down! Yes is No! In is Out! Lies are Truth! Hate is Love! Two and two makes five! And everything is for the best, in this best of all possible worlds.

Needless to say, all the poet really sees is a tree in a meadow; he is not thinking of a legendary Yggdrasill that would concentrate the entire cosmos, uniting heaven and earth, within itself. But the imagination of round being follows its own law: since, as the poet says, the walnut tree is "proudly rounded," it can feast upon "heaven's great dome." The world is round around the round being. And from verse to verse, the poem grows, increases its being. The tree is alive, reflective, straining toward God. Dieu lui va apparaitre Or, pour qu'il soit sur Il developpe en rond son etre Et lui tend des bras murs. Arbre qui peut-etre Pense au-dedans. Arbre qui se domine Se donnant lentement La forme qui elimine Les hasards du vent! (One day it will see God And so, to be sure, It develops its being in roundness And holds out ripe arms to Him. Tree that perhaps Thinks innerly Tree that dominates self Slowly giving itself The form that eliminates Hazards of wind!

I take it you have some sort of plan going? Something that calls for you to be arrested?" "There, now, you see? I told Drake you'd grasp the gist of things right away, but he had his doubts." "Drake?" I straightened up. "Is Gabriel with him? Did he get my message?" "Of course he got your message. That's why I'm here. Is there no chair?" she asked, frowning around the empty room. "No. I hate to let down the team and all, but what exactly are you doing here? Is Gabriel going to be able to get me out of being sent to the Akasha? Is he going to appeal the conviction?" "Better than that," she said with smile, glancing around quickly before leaning in closely, her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "We're going to bust you out of here." "Bust me..." I closed my eyes for a moment. "You've been watching too many old westerns. No one conducts jailbreaks these days. Especially not when the jailers are the L'au-dela committee." "That's why this plan is so incredibly cunning," she said, giving my arm a little squeeze. "They're all expecting you to try to escape-they'll never expect us to break you out of here." "Oy," I said, sliding down the wall to the floor. "This has 'doomed from the start' written all over it. You didn't think up this plan yourself, did you?" I asked suspiciously. She looked offended. "No, I didn't, and you can stop being such a negative Nelly. Gabriel thought up the plan, and Drake and I are helping. I'm the decoy, you see." "Of course you are. What, exactly, is this grandiose escape plan?" Her mouth set in a prim manner. "I can't tell you." "Why not?" "There could be bugs. We don't want them to know our plans." "If they were listening in, you just told them there's a plan, so they'll be expecting something to happen," I pointed out. "Yes, but they won't know what," she said, pulling off her jacket. Her shirt followed almost immediately, as did her jeans, shoes, and the sparkly pink socks that she was so prone to wearing despite the fact they would look more at home on a twelve-year-old. I watched her striptease with confusion for a moment before a thought struck me. "You don't mean-" "Shhh," she said, waving a vague hand around as she pulled off the scarf she wore to confine her bangs. "Bugs, remember?" I bit back an obvious reply, thought for a moment, then decided that although the plan Gabriel had come up with was too I Love Lucy for words, I didn't have any alternative. I stripped.

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Vita ya Shetani na Mungu inatuathiri zaidi sisi wanadamu – na hapo baadaye itamuathiri Shetani pia. Vita hii haiwezi kuisha hadi siku ya mwisho, Yesu Kristo atakaporudi kuwachukua wateule wake. Pambana kwa njia ya maombi hadi siku ya mwisho kwa sababu adui tunayepambana naye hana muda wa kupumzika. Pambana kujiombea na kuwaombea wengine waliohai, na hata wale ambao bado hawajazaliwa, kabla mafuta ya dunia hii hayajalipuka. Usiishi kama adui wa msalaba wa Yesu Kristo, badala yake, ishi kama rafiki wa msalaba wa Yesu Kristo. Kuishi kama rafiki wa msalaba wa Yesu Kristo ni kupinga majivuno yote ya Shetani kwa upendo uliotukuka wa kujishusha au kujidharirisha, kutokutetereka hata kidogo na tamaa za ulimwengu huu kwa upendo mkubwa wa umaskini, na kutokuyumba wakati wa matatizo kwa sababu wakati wa amani ulijilimbikizia imani.

It must happen all the time. All around the world, every day, in every country, people must say a cheery goodbye or au revoir or auf wiedersehen to a loved one, with no inkling that it was the last time they would be able to do so. It was probably a good thing; if we knew how close disaster was, if we worried that each goodbye would be the last, we would never do anything. We'd be paralysed by fear.

All that was left for her to do, she said, was to allow her daughter to wear the same dress for days on end, to sew on a new hem, to maker her something warm for dinner, to look on her in flawed and understanding, to console in all the insufficient ways." (16)

The Nanny coloured brown on the day, I heard the dog bark.

You hear your Oriental friends called 'greasy little babus', and you admit, dutifully, that they ARE greasy little babus. You see louts fresh from school kicking grey-haired servants. The time comes when you burn with hatred of your own countrymen, when you long for a native rising to drown their Empire in blood. And in this there is nothing honourable, hardly even any sincerity. For, au fond, what do you care if the Indian Empire is a despotism, if Indians are bullied and exploited? You only care because the right of free speech is denied you. You are a creature of the despotism, a pukka sahib, tied tighter than a monk or a savage by an unbreakable system of tabus.

Les dépressions, c'est vraiment le pire. Mais c'est pas ça qui m'handicape au quotidien. C'est d'absorber chaque émotion qui passe et la subir à l'extrême. C'est de ne pas pouvoir me projeter dans l'avenir, parce que mon humeur est trop imprévisible. C'est d'avoir du mal à construire dans la durée, parce que le neuf m'attire et que je me lasse trop vite.

Séb and I explored the beautiful neighborhood of l'Île Saint-Louis, eating savory crêpes made of buckwheat and filled with creamy goat cheese, crunchy arugula, and juicy tomatoes at one of the cafés, me doing my best to savor the textures. Lunch was followed by the famed Berthillon sorbets and ice creams, the latter of which we ate on the banks of the Seine, Séb drooling over the richness of the flavors. Considering they had over seventy parfums, we'd both found it hard to settle on one. Séb, the adventurer, took café au whisky with another scoop of tiramisu. I'd ended up taking abricot and framboise, always loving how apricot mixed with raspberries, and wanting something cool on this scorcher of a day.

made reservations at a famous fishing lodge on the Au Sable River in Michigan. When I got there and found a place to park among the Saabs and Volvos the proprietor said I was just a few days early for the Hendrikson hatch. There is, I see, one constant in all types of fishing, which is when the fish are biting, which is almost-but-not-quite-now. I looked pretty good making false casts in the lodge parking lot. I mean no one doubled over with mirth. But most of the other two thousand young professionals fishing this no-kill stretch of the Au Sable were pretty busy checking to make sure that their trout shirts were color coordinated with their Reebok wading sneakers. When I stepped in the river, however, my act came to pieces. My line hit the water like an Olympic belly flop medalist. I hooked four “tree trout” in three minutes. My back casts had people ducking for cover in Traverse City and Grosse Pointe Farms. Somebody ought to tie a dry fly that looks like a Big Mac. Then there’d be an excuse for the hook winding up in my mouth instead of the fish’s. The only thing I could manage to get a drag-free float on was me after I stepped in a hole. And the trout? The trout laughed.

But here, right here . . . he was feeling the wind, tasting the rain, breathing in a world he had thought lost to him. And he’s been in this place for a while. Days, if their new ‘friends’ story was to be believed. But its only now, right now, that it really, truly hit him. He was out. The nightmare was over. He was free.

But who’s to say how anyone would act on a given day, not to mention the secret places of the soul, where all manner of things could exist?

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was fenced off from people who couldn’t afford to touch the peeling bark on the trees. Those were reserved for dogs owned by the wealthy to piss against three times a day when walked by the au pair.

But what if scrambling to pay the bills takes every minute of your day, every ounce of your creativity? What if you can't afford an au pair? What if you can't even afford an ordinary babysitter?

2012 Continuation of Andy’s Email   I must admit, our renewed friendship is a healing process for me. Reading A Harem Boy’s Saga blog brought back enchanted memories I had since banished to the recesses of my mind. Here, I am re-living the halcyon days through the pages of your provocative writing, revisiting the many exotic places and re-experiencing the numerous erotic adventures (through your tantalizingly enhanced photographic images) we once shared. They brought back many cherished moments I wished would never end. Although I do not think our E.R.O.S. and Middle Eastern experiences unique, many will consider them unconventional. But I found myself privileged to be chosen for such a momentous mission, to care for your wellbeing and to love you as myself. I would do it all again if unlikely circumstances were to present themselves. I will definitely choose wisely and will not live to regret my decision again. Until we correspond again, I bid you au revoir, and take excellent care of your handsome self.☺   Yours truly, Andy

He nodded softly. “Thank you…brother.” And there, on a citadel landing platform in what was once the heart of Gold power, Cassius au Bellona and I shake hands and say farewell, almost six years to the day since we first met. —

a SmILe Z LyK a SiM cArD lYf z LYk A cElLpHoNe wHenEvEr U iNsErT tHe SiM caRd Of a SMiLe A BeAuTiFuL dAy WiLl ActIvAtEd

Here’s the scene: The three of us are by the Olympic-sized pool. The Latina with the thick waist is hovering in the shade of the veranda up by the house, her eyes on Frank in case he might want something, but so far he doesn’t and he hasn’t offered anything to me. If he did, I would ask for sunblock because standing here next to his pool is like standing on the sun side of Mercury. Gotta be ninety-six and climbing. Behind us is a pool house larger than my home, and through the sliding glass doors I can see a pool table, wet bar, and paintings of vaqueros in the Mexican highlands. It is air-conditioned in there, but apparently Frank would rather sit out here in the nuclear heat. Statues of lions dot the landscape, as motionless as Joe Pike, who has not moved once in the three minutes that I have been there. Pike is wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, faded Levi’s, and flat black pilot’s glasses, which is the way he dresses every day of his life. His dark brown hair is cut short, and bright red arrows were tattooed on the outside of his deltoids long before tattoos were au courant. Watching Joe stand there, he reminds me of the world’s largest two-legged pit bull.

Noroc cu Valentine's Day, că altfel nu mai sărbătoreau puii de dac iubirea, neam. De nervi, s-au inervat ăştia şi au contraatacat la inimioare cu o sărbătoare de care auziseră doar cercetătorii de la Institutul de Folclor. Probabil că sigur (cum a zis un mare jurnalist şi prezentator de ştiri şi nu voi înceta să reamintesc această contradovadă a existenţei creierului la personalităţi importante, cum se spune; pentru că sunt şi personalităţi neimportante, aşa cum nu e pădure fără foc sau scânteie fără uscături), probabil că sigur, zic, mai ştiau de ea şi iniţiaţii în kestii dacice de la Federaţia Română de Oină. Dragobetele ăsta e un fel de sărbătoare resuscitată la nervi, o mumie care mişcă un pic atunci când adie vântul de primăvară, un fel de #tuiguramăsii de marketing american, ce noi nu putem să facem ceva care nu interesează pe nimeni, care nu are legătură cu absolut nimic? Ce, mă, noi nu avem designeri talentaţi, care să ştie să copieze ia românească exact aşa ca şi cum ar fi făcut-o ei?! "Hai siktir", cum le spuneau vechii daci romanilor. Doar fashionistele ar putea să îşi ridice poporul din uitare şi din negarea rădăcinilor şi tradiţiilor noastre atât de frumoase, asortând ia noastră românească la nişte converşi cu broderie celtică, maramureşeană. În locul designerilor români care nu ţi-au uitat rădăcinile rurale, eu m-aş grăbi să creez un echipament şic pentru naţionala de oină; sunt puţini jucători, meciurile au loc pe islazuri abandonate, deci chiar nu ar fi vreo primejdie de mainstream. Sper să nu irosim şi această şansă. Oricum, nimic nu e clar la sărbătorile astea, în afară de faptul că primăvara vine inevitabil, iar oamenii caută orice motiv să bea şi alte alea. Partea frumoasă a vieţii e că printre cascade de inimioare, luminiţe şi broderii de borangic am zărit un cuplu de adolescenţi în metrou. Ea era cam pitică şi acneică, el, slăbănog, înăltuţ şi puţin timorat de entuziasmul ei. Părerea mea e că specia se descurcă singură, dacă e lăsată în pace, chiar dacă e frig şi poartă canadiene cu fermoar şi pare că are nevoie de sărbători inutile ca să se exprime tandru. Ea îl ţinea strâns cu braţul stâng pe după mijloc, îşi lăsase capul pe pieptul lui de fâş, îl implora din când în când pentru câte un pupic delicat şi tot urca şi cobora fermoarul gecii lui bleumarin. Devenise atentă la această mişcare şi se vedea că asculta ceva peste tâtâm-tâtâmul roţilor de tren. Metroul ajunsese la Victoriei, se cam golise, era pace şi se auzea doar un fâsâit, probabil de la perna de aer laser inventată de Henri Coandă, pe care se deplasează metroul românesc. Şi atunci, căprioarei i-au râs ochii şi i-a spus băiatului, luminată la faţă: "Ştii că fermoarul face alt sunet când îl închizi sau când îl deschizi?" I-a arătat de câteva ori: sus, jos, zuup, ziip, mai grav la urcare, mai înalt şi zglobiu la coborâre. El îşi aplecase urechea stângă şi asculta concentrat. Fata s-a oprit, s-au uitat intens unul la altul, ca şi cum ar fi ascultat un gospel cântat de toate fermoarele din lume, care se închideau şi se deschideau într-un balans perfect, şi s-au sărutat ca şi cum nu se văzuseră de foarte mult timp.

Even if Christ is our scapegoat, he is not that of the Father, and [so] the sacrificial understanding is always relative, while the absolute is that which is beyond all sacrifice. Tell me what you think. Is it that the definition of perfect love between the Father and the Son, or the identity of loving one’s neighbor and the love of God, realized only by Christ himself, mightn’t be what’s beyond sacrifice [ne serait pas cet au-delà du sacrifice]? This does not exclude, of course, the imperative to “give his life for his friends.”172 I ask myself if, in orthodox Christian circles, one does not run the risk of losing something essential to save the sacrificial formulation, which scandalizes non-Christians—and not without reason [qui ne scandalise pas les non-chrétiens sans raison]. And after all, this formulation has no dogmatic sanction; we can’t rule out that the church won’t decide to renounce sacrifice—one day, after long examination [on ne peut pas exclure qu’un jour, après de longs examens, l’église ne décide pas]—faced with the evidence that the elimination of sacrifice bears fruit on so many levels (if this is understood, not in the insipid and saccharine sense that “progressives” envisage it, but from the conception of sacrifice that we present, for the renunciation of sacrifice)

Among the most prominent under-the-tree drinkers were a pair of characters named Red and Clarence. They were two of the biggest drinking carousers around, but when the spirit hit them, they could get very religious. Once Red had decided he had received the “gift of tongues,” a common practice in our Pentecostal church. He went to church a few times and would, on impulse, stand up and go into seemingly meaningless strings of syllables, to which the believers would respond with “Bless him, Lord.” The story is that one day Red and Clarence were downtown in a truck belonging to one of them, and Red looked out the window and was reading a sign, somewhat haltingly. “E-CON-O-MY-AU-TO-SUP-PLY, Economy Auto Supply,” Red sputtered, to which Clarence, assuming his friend had gone into “tongues,” quickly came back with, “Bless him, Lord.” That story circulated through the ranks of the church membership and was the source of great laughter for a time around the Parton household. It became something of a running joke that would crop up whenever anybody said anything that could be mistaken for “tongues.” Sunday morning, getting ready for church, a brother would say, “Come tie my bow tie,” and some smart-aleck sibling would shout, “Bless him, Lord,” and the rest of us would join in, all pretending to be caught up in the spirit.

Siku moja, jambo baya litatokea. Labda babu yako au mnyama wako kipenzi atafariki au shangazi yako atagundulika na kansa. Labda utafukuzwa kazi au utaachika kwa mumeo au mkeo mliyependana sana. Labda rafiki yako kipenzi atapata ajali mbaya ya gari na utatakiwa kupeleka taarifa kwa ndugu na marafiki zake. Kutoa taarifa ya jambo baya kwa mtu ni kazi ngumu sawa na kupokea taarifa ya jambo baya kutoka kwa mtu. Kama umeteuliwa kupeleka taarifa ya kifo au ya jambo lolote baya kwa mtu fanya hivyo kwa makini. Toa taarifa ya msiba au ya jambo lolote baya kwa hekima na busara kama Ibrahimu alivyofanya kwa Sara kuhusiana na kafara ya Isaka, si kama Mbenyamini alivyofanya kwa Eli kuhusiana na kutwaliwa kwa sanduku la agano na kuuwawa kwa watoto wake wawili. Jidhibiti kwanza wewe mwenyewe kama umeteuliwa kupeleka taarifa ya kifo au ya jambo lolote baya. Angalia kama wewe ni mtu sahihi wa kupeleka taarifa hiyo. Pangilia mawazo ya kile unachotaka kwenda kukisema au unachotaka kwenda kukiandika. Mwangalie machoni, si usoni, yule unayempelekea taarifa kisha mwambie kwa sauti ya upole nini kimetokea.

Mungu alikuumba miaka mingi kabla hujazaliwa. Ndani ya roho yako kulikuwa na mpango mkuu wa Mungu juu ya maisha yako katika kipindi chote utakachokuwa hai, na katika kipindi chote utakachokuwa mfu. Lakini Shetani katika mji wa angani unaosemekana kuzuia majibu ya maombi ya Danieli ya siku ishirini na moja, kutoka mbinguni kuja duniani, uitwao Sadiki, wenye mashetani wenye nguvu kuliko mashetani wote katika ufalme wa giza, akaizuia roho hiyo kisha akaiwekea mpango mkuu wa Shetani juu ya maisha yako ili umtumikie yeye badala ya kumtumikia Mwenyezi Mungu. Kwa mfano, Mungu alipanga uzaliwe mkoani Arusha. Halafu akapanga mke au mume wako azaliwe mkoani Mwanza. Mkoani Arusha Mungu alipanga uwe mwinjilisti wa vitabu, wakati mkoani Mwanza alipanga mke au mume wako awe mwimbaji wa nyimbo za injili. Katika mikoa yote miwili Mungu alishatuma malaika wema wa kuwasaidia katika mipango mikuu ya maisha yenu na kuwaepusha na hila zote za adui. Lakini badala ya kuzaliwa Arusha au Mwanza Shetani ataziprogramu roho zenu upya ili wa Arusha azaliwe Dodoma au Mara au Venezuela na wa Mwanza azaliwe Lindi au Kagera au Mombasa, ambapo hakutakuwa na malaika wema wa kuwasaidia. Badala ya kuwa mwinjilisti wa vitabu, Shetani atakufanya uwe jambazi; na badala ya kuwa mwimbaji wa nyimbo za injili, Shetani atakufanya uwe mwanamuziki. Ndiyo maana wakati mwingine ni vizuri kuhama sehemu unapoishi na kwenda kuishi sehemu nyingine, ambapo kwa kusaidiana na malaika wako wa mwanzo ambaye Mungu alikupangia kabla hujazaliwa, utafanikiwa katika maisha yako, kama alivyofanya Ibrahimu. Watu wengi wanaishi maisha ambayo si ya kwao. Kukomboa kile ambacho Mungu alikipanga ndani ya roho yako kabla hujazaliwa, na kabla roho yako haijazuiwa na mashetani wa angani, kuwa karibu na Mwenyezi Mungu. Kwa Mungu hakuna siri, atakufunulia tu.

assistants ran errands, groundskeepers mowed lawns, maids cleaned houses, au pairs raised kids, dog walkers walked dogs. And each day these busy people got stacks of scripts and books and treatments; didn’t it make sense that they’d need help with those, too? “Claire,” the agent said, “I’m going to let you in on a secret: No one here reads.

And there’s something to being forty or more, and standing there at 1:00 a.m. talking about the good old days as if these weren’t still them and knowing, of course, that they are.

Un seul meurtre dans un roman policier, est-ce bien suffisant de nos jours ? N'en faudrait-il pas plutôt quatre ou cinq pour retenir l'attention des lecteurs ? Et puis, il faut aussi alterner entre différents points de vue et insérer des passages cinématographiques, pour faire croire au lecteur que ce qu'il est en train de lire est plus intéressant que cela ne l'est réellement. Hannah doit essayer.

I already know it could be no later, because on the same day Danny and I were born, our mother jumped from the cliffs behind our house and killed herself.

Au-delà du saint utérus maternel tu es la flamme sans mots qui fouette une de ses propres étincelles avec la céleste aile d'une apocalypse que j'aie la force de rester ici et de sentir mes bienfaits éternels pétiller où la nuit est peinte en noir par de meurtrières futilités mais ni la science ni un œil ne voit qu'une petite luciole me transporte dans un nid distant afin que la mort et moi puissions dire au revoir [Tu ești văpaie fără grai de dincolo de matca mumii past the blessed mother's womb you're the wordless flame who whips a blaze of itself with the heavenly wings of an apocalypse let me have the strength to stay here and feel my endless blessings fizz where the night is painted black by murderous futilities but neither science nor an eye can see that a small firefly transports me to a distant nest so death and I can say good-bye] (p. 110-111, "All Souls' Days in Vienna")

Il est dit et même consigné dans l'histoire de la musique encyclopédie de la pléiade mais aussi à cluj-napoca au numéro dix de la rue vasile alecsandri mon ami dr rudi schuller se fera une joie de traduire en hongrois allemand ou roumain pour ceux qui ne parlent pas français le passage sur les grands voyageurs qui prétendaient que les habitants des plus lointaines civilisations qui étaient totalement indifférents aux tam-tams des tribus voisines ne tendent l'oreille qu'à l'écoute de la musique de mozart [It is said and even recorded in the histoire de la musique encyclopédie de la pléiade but also in kolozsvár at number ten vasile alecsandri street my friend dr. rudi schuller will happily translate into hungarian german or romanian for those who don't speak french the part about the grand travelers les grands voyageurs who claimed that the inhabitants of the most godforsaken les plus lointaines civilizations who were totally indifferent to the tom-toms of neighboring tribes would perk up their ears only on hearing mozart's music] (p. 101, "All Souls' Days in Vienna")

I thought of my mother, and how some day, in the future, I would go with my sister to her apartment, the one I had never seen, with the single task of sorting through a lifetime of possessions, packing everything away. I thought of all the things I would find there—private things like jewelry, photo albums and letters, but also signs of a careful and well-organized life: bills and receipts, phone numbers, an address book, the manual for the washing machine and dryer. In the bathroom, there would be half-used glass vials and jars of creams, signs of her daily rituals that she did not like anyone else to see. My sister, I knew, ever methodical, would suggest we sort things into piles: things to keep, things to donate, things to put in the trash. I would agree but, in the end, I knew I would keep nothing, whether out of too much, or too little sentiment, I did not know.

In the summer of 1845 she buckled down to the task of making ends meet by writing a novella, La Mare au diable (The Devil’s Pool), which she claimed to have thrown off in four days. It is generally regarded as one of her more beautiful stories, a pastoral fairy tale set in the heart of the rustic countryside around Berry. We gather from one of her letters to Delacroix that she had intended to dedicate the book to Chopin, but for reasons unknown she changed her mind.13 It is an interesting fact that has drawn scant attention, that neither Chopin nor Sand dedicated a single work to each other.

How to avoid food poisoning | Free health article. Food poisoning affects an estimated 4.1 million people in Australia every year. The symptoms of food poisoning can range from mild to severe, but there are steps you can take to reduce your risk, says Jean Hailes dietitian Stephanie Pirotta. Food poisoning is caused by bacteria, toxins or viruses present in the food or drinks we consume. In Australia, food poisoning is commonly due to bacteria, namely the Campylobacter or Salmonella bacteria types. However, as Ms Pirotta explains, not all bacteria are bad for you; some bacteria in food is normal – and in some cases, such as the good bacteria found in yoghurts, it can even be beneficial. “Bacteria becomes a problem and can cause food poisoning when they grow to unsafe levels, or if the type of bacteria present in the food is harmful,” says Ms Pirotta. Symptoms of food poisoning may include nausea (feeling sick), vomiting, stomach pains, diarrhoea (loose watery bowel motions), feeling weak, headache, fever, chills or sweating. When the symptoms start, how long they last and how serious they are can depend on many factors. A common assumption is that food poisoning is caused by the last thing the person ate. However, this is often not the case, says Ms Pirotta. “Symptoms of the bacteria Campylobacter food poisoning [one of the most common culprits] usually develop two to five days after eating the food,” she says. And which food is usually the guilty party in cases of Campylobacter? “This type of illness is frequently associated with eating undercooked chicken,” says Ms Pirotta. So how can you best protect yourself? Below Ms Pirotta answers some frequently asked questions. For More Information please Visit Our Website;-myhomedoctor.com.au/

My first boyfriend was a nayfish named Roger. I sat next to him in Miss Barton’s first-grade class. One day Roger said to me, “Malvina is my girlfriend. I like Malvina.” I looked at Malvina, the most beautiful first-grader in America. “Frankly, I don’t see what you see in her,” I lied. “Why don’t you like me instead?” “Okay,” he agreed, and I took him home with me for lunch. Louise made coq au vin that day, as I recall. Roger asked for a peanut butter sandwich, which he dipped in that divine sauce. A chaloshes! I dropped him at recess the next day and gave him back to Malvina.

Atticus: I've been working there four fucking weeks! I'm going to be eating ramen noodles for the rest of my life. Asher: Never tried them. Atticus: Dude, fucking disgusting. Trust me. Asher: Matilda's making roast au jus for dinner tonight with those homemade Yorkshire puddings you like. Atticus: I hate you. Loathe. Despise. Basically every synonym for hate there is. Asher: Call me? My phone rang a minute later, and I whined long and loud into the receiver in place of saying hello. I'd been accused of being overly dramatic in the past. There might be some truth behind it. Asher chuckled. "You're pathetic." "Why have you not run away with me? We've been separated. I can't stand it. It's like the individual cells in my body are trying to divide again and make another you. It hurts. I can't do it twice." I whimpered again for emphasis. "Ash, I'm screwed, and not in the bend me over the hood of the Jag and pound my ass type of way. The bad way. The painful way. The oh-crap-my-bank-account-is-in-the-negative way. I'm fast running out of ideas, and you're over there living the high life and eating roast au jus with my goddamn Yorkshire puddings." "I get the sense you're trying to tell me something, but whatever it is, it's getting lost in translation. You're rambling. What's going on? Speak-a the English. What's the problem?" "What isn't the problem? I'm poor and miserable. I was not ready for adulthood this soon. Tell Mom and Dad it was all lies. It was a phase. I'm over it. Ha, good joke, right?" "Riiight, and how do you propose I magically make the burned image of your mouth around Ryan Vector's cock disappear from Matilda's mind?" "Fuck. You know what? We don't need a housekeeper. Fire her ass! Tell Mom and Dad she's a big fat liar who lies and hates me. Tell them she's stealing from them. She's an illegal immigrant! No, tell them, she's a housekeeper by day and a hooker by night. I saw her walking the streets of Fifth Avenue after sundown in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings." I paused, envisioning our sixty-year-old housekeeper/used-to-be-nanny in that kind of attire. Asher and I both audibly ewwed at the exact same time. "Dude, that's fucking gross as shit, and you know it. I just threw up in my mouth. Why would you put that image in my head?" "I regret many of my life decisions. Add it to the list. Ash, I'm serious. Just make something up. Get rid of her. We don't need a housekeeper, and we're long past requiring a nanny. Especially one who walks into rooms without knocking. What was she thinking?" "The door wasn't closed." "Not the time, Ash!" "Okay, so let's pretend for five minutes Matilda dies in a horrible car crash." "We could make that happen.

Every time you hand over a note in payment, say a silent au revoir to your note and mentally (as in ‘in your head’, not crazy) ask it to return to you with more of its kind. While your note isn’t conscious, this little ritual will ensure you respect and notice money as it comes and goes – and that will attract it towards you more.

Focus group participants who reported enjoying the show during the screening were calling back hours, even days later to say that they had been haunted—“haunted” was the word—by the prospect of “someone like Olga” coming in and bossing their family around. In coastal suburban enclaves, the show fared even worse. One focus group participant said Olga represented a new “threat” to “normal women.” “It’s bad enough,” this woman was quoted as saying, “that we need to fear au pairs and yoga instructors. Now we need to worry about ‘spicy’ wedding planners?

I make another trip to Rick's bakehouse to show people how he makes his pain au chocolat, that magical, flaky pastry filled with heavenly bites of chocolate. I shoot video of Rick laminating croissant dough, rolling and flattening and folding the butter-filled slab of pastry until the dough is as long as a beach towel and stratified with butter like canyon rock. He cuts it into rectangles and stuffs each one with two fat chunks of bittersweet chocolate inside. He bakes off five sheets in his convection oven, and when the croissants emerge, their golden tops glistening, I have to restrain myself from reaching out from behind the camera to stuff three or five into my face. As soon as the newsletter goes out the next week, Rick's customer base goes crazy. People line up and down the market thoroughfare, undeterred by the stifling July heat, clamoring for flaky pain au chocolat and crusty sourdough loaves. Day after day, he sells out everything at least thirty minutes before closing, and the chocolate croissants sell out in the first hour.

One day History will pass judgment on each of the nations at war; she will weigh their measure of errors, lies, and heinous follies. Let us try and make ours light before her!

22 May Au Gré des ondes – Along the waves 5: ‘Hommage à Bach’ by Henri Dutilleux (1916–2013)

Note 3. Livres. £ s. d. Travaux de charité pour subvenir au manque de travail à Paris et dans les provinces 3,866,920 — 161,121 13 4 Destruction de vagabondage et de la mendicitéLivres. £ s.d.1,671,417 — 69,642 7 6 Primes pour l’importation de grains 5,671,907 — 236,329 9 2 Depenses relatives aux subsistances, déduction fait des récouvrements qui ont eu lieu

Just how did you know where this guy grew up?!" "Was it mere coincidence?! No way! This has to be deliberate! But how?! What kind of magic trick is this, Miss Yamato Nadeshiko?!" "Um, it's kind of hard to explain but... sometimes there's a certain lilt to how you pronounce your words. It sounded an awful lot like the lyrical accent unique to that area." "Huh?" "Eheh heh... when I'm not paying attention, sometimes my hometown accent slips outdo. Given your outfits and brand choices, I figured you were American... so I wondered if you were born in the South near the Gulf of Mexico... which made me think you probably had gumbo a lot growing up." "Well, I'll be! You managed to deduce all that?" "Was I right? Oh, I'm so glad!" "No way! I don't believe it! Just who are you?! How can you even figure something like that out?!" "Eheheh heh... it wasn't much. I've just been doing some studying, is all." "Voila. C'est votre monnaie. Au revoir, bonne journée." "Merci!" In the few months since earning my Seat on the Council of Ten... I took advantage of some of the perks it gave me... to visit a whole bunch of different countries. I went to all kinds of regions and met all kinds of people... learning firsthand what it feels like to live and thrive there. I experienced the "taste of home" special to each place... and incorporated it into my own cooking... so that I could improve a little as a chef! "And that's how you knew about gumbo? But still! All you did was make a dish from my hometown. That's it! There's no way it should've overwhelmed me this much! Why?! How could you manage something like that?!" "I think it's because, deep down, this is what you've truly been searching for. Um, to go back to what I mentioned to you earlier... I think you might have the wrong idea. I'm pretty sure that isn't what real hospitality is. In your heart, the kind of hospitality you're truly looking for... isn't to be pampered and treated like a king for a day. If that kind of royal luxury was all you were looking for... you wouldn't need to come all the way to Japan. You could have just reserved a suite at any international five-star hotel to get that experience. But you said you specifically liked Japan's rural hot springs resort towns. The kind of places so comfortable and familiar they tug at your heart... places that somehow quietly remind you of home. "I think... no, I know... ... that what you really want... ... is simply a warm, gentle hug.

As you know, when an American sees another driving a Cadillac, he says to himself: 'One day I too will drive a Cadillac.' But when a Frenchman feels intimidated by someone else’s car, he says: 'Why can’t the bum drive a jalopy, like everyone else?

The drinking became a little more of a problem when I went to university. My parents had never been particularly present while I was growing up, so one might presume if I was going to go off the rails, why not do it at home, but I saved it for when I went away. I was enough of a disappointment to my father. I didn’t need to give him yet another excuse to help me understand I was not the daughter he wanted. My mother had left her native America when she fell in love with my dad while working for a year as an au pair in Gerrards Cross. She seemed happy when I was very young, then spent most of my teenage years in what I have always thought must have been, albeit undiagnosed a deep, and possibly clinical, depression. I can understand why. What I couldn’t understand is how she ever ended up with my father in the first place. He was handsome, and I suppose he must have been charming when they were young, but he was so damned difficult, I used to think, even when I was young, that we’d all be much happier if they got a divorce. I would sit with friends who would be in floods of tears because their mother had just found out their father had been having an affair, or their parents had decided they hated each other, or whatever the myriad of reasons are that drive people apart, and these friends would be crying at the terrible fear of their families breaking up, and all I could think was: I wish my parents would get divorced. It seemed to me that if ever there were two people on the planet who should not have been together, it was my parents. My mother is laid-back, funny, kind. She’s comfortable in her skin and has the easy laugh you expect from all Americans. She was brought up in New York, but her parents died very young, after which she went to live with her Aunt Judith. I never knew Aunt Judith, but everything about those days sounds idyllic, especially her summers in Nantucket. You look at pictures of my mum from those days and she was in flowing, hippie-ish clothes, always smiling. She had long, silky hair, and she looked happy and free. In sharp contrast to the pictures of her with my dad, even in those early days, when they were newlyweds, supposedly the happiest time of a relationship. He insisted she wear buttoned-up suits, or twinsets and pearls. Her hair was elaborately coiffed. I remember the heated rollers she kept in the bathroom, twisting her hair up every morning, spraying it into tight submission, slicking lipstick on her lips, her feet sliding into Roger Vivier pumps. If my father was away, she left her hair long and loose, wrapping a scarf around her head. She’d wear long gypsy skirts with espadrilles or sandals. I loved her like that most of all. I used to think it was her clothing that changed her personality,

To this day, I merely have to see the words sauce au poivre on a menu to think of Vergé’s reinvention of that classic sauce: the sweet and spicy Sauce Mathurini made with cracked exotic pepper, golden raisins, cognac, and extremely full-flavored beef stock. Vergé could move easily from the big tastes of meat and game sauces to a whimsical and delicate Sauce Poivre Rose—a light, creamy emulsion of paprika and sweet Sauternes, brought to a briny finish with Mediterranean rock lobster.

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When we were younger, my mother had regularly read to us from a book of Japanese fables, having saved nothing from her own childhood. One story had been about a mountain, whose peak was surrounded by a ring of clouds, like a necklace, and who had been so beautiful that the greatest of all mountains had fallen in love with her. But the mountain with the clouds had not returned the other’s affections, and instead had pined after a smaller, flatter mountain below. The great mountain had been so shocked and enraged by this, it had erupted into a volcano, covering the skies with smoke and darkness and pain for many days. I remember for some reason feeling incredibly moved by this story, the love of the beautiful cloud mountain for the kinder, smaller one, the torment of the volcano, as if, at that age, their passions had seemed more real to me than any human ones.

I asked Dancer why the Sons streamed my wife’s death to the mines. Why not instead show the lowReds the wealth of the surface? That would sow anger. “Because a rebellion now would be crushed in days,” Dancer explained. “We must take a different path. An empire cannot be destroyed from without till it is destroyed from within. Remember that. We’re empire-breakers, not terrorists.” When Dancer told me what I am to do, I laughed. I do not know if I can do it. I am a speck. A thousand cities span the face of Mars. Metal behemoths sail between the planets in fleets carrying weapons that can crack the mantle of a moon. On distant Luna, buildings rise seven miles high; there the Sovereign Consul, Octavia au Lune, rules with her Imperators and Praetors. The Ash Lord, who made the world of Rhea cinders, is her minion. She controls the twelve Olympic Knights, legions of Peerless Scarred, and Obsidians as innumerable as the stars. And those Obsidians are only the elite. The Gray soldiers prowl the cities ensuring order, ensuring obedience to the hierarchy. The Whites arbitrate their justice and push their philosophy. Pinks pleasure and serve in highColor homes. Silvers count and manipulate currency and logistics. Yellows study the medicines and sciences. Greens develop

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