Back Lever Quotes

I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong. I will love you as a battlefield loves young men and as peppermints love your allergies, and I will love you as the banana peel loves the shoe of a man who was just struck by a shingle falling off a house. I will love you as a volunteer fire department loves rushing into burning buildings and as burning buildings love to chase them back out, and as a parachute loves to leave a blimp and as a blimp operator loves to chase after it. I will love you as a dagger loves a certain person’s back, and as a certain person loves to wear dagger proof tunics, and as a dagger proof tunic loves to go to a certain dry cleaning facility, and how a certain employee of a dry cleaning facility loves to stay up late with a pair of binoculars, watching a dagger factory for hours in the hopes of catching a burglar, and as a burglar loves sneaking up behind people with binoculars, suddenly realizing that she has left her dagger at home. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled. I will love you until every fire is extinguised and until every home is rebuilt from the handsomest and most susceptible of woods, and until every criminal is handcuffed by the laziest of policemen. I will love until M. hates snakes and J. hates grammar, and I will love you until C. realizes S. is not worthy of his love and N. realizes he is not worthy of the V. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple, and until the apple hates a tree and the tree hates a nest, and until a bird hates a tree and an apple hates a nest, although honestly I cannot imagine that last occurrence no matter how hard I try. I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where we once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from slim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and now matter how I am discovered after what happens to me as I am discovering this.

All those ants scurrying about like rats in a maze, going back and forth to the same few locations day after day, thinking the cheese they’re sniffing for will somehow magically appear on the routes they cover over and over again. They’re born into the programmed maze, so they can’t even conceive of a different way of life. Not only can’t they believe in a different way of life, but they’re programmed to scoff and ridicule the few freethinkers who do. After the ridiculing, they go back to their programming, pushing buttons and pulling levers for no reason. Ah, the good old rat race that never ends till cancer comes a knockin’.

I slammed the door, floored the throttle, and reversed down the road as fast as the old car would go, which was not very. Then I spun the wheel and hit the brakes, backing off the road. I crunched the transfer lever into four-wheel drive and trundled off toward the water. Behind us, the pickup was backing and filling, trying to turn around on the narrow road.

Is there somebody out there? Amy, is that you?” her mother called. “No. Tell me this isn’t happening.” Quinn rested his forehead against hers. “Has she got a wiretap on you or something? I swear, she’s like a walking hard-on detector.” Amy bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Quinn levered himself up on his arms. “Mrs. P., if you value your life, you’ll go back inside and turn off the light right now.

If it doesn't do you any good, dump it. Take some action, push that lever, flush it away, and don't look back. Take small steps everyday of your life, and start taking control of what you say when you talk to yourself.

Why would you do that?” I asked as he gasped. “Why would you hand me a lever to your pain?” I walked forward, bending the finger down, and he backed before me, into the crowd of his supporters, crying out, bowing low to lessen the sharp angle at which I held the digit.

What is this?" I asked. Nikolai dropped a lever, and we let loose a collective scream as the room shot upward, taking my stomach with it. We jolted to a halt. My gut slammed back down to my shoes, and the gate slid open. Nikolai stepped out, doubled over with laughter. "I never tire of that.

Indeed ... but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there's no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes. But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right ... and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it ... howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica ... letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge ... The Edge ... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others -- the living -- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.

And yet the city is not dead: the machines, the engines, the turbines continue to hum and vibrate, every Wheel's cogs are caught in the cogs of other wheels, trains run on tracks and signals on wires; and no human is there any longer to send or receive, to charge or discharge. The machines, which have long known they could do without men, have finally driven them out; and after a long exile, the wild animals have come back to occupy the territory wrested from the forest: foxes and martens wave their soft tails over the control panels starred with manometers and levers and gauges and diagrams; badgers and dormice luxuriate on batteries and magnetos. Man was necessary; now he is useless. For the world to receive information from the world and enjoy it, now computers and butterflies suffice.

Yes. But…” She stroked the smooth backs of her claws down his arms. “You’ll have to spend eternity making it up to me.” He released her to lever himself above her, cupping the back of her neck. His gaze flickered over her face, then met the eyes of his wife as she smiled up at him. Feeling love for her so strong it hurt him, his voice ragged with it, he rasped, “Milaya, it is done.

Clint stared down at him. He was wearing what appeared to be a massive, lopsided and jewel-encrusted crown, holding a scepter and surrounded by a floating mass of Roombas. “Welcome to the sovereign nation of Bartonia,” he said, with a straight face. “My subjects, the Roombas, the drones and one random mechanical bird thing that I found, and I welcome you, and ask you what the fuck you think you're doing here, you are seriously a fucking moron.” “I'm here,” Tony gritted out, “to rescue you, and what kind of fucking attitude is that?.” “A little short for a storm trooper, aren't you?” Clint said, arching an eyebrow. He offered Tony a hand. “Are you wearing a crown? Seriously? Where did you get a- Why are you wearing a crown?” Tony asked, taking it and allowing Clint to help lever him back to his feet. “Listen, dude, I have learned something about myself today. Mostly, I have learned that if I end up in some sort of alien rubbish dump surrounded by neurotic robots and without a clue as to if I'm ever going to make it home, if I find a crown, I'm putting that bad boy on. There should never be a time when you do not wear a crown. Find a crown, you wear it and declare sovereignty over the vast mechanical wastes.” Clint waved his scepter around a bit, making the Roombas dodge. “Thus, Bartonia.

Let me sing the beauty of my Maggie. Legs:--the knees attached to the thighs, knees shiny, thighs like milk. Arms:--the levers of my content, the serpents of my joy. Back:--the sight of that in a strange street of dreams in the middle of Heaven would make me fall sitting from glad recognition. Ribs?--she had some melted and round like a well formed apple, from her thigh bones to waist I saw the earth roll. In her neck I hid myself like a lost snow goose of Australia, seeking the perfume of her breast. . . . She didn't let me, she was a good girl. The poor big alley cat, though almost a year younger, had black ideas about her legs that he hid from himself, also in his prayers didn't mention . . . the dog. Across the big world darkness I've come, in boat, in bus, in airplane, in train standing my shadow immense traversing the fields and the redness of engine boilers behind me making me omnipotent upon the earth of the night, like God--but I have never made love with a little finger that has won me since. I gnawed her face with my eyes; she loved that; and that was bastardly I didn't know she loved me--I didn't understand.

But…” Hazel gripped his shoulders and stared at him in amazement. “Frank, what happened to you?” “To me?” He stood, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t…” He looked down and realized what she meant. Triptolemus hadn’t gotten shorter. Frank was taller. His gut had shrunk. His chest seemed bulkier. Frank had had growth spurts before. Once he’d woken up two centimeters taller than when he’d gone to sleep. But this was nuts. It was as if some of the dragon and lion had stayed with him when he’d turned back to human. “Uh…I don’t…Maybe I can fix it.” Hazel laughed with delight. “Why? You look amazing!” “I—I do?” “I mean, you were handsome before! But you look older, and taller, and so distinguished—” Triptolemus heaved a dramatic sigh. “Yes, obviously some sort of blessing from Mars. Congratulations, blah, blah, blah. Now, if we’re done here…?” Frank glared at him. “We’re not done. Heal Nico.” The farm god rolled his eyes. He pointed at the corn plant, and BAM! Nico di Angelo appeared in an explosion of corn silk. Nico looked around in a panic. “I—I had the weirdest nightmare about popcorn.” He frowned at Frank. “Why are you taller?” “Everything’s fine,” Frank promised. “Triptolemus was about to tell us how to survive the House of Hades. Weren’t you, Trip?” The farm god raised his eyes to the ceiling, like, Why me, Demeter? “Fine,” Trip said. “When you arrive at Epirus, you will be offered a chalice to drink from.” “Offered by whom?” Nico asked. “Doesn’t matter,” Trip snapped. “Just know that it is filled with deadly poison.” Hazel shuddered. “So you’re saying that we shouldn’t drink it.” “No!” Trip said. “You must drink it, or you’ll never be able to make it through the temple. The poison connects you to the world of the dead, lets you pass into the lower levels. The secret to surviving is”—his eyes twinkled—“barley.” Frank stared at him. “Barley.” “In the front room, take some of my special barley. Make it into little cakes. Eat these before you step into the House of Hades. The barley will absorb the worst of the poison, so it will affect you, but not kill you.” “That’s it?” Nico demanded. “Hecate sent us halfway across Italy so you could tell us to eat barley?” “Good luck!” Triptolemus sprinted across the room and hopped in his chariot. “And, Frank Zhang, I forgive you! You’ve got spunk. If you ever change your mind, my offer is open. I’d love to see you get a degree in farming!” “Yeah,” Frank muttered. “Thanks.” The god pulled a lever on his chariot. The snake-wheels turned. The wings flapped. At the back of the room, the garage doors rolled open. “Oh, to be mobile again!” Trip cried. “So many ignorant lands in need of my knowledge. I will teach them the glories of tilling, irrigation, fertilizing!” The chariot lifted off and zipped out of the house, Triptolemus shouting to the sky, “Away, my serpents! Away!” “That,” Hazel said, “was very strange.” “The glories of fertilizing.” Nico brushed some corn silk off his shoulder. “Can we get out of here now?” Hazel put her hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Are you okay, really? You bartered for our lives. What did Triptolemus make you do?” Frank tried to hold it together. He scolded himself for feeling so weak. He could face an army of monsters, but as soon as Hazel showed him kindness, he wanted to break down and cry. “Those cow monsters…the katoblepones that poisoned you…I had to destroy them.” “That was brave,” Nico said. “There must have been, what, six or seven left in that herd.” “No.” Frank cleared his throat. “All of them. I killed all of them in the city.” Nico and Hazel stared at him in stunned silence. Frank

To my surprise, Sloane pushed past Michael, wrapped dainty little hands around the barbell, and rocked back on her heels, angling it into place. Dean wiped his hands on his jeans, grabbed a nearby towel, and sat up. “Thanks,” he told Sloane. “Torque,” she said, instead of you’re welcome. “The role of the lever was played by my arms.

Instead, when you have a symptom—when you feel cloudy, sad, sore, gassy, weepy, tired, or unnecessarily anxious—bring some wonder to it. Ask why and try to make the connections. Your body’s symptoms are telling you something about equilibrium. Your body is trying to tell you that it has lost balance. Stand back and appreciate the infinite complexity of your organism. Know that fear will only drive you to treat your body like a robotic machine that needs oil and gear changes. We are so much more than buttons and levers.

I pulled the lever repeatedly not even paying attention to whether or not I was winning anything. Her voice startled me. “You look like you have something on your mind.” “I do?” “Who is he, and what did he do?” I’d never see this woman again after today. Maybe I should just let it all out. “You want the long version or the short version?” “I’m ninety, and the dinner buffet opens in five minutes. Give me the short version.” “Okay. I’m here with my stepbrother. Seven years ago, we slept together right before he moved away.” “Taboo…I like it. Go on.” I laughed. “Okay…well, he was the first and last guy I ever really cared about. I never thought I’d see him again. His father died this week, and he came back for the funeral. He wasn’t alone. He brought a girl he supposedly loves. I know she loves him. She’s a good person. She had to go back to California early. Somehow, I ended up at this casino with him. He leaves tomorrow.” A single teardrop fell down my face. “It looks to me like you still care about him.” “I do.” “Well, then you have twenty-four hours.” “No, I don’t plan to screw things up for him.” “Is he married?” “No.” “Then, you have twenty-four hours.” She looked at her watch and leaned on her walker to stand herself up. She gave me her hand. “I’m Evelyn.” “Hi, Evelyn. I’m Greta.” “Greta…fate gave you an opportunity. Don’t fuck it up,” she said before she scooted away on the walker.

It's a queer thing is a man's soul. It is the whole of him. Which means it is the unknown him, as well as the known. It seems to me just funny, professors and Benjamins fixing the functions of the soul. Why, the soul of man is a vast forest, and all Benjamin intended was a neat back garden. And we've all got to fit into his kitchen garden scheme of things. Hail Columbia ! The soul of man is a dark forest. The Hercynian Wood that scared the Romans so, and out of which came the white- skinned hordes of the next civilization. Who knows what will come out of the soul of man? The soul of man is a dark vast forest, with wild life in it. Think of Benjamin fencing it off! Oh, but Benjamin fenced a little tract that he called the soul of man, and proceeded to get it into cultivation. Providence, forsooth! And they think that bit of barbed wire is going to keep us in pound for ever? More fools they. ... Man is a moral animal. All right. I am a moral animal. And I'm going to remain such. I'm not going to be turned into a virtuous little automaton as Benjamin would have me. 'This is good, that is bad. Turn the little handle and let the good tap flow,' saith Benjamin, and all America with him. 'But first of all extirpate those savages who are always turning on the bad tap.' I am a moral animal. But I am not a moral machine. I don't work with a little set of handles or levers. The Temperance- silence-order- resolution-frugality-industry-sincerity - justice- moderation-cleanliness-tranquillity-chastity-humility keyboard is not going to get me going. I'm really not just an automatic piano with a moral Benjamin getting tunes out of me. Here's my creed, against Benjamin's. This is what I believe: 'That I am I.' ' That my soul is a dark forest.' 'That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest.' 'Thatgods, strange gods, come forth f rom the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back.' ' That I must have the courage to let them come and go.' ' That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women.' There is my creed. He who runs may read. He who prefers to crawl, or to go by gasoline, can call it rot.

Hang on dude, your cock’s too big for her!” I lever up on my elbows and gulp. Holy shit, Harper’s right! I thought Skye was big, but Taron’s built like an elephant. He’ll split me open. My pulse pounds in my ears. Taron tilts his head. “How big should I be?” Harper holds his fingers apart by about seven inches, and we all watch in stunned silence as Taron’s dick shrinks to a less terrifying size. “How’s that?” The guys stand frozen in shock, and I cover my mouth with one hand holding back my squeal. “Well, that’s new,” Skye finally says, blinking away the paralysis. Taron looks down at me with an excited grin. “Surprise!

How do I focus it?” Joe asked him, lowering the camera. “Oh, don’t bother about that. Just look at me and push the little lever. Your mind will do the rest.” “My mind.” Joe snapped a photo of his host, then handed the camera back to him. “The camera is …” He searched for the word in English. “Telepathic.” “All cameras are,” his host said mildly. “I have been photographed now by seven thousand one hundred and … eighteen … people, all with this camera, and I assure you that no two portraits are alike.” He handed the camera to Sammy, and his features, as if stamped from a machine, once more settled into the same corpulent happy mask. Sammy snapped the lever. “What possible other explanation can there be for this endless variation but interference by waves emanating from the photographer’s own mind?

As I learned the house, and began to read, and began to see more of the Quality, I saw that just as the fields and its workers were the engine of everything, the house itself would have been lost without those who tasked within it. My father, like all the masters, built an entire apparatus to disguise this weakness, to hide how prostrate they truly were. The tunnel, where I first entered the house, was the only entrance that the Tasked were allowed to use, and this was not only for the masters’ exaltation but to hide us, for the tunnel was but one of the many engineering marvels built into Lockless so as to make it appear powered by some imperceptible energy. There were dumbwaiters that made the sumptuous supper appear from nothing, levers that seemed to magically retrieve the right bottle of wine hidden deep in the manor’s bowels, cots in the sleeping quarters, drawn under the canopy bed, because those charged with emptying the chamber-pot must be hidden even more than the chamber-pot itself. The magic wall that slid away from me that first day and opened the gleaming world of the house hid back stairways that led down into the Warrens, the engine-room of Lockless, where no guest would ever visit. And when we did appear in the polite areas of the house, as we did during the soirées, we were made to appear in such appealing dress and grooming so that one could imagine that we were not slaves at all but mystical ornaments, a portion of the manor’s charm. But I now knew the truth—that Maynard’s folly, though more profane, was unoriginal. The masters could not bring water to boil, harness a horse, nor strap their own drawers without us. We were better than them—we had to be. Sloth was literal death for us, while for them it was the whole ambition of their lives. It occurred to me then that even my own intelligence was unexceptional, for you could not set eyes anywhere on Lockless and not see the genius in its makers—genius in the hands that carved out the columns of the portico, genius in the songs that evoked, even in the whites, the deepest of joys and sorrows, genius in the men who made the fiddle strings whine and trill at their dances, genius in the bouquet of flavors served up from the kitchen, genius in all our lost, genius in Big John. Genius in my mother.

Jack was behind it,waiting, with the corner of his lip pulled up in not quite a smile. "What?" he demanded. "What what?" I asked. He held my note up in front of my face. "What do you remember?" Everything. But I couldn't tell him that. I shrugged and said, "Things." Then I made a move to leave,but Jack's strong arm blocked my way,his hand pressing against the locker behind my back. "No you don't.You can't leave a note like this"-he waved the paper-"and then say 'things.' I want to know what, exactly, you remember." People in the hallway stared and I could feel my face going red. Jack noticed, and put his other arm up against the lockers,blocking me in. My pulse went nuts.It had to be visible on my wrists. Jack's face was inches from mine. His breath was minty, and I could smell the rustic scent of his aftershave,and whatever strong emotion he was feeling, it tasted sweet. I breathed it in, and the inhalation was embarrassingly loud. His eyes searched mine. "This is the first opening you've given me, and I'm not letting you get out of it." He paused. "What do you remember?" I looked behind him, at the curious spectators, and squinted my eyes shut, unable to bear the scrutiny anymore. "Say something,Becks. Say anything." "You," I said. "I remember you." I kept my eyes shut,and felt his hands drop. He didn't move back. "What do you remember about me?" There was strong emotion behind his voice. Something he fought to control. With my eyes closed,I could easily picture the other side of the century. "I remember the way your hand could cover my entire shoulder. The way your lower lip stuck out when you were working out a problem in your head. And how you flick you ring finger with your thumb when you get impatient." I opened my eyes,and the words no longer got stuck in my throat on their way out. They flowed. "And when something surprises you and you don't know what to say,you get a tiny wrinkle in between your eyebrows." I reached up to touch the divot,then hesitated and lowered my hand. "It showed on the day the coach told you you'd made first-string quarterback.And it's showing now." For a moment the space between us held no tension,no questions, no accusations. Finally he leaned back, a stunned expression on his face. "Where do we go from here?" "Nowhere,really," I whispered. "It doesn't change anything." Eyebrows still drawn together, he said, "We'll see." Then he turned and left. I tucked this moment away. In the dark,dank world of the Tunnels, I would call upon this memory. And there would be a flicker of candlelight. If only for a moment. I closed my eyes,as if my eyelids were the levers of a printing press,etching the fibers into my mind.Memories were outside Cole's reach.As long as I held them,memories were mine and mine alone.

Ford leaped to the controls—only a few of them made any immediate sense to him so he pulled those. The ship shook and screamed as its guidance rocket jets tried to push it every which way simultaneously. He released half of them and the ship spun round in a tight arc and headed back the way it had come, straight toward the oncoming missiles. Air cushions ballooned out of the walls in an instant as everyone was thrown against them. For a few seconds the inertial forces held them flattened and squirming for breath, unable to move. Zaphod struggled and pushed in manic desperation and finally managed a savage kick at a small lever

Never coming back here, she thought. With a groan, she levered herself into a sitting position and discovered a painful crick in her neck. Never ever. She launched herself off the bed and limped over to the door and put here eye to the viewer, was treated to a fish-eye view of a small, dapper, well-dressed man holding a bunch of white roses. Okay. Man with flowers. Carey looked around the room. The windows opened on short tethers so guests couldn't throw furniture or each other out into the street, and she was too high to jump anyway. She looked around the room again, looking for possible weapons. There was a rickety-looking chair by the desk in the corner, but it would probably fall to bits even before she hit anyone with it. She looked through the viewer. The little man knocked again. Not urgently, not in an official we-have-come-to-take-you-to-the-gulag kind of way, but in the manner of a gentleman visiting his lady friend with a nice bunch of roses.

It's a fine day for a prayer. But then, most days are.' 'That's what you were doing? Praying?' At his nod, I asked, 'For what do you petition the gods?' He raised his brows. 'Petition?' 'Isn't that what prayer is? Begging the gods to give you what you want?' He laughed, his voice deep as a booming wind, but kinder. 'I suppose that is how some men pray. Not I. Not anymore.' 'What do you mean?' 'Oh, I think that children pray so, to find a lost doll or that Father will bring home a good haul of fish, or that no one will discover a forgotten chore. Children think they know what is best for themselves, and do not fear to ask the divine for it. But I have been a man for many years, and I should be shamed if I did not know better by now.' I eased my back into a more comfortable position against the railing. I suppose if you are used to the swaying of a ship, it might be restful. My muscles constantly fought against it, and I was beginning to ache in every limb. 'So. How does a man pray, then?' He looked on me with amusement, then levered himself down to sit beside me. 'Don't you know? How do you pray, then?' 'I don't.' And then I rethought, and laughed aloud. 'Unless I'm terrified. Then I suppose I pray as a child does. 'Get me out of this, and I'll never be so stupid again. Just let me live.' He laughed with me. 'Well, it looks as if, so far, your prayers have been granted. And have you kept your promise to the divine?' I shook my head, smiling ruefully. 'I'm afraid not. I just find a new direction to be foolish in.' 'Exactly. So do we all. Hence, I've learned I am not wise enough to ask the divine for anything.' 'So. How do you pray then, if you are not asking for something?' 'Ah. Well, prayer for me is more listening than asking. And, after all these years, I find I have but one prayer left. It has taken me a lifetime to find my prayer, and I think it is the same one that all men find, if they but ponder on it longer enough.

The Tender Place Your temples , where the hair crowded in , Were the tender place. Once to check I dropped a file across the electrodes of a twelve-volt battery -- it exploded Like a grenade. Somebody wired you up. Somebody pushed the lever. They crashed The thunderbolt into your skull. In their bleached coats, with blenched faces, They hovered again To see how you were, in your straps. Whether your teeth were still whole . The hand on the calibrated lever Again feeling nothing Except feeling nothing pushed to feel Some squirm of sensation . Terror Was the cloud of you Waiting for these lightnings. I saw An oak limb sheared at a bang. You your Daddy's leg . How many seizures Did you suffer this god to grab you By the roots of the hair? The reports Escaped back into clouds. What went up Vaporized? Where lightning rods wept copper And the nerve· threw off its skin Like a burning child Scampering out of the bomb-flash. They dropped you A rigid bent bit of wire Across the Boston City grid. The lights In the Senate House dipped As your voice dived inwards Right through the bolt-hole basement. Came up, years later, Over-exposed, like an X-ray -- Brain-map still dark-patched With the scorched-earth scars Of your retreat . And your words , Faces reversed from the light , Holding in their entrails.

He gathered us both up to him, threw back his head, and howled. His jaws stretched wide, his face turned up to the sky, and the ridges of muscle in his neck stood out. He made no sound. Yet the grief that poured through him and up to the sky soaked me and choked me. I drowned in his sorrow. I put my hands against his chest and tried to lever away from him, but could not. From impossibly far away, I felt my sister. She battered at him, demanding to know what was wrong. There were others, ones I had never met, shouting into his mind, offering to send soldiers, to lend strength, to do anything for him that could possibly be done. But he could not even verbalize his pain.

Posy grabs the handle of one of those espresso thingies and holds the basket part under the chute. She uses her thumb to swish a lever back and forth three times, as a tidy pile of coffee grounds fills the little cup, making a rounded shape. Like a breast. Three seconds on the grinder. Three swishes of the lever. Make a coffee titty. Got it.

In recent years behavioral scientists have shed some light on why these waiting techniques can be powerful. Let’s first look at the notion that texting back right away makes you less appealing. Psychologists have conducted hundreds of studies in which they reward lab animals in different ways under different conditions. One of the most intriguing findings is that “reward uncertainty”—in which, for instance, animals cannot predict whether pushing a lever will get them food—can dramatically increase their interest in getting a reward, while also enhancing their dopamine levels so that they basically feel coked up. If a text back from someone is considered a “reward,” consider the fact that lab animals who get rewarded for pushing a lever every time will eventually slow down because they know that the next time they want a reward, it will be waiting for them. So basically, if you are the guy or girl who texts back immediately, you are taken for granted and ultimately lower your value as a reward. As a result, the person doesn’t feel as much of an urge to text you or, in the case of the lab animal, push the lever.

Levering himself over Evie’s prone body, Sebastian risked a glance upward at the second-floor balcony. Bullard was gone. With a grunt of pain, Sebastian rolled to his side and searched his wife for injuries, terrified that the bullet might have struck her as well. “Evie…sweetheart…are you hurt?” “Why did you push me like that?” she asked in a muffled voice. “No, I’m not hurt. What was that noise?” His shaking hand brushed over her face, pushing back a tumble of hair that had fallen across her eyes. Bemused, Evie wriggled out from beneath him and sat up. Sebastian remained on his side, panting for breath, while he felt a hot slide of blood over his chest and waist. People were crowding to flee the building, threatening to trample the couple on the floor. Suddenly a man came to crouch over them, having fought his way through the rushing horde. He used his body as a bulwark to keep them from being overrun. Blinking, Sebastian realized that it was Westcliff. Dizzily Sebastian reached up to clutch at his coat. “He aimed for Evie,” Sebastian said hoarsely. His lips had gone numb, and he licked at them before continuing. “Keep her safe…keep her…

She moved back to accommodate him as he rolled on a condom. Then she stroked and squeezed until rational thought was a distant memory and all that was left were need and want, lust and desire. He dragged her up, claiming her mouth as he thrust inside her. Pleasure so exquisite, he closed his eyes and tried to take a mental snapshot of the moment. Bracing herself on his shoulders she rode him, levering her hips as she brought him closer and closer to his peak. Control. He needed it. In one swift motion he shifted, carrying her down so she lay beneath him, clothes half off, hair tangled, lips swollen from his kisses, wanton and free. Lifting her legs to his hips, he thrust into her. Slick walls tightened, made his eyes water. His hips pistoned, driving deep until pleasure peaked and they both found release.

At the far end of the taxiway, B-17s began to roll out of their hardstands and onto the perimeter track. Karl nudged the throttles up to 1500 RPM to exercise the turbos. One by one, he eased back the prop control levers and watched for an RPM drop to make sure the propeller governors were working. Everything checked good; Hellstorm gave him no release from the dilemma splitting his heart in two. Good hydraulic pressure, good suction, good voltages. Good Lord.

Speculators, meanwhile, have seized control of the global economy and the levers of political power. They have weakened and emasculated governments to serve their lust for profit. They have turned the press into courtiers, corrupted the courts, and hollowed out public institutions, including universities. They peddle spurious ideologies—neoliberal economics and globalization—to justify their rapacious looting and greed. They create grotesque financial mechanisms, from usurious interest rates on loans to legalized accounting fraud, to plunge citizens into crippling forms of debt peonage. And they have been stealing staggering sums of public funds, such as the $65 billion of mortgage-backed securities and bonds, many of them toxic, that have been unloaded each month on the Federal Reserve in return for cash.21 They feed like parasites off of the state and the resources of the planet. Speculators at megabanks and investment firms such as Goldman Sachs are not, in a strict sense, capitalists. They do not make money from the means of production. Rather, they ignore or rewrite the law—ostensibly put in place to protect the weak from the powerful—to steal from everyone, including their own shareholders. They produce nothing. They make nothing. They only manipulate money. They are no different from the detested speculators who were hanged in the seventeenth century, when speculation was a capital offense. The obscenity of their wealth is matched by their utter lack of concern for the growing numbers of the destitute. In early 2014, the world’s 200 richest people made $13.9 billion, in one day, according to Bloomberg’s billionaires index.22 This hoarding of money by the elites, according to the ruling economic model, is supposed to make us all better off, but in fact the opposite happens when wealth is concentrated in the hands of a few individuals and corporations, as economist Thomas Piketty documents in his book Capital in the Twenty-First Century.23 The rest of us have little or no influence over how we are governed, and our wages stagnate or decline. Underemployment and unemployment become chronic. Social services, from welfare to Social Security, are slashed in the name of austerity. Government, in the hands of speculators, is a protection racket for corporations and a small group of oligarchs. And the longer we play by their rules the more impoverished and oppressed we become. Yet, like

Out beyond and way back and further past that still. And such was it since. But after all appearances and some afternoons misspent it came to pass not all was done and over with. No, no. None shally shally on that here hill. Ah, but that was idle then and change was not an old hand. No, no. None shilly shilly on that here first rung. So, much girded and with new multitudes, a sun came purple and the hail turned in a year or two. And that was not all. No, no. None ganny ganny on that here moon loose. Turns were taken and time put in, so much heft and grimace, there, with callouses, all along the diagonal. Like no other time and the time taken back, that too like none other that can be compared to a bovine heap raising steam, or the eye-cast of a flailing comet. Back and forth, examining the egg spill and the cord fray and the clowning barnacle. And all day with no break to unwrap or unscrew or squint and flex or soak the brush. No, no. None flim flim on that here cavorting mainstay. From tree to tree and the pond there deepening and some small holes appearing and any number of cornstalks twisting into a thing far from corn. That being the case there was some wretched plotting, turned to stone, holding nothing. No, no. None rubby rubby on that here yardstick. Came then from the region of silt and aster, all along the horse trammel and fire velvet, first these sounds and then their makers. When passed betwixt and entered fully, pails were swung and notches considered. There was no light. No, none. None wzm wzm on that here piss crater. And it being the day, still considered. Oh, all things considered and not one mentioned, since all names had turned in and handed back. Knowing this the hounds disbanded and knowing that the ground muddled headstones and milestones and gallows and the almond-shaped buds of freshest honeysuckle. And among this chafing tumult fates were scrambled and mortality made untidy and pithy vows took themselves a breather. This being the way and irreversible homewards now was a lifted skeletal thing of the past, without due application or undue meaning. No, no. None shap shap on that here domicile shank. From right foot to left, first by the firs, then by the river, hung and loitered, and the blaze there slow to come. All night waking with no benefit of sleeping and the breath cranking and the heart-place levering and the kerosene pervading but failing to jerk a flame from out any one thing. No, none. None whoosh whoosh on that here burnished cunt. Oh, the earth, the earth and the women there, inside the simpering huts, stamped and spiritless, blowing on the coals. Not far away, but beyond the way of return.

As she passed the door to Gray’s study, a familiar, muscled arm shot out into the corridor, catching her by the waist. Laughing, she stumbled into the room, quickly finding herself caught between cool walnut paneling at her back and the hot, solid wall of man before her. Ever since their wedding-or since the Kestrel storeroom, more likely-Gray seemed to find it an irresistible challenge, to catch her unawares in an unlikely location and pull her into a feverish embrace. Sophia had no wish to discourage the habit, but this wasn’t the ideal time for a tryst. “Gray,” she chided between kisses, “what are you about? The housekeeper said there was an urgent matter requiring my attention.” “And so there is. I require your attention. Most urgently.” His hand slid to her bottom, and he lifted her easily, pinning her to the wall with his hips. The beaded ridges of the wainscoting dug into her spine. “Don’t think we’ve used this room yet,” he murmured, nibbling at the curve of her neck. “I’m entertaining,” she protested. “Yes, you are,” he said, grinding against her. “Highly entertaining.” Sophia sighed with pleasurable frustration. “I mean, I have a guest. Lady Kendall’s in the salon, with Bel.” She levered her arm against his chest, carving out some space between them. “And I thought you were at your shipping office.” “Yes, well…” Mischief gleamed sharp in his eyes. “I decided to go riding instead.

I was raised on the struggle of elders - iron collars, severed feet, the rifle of dirty Harriet, and down through the years, the Muslims and regal Malcolm. But mostly what I saw around me was rank dishonor: cable and Atari plugged into every room, juvenile parenting, niggers sporting kicks with price tags that looked like mortgage bills. The Conscious among us knew the whole race was going down, that we'd freed ourselves from slavery and Jim Crow but not the great shackling of minds. The hoppers had no picture of the larger world. We thought all our battles were homegrown and personal, but, like an evil breeze at our back, we felt invisible hands at work, like someone else was still tugging at levers and pulling strings.

Enquirer," Neverfell said slowly, "do you really think I would have walked into this court if I didn’t have a way of getting out again?" "What? What way?" "I don’t know." Neverfell gave Enquirer Treble an enormous smile, as bright and mad as a sun souffé. "Do you like surprises, Enquirer? I do. Just as well, really." It is fair to say that what happened after that was a surprise to everybody in the courtroom, including Neverfell. Somewhere high above in the shadowy, stalagmite-fanged ceiling, a trapdoor flipped open, revealing a darkened hatch. From this darkness a coil of wire whispered down, unravelling and unravelling as it fell, until the bottom end brushed the dais on which Neverfell stood. Then with a singing, metallic whine, a stocky figure in a gleaming metal suit and goggled mask dropped out of the trap and slid down the wire, to land with a jolt beside Neverfell. "Seize . . ." began Treble. A metal-scaled arm was thrown round Neverfell’s middle. An armoured hand flicked two belt levers. ". . . that . . ." With a lurch, Neverfell was dragged aloft as the armoured figure whizzed back up the wire, carrying her with it, the whine of the mechanism rising to a screech. The dais dropped away, and she was staring down at a receding sea of frozen, upturned faces. ". . . girl!" finished the Enquirer in a deafening yell as both soaring figures disappeared upward through the hatch. The court vanished from Neverfell’s view as the trapdoor flapped shut.

She was especially taken with Matt. Until he said, “It’s time to fess up, hon. Tell Trace how much you care. You’ll feel better when you do.” Climbing up the ladder, Chris said, “Better sooner than later.” He nodded at the hillside behind them. “Because here comes Trace, and he doesn’t look happy.” Both Priss and Matt turned, Priss with anticipation, Matt with tempered dread. Dressed in jeans and a snowy-white T-shirt, Trace stalked down the hill. Priss shielded her eyes to better see him. When he’d left, being so guarded about his mission, she’d half wondered if he’d return before dinner. Trace wore reflective sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but his entire demeanor—heavy stride, rigid shoulders, tight jaw—bespoke annoyance. As soon as he was close enough, Priss called out, “What’s wrong?” Without answering her, Trace continued onto the dock. He didn’t stop until he stood right in front of . . . Matt. Backing up to the edge of the dock, Matt said, “Uh . . . Hello?” Trace didn’t say a thing; he just pushed Matt into the water. Arms and legs flailing out, Matt hit the surface with a cannonball effect. Stunned, Priss shoved his shoulder. “What the hell, Trace! Why did you do that?” Trace took off his sunglasses and looked at her, all of her, from her hair to her body and down to her bare toes. After working his jaw a second, he said, “If you need sunscreen, ask me.” Her mouth fell open. Of all the nerve! He left her at Dare’s, took off without telling her a damn thing and then had the audacity to complain when a friend tried to keep her from getting sunburned. “Maybe I would have, if you’d been here!” “I’m here now.” Emotions bubbled over. “So you are.” With a slow smile, Priss put both hands on his chest. The shirt was damp with sweat, the cotton so soft that she could feel every muscle beneath. “And you look a little . . . heated.” Trace’s beautiful eyes darkened, and he reached for her. “A dip will cool you down.” Priss shoved him as hard as she could. Taken by surprise, fully dressed, Trace went floundering backward off the end of the dock. Priss caught a glimpse of the priceless expression of disbelief on Trace’s face before he went under the water. Excited by the activity, the dogs leaped in after him. Liger roused himself enough to move out of the line of splashing. Chris climbed up the ladder. “So that’s the new game, huh?” He laughed as he scooped Priss up into his arms. “Chris!” She made a grab for his shoulders. “Put me down!” “Afraid not, doll.” Just as Trace resurfaced, Chris jumped in with her. They landed between the swimming dogs. Sputtering, her hair in her face and her skin chilled from the shock of the cold water, Priss cursed. Trace had already waded toward the shallower water off the side of the dock. His fair hair was flattened to his head and his T-shirt stuck to his body. “Wait!” Priss shouted at him. He was still waist-deep as he turned to glare at her. Kicking and splashing, Priss doggy-paddled over to him, grabbed his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Oh, no, you don’t!” Startled, Trace scooped her bottom in his hands and struggled for balance on the squishy mud bottom of the lake. “What the hell?” And then lower, “You look naked in this damn suit.” Matt and Chris found that hilarious. Priss looked at Trace’s handsome face, a face she loved, and kissed him. Hard. For only a second, he allowed the sensual assault. He even kissed her back. Then he levered away from her. “You ruined my clothes, damn it.” “Only because you were being a jealous jerk.” His expression dark, he glared toward Matt. Christ started humming, but poor Matt said, “Yeah,” and shrugged. “If you think about it, you’ll agree that you sort of were—and we both know there’s no reason.

Matt’s housekeeper let him in with a grimace. “I’m harmless today,” Tate assured the woman as she led the way to where Matt Holden was standing just outside the study door. “Right. You and two odd species of cobra,” Matt murmured sarcastically, glaring at his son from a tanned face. “What do you want, a bruise to match the other one?” Tate held up both hands. “Don’t start,” he said. Matt moved out of the way with reluctance and closed the study door behind them. “Your mother’s gone shopping,” he said. “Good. I don’t want to talk to her just yet.” Matt’s eyebrows levered up. “Oh?” Tate dropped into the wing chair across from the senator’s bulky armchair. “I need some advice.” Matt felt his forehead. “I didn’t think a single malt whiskey was enough to make me hallucinate,” he said to himself. Tate glowered at him. “You’re not one of my favorite people, but you know Cecily a little better than I seem to lately.” “Cecily loves you,” Matt said shortly, dropping into his chair. “That’s not the problem,” Tate said. He leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his splayed knees. “Although I seem to have done everything in my power to make her stop.” The older man didn’t speak for a minute or two. “Love doesn’t die that easily,” he said. “Your mother and I are a case in point. We hadn’t seen each other for thirty-six years, but the instant we met again, the years fell away. We were young again, in love again.” “I can’t wait thirty-six years,” Tate stated. He stared at his hands, then he drew in a long breath. “Cecily’s pregnant.” The other man was quiet for so long that Tate lifted his eyes, only to be met with barely contained rage in the older man’s face. “Is it yours?” Matt asked curtly. Tate glowered at him. “What kind of woman do you think Cecily is? Of course it’s mine!” Matt chuckled. He leaned back in the easy chair and indulged the need to look at his son, to find all the differences and all the similarities in that younger version of his face. It pleased him to find so many familiar things. “We look alike,” Tate said, reading the intent scrutiny he was getting. “Funny that I never noticed that before.” Matt smiled. “We didn’t get along very well.” “Both too stubborn and inflexible,” Tate pointed out. “And arrogant.” Tate chuckled dryly. “Maybe.

What do you see when you look at me?” “I see you,” he answered as if it was obvious. “It’s not like I see a place, or a time, or a name: just you. Your essence. Your soul. That’s how I find you every time you come back. I know it’s hard to understand, but your soul calls me…and I’m drawn to it. I couldn’t keep away if I tried.” Sage raised his hand to my cheek, cupping it gently. I closed my eyes, resting against the warmth of his palm. When I opened them he had moved closer. I closed the distance between us and kissed him. I felt dizzy and hot and floaty, like every cliché…but it was true. I couldn’t feel my feet. I finally felt like I was where my soul belonged. There was only one problem. The gearshift was digging into my side. “Ow!” I winced. “You okay?” “Yeah…it’s just…” I gestured down, feeling like an idiot for ruining the moment. Sage didn’t seem to mind. He reached down and moved his seat back to its maximum leg room, then held out his hand. I grabbed it and clambered over the center console, clumsily ducking and folding myself until I finally settled onto his lap, straddling his legs. It was the least coordinated act of seduction ever. “Better?” he asked. “Better.” He kissed me, sliding his hands up the back of my shirt. It felt incredible. Without breaking away from his lips, I reached underneath his tee and felt his bare, sleek chest. My breath came faster, caught up in the frenzy of finally letting go and doing what I’d been dying to do from the second I’d seen Sage on the beach. “Wait,” he said. He reached down and pulled a lever. I let out a little scream as his seat back dropped all the way and I fell on top of him. I loved the feel of his body under mine. I didn’t want a single part of us not touching. “Better now?” Sage murmured into my ear. It wasn’t fair of him to ask me a question when he was doing that. I could barely function, never mind put together an answer. “Much better,” I said. “It’s practically a bed.” “Is it?” Sage agreed, and in his eyes I saw exactly what that could mean. “Oh,” I said, suddenly nervous. “But…we can’t. I mean, we don’t have…” “I do,” he said, leaning down to kiss the hollow where my neck met my shoulder. “You do?” I tensed up. Why did he have one? For who? The corner of Sage’s mouth turned up. “For us, Clea. The drugstore in Rio? I kind of had a feeling…” He moved his lips back to my neck. He nibbled on my earlobe, and I whimpered. “Oh,” I managed. “Well…then…” “I love you, Clea.” Everything tunneled in, and I heard the words echo in my head. Sage loved me. Me. I didn’t even realize I’d stopped breathing until he said my name, concerned. “Clea?” I looked at him and immediately relaxed. “I love you, too.” We kissed, and I actually felt myself melting into him as my last coherent thoughts gave way to pure sensation.

This description of physiology—as the exquisite matching of form and function, down to the molecular level—dates back to Aristotle. For Aristotle, living organisms were nothing more than exquisite assemblages of machines. Medieval biology had departed from that tradition, conjuring up “vital” forces and mystical fluids that were somehow unique to life—a last-minute deus ex machina to explain the mysterious workings of living organisms (and justify the existence of the deus). But biophysicists were intent on restoring a rigidly mechanistic description to biology. Living physiology should be explicable in terms of physics, biophysicists argued—forces, motions, actions, motors, engines, levers, pulleys, clasps. The laws that drove Newton’s apples to the ground should also apply to the growth of the apple tree. Invoking special vital forces or inventing mystical fluids to explain life was unnecessary. Biology was physics. Machina en deus.

I couldn't think of any possible universe where wrapping myself around his knees to keep him in place would be construed as anything other than psychotic. "Okay." He unfolded himself from the stoop, six feet of spendid, and actually held out his hand. For a second, I thought he wanted to shake. I levered myself halfway up before realizing he was offering to help me up.What a gent.What a spaz. Me, that is. I crouched there, helpless, sat back down a little, then realized how incredibly stupid that must look,started up again. By the time I finally took his hand, I was almost upright,and if I haven't let go almost immediately, I would have looked even more ridiculous than I felt. "So,Ill see you Monday, maybe," he announced. "On the floor somewhere." "Not unlikely," I managed. "I can often be found on floors." Whatever that meant. I winced inwardly. Then compounded the idiocy. "I watched a Brady Bunch marathon once when I had strep throat." He laughed. "Nice try, Grasshopper, but no dice.

But Oppenheimer was still capable of being a critic; he just wanted to stand alone and with far more ambiguity than his fellow scientists. He was consumed with the deep ethical and philosophical dilemmas posed by nuclear weapons, but at times it seemed that, as Thorpe puts it, “Oppenheimer offered to weep for the world, but not help to change it.” In truth, Oppenheimer very much wanted to change the world—but he knew he was barred from pulling on the levers of power in Washington, and he no longer had the spirit for public activism that had motivated him in the 1930s. His excommunication had not freed him to enter the great debates of the day; it had inclined him, rather, to censor himself. Frank Oppenheimer thought his brother felt enormously frustrated that he could not find a way back into official circles. “He wanted to get back into that, I think,” Frank said. “I don’t know why, but I think it’s one of these things where there’s a—when you get the taste of it, it’s hard to not want it.

Besides, the days at Briar were run so very regular, it was quite like some great mechanical show, you could not change it. The house bell woke us up in the mornings, and after that we all went moving on our ways from room to room, on our set courses, until the bell rang us back into our beds at night. There might as well have been grooves laid for us in the floorboards; we might have glided on sticks. There might have been a great handle set into the side of the house, and a great hand winding it.—Sometimes, when the view beyond the windows was dark or grey with mist, I imagined that handle and thought that I could almost hear it turning. I grew afraid of what would happen if the turning was to stop. That’s what living in the country does to you. When Gentleman came, the show gave a kind of jog. There was a growling of the levers, people quivering for a second upon their sticks, the carving of one or two new grooves; and then it all went on, smooth as before, but with the scenes in a different order.

Lt. Gen. Zinni has distilled his experiences in a talk on “twenty lessons learned”that feels like a modern appendix to the Small Wars Manual. The earlier you go in, the better, he argues. Start planning as early as possible, and coordinate it with organizations like the United Nations and private relief groups. Assess the differences between your views of the situation and theirs. Coordinate everything, but decentralize execution. Know the culture. “Who makes decisions in this culture? What is the power of religious leaders? Of political people? Of professionals?”Zinni argues that this is probably where the American military fails most often, as it unconsciously seeks the levers of power that exist in its own society. “Truly, the decision makers are at the back of the tent. You have to find them.”Restart a key institution, probably the police, as soon as possible. But don’t offer well-intentioned help, such as extensive medical care, that you can’t sustain. Don’t set high expectations. “Don’t make enemies, but if you do, don’t treat them gently.

Lachlain shifted restlessly. He thought he was finally strong enough for them to leave tomorrow. He was physically ready to resume relations with his wife, and wasn’t eager to do it under this roof. He stood and offered his hand, and with a shy smile she slipped her hand in his. As they crossed in front of the screen, they barely dodged a volley of popcorn. He didn’t know where he was taking her, maybe out into the night fog. He just knew he wanted her, needed her, right then. She was too precious to him, too good to be true. When he was inside her, with his arms tight around her, he felt less like she’d slip away. But they only made it to an empty hall before he pressed her against the wall, cupped her neck, and demanded once again, “You’ll stay with me?” “Always.” Her hips arched up to him. “You love me?” “Always, Emmaline,” he grated against her lips. “Always. So damn much you make me mad with it.” When she moaned softly, he lifted her so she could wrap her legs around his waist. He knew he couldn’t have her here, but the reasons why grew hazy with her breaths in his ear. “I wish we were home,” she whispered. “Together in our bed.” Home. Damn if she hadn’t said home. In our bed. Had anything ever sounded so good? He pressed her harder into the wall, kissing her more deeply, with all the love he had in him, but suddenly they were falling, his balance somehow lost. He clenched her to him and twisted to take the impact on his back. When he opened his eyes, they were tumbling into their bed. Eyebrows raised, jaw slack, he released her and levered himself onto his elbows. “That was . . .” He exhaled a stunned breath. “That was a wild ride, lass. Will you no’ warn me next time?” She nodded solemnly, sitting up to straddle him, pulling her blouse over her head to bare her exquisite breasts for him. “Lachlain,” she leaned down to whisper in his ear, brushing her nipples over his chest, making him shudder and clench her hips. “I’m about to give you a very . . . wild . . . ride.” Yet after everything that had occurred, his need for her was too strong, and he gave himself up to it, tossing her to her back and ripping her clothes from her. He made short work of his own, then covered her. When he pinned her arms over her head and thrust into her, she cried his name and writhed beneath him so sweetly. “I’ll demand that ride tomorrow, love, but first you’re going to see wild from a man who knows.

Owen stepped into the saddle and reached a hand down as he took his foot out of the stirrup, so Bay could mount behind him. Once she was settled, he said, “Hang on. And don’t be wiggling around. We can’t afford any more accidents.” Bay glowered at him. She clamped her hands on either side of his waist at his beltline, but his Colt .45 was holstered on one side, which kept her from getting a comfortable hold. She put her right hand above the gun, but that meant it was practically under his armpit. Then she moved it below the gun, but that put her hand low on hips close to his crotch. “Sonofabitch.” He grabbed her hands and pulled them around his midriff. “Now hang on.” Bay kept her breasts rigidly distanced from Owen’s back, but her nipples puckered anyway. It was that damned washboard of male abdominal muscle under her hands. The man could do commercials for those workout machines they advertised on TV. The horseflies were a surprise. Where had they come from? She let go with one hand and swatted at one that seemed determined to bite her on the nose. And knocked Owen’s hat askew. “That does it. Off.” “It wasn’t my fault,” Bay said. “I was getting bitten.” “Off.” He grabbed her arm and levered her out from behind him and onto the ground.

The Obstacles That Lie Before Us There is an old Zen story about a king whose people had grown soft and entitled. Dissatisfied with this state of affairs, he hoped to teach them a lesson. His plan was simple: He would place a large boulder in the middle of the main road, completely blocking entry into the city. He would then hide nearby and observe their reactions. How would they respond? Would they band together to remove it? Or would they get discouraged, quit, and return home? With growing disappointment, the king watched as subject after subject came to this impediment and turned away. Or, at best, tried halfheartedly before giving up. Many openly complained or cursed the king or fortune or bemoaned the inconvenience, but none managed to do anything about it. After several days, a lone peasant came along on his way into town. He did not turn away. Instead he strained and strained, trying to push it out of the way. Then an idea came to him: He scrambled into the nearby woods to find something he could use for leverage. Finally, he returned with a large branch he had crafted into a lever and deployed it to dislodge the massive rock from the road. Beneath the rock were a purse of gold coins and a note from the king, which said: “The obstacle in the path becomes the path. Never forget, within every obstacle is an opportunity to improve our condition.” What holds you back?

I have a horror that I will fall,” he told her conversationally, using the axe handle to lever a twisted trunk aside. “And one of these stubs that I’ve left will catch me in the thigh, right where the big artery is, and I will bleed out before I can finish cursing. And even then I will probably apologize for having cursed. My last words will be I’m sorry. Toadling croaked a laugh. It was funny and it hurt, because she was nearly certain that her last words would also be I’m sorry, or perhaps just stammering as she tried to get an apology out. “Ah, you are a toad again.” He swung the axe, then grunted as the blade bound into the dead wood and he had to wiggle it loose. “It’s for the best, I suppose. Toads probably don’t trip and fall and impale themselves on broken branches. I am feeling guilty enough for having bothered you. If you tripped on a branch, I would likely expire from guilt. The Brother Librarian said that I was almost guilt-ridden enough to join a monastery, but our faith does not have an equivalent. And if I expired from guilt, my mother would be very upset, and I would have to feel guilty about that, too. I’m babbling now, aren’t I?” “Somewhat,” said Toadling, turning back into a human in a little space in the thorns. “I thought so. I do that when I don’t know what to say. I talk to fill spaces. I’m a wretched liar. Although a good liar would probably say that, wouldn’t they?

He stared down at her for a moment, wanting to heal every cut on her soft skin. But he couldn’t, not yet. He needed to get her, and her car, far from this place so neither he nor Kate would be implicated in any way with the gruesome murder site. It also meant he would have to drive. In all his years, he had never driven an automobile. The closest he had come was watching various assistants through the years as they chauffeured him. He wasn’t sure he could even remember how to start the car, but right now he had no choice. Grudgingly, he got into the driver’s seat, and finding the lever underneath, he pushed it back so he sat comfortably behind the wheel. After trying three different keys, he found one that slipped into the ignition. From what he had seen over the past hundred years, driving was not a complex operation, and he was an immortal with reflexes far more keen than a human man. How difficult could it be? He turned the key and nearly jerked the wheel off the steering column when the car surprised him by lurching forward. The car went silent. The engine wasn’t running. What was he doing wrong? He stared at the gearshift, wondering if he should move it. His frustration reared up, but his agitation would not make the car drive itself. He had to keep a cool head. Not knowing what else to try, he pushed one of the pedals at his feet to the floor and turned the key again. This time the car didn’t move, and it roared to life. Grasping the gearshift, he jammed it into the first position and glanced over at Kate. Why couldn’t she have owned a car with an automatic transmission? Shaking his head, he put some pressure on the gas pedal and slowly released the clutch. Thankfully the car rolled a few feet, but without warning it jumped forward. He pressed the clutch back to the floor before the engine lost power again. Calisto slammed his hand against the wheel, muttering under his breath in Spanish. At this rate it would take him all night to drive her home. The faded yellow convertible pitched forward again, threatening to stall as he continued out of the parking lot, thankful it was late. The streets were fairly empty. At least he wouldn’t get into an accident with another car. Her car staggered ahead, lurching each time he tried to release the clutch, bouncing and jostling them both until Kate finally stirred and woke up. § “Are we out of gas or something?” Calisto watched her with a tight smile. “Not exactly.” Kate winced in pain when she laughed. “You can’t drive a stickshift, can you?” “Does it show?” Calisto pulled over, finally allowing the engine to stall. She nodded her head slowly to avoid more pain. “Just a little. What happened?” “You don’t remember?” “I remember being mugged. And I remember seeing you, but everything after that is blank.” She watched his eyes as Calisto reached over to brush her hair back from her face, and his touch sent shivers through her body. This wasn’t how she had hoped she would run into him, but she learned a long time ago fate didn’t always work out the way you expected.

She fell asleep rapidly, swimming through a haze of pleasant images... walking through the forest in Hampshire... dangling her feet in a cool pond on a hot day... pausing in the kissing gate, while the smell of sun-warmed meadowsweet rose thickly to her nostrils. She closed her eyes and tilted her chin upward, relishing the sultry rays, while a butterfly's wings brushed lightly against her cheek. Entranced by the delicate tickle, she held very still. The silken strokes moved over the tip of her nose, the sensitive periphery of her upper lip, the tender corners of her mouth. Searching blindly, she lifted her face to the brushes of warmth and was rewarded by a gentle pressure that opened her lips and drew a moan from the upper part of her lungs. Lord Sydney was standing with her in the kissing gate, his arms trapping her against the painted ribs of latticework. His mouth searched hers so gently, his body firm against hers, and she writhed in a mute plea for him to hold her more tightly. Seeming to know exactly what she wanted, he pushed his knee into her skirts, right against the place that felt swollen and yearning. Gasping, she curled her fingers in his glossy hair, and he whispered for her to relax, that he would take care of her, satisfy her- "Oh." Blinking hard, she stirred from the sensuous dream as she realized that she was not alone. The bed curtains had been drawn aside, and Nick Gentry's long body was entangled with hers. One large hand was cupped beneath her hips, while his leg wedged more intimately between hers. His breath surged against her ear, filling the shell with moist heat, and then his lips wandered back to hers in a searing path. He absorbed her protest as he kissed her, his tongue searching her mouth, his body levering over hers.

A slow smile curved his lips. “Lillian, I’ve wanted you every moment since I first held you in my arms. And it has nothing to do with your damned perfume. However”— he inhaled the scent one last time before replacing the tiny stopper—“ I do know what the secret ingredient is.” Lillian stared at him with wide eyes. “You do not!” “I do,” he said smugly. “What a know-all,” Lillian exclaimed with laughing annoyance. “Perhaps you’re guessing at it, but I assure you that if I can’t figure out what it is, you certainly couldn’t—” “I know conclusively what it is,” he informed her. “Tell me, then.” “No. I think I’ll let you discover it on your own.” “Tell me!” She pounced on him eagerly, thumping him hard on the chest with her fists. Most men would have been driven back by the solid blows, but he only laughed and held his ground. “Westcliff, if you don’t tell me this instant, I’ll—” “Torture me? Sorry, that won’t work. I’m too accustomed to it by now.” Lifting her with shocking ease, he tossed her onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. Before she could move an inch, he was on top of her, purring and laughing as she wrestled him with all her might. “I’ll make you give in!” She hooked a leg around his and shoved hard at his left shoulder. The childhood years of fighting with her boisterous brothers had taught her a few tricks. However, Marcus countered every move easily, his body a mass of steely, flexing muscles. He was very agile, and surprisingly heavy. “You’re no challenge at all,” he teased, allowing her to roll atop him briefly. As she sought to pin him, he twisted and levered himself over her once more. “Don’t say that’s your best effort?” “Cocky bastard,” Lillian muttered, renewing her efforts. “I could win… if I didn’t have a gown on…” “Your wish may yet be granted,” he replied, smiling down at her.

Her hands slipped down to his chest, the firm surface covered with a light fleece of coarse golden hair. With his body still joined to hers, St. Vincent held still beneath her inquisitive fingers. She touched his lean sides, exploring the hard vaulting of his ribs and the satiny plane of his back. His blue eyes widened, and then he dropped his head to the pillow beside hers, growling as his body worked inside hers with a deep thrust, as he was helplessly shaken with new tremors of rapture. His mouth fastened on hers with a primal greed. She opened her legs wider, pulled at his back to urge more of his weight on her, trying in spite of the pain to tug him deeper, harder. Braced on his elbows to keep from crushing her, he rested his head on her chest, his breath hot and light as it fanned over her nipple. The bristle of his cheek stung her skin a little, the sensation causing the tips of her breasts to contract. His sex was still buried inside her, though it had softened. He was silent but awake, his eyelashes a silky tickle against her skin. Evie remained quiet as well, her arms encircling his head, her fingers playing in his beautiful hair. She felt the weight of his head shift, the wet heat of his mouth seeking her nipple. His lips fastened over it, and his tongue slowly traced the outer edge of the gathered aureole, around and around until he felt her stirring restlessly beneath him. Keeping the tender bud inside his mouth, he licked steadily, sweetly, while desire ignited her breasts and her stomach and loins, and the soreness dissolved in a fresh wave of need. Intently he moved to the other breast, nibbling, stroking, seeming to feed on her pleasure. He levered upward enough to allow his hand to slide between them, and his cunning fingers slid into the wet nest of hair, finding the tingling feminine crest and teasing skillfully. She felt herself sliding into another climax, her body clamping voluptuously on the hot flesh that was insinuated deep inside her.

At that moment, the back door opened, and Great-grandfather wheeled himself outside. Slowly and carefully, Hannah stepped through the door behind him. Aunt Blythe followed, balancing a tray loaded with a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses. "Come along, you two," Hannah called. “Tarnation,” Andrew muttered. “Am I going to have to see that jackass today?” Without letting me help, he levered himself out of the chair with his cane. “I bet Hannah woke the old coot up just to make me miserable.” When we joined the others on the porch, Great-grandfather refused to look at us. Keeping his head down, he fidgeted with the blanket on his lap. “This is a fine way to greet me,” Andrew said. “Maybe he doesn’t recognize you.” Aunt Blythe bent down to peer into Great-grandfather’s face. “Your cousins are here, Father. Can you say hello to Hannah and Andrew?” “It’s my house,” he mumbled. “They can’t have it.” Andrew looked as if he wanted to give his cousin a punch in the nose, but Hannah intervened. “We know the house is yours, Edward,” she said. “Don’t worry, we haven’t come to take it back. Andrew and I have our own home.” Great-grandfather raised his head and stared at Hannah. “You never liked me. Neither did your brothers. I wasn’t welcome in this house when you lived here. Now it’s mine and you’re not welcome.” Ignoring Aunt Blythe’s protests, Great-grandfather wheeled himself toward the back door. “You and your Roosevelt,” he muttered before he disappeared. “Too bad you women ever got the vote.” “Please excuse Father,” Aunt Blythe said. “He’s having one of his bad days.” Andrew snorted. “All of Edward’s days have been bad, every blasted one of them.” Hannah rapped his fingers. “Don’t be so ornery, Andrew. What will Blythe think of you?” “I say what’s on my mind. Always have.” Andrew shot me a grin. “Isn’t that right, Drew?” Hannah frowned at her brother. “How on earth can Drew answer a question like that?” My aunt didn’t notice the warning tone in her cousin’s voice, but I did. From the look she gave Andrew, I was sure Hannah knew everything.

I see the good in you.” “Don’t harbor illusions about me. In marrying me, you’re going to have to make the best of a bad bargain. You don’t understand the situation you’re in.” “You’re right.” Beatrix arched in bliss as he massaged the muscles on either side of her spine. “Any woman would pity me, being in this situation.” “It’s one thing to spend an afternoon in bed with me,” Christopher said darkly. “It’s another to experience day-to-day life with a lunatic.” “I know all about living with lunatics. I’m a Hathaway.” Beatrix sighed in pleasure as his hands worked the tender places low on her back. Her body felt relaxed and tingly all over, her bruises and aches forgotten. Twisting to glance at him over her shoulder, she saw the austere lines of his face. She had an overwhelming urge to tease him, to make him play. “You missed a place,” she told him. “Where?” Levering herself upward, Beatrix turned and crawled to where Christopher knelt on the mattress. He had donned a velvet dressing robe, the front parting to reveal a tantalizing hint of sun-browned flesh. Linking her arms around his neck, she kissed him. “Inside,” she whispered. “That’s where I need soothing.” A reluctant smile lurked at the corners of his lips. “This balm is too strong for that.” “No it’s not. It feels lovely. Here, I’ll show you--” She pounced for the tin of balm and coated her fingertips with the stuff. The rich scent of clove oil spiced the air. “Just hold still--” “The devil I will.” His voice had thickened with amusement, and he reached for her wrist. Fleet as a ferret, Beatrix twisted to evade him. Rolling once, twice, she dove for the belt of his robe. “You put it all over me,” she accused, giggling. “Coward. Now it’s your turn.” “Not a chance.” He grabbed her, grappled with her, and she thrilled to the sound of his husky laugh. Somehow managing to clamber over him, she gasped at the feel of his aroused flesh. She wrestled with him until he flipped her over with ease, pinning her wrists. The robe had become loosened during their tussle, their naked flesh rubbing together. Sparkling silver eyes stared into blue. Already breathless with laughter, Beatrix became positively lightheaded as she saw the way he was looking at her. Lowering his head, he kissed and licked at her smile as if he could taste it.

Then I remembered something else from the 2112 liner notes. I pulled them up and scanned over them again. There was my answer, in the text that preceded Part III—“Discovery”: Behind my beloved waterfall, in the little room that was hidden beneath the cave, I found it. I brushed away the dust of the years, and picked it up, holding it reverently in my hands. I had no idea what it might be, but it was beautiful. I learned to lay my fingers across the wires, and to turn the keys to make them sound differently. As I struck the wires with my other hand, I produced my first harmonious sounds, and soon my own music! I found the waterfall near the southern edge of the city, just inside the curved wall of the atmospheric dome. As soon as I found it, I activated my jet boots and flew over the foaming river below the falls, then passed through the waterfall itself. My haptic suit did its best to simulate the sensation of torrents of falling water striking my body, but it felt more like someone pounding on my head, shoulders, and back with a bundle of sticks. Once I’d passed through the falls to the other side, I found the opening of a cave and went inside. The cave narrowed into a long tunnel, which terminated in a small, cavernous room. I searched the room and discovered that one of the stalagmites protruding from the floor was slightly worn around the tip. I grabbed the stalagmite and pulled it toward me, but it didn’t budge. I tried pushing, and it gave, bending as if on some hidden hinge, like a lever. I heard a rumble of grinding stone behind me, and I turned to see a trapdoor opening in the floor. A hole had also opened in the roof of the cave, casting a brilliant shaft of light down through the open trapdoor, into a tiny hidden chamber below. I took an item out of my inventory, a wand that could detect hidden traps, magical or otherwise. I used it to make sure the area was clear, then jumped down through the trapdoor and landed on the dusty floor of the hidden chamber. It was a tiny cube-shaped room with a large rough-hewn stone standing against the north wall. Embedded in the stone, neck first, was an electric guitar. I recognized its design from the 2112 concert footage I’d watched during the trip here. It was a 1974 Gibson Les Paul, the exact guitar used by Alex Lifeson during the 2112 tour.

Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefore deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home. But now isn't simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until--later or sooner-- perhaps--no, not perhaps--quite certainly: it will come. Fear tweaks the vagus nerve. A sickish shrinking from what waits, somewhere out there, dead ahead. But meanwhile the cortex, that grim disciplinarian, has taken its place at the central controls and has been testing them, one after another: the legs stretch, the lower back is arched, the fingers clench and relax. And now, over the entire intercommunication system, is issued the first general order of the day: UP. Obediently the body levers itself out of bed--wincing from twinges in the arthritic thumbs and the left knee, mildly nauseated by the pylorus in a state of spasm--and shambles naked into the bathroom, where its bladder is emptied and it is weighed: still a bit over 150 pounds, in spite of all that toiling at the gym! Then to the mirror. What it sees there isn’t much a face as the expression of a predicament. Here’s what it has done to itself, here’s the mess it has somehow managed to get itself into the during its fifty-eight years; expressed in terms of a dull, harassed stare, a coarsened nose, a mouth dragged down by the corners into a grimace as if at the sourness of its own toxins, cheeks sagging from their anchors of muscle, a throat hanging limp in tiny wrinkled folds. The harassed look is that of a desperately tired swimmer or runner; yet there is no question of stopping. The creature we are watching will struggle on and on until it drops. Not because it is heroic. It can imagine no alternative. Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face—the face of the child, the boy, the young man, the not-so-young man—all present still, preserved like fossils on superimposed layers, and, like fossils, dead. Their message to this live dying creature is: Look at us—we have died—what is there to be afraid of? It answers them: But that happened so gradually, so easily. I’m afraid of being rushed. It stares and stares. Its lips part. It struggles to breathe through its mouth. Until the cortex orders it impatiently to wash, to shave, to brush its hair. Its nakedness has to be covered. It must be dressed up in the clothes because it is going outside, into the world of the other people; and these others must be able to identify it. Its behavior must be acceptable to them. Obediently, it washes, shaves, brushes its hair, for it accepts its responsibilities to the others. It is even glad that it has its place among them. It knows what is expected of it. It knows its name. It is called George.

So it was always at night, like a werewolf, that I would take the thing out for an honest run down the coast. I would start in Golden Gate Park, thinking only to run a few long curves to clear my head. . . but in a matter of minutes I'd be out at the beach with the sound of the engine in my ears, the surf booming up on the sea wall and a fine empty road stretching all the way down to Santa Cruz. . . not even a gas station in the whole seventy miles; the only public light along the way is an all-​night diner down around Rockaway Beach. There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, and no cooling it down on the curves. The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic off the wagon. I would come out of the park near the soccer field and pause for a moment at the stop sign, wondering if I knew anyone parked out there on the midnight humping strip. Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out. . . thirty-​five, forty-​five. . . then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but only some other werewolf loony who might be pulling out, too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these. . . and with three lanes on a wide curve, a bike coming hard has plenty of room to get around almost anything. . . then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-​five and the beginning of a windscream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board. Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights far up ahead coming closer, faster, and suddenly -- zaaapppp -- going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to sea. The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oil-​slick. . . instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-​inch notices in the paper the next day: “An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway I.” Indeed. . . but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there's no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-​burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes. But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right. . . and that's when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it. . . howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica. . . letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge. . . The Edge. . . There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others -- the living -- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.

I fell asleep and dreamed that I was a machine, mimicking the functions of life, creaking and clanking my clumsy way through a world, people too polite to say anything but giggling behind my back, and the little man who sat inside my head pulling the levers and clutches and watching the dials, he was hopelessly mad and was storing up hurts for the day- "Mandella—wake up, goddammit, your shift!

She had to come back through the bedroom, though, and Kidd pulled a drawing stool over to the laptop bench, sat and waited. Seven or eight minutes later, naked as the day she was born, fresh out of the shower, Grant walked across the bedroom, wiping down her back with a long white terrycloth towel. She was, Kidd thought, a healthy lass. As Kidd watched, she tossed the towel on her bed and walked over to a side table, reached behind it, and must have pushed a button or moved a lever—a built-in bookcase on a sidewall smoothly rotated away from the wall. Grant stepped over to the safe and after punching in a string of numbers on the safe’s keypad, she pulled open the heavy steel door and started taking out jewelry cases.

Very quickly, the Obama administration lost political momentum. The obscene sight of those who had played a major role in setting the scene for the Crash (men like Larry Summers, Tim Geithner, Ben Bernanke) effectively returning to the scene of the crime as ‘saviours’, wielding trillions of freshly minted or borrowed dollars to lavish upon their banker ‘mates’, was enough to turn off even the hardiest of Mr Obama’s supporters. The result was predictable: as often happens during a deflationary period (think of the 1930s, for example), those who gainpolitically do not come from the revolutionary Left; they come from the loony Right. In the United States it was the Tea Party that grew on the back of a disdain for bankers, 6 a denunciation of the Fed, a clarion call for ‘honest’, metal-backed money, 7 and a revulsion towards all government. Ironically, the rise of the Tea Party increased the interventions of the Fed that the movement denounced. The reason was simple: once the Obama administration had lost its way, and could not pass any meaningful bills through Congress that might have stimulated the economy, onlyone lever was left with which anyone could steer America’s macroeconomy – the Fed’s monetary policy. And since interest rates were dwelling in the nether world of the first liquidity trap to hit the United States since the 1930s8 (recall Chapter 2 here), the Fed decided that quantitative easing or QE – the strategy that Chapter 8 describes in the context of the 1990s’ ‘lost Japanese decade’ – was all that was left separating America from a repugnant depression.

Journal of Interdisciplinary Science Topics How many lies could Pinocchio tell before it became lethal? Steffan Llewellyn The Centre for Interdisciplinary science, University of Leicester 25/03/2014 Abstract: This paper investigates how many lies Pinocchio could continuously tell before it would become fatal, treating the head and neck forces as a basic lever system with the exponential growth of the nose. This paper concludes that Pinocchio could only sustain 13 lies in a row before the maximum upward force his neck could exert cannot sustain his head and nose. The head’s overall centre of mass shifts over 85 metres after 13 lies, and the overall length of the nose is 208 metres. Pinocchio’s Nose Pinocchio is the fable of a wooden puppet, carved by Geppetto, who dreams of becoming a real boy [1]. Pinocchio was portrayed as a character prone to lying, which is manifested physically through the ability to grow his nose when he tells a lie. One issue of growing his nose would be the shift of Pinocchio’s centre of mass within his head, causing strain on his neck, which helps stabilise his head’s position with upwards force. If this continued, then his neck could not support his head, potentially decapitating the puppet. Outlined here is the minimum lie count Pinocchio could continuously expel. Where Pinocchio manages to form new is not addressed in this paper. Maximum Force Pinocchio’s Neck Can Exert The assumption is simplified by allowing the force exerted upwards through the neck to be positioned at the back of the head. The head is treated as a sphere, and the nose as a cylinder, as shown in The type of wood Pinocchio is carved from is disputed, but for this paper, it is concluded that Pinocchio is made from Oak, with a density of . Pinocchio’s neck will brake if its compression strength threshold is overcome by the weight of his head. The compression strength of oak is 1150Psi [2], and the circumference of the average human neck is 0.4m [3]. The maximum force Pinocchio’s neck can sustain is: ( ) ( ) Centre of Mass, and Force Exerted Figure 1. Figure 1: Illustrates the lever system of Pinocchio’s head and neck, with opposite forcesNeck muscles are required to balance the weight exerted by the skull.Usually, the weight of the nose can be considered negligible. In Pinocchio’s case, as the nose increases, it will have a significant impact on the centre of mass and weight of his head. The mass of the head is unchanged: ( )

Tim turned around, and took a few steps away from her. It was as though a lever had been pulled that activated several mixtures of emotions that left him in a bizarre land searching through a wide forest for a particular tree that had an emergency shade of peace. He turned back around, and stood with his hands in his pockets. An empty bucket of happiness had been dumped out on the road of his burst bubble, and left him longing for the substance of a smile.

Collectivize one sixth of the earth? How? With what levers? Even the ultraleftist Trotsky, in a speech a few years back, had called a “transition to collective forms” of agriculture a matter of “one or two generations.

Levering himself upward, Swift reached for her hair, which had begun to fall from its pins. His fingers were gentle as he pulled feathers from the glinting black strands. For a silent minute or two they worked on each other. Daisy was so intent on the task that the impropriety of her position didn’t occur to her at first. For the first time she was close enough to notice the variegated blue of his eyes, ringed with cobalt at the outer edge of the irises. And the texture of his skin, satiny and sun-hued, with the shadow of close-shaven stubble on his jaw. She realized that Swift was deliberately avoiding her gaze, concentrating on finding every tiny piece of down in her hair. Suddenly she became aware of a simmering communication between their bodies, the solid strength of him beneath her, the incendiary drift of his breath against her cheek. His clothes were damp, the heat of his skin burning through wherever it pressed against hers. They both went still at the same moment, caught together in a half-embrace while every cell of Daisy’s skin seemed to fill with liquid fire. Fascinated, disoriented, she let herself relax into it, feeling the throb of her pulse in every extremity. There were no more feathers, but Daisy found herself gently lacing her fingers through the dark waves of his hair. It would be so easy for him to roll her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the damp earth. The hardness of their knees pressed together through layers of fabric, triggering a primitive instinct for her to open to him, to let him move her limbs as he would. She heard Swift’s breath catch. He clamped his hands around her upper arms and unceremoniously removed her from his lap. Landing on the grass beside him with a decisive thump, Daisy tried to gather her wits. Silently she found the pen-knife on the ground and handed it back to him. After slipping the knife back into his pocket, he made a project of brushing feathers and dirt from his calves. Wondering why he was sitting in such an oddly cramped posture, Daisy struggled to her feet. “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I suppose I’ll have to sneak back into the manor through the servants’ entrance. If Mother sees me, she’ll have conniptions.” “I’m going back to the river,” Swift said, his voice hoarse. “To find out how Westcliff is faring with the reel. And maybe I’ll fish some more.” Daisy frowned as she realized he was deliberately avoiding her. “I should think you’d had enough of standing up to your waist in cold water today,” she said. “Apparently not,” Swift muttered, keeping his back to her as he reached for his vest and coat.

May I sit down, please?” she asked mildly. “I’m tired of standing.” “There’s no place to sit.” “Yes there is.” Breaking away from him, Daisy went to the four-poster bed and tried to climb onto it. Unfortunately the bed was an antique Sheraton, built high to avoid winter drafts and allow for a trundle below. The top of the mattress was level with her breasts. Hoisting herself upward, she tried to lever her hips onto the mattress. Gravity defeated her. “Usually,” Daisy said, struggling and squirming with her feet dangling, “there’s a stair-step provided—” She grabbed handfuls of the counterpane. “— for beds this tall.” Straining to hook a knee over the edge of the mattress, she continued, “Good God… if someone fell out of this bed at night… it would be fatal.” She felt Matthew’s hands clamp around her waist. “The bed’s not that tall,” he said. Picking her up as if she were a child, he deposited her on the mattress. “It’s just that you’re short.” “I’m not short. I’m… vertically disadvantaged.” “Fine. Sit up.” His weight depressed the mattress behind her and his hands returned to the back of her dress.

The car slows down, interrupting his thoughts. "Here we are," says Ian, sitting up straight. He puts on his hat and takes a deep breath. "Let the show begin." He opens the door and camera flashes dazzle him. Adoring voices call him and a crowd circles him. "Come on, little Key." Maicol turns and smiles. "Excited girls can’t wait to tear you to pieces." He imitates a lion’s roar. Then he gets out and more flashes of light fly into the car. Andrea grasps the door handle, trying to keep his internal disorder under control. His skin sizzles as if on a grill and his heart is bursting through his rib cage. His hand trembles so much that he can’t even lower the simple lever. One door separates him from the new world that he’s about to enter. And he wonders why he's doing it. For the money? Because Susanna is enthusiastic? To glorify himself and his pride? Out of curiosity? He’s afraid of changing and perhaps Ian is right. The only thing is to be yourself, but put up barriers. He had been Andrea, as always, that afternoon in Clusone, but had placed Key in front as a layer to protect his true essence. His true self. Andrea thinks back to the image of his reflection. He focuses, wraps himself in it, and feels that he can control the turmoil. His breathing is regular. Calm now, he lowers the handle. He places a foot on the ground and steps out, as relaxed as if among friends. He’s bombarded by camera flashes and questions that fly at him wildly, but smiles as soon as Ian and Maicol stand by his side. "Good evening everyone. I’m Key," he says confidently. And time stops in a glow of solomonic certainty: now he knows who it was on stage with Nicolle.

I looked at my watch; it was one forty-five, only an hour and change before the conference with Cody’s teacher. I looked back at Patrick, bobbing there so insolently on his pilfered kayak, and the sight of him tripped a switch in the sinister clockwork machinery of Dexter’s bleak brain. A wheel chunked into gear and hit a lever that tipped a metal plate over and onto a fulcrum that thumped into a shiny cold ball so it rolled down the chute and into the “out” basket, and I picked it up, held it in my hand, and heard it whisper, There is just enough time. And there would be.

Just as it is important not to skip steps like crawling in physical development, it is important not to skip play, which allows for the development of a wide range of experiences, so that what is first grasped through action can later be learned anew through thought. Thus when the adolescent studies the laws of levers and mechanics in physics, he will have had the experience of shifting further forward or back on the seesaw, depending on the size of his friend; or the study of trajectories will have had its foundation in throwing balls or skipping stones.

Heroprime said nothing. He closed his eyes and his hands began to glow. Suddenly the rails began to transform: strips of red and gold appearing on them. He’s turning the rails into powered rails, Spidroth realized. In a moment the entire railtrack was transformed into powered rails. A lever appeared next to Heroprime, and he pulled it. The redstone on the tracks glowed, and then the minecart reversed direction, rolling back up the slope at super speed. The pigmen and villagers in iron armor all cheered.  “Heroprime did it!” a villager yelled. Up the top of the slope, all the pigmen in gold armor began to panic and run away as the minecart with TNT sped towards

More generally, looking back, it is quite clear that many of the important successes of the last few decades were the direct result of a policy focus on those particular outcomes, even in some countries that were and have remained very poor. For example, a massive reduction in under-five mortality took place even in some very poor countries that were not growing particularly fast, largely thanks to a focus on newborn care, vaccination, and malaria prevention.125 And it is no different with many of the other levers for fighting poverty, be it education, skills, entrepreneurship, or health.We need a focus on the key problems and an understanding of what works to address them.

If a text back from someone is considered a “reward,” consider the fact that lab animals who get rewarded for pushing a lever every time will eventually slow down because they know that the next time they want a reward, it will be waiting for them. So basically, if you are the guy or girl who texts back immediately, you are taken for granted and ultimately lower your value as a reward. As a result, the person doesn’t feel as much of an urge to text you or, in the case of the lab animal, push the lever.

of cherry vanilla Diet Dr Pepper, and their cell phones splayed out on the coffee table. A month ago, Ali had come to school with a brand-new LG flip phone, and the others had rushed out to buy their own that very day. They all had pink leather holsters to match Ali’s, too—well, all except for Aria, whose holster was made of pink mohair. She’d knitted it herself. Aria moved the camera’s lever back and forth to zoom in and out. “And anyway, my face isn’t going to freeze like this. I’m concentrating on setting up this shot. This is for posterity. For when we become famous.” “Well, we all know I’m going to get famous.” Alison thrust back her shoulders and turned her head to the side, revealing her swanlike neck. “Why are you going to be famous?” Spencer challenged, sounding bitchier than she probably meant to. “I’m going to have my own show. I’ll

The physics of diffuse axonal injury Given our understanding of the rotational nature of diffuse axonal injury, it is now possible for us to take what we learned about levers and rotational motion in the previous chapters and apply that knowledge here to help us understand how a punch to the chin ends up stretching and damaging axons in the brainstem and throughout the brain. The first step in this process is the punch. This punch must meet a minimum energy requirement because we will be causing structural damage to axons in the brain. This punch must also meet a minimum momentum requirement because we need to spin the whole head around to damage those axons. Considering what we know about knockout punches and how boxers train, it is relatively safe to say that meeting the minimum energy requirement is not difficult, but meeting the minimum momentum requirement is. Fast punches are important strategically, but increasing the effective mass behind your punches is what gives your punch the ability to lay your opponent out on the mat. Figure 5-2. The process of diffuse axonal injury from punch to axon stretching. Left: The punch hits your opponent. Center: The punch rotates your opponent’s head around an axis located in the neck. Right: Axons located a small distance from the axis of rotation become stretched as one end of the axon travels around the axis of rotation. This story takes us from the fist to the axon, but there is still something missing. We turn our heads left and right every day, sometimes very rapidly, so what makes a punch so special? The science is still too young to be sure, but I will speculate that the peak of the force curve (figure 5-3) is typically where the axon gets rapidly extended to its natural limit, but the tail of the force curve is where the axons are damaged. The primary reason for this speculation is the empirical knowledge that pushing off the back foot is essential for a good knockout punch. Boxers and martial artists from all styles stress the importance of this push to the success of a punch. Some strikes, such as a front-hand palm strike or a square-shouldered wing chun punch, for which a back-foot push is impossible, will still generate the same long-tail force profile in figure 5-3 by making contact before the arm is fully extended and using the muscles in the arm to apply force by continuing the extension. The same profile appears when athletes tackle each other in other contact sports. There is an initial peak force at the moment of collision, but the legs continue to push after the initial peak.

The neck is also a viable target. Given our understanding of diffuse axonal injury as the result of stretching forces on the axons in the brain (particularly near the base of the skull), it is reasonable to assume you could generate the same damage by applying a force on either side of the same axon. Since it appears that knockouts occur as a result of diffuse axonal injury involving the brainstem (Smith, et al., 2000), we should be able to apply our force to the neck to get a knockout as well. Of course, if you land a left hook to the chin, you get to use the head as a lever, but there are no levers for the neck, so you will have to apply more force to your strike in order to get the same result. We can see this in action in muay Thai, MMA, and kickboxing matches, where a kick to the side of the neck can cause an opponent to lose consciousness immediately. Strikes directly to the back of the head (at the base of the skull) generate the same effect, but the minimum force required is lower, possibly because there is less muscle and other tissue between the axons and the point of impact. These strikes are illegal in most styles of fighting for sport, but they are still good to know, just in case you find yourself in a life-or-death scenario with an opportunity to strike there.

It was fourteen hours later that Marra and the dust-wife flung themselves at the stone lid, scrabbling with all their strength. For a horrible moment, she thought that it would not be enough, that they would have to come back with levers, but it began, inch by agonising inch, to slide. They got it perhaps six inches and had to stop, panting. Fingers slid out of the gap and caught the edge. Marra nearly wept with relief. Fenris shoved the lid aside and sat up, gasping for air. 'You're really here,' he said, bending over so that his forehead touched his drawn-up knees. 'I kept imagining voices, but you're really here this time.' 'We're here,' said Marra, the words this time jabbing her like pins. He took a half dozen sobbing breaths. 'It is very close in there,' he said, 'even with holes.' His face was slick with sweat or tears, Marra did not know. 'Close and cold.' 'I'm sorry,' said Marra. 'I'm sorry. It was the only way I could think of.' She pulled him out of the coffin, or he climbed out and she helped, and he wrapped his arms around her and they stood together, shaking.

I’m so confused. You’re…actually the Ninth? Gideon the Ninth? You’re—what—alive?” The corpse let go of Palamedes’s wrist. He withdrew his arm, still holding the needle, and sat back on hs heels. The corpse levered herself up into a sitting position, then braced her arm against the floor and scrambled upright with surprising ease. She dusted off the thighs of her trousers. What shocked Nona was not that the corpse moved. It was the way in which she moved. Nona was so distracted that she couldn’t stop watching. She had never seen anyone move like that before. “Nope, and nope,” she said. “I’m Prince Kitiona Gaia the First, Her Divine Highness, First Lieutenant of the Cohort, Emperor’s Life Guards, non-auxiliary—honorary title but who cares—heir to the Emperor Divine, first of the Tower Princes. And I’m mega dead.

This is similar to the Twister technique, in that you are using a two-handed grip on the big stick in order to duplicate the sudden redirection of short stick abaniko, or fan, technique. Start in right high guard with the stick resting over your right shoulder. Throw an overight, then suddenly change direction so that the stick travels 180 degrees in the opposite direction, striking the opponent in the knee or groin with an underleft. It helps to step out to the right with your right foot to clear a path for the second strike. Suddenly pull the left hand back and downward, like pulling a lever, while simultaneously pushing forward and upward with the right. One possible application is to draw the opponent's left hand up to block your overight strike, then drop down to strike at the opening created at his knee or groin. Practice this technique on the heavy bag, striving to make both strikes as powerful and as close together as possible.

I had inherited from GM Estalilla's kabaroan a one-handed stick technique coupled with the staff grip bamboliya technique, and I was at an impasse, unable to progress or innovate any further. When I showed GM Maranga bamboliya technique he told me directly, “I don't like it. Let me show you what I would do.” He then held the stick in what I call “rifle grip,” with the right hand palm down and the left hand palm up. At first, rifle grip seemed all wrong, but the more I studied it I realized it was superior to staff grip in every application. Then I had a sudden insight—I could transition from bat grip to rifle grip and vice versa simply by sliding the left hand forward and back. That was the crucial concept in the development of Big Stick Combat. The Pop Up The pop up is a technique of GM Estalilla that enables the practitioner to transition from low guard to middle guard. Begin in low guard, with the right foot forward, both feet pointed straight ahead, the knees bent, and your shoulders squared to the opponent. Your aim is to lever the stick up so that it comes from its resting point on the ground just outside of your right foot up to your chest where your left hand can catch it. Rather than lift up with your right wrist or arm, the secret is to jerk your right elbow backward, which causes the end of the stick to arc upward off the ground. Place your left hand at your chest, palm out, to catch the stick as it swings upward. Once you have stopped the stick, rotate your left palm around to grip the stick so that your left thumb faces your chest. An important tip is to keep the end of the stick aligned with, and pointed at, the opponent's centerline. Rapier Thrust Execute the pop up, but the moment the stick hits your left palm, throw the end of the stick forward as your thrust with the right. Your left hand will slide along the stick until it comes to rest against the right hand—you are now in bat grip. One possible follow-up is to step forward, kicking low to the knee or groin with the rear left foot. As you kick with the left foot, throw the stick over your right shoulder in preparation for an overight strike, When your left foot plants, strike with an overight diagonal blow. The kick can serve as a counter to a disarm or to prevent an opponent from closing as you wind up for the overight. This technique can also be used as a means of closing the distance: rapier thrust, low level kick, then overight finishing blow. You can also execute the rapier thrust from middle guard. Don't get hung up on the middle guard as a stance, even though many styles use the middle guard as a fighting stance, GM Estalilla among them. Think of the middle guard as a transition point where you are defending yourself at close range.

The first smack on her bare ass stopped the words in her throat. She tried to lever herself up, and he planted one hand across her entire lower back, holding her in place. Then he brought his huge palm down on her ass a second time. The sound was a sharp crack, the sting a quick burn. Tears instantly filled her eyes. “I didn’t mean—” “Oh, you did mean.” Four hard smacks punctuated his words. More tears filled her eyes because he really wasn’t holding back. He’d given her the out, and she’d challenged him.

The real problem is posed by those countrymen who are complete slaves to machines from a shockingly young age. All exceptions aside, it is impossible to make the average Finnish country dweller of over fifteen years of age ride a bicycle, ski or row — or even exercise in the fields. The spell of the car and its antecedent — the scooter — is unbelievable. A young man will travel a hundred metres to the sauna by car; as this involves backing the car, reversing and manoeuvring, opening and shutting garage doors, it is not a matter of saving time. In the case of farmers, moreover, the more technology advances — every sack of fertiliser now being lifted by a tractor, the spread and removal of manure being a mechanical feat — the more will their physical activities be limited to taking a few steps in the garden and climbing onto the benches of saunas. Lumberjacks have already been replaced by multi-tasking machines, while fishermen lever their trawl sacks with a winch, haul their nets with a lever, and gather their Baltic herrings with an aspirator from open fish traps.

Visitors stream in and out of the rooms and corridors. There are families to see, questions to answer, a new admission from the ED. It’s one thing after another—randomly, it seems—bouncing from one story to the next. Mr. Gunther, headed for the NIH, leaves with his wife. She gives me a long look as they head toward the elevator. I wish her well; living with Pascal’s wager can’t be easy. Mr. Kinney, a dapper corporate attorney, is also getting out of here after a rough two weeks. His pancreas is totally destroyed, replaced by puddles of necrotic fluid, yet he refuses to accept the fact that his fondness for single-malt scotch is the reason why. His wife gives me a long look, too, then they’re gone. Jim, the Cardiology fellow, shows me the echocardiogram he just did on Mr. Warner, our guy with HIV. Nothing there, Jim says, no vegetation, no sign of endocarditis. We consider what this means, make a plan. Up on 10 Central, Mr. Mukaj’s bladder irrigation backs up painfully again but there’s nowhere else we can put him, no empty beds in the ICU or Step-Down Unit, no place where he can have his own nurse with him all the time. We bounce this around, too, decide to try this, then that, we’ll see. Mr. Harris, our patient with Marfan syndrome, a plastic aorta, and a septic hip joint, spikes a fever again. Not good. We make a plan. And so it goes, on into the evening. On days like this, doctoring feels like pinball: nonstop random events—intercepted here, altered there, prolonged or postponed by this or that, the bells and boinks sounding all around—and sometimes you can’t be sure whether you’re the guy pushing the buttons, manipulating the levers, and bumping the machine, or whether you’re inside the machine, whether you’re the pinball itself.

But many times the cage has an open door, and a man has only to walk out if he wishes. If he does not, it is usually his script which keeps him there. That is familiar and reassuring, and after looking out at the great world of freedom with all its joys and dangers, he turns back to the cage with its buttons and levers, knowing that if he keeps busy pushing them, and pushes the right one at the right time, he will be assured of food, drink, and an occasional thrill. But always, such a caged person hopes or fears that some force greater than himself, the Great Experimenter or the Great Computer, will change or end it all.

Orthodox Christians must stop thinking of ourselves as the temporarily exiled rulers of America who can be restored to power if only an election or two would go our way. We must start accepting the truth that, sociologically speaking, we are a minority subculture. If this accurately describes the current state of American Christianity, the task before the church is not to “take back the levers of power,” but rather to convert a pagan world.

And how do we know that?” I riposted. “Because they’ve screwed up so many of them! Secrecy they have plenty of. What they are crucially short of are competence and reliability. If a Soviet Premier were to order a nuclear mine built, he’d be delivered something the size of a Sherman tank, that worked one time out of four… and sure as God made little green horseflies, somebody on the very first penetration team would defect. That’s the problem they’ll never crack: if a man is intelligent enough to be worth sending abroad, they don’t dare let him out of the country.” “They build very good missiles,” she argued. “That suggests they can produce good technology if they want to badly enough.” “Says who? How often do they ever fire one at a target anyone else can monitor? I told you: esoteric weapons are one of my hobbies.” “Well, very good spaceships—that’s the same thing.” “They build shitty spaceships. Ever seen the inside of one? They look like something out of Flash Gordon, or the cab of a steam locomotive. Big knife-switches and levers and dials that’d look natural in a Nikola Tesla exhibit. No computers worth mentioning. After the Apollo-Soyuz linkup, our guys came back raving at the courage of anyone who would ride a piece of junk like that into space.” “The Soviet space program is much more substantial than America’s! It has been since long before Apollo.” “With shitty spaceships. It’s just that they don’t stop building them, the way this stupid country has. Did you ever hear the story about the first Soviet space station crew?” “Died on reentry, didn’t they? Something about an air leak?” “Leonov, the first man ever to walk in space, has been in the identical model reentry vehicle many times. He’s been quoted assaying that the crew of that mission had to have heard the air whistling out, and that any of the three of them could easily have reached out and plugged the leak with a finger. They died of a combination of bad technology and lousy education. You wait and see: if the Soviets ever open the books and let us compare duds and destructs, you’ll find out they had a failure rate much higher than ours. You know those rockets they’ve got now, that everybody admires so much, the ‘big dumb boosters’? They could have beat us to the Moon with those. But of the first eight to leave the launch pad, the most successful survived for seventeen seconds. So they used a different booster for the Moon project, and it didn’t make the nut.

A black moth was resting on his car's windscreen. Strange, he thought. It hadn't rained in weeks. He flicked on his headlights and turned on the windscreen wipers to scare away the creature. But it did not move and instead of flying away, the moth was squashed, its innards splattering all over the glass. Fuck. Jacob pressed the lever that squirted water onto the windscreen. Just then another moth appeared, flying up to and resting on the glass. He got out of the car and flicked the insect away with his fingers, but as he did that, he felt something brush his left ear. Spinning around, he saw another moth and swatted at it, but it fluttered all the closer. Another landed on his right eye and, cursing, Jacob choked as yet another winged insect bumped against his chin and then flapped its way into his mouth. The feel of powdery wings against his tongue made him gag and he tried to spit, but the creatures seemed to be flying deeper, making for the back of his throat. Soon he was crouched on his knees, coughing, trying to vomit for he was sure the moth and many others had got inside his stomach. Jacob shouted for help, but made no sound, his mouth full of wings.

If I was writing one of those science-fiction novels Dad used to read to us, I’d start by inventing time travel and going back to our last fight in my bedroom. I’d come knock on your door and I’d tell you I’m sorry, and I love you. And then I’d push that lever back even farther, and I’d find our grandparents and I’d teach them how to say those things to our parents first.

The jetpod. Two harnesses up front, facing actual manual controls. Two at the rear. Lots of padding. A whole bunch of lockers, with reliable heavy-weight fonts designating which piece of impractical equipment they contained: beacons, medkits, material converters. Everywhere were handles. She could trace the inspiration of this design back to bright, plastic toys for babies, with levers and keys that made clicking sounds.

He shifted the gear lever, the car moved off, and I felt my heart lose its rhythm. He drove off very fast; he disappeared. For ever. He will never come back. It will not be he who comes back.

Bernie was their last chance. A politician who came so very close to the nomination and the levers of power that he gave them back something they didn’t realize they’d lost or ever wanted in the first place: hope.

When next Eve woke, the sun was shining through the windows. She blinked and realized a large male arm was thrown across her stomach, pinning her in place. Oddly, she didn't panic. Instead she gingerly removed the arm and slowly, carefully levered herself up to peer at her sleeping bedmate. Asa Makepeace was on his back, his arms and legs spread wide and taking up most of the bed. A sunbeam struck his hair, making gold and red strands glint in the brown. Dark reddish brown hair stubbled his jaw. His lips were slightly parted and on each exhalation was the faintest suggestion of a snore. Eve smiled at the sound and reached for the small sketchbook and pencil that always sat on the table beside her bed. She settled back against the pillows and began drawing him: the slightly overlarge nose, the eyes unlined in sleep, the slack, beautiful mouth. How was it possible that this man she'd at first found merely irritating, overwhelmingly male- 'frightening'- should turn out to have so many sides to him? A lover of opera. A fighter of highwaymen. A shouter of arguments. A savior of stray dogs. Stubborn, cynical, violent, and sometimes mean. And yet a man who had tenderly shown her how to love. No one had ever cared so much for her.

Skippy, you little fool, you are off on another of your senseless and retrograde journeys. Come back here, to the points. Here is where the paths divided. See the man back there. He is wearing a white hood. His shoes are brown. He has a nice smile, but nobody sees it. Nobody sees it because his face is always in the dark. But he is a nice man. He is the pointsman. He is called that because he throws the lever that changes the points. And we go to Happyville, instead of to Pain City. Or "Der Lied-Stadt," that's what the Germans call it. There is a mean poem about the Lied-Stadt, by a German man named Mr. Rilke. But we will not read it, because WE are going to Happyville. The pointsman has made sure we'll go there. He hardly has to work at all. The lever is very smooth, and easy to push. Even you could push it, Skippy. If you knew where it was. But look what a lot of work he has done, with just one little push. He has sent us all the way to Happyville, instead of to Pain City. That is because he knows just where the points and the lever are. He is the only kind of man who puts in very little work and makes big things happen, all over the world. He could have sent you on the right trip back there, Skippy. You can have YOUR fantasy if you want, you probably don't deserve anything better, but Mister Information tonight is in a kind mood. He will show you Happyville. He will begin by reminding you of the 1937 Ford. Why is that dacoit-faced auto still on the roads? You said "the War," just as you rattled over the points onto the wrong track. The War WAS the set of points. Eh? Yesyes, Skippy, the truth is that the War is keeping things alive. THINGS. The Ford is only one of them. The Germans-and-Japs story was only one, rather surrealistic version of the real War. The real War is always there. The dying tapers off now and then, but the War is still killing lots and lots of people. Only right now it is killing them in more subtle ways. Often in ways that are too complicated, even for us, at this level, to trace. But the right people are dying, just as they do when armies fight. The ones who stand up, in Basic, in the middle of the machine-gun pattern. The ones who do not have faith in their Sergeants. The ones who slip and show a moment's weakness to the Enemy. These are the ones the War cannot use, and so they die. The right ones survive. The others, it's said, even KNOW they have a short life expectancy. But they persist in acting the way they do. Nobody knows why. Wouldn't it be nice if we could eliminate them completely? Then no one would have to be killed in the War. That would be fun, wouldn't it, Skippy?

Mom, I want something.” Lora grinned at her daughter, knowing that at some point she would have to curb the ‘I-wants’, but not just yet. “What’s that, honey?” “I want Chad to stay here with us. All the time.” Chad went still beside her, but when she looked up, he was grinning at Mercy. He glanced at her, brows raised, to check her response. Lora sucked in a breath, knowing that she was on uncharted, sandy ground. In her deepest heart, she wanted the same thing, but did she dare say it? As she looked into the gentle reassurance in his expression, she knew it would just take a tiny leap of courage. “Chad, would you like to stay here with us?” Lora forgot how to breathe as she waited for some kind of response. Chad seemed to be dragging out the anticipation though. After several long seconds, he nodded his head. But he held up a cautioning finger. “I would love to be a kept man, but it kind of goes three ways.” Moving from the couch, he went down on one knee in front of Mercy, sitting on the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny gold ring. “Mercy O’Neil, will you marry me and be my awesome daughter? To have and to hold, in muddy times and clean? And help me keep your mother happy and safe?” Mercy nodded her head as hard as she could, laughing and crying at the same time. She flung her arms around Chad’s neck and sobbed. Lora’s eyes were leaking as well, so overcome with love that he had thought to include Mercy. But then he turned his damp eyes to her and she was rocked with the deep-in-her-heart knowledge of what was coming next. Levering to his feet, still holding Mercy against him, he circled the table to kneel in front of her. Then he reached into that pocket again and pulled out a shining white gold solitaire ring. His eyes incredibly kind, he held it out. “Lora O’Neil, would you do me the honor of wearing my ring? I promise to protect you and love you as long as I’m allowed, in whatever way I’m allowed, and I promise to always have Starlight mints at the ready.” Lora wept with fear and joy and laughter, knowing that she would never find another man like him. Nodding, she held her shaking hand out and allowed him to slip the ring onto her finger. Then she whipped her arms around his neck, and the three of them rocked back and forth. He pulled back enough to capture her lips with his own, sealing the love between them. “No rush,” he murmured in her ear. “We’ll take it a day at a time. Just know that I love you with all my heart.” “And I love you,” she whispered. “More than I ever dared dream I could.” Mercy

In government, Democrats are using the levers of power to undermine our fundamental right to free speech. In a democratic republic like ours, without a free, fair choice in elections, individualism takes a back seat to collectivism.

It is one of the eternal stories that are told about soccer: when Brazil gets knocked out of a World Cup, Brazilians jump off apartment blocks. It can happen even when Brazil wins. One writer at the World Cup in Sweden in 1958 claims to have seen a Brazilian fan kill himself out of “sheer joy” after his team’s victory in the final. Janet Lever tells that story in Soccer Madness, her eye-opening study of Brazilian soccer culture published way back in 1983, when nobody (and certainly not female American social scientists) wrote books about soccer. Lever continues: Of course, Brazilians are not the only fans to kill themselves for their teams. In the 1966 World Cup a West German fatally shot himself when his television set broke down during the final game between his country and England. Nor have Americans escaped some bizarre ends. An often cited case is the Denver man who wrote a suicide note—”I have been a Broncos fan since the Broncos were first organized and I can’t stand their fumbling anymore”—and then shot himself. Even worse was the suicide of Amelia Bolaños. In June 1969 she was an eighteen-year-old El Salvadorean watching the Honduras–El Salvador game at home on TV. When Honduras scored the winner in the last minute, wrote the great Polish reporter Ryszard Kapuscinski, Bolaños “got up and ran to the desk which contained her father’s pistol in a drawer. She then shot herself in the heart.” Her funeral was televised. El Salvador’s president and ministers, and the country’s soccer team walked behind the flag-draped coffin. Within a month, Bolaños’s death would help prompt the “Soccer War” between El Salvador and Honduras.

I love you, Ellen Markham.” He kissed her cheek. “When are you going to tell me you love me?” “How can you be sure I do?” Val hiked a leg across her thighs. “First, you are sending me away. This is proof positive you love me, for you are trying to protect me from some sort of grave peril only you can perceive.” Ellen’s breathing hitched, and Val knew his guess had been right. Gratified by that success, he marched forward. “Second”—he slipped a hand over her breast—“you make love with me, Ellen. You hold nothing back, ever, and are so passionate I am nigh mindless with the pleasure of our intimacy.” He punctuated this sentiment by dipping his head and suckling gently on her nipple. She groaned and arched up toward him. “I make my point.” Val smiled in the dark and raised his head. “Third, there is the way I make love with you.” “And how is that?” She sounded more breathless than curious. Val shifted his body over hers. “As if I trust you. I know you are human, and you will do what you think best, but you do it with my interests in mind, Ellen. I don’t have to watch myself with you, because you love me, truly. I know it. It isn’t the way my siblings love me, though they are dear. It isn’t how my parents love me, which is more instinct than insight. It isn’t the way my friends love me, though they are both dear and insightful.” “So how is it?” Ellen asked, slipping her legs apart to cradle him intimately. “It’s the way I want and need to be loved,” Val said quietly, resting his weight against the soft, curving length of her. “It’s perfect.” “But I am sending you away,” Ellen reminded him, her fingers at his nape. Val levered up on his forearms and began to nudge lazily at her sex with his erection. “So you’re running out of time to tell me the things that matter, aren’t you?” If she was going to use words to answer, Val forestalled her reply by kissing her within an inch of her soul. Her response was made with her body, and to Val’s mind she told him, as emphatically as any woman ever told her man, she did, indeed, unequivocally love him. And always would. “What

Lift up.” Green smiled devilishly. “I’m gonna help you relax.” Ruxs was already panting heavily as he rose up and let Green push his pants just below his balls.  Green pulled the lever to push the seat all the way back and quickly buried his nose in the thick patch of hair at the base of Ruxs’ dick. He took a long inhale, breathing in his manly scent before closing his mouth over the thick head, sucking gently at first. Even though they were high enough off the ground that if a car drove onto the lot, they wouldn’t be able to see him, he still wanted to get Ruxs off fast. He moaned around the thick girth, taking it all the way to the back of his throat. “Oh

I got waylaid by another of your throng of supporters and well-wishers so you only have yourself to blame.” “So I heard,” he said. “I’ll be sure to thank her later and tip double the usual when we order breakfast in tomorrow morning.” “Awfully sure of yourself, mister.” “Finish climbing that ladder and I’ll be happy to explain the source of my confidence.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Or, better yet, I’ll show you.” “Well, if I’d known there was going to be show and tell, I’d have gotten up here sooner.” She finished her climb and took hold of Cooper’s hand as he levered himself off the balcony deck and pulled her all but bodily up through the trapdoor and into his arms. “My, my,” she said, as he hauled her up against him, feet dangling off the floor, and held her there as he walked her into the room, using his elbow to hit the button to close the screens and turn them opaque. “The invitation didn’t say clothing optional,” she said, running her sandaled feet up the back of his bare legs. Which matched the rest of him. She let out a little laugh as he tossed her gently on the bed. “That’s because I wanted to peel your clothes off you,” he said, following her down. “Well,” she said, stretching her arms up over her head, “if you must.

At noon one day Will Hamilton came roaring and bumping up the road in a new Ford. The engine raced in its low gear, and the high top swayed like a storm-driven ship. The brass radiator and the Prestolite tank on the running board were blinding with brass polish. Will pulled up the brake lever, turned the switch straight down, and sat back in the leather seat. The car backfired several times without ignition because it was overheated. “Here she is!” Will called with a false enthusiasm. He hated Fords with a deadly hatred, but they were daily building his fortune. Adam and Lee hung over the exposed insides of the car while Will Hamilton, puffing under the burden of his new fat, explained the workings of a mechanism he did not understand himself. It is hard now to imagine the difficulty of learning to start, drive, and maintain an automobile. Not only was the whole process complicated, but one had to start from scratch. Today’s children breathe in the theory, habits, and idiosyncracies of the internal combustion engine in their cradles, but then you started with the blank belief that it would not run at all, and sometimes you were right. Also, to start the engine of a modern car you do just two things, turn a key and touch the starter. Everything else is automatic. The process used to be more complicated. It required not only a good memory, a strong arm, an angelic temper, and a blind hope, but also a certain amount of practice of magic, so that a man about to turn the crank of a Model T might be seen to spit on the ground and whisper a spell. Will Hamilton explained the car and went back and explained it again. His customers were wide-eyed, interested as terriers, cooperative, and did not interrupt, but as he began for the third time Will saw that he was getting no place. “Tell you what!” he said brightly. “You see, this isn’t my line. I wanted you to see her and listen to her before I made delivery. Now, I’ll go back to town and tomorrow I’ll send out this car with an expert, and he’ll tell you more in a few minutes than I could in a week. But I just wanted you to see her.” Will had forgotten some of his own instructions. He cranked for a while and then borrowed a buggy and a horse from Adam and drove to town, but he promised to have a mechanic out the next day.

Framing. While common sense suggests we should start to plan by defining goals, it also helps to study the lens through which we see problems and solutions. By examining needs, wants, feelings, and beliefs, we’re better able to know and share our vision and values. Imagining. By expanding our awareness of paths and possibilities, we create choice and inform strategy. We search and research for information, then play with models to stray beyond knowledge. Sketches draw insights that help us add options and refine plans. Narrowing. After diverging, it’s critical to converge by prioritizing paths and options. This requires study of drivers, levers, estimates, and consequences, as the value of a strategy is tied to time and risk. Deciding. While decisions are often made in an instant, the process of committing to and communicating a course of action merits time and attention. Instructions are essential to the rendering of intent. Words matter. So do numbers. Define metrics for success carefully. Executing. The dichotomy between planning and doing is false. In all sorts of contexts, we plan as we travel, build, or get things done. Reflecting. While it helps to ask questions throughout the process, we should also make space to look back at the whole from the end. Long before the invention of time, people used the North Star to find their way in the dark. In the future, I hope you will use these principles and practices to make your way in the world. Figure 1-10. Principles and practices of planning.

Pull the lever lay your seat back laughing. You slipping off your shoes.