Bain Quotes

Books and ideas are the most effective weapons against intolerance and ignorance.

Ask him about the cemeteries, Dean!

She had loved him, and he had needed to break her completely to leave her for good. Agnes Bain was too rare a thing to let someone else love. It wouldn't do to leave pieces of her for another man to collect and repair later.

Sadness made for a better houseguest; at least it was quiet, reliable, consistent.

Shug had seen it before, those with least to give always gave the most.

Flames are not just the end, they are also the beginning. For everything that you have destroyed can be rebuilt. From your own ashes you can grow again.

She was no use at maths homework, and some days you could starve rather than get a hot meal from her, but Shuggie looked at her now and understood this was where she excelled. Everyday with the make-up on and her hair done, she climbed out of her grave and held her head high. When she had disgraced herself with drink, she got up the next day, put on her best coat, and faced the world. When her belly was empty and her weans were hungry, she did her hair and let the world think otherwise.

But really, aren't there bits of magic everywhere we look?' Dr. Clifton continues. 'We've just stopped seeing it that way.

Rain was a natural state of Glasgow. It kept the grass green and the people pale and bronchial.

It was clear now: nobody would get to be made brand new.

I would not regret putting a hole in your arrogant chest, only it would be deflected when it hit that piece of rock you call a heart.

He had long perfected the art of staring through people, leaving conversations to follow his daydreams through the back of their heads and out any open window.

Le seul véritable voyage, le seul bain de Jouvence, ce ne serait pas d'aller vers de nouveaux paysages, mais d'avoir d'autres yeux, de voir l'univers avec les yeux d'un autre, de cent autres, de voir les cent univers que chacun d'eux voit, que chacun d'eux est;

Any new corpses today?" "None yet." "Pity. I’m getting so I miss my morning coffee and corpse.

The 1960s: A lot of people remember hating President Lyndon Baines Johnson and loving Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, depending on the point of view. God rest their souls.

Shuggie heard the nurse say to a male attendant that she thought for sure Agnes was a working girl. “She is not,” said Shuggie, quite proudly. “My mother has never worked a day in her life. She’s far too good-looking for that.” The matted mink coat gave her an air of superiority, and her black strappy heels clacked out a slurred beat on the long marble hallway.

Heroic," Crane told Baines contemptuously. "Old women, idiot children, bound men, you'll take on all comers. There's a three-legged stray dog hangs around the lanes here. Perhaps someday you could work up to kicking that.

If we stand passively by while the centre of each city becomes a hive of depravation, crime and hopelessness…if we become two people, the suburban affluent and the urban poor, each filled with mistrust and fear for the other…then we shall effectively cripple each generation to come.

The morning light was the colour of too-milky tea. It snuck into the bedsit like a sly ghost, crossing the carpet and inching slowly up his bare legs.

She’d looked as happy as he could ever remember, and he was surprised how this hurt. It was all for the red-headed man. He had done what Shuggie had been unable to do.

Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shown Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken. (from When the Splendor Falls by Laurie McBain)

Big Shug Bain had seemed so shiny in comparison to the Catholic. He had been vain in the way only Protestants were allowed to be, conspicuous with his shallow wealth, flushed pink with gluttony and waste.

As I reached out for help, everyone shrank back from me; they pulled away from fear that the fire would return

am in flames, yet I do not burn.” He wiped the spit from the corners of his mouth. “That’s what Saint Agnes had to teach us. How even in the darkness there is still hope.

It's Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air.

At the best of times, Father Bain's face resembled a clenched fist.

Il existe des femmes dont le mystère s'évente d'un seul coup lorsqu'elles se mettent à rire. Comme si quelqu'un allumait des néons de salle de bains au milieu d'une forêt de conte de fées. Toi, tu fais pousser des forêts de conte de fées dans un bouquet de néon.

dunno. I think it’s what all alkies want anyways.” She shivered. “To die, I mean. Some are just taking the slow road to it.

The rubber tip had worn away from around the right heel, and although she had coloured the shoe in with an old black bingo marker, the sharp metal nail scraped the floor with the screech of hard times.

Know that wherever I am, it is always farther than I wish to be from you, and that you are never beyond the reach of my thoughts.

may your dreams be filled with stars and not with shadows,

Sarcasm is a weapon of the intellectual,

He’s [Nixon] like a Spanish horse, who runs faster than anyone for the first nine lengths and then turns around and runs backwards. You’ll see; he’ll do something wrong in the end. He always does.

He locked the door that lay behind his eyes and walked away, leaving the body, the plaster dust, the flask of cold tea, and the angry gaffer behind.

70 out of 100 people in the world cannot read... if you can read then you are the luckiest out of 2 million people in the world that cannot.

The damp wind kissed her flushed neck and pushed down inside her dress. It felt like a stranger’s hand, a sign of living, a reminder of life.

And I think that for the rest of my life I will never forget this night—​when under an empty ink sky, a boy who shone brighter than the stars stopped long enough to smile at me.

We got enough champagne here to start a France.

I knew you’d come around” Bain mused. “Excuse me?” Izzy asked irritated by his smug tone, but she had been totally checking him out. “You see something you like sweetheart, I can tell.” He smirked. “You are incredibly arrogant” she accused. “True.

Mammy, can you no help?’ and ah just turned to her and said, ‘I have raised my children. I. Am. Done.

To Shuggie, the aunties who came to visit were often worse. It was like Agnes’s worse qualities went out and found a friend.

wondered why he tolerated these other children but had left him.

You're so fucking tight," Baine murmurs, his words dipped in sin. "Covered in blood, looking like a fucking goddess of death." "She tastes so good too," Timothy sighs around my center, nearly grinding his lips against me.

But what is love if not life, siphoned out and given away and spent freely for others each day?

I wonder, my heart closing up like a night flower, exactly how many minutes of separation it takes to turn someone you love into a stranger.

No, hen, we’re drinking piss-cold tea,” scolded Bridie. “It’s only ye who’s neckin’ vodka like it was tap water.

Just ink,’ he says. 'Just ink.’ Probably the most dangerous substance on this here earth. There’ve been wars started by 'just ink.

You got to be there for it to happen!

You know, a man ain't worth a damn if he can't cry at the right time.

What was once built to be new and healthful now looked sick with a poverty of hope.

Give your Bain Vitamin H Hope is te most powerful supplement available to us, and thankfully, we can make hope for ourselves any time just by changing our thoughts and attitudes.

There is no way Shuggie Bain can dance! Shuggie tutted. He wrenched himself from her side and ran a few paces ahead. He nodded, all gallus, and spun, just the once, on his polished heels.

The body lay outside an abandoned, boarded-up theater. The theater had started as a first-run movie house, many years back when the neighborhood had still been fashionable. As the neighborhood began rotting, the theater began showing second-run films, and then old movies, and finally foreign-language films.

and the girl and I get into her car and drive off into the hills and we go to her room and I take off my clothes and lie on her bed and she goes into the bathroom and I wait a couple of minutes and then she finally comes out, a towel wrapped around her, and sits on the bed and I put my hands on her shoulders, and she says stop it and, after I let her go, she tells me to lean against the headboard and I do and then she takes off the towel and she's naked and she reaches into the drawer by her bed and brings out a tube of Bain De Soleil and she hands it to me and then she reaches into the drawer and brings out a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses and she tells me to put them on and I do. And she takes the tube of suntan lotion form me and squeezes some onto her fingers and then touches herself and motions for me to do the same, and I do. After a while I stop and reach over to her and she stops me and says no, and then places my hand back on myself and her hand begins again and after this goes on for a while I tell her that I'm going to come and she tells me to hold on a minute and that she's almost there and she begins to move her hand faster, spreading her legs wider, leaning back against the pillows, and I take the sunglasses off and she tells me to put them back on and I put them back on and it stings when I come and then I guess she comes too. Bowie's on the stereo and she gets up, flushed, and turns the stereo off and turns on MTV. I lie there, naked, sunglasses still on and she hands me a box of Kleenex. I wipe myself off then look through a Vogue that's lying by the side of the bed. She puts a robe on and stares at me. I can hear thunder in the distance and it begins to rain harder. She lights a cigarette and I start to dress ....

had been a long time since he felt thawed all the way through, all of him warm at the exact same time.

George said. “I am on fire. I do not burn. It’s Saint Agnes’s lament.

If he got this and she got that, then what would they themselves do without? It was a mother's math.

So, here I am. Awake in the dark , twisting the knife in my wounds. What a goddamn delight life really is.

I’ve never liked those AA places. They attract the lowest kind of people. God gave you a will. You should use it to save yourself.

You can’t search for the truth with integrity if you’re only looking to find the kind that benefits you.

Normal people tend to do wrong, feel guilty, take responsibility, and atone. But dysfunctional people, tend to do wrong, justify what they did, blame others, and disrespect the victim.

I take a sip of coffee, surprised at how much I like its bitterness. And how sleep, a little sun, and a real breakfast can make everything seem infinitely better than it was yesterday.

At the southwest corner Malvern joined its fields to that of his nearest neighbor, John MacBain. Pierce held his horse just short of the border and looked across a meadow. Part of the MacBain house had been burned down. He had heard of it, but he had not seen it. Now it was plain. The east wing was grey and gaunt, a skeleton attached to the main house. Strange how crippled the house looked—like a man with his right arm withered! No, he was not going to let himself think about crippled men.

Peau de temps après la mort de son frère, à l'aide d'un rouge à levres couleur sang, Lucille avait écrit sur le miroir de notre salle de bains: <> Face à ce miroir, nous nous coiffons chaque matin, Manon et moi, cette menace tatouée sur le visage.

Que les huttes puissent tenir rang de palais, les habitués des suites royales ne le comprendront jamais. Ils n'ont pas connu l'onglée avant le bain moussant. Le luxe n'est pas un état mais le passage d'une ligne, le seuil où, soudain, disparaît toute souffrance.

How come ye don’t have a daddy?” His voice was already deep like a man’s. “I d-do,” Shuggie stuttered. Gerbil smiled. “Where is he then?” This Shuggie didn’t know. He had heard he was a whoremaster

The Reverend Elmer Gantry was reading an illustrated pink periodical devoted to prize fighters and chorus girls in his room at Elizabeth J. Schmutz Hall late of an afternoon when two large men walked in without knocking. "Why, good evening, Brother Bains—Brother Naylor! This is a pleasant surprise. I was, uh— Did you ever see this horrible rag? About actoresses. An invention of the devil himself. I was thinking of denouncing it next Sunday. I hope you never read it—won't you sit down, gentlemen?—take this chair— I hope you never read it, Brother Floyd, because the footsteps of—

In the twentieth century, with its eighteen American presidents, Lyndon Baines Johnson was the greatest champion that black Americans and Mexican-Americans and indeed all Americans of color had in the White House, the greatest champion they had in all the halls of government. With the single exception of Lincoln, he was the greatest champion with a white skin that they had in the history of the Republic. He was to become the lawmaker for the poor and the downtrodden and the oppressed. He was to be the bearer of at least a measure of social justice to those to whom social justice had so long been denied, the restorer of at least a measure of dignity to those who so desperately needed to be given some dignity, the redeemer of the promises made to them by America. He was to be the President who, above all Presidents save Lincoln, codified compassion, the President who wrote mercy and justice into the statute books by which America was governed.

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

He liked to roam alone in the darkness, getting a good look at the underbelly. Out came the characters shellacked by the grey city, years of drink and rain and hope holding them in place. His living was made by moving people, but his favourite pastime was watching them.

Howse aboots some light entertainment?

the city’s ills were supposed to disappear.

It would be drunk open mouths, hot red tongues, and heavy clumsy flesh. Pure Friday-night happiness.

The damp wind kissed her flushed neck and pushed down inside her dress.

to hold his arms tight. It

It looked like the lager beauties sometimes did, a careless printer and a misaligned screen, and suddenly the woman was no longer whole, just a mess of different layers.

Soon the greenish, brownish air filled with a dark tangy smell, metallic and sharp, like licking the end of a spent battery.

parsimonious

He existed, knew what he loved, and that he had been loved, and that somehow seemed enough in the moment.

Real readers re-read good books.

The moments of the class must belong to the student—not the students, but to the very undivided student. You don’t teach a class. You teach a student.

You don't learn from experience; you learn from reflecting on experience.

The best teaching is often both an intellectual creation and a performing art.

It all started in Florida. Of course. Fucking Florida.

Drugs and stealing go together like bagels and lox.

Once upon a time the wind whipping off the sea had turned the front of her thighs blue with the cold, but Agnes couldn’t feel it because she had been happy.

From where Eugene watched him, he looked like a half-shut penknife, a thing that should be sharp and useful, that was instead closed and waiting and rusting.

It was a relief in the same way old people enjoyed having a child in the room, because it gave them something to fuss over when they had nothing left to say to each other.

taking more space than was his to take and talking about himself with no modesty.

That ship has sailed, honey. Now you can either drown or hitch a ride on the next one.

But it unsettles me all the same: how the familiar can warp into something I no longer recognize in the space between one breath and the next.

She’s no gonnae get any better, son. Come away from there.” Shuggie paused for a second, he looked over his narrow shoulder bone and shrugged. “But she might.

It always rains on Mondays anyway. Monday is the bitchingest day in the week and should be struck completely from the calendar.

I'm learning that I'm actually quite good at hiding things. I am my mother's daughter, after all.

Agnes Bain was too rare a thing to let someone else love. It wouldn’t do to leave pieces of her for another man to collect and repair later.

You’re a good man, Dominic Baine.” “No. I’m not. But I want to be. For you.” “You’re the only man I want. The only one I love.

Bain’s view was always that C.T.

He [Lyndon Baines Johnson]turned out to be so many different characters he could have populated all of War and Peace and still had a few people left over.

It was “a shape to make men weep,” wrote Firdred of Bain when he first saw it: “exactly the shape of a desecrated sea.

What you have now then is the marketing of racialized identities as tools for consumption. And certain racialized bodies and images are associated with hipness, coolness, edginess. So all kinds of youth all over the world are appropriating that style as a way of, sort of, countering authority, stating their rebelliousness, and wanting to be seen as significant.

At the front door she pushed a jam piece and a peeled carrot into his hand and told him to go and play and not to come back till it was dark. She pointed out into the distance and waved her hand wide across the scheme, meaning he could go anywhere he pleased for all she cared.

Daddy, why are we going to the Capitol?” she asked her father. “Luci Baines, we have to go to the Capitol,” Johnson said to his daughter. “It’s the only place to go. As a result of this great legislation becoming the law of the land, there will be many men and women who will not be returning to these hallowed halls because of the decision they have made to support it. And because of this great legislation that I will be signing into law, there will be many men and women who will have an opportunity to come to the halls of Congress who could have never have come otherwise.

She was sobering up. She stared silently out the window, trying not to think of the trail of fatherless children and the childrenless father they were leaving in their wake. In her mind it looked like a trail of viscous, salty tears being dragged along behind the black hack. The excitement had left her by then.

Are you hungry?” “A little,” I paused, “and thirsty.” “Miss Collins will get you some dinner. And a glass of milk.” “Milk?” I said. I tried to raise my eyebrows but even that hurt. “Milk,” the doctor repeated.

she sounded bothered by the interruption. “Who’s your mammy, wee man?” “My mother is Agnes Campbell Bain,” he said. “C-can you tell her it’s Shu—Hugh.” He caught himself. “Can you please tell her I don’t have any custard left.” The woman leaned back into the noise of the party. “Haw, does anybody here know an Agnes?” she asked of the room behind her. There were other voices, and then she said, “Haud on a wee minute,

The red-headed ox was called Eugene. It was a good name, both old-fashioned and plain. It was the name mothers chose for first born sons, the ones that were to be solid and true, mother's pride but not her joy.

The meeting did succeed, however, in searing into the minds of several French officers a singular image: that of Churchill, angered by the French failure to prepare his afternoon bath, bursting through a set of double doors wearing a red kimono and a white belt, exclaiming, “Uh ay ma bain?”—his French version of the question “Where is my bath?” One witness reported that in his fury he looked like “an angry Japanese genie.

Shuggie always chose the same bright pink sponge pyramid, covered in red and white desiccated coconut and trimmed with a sugary sweetie on top. He would walk home very slowly in Wullie’s shadow, enjoying his spoils.

She had loved him, and he had needed to break her completely to leave her for good. Agnes Bain was too rare a thing to let someone else love. It wouldn’t do to leave pieces of her for another man to collect and repair later.

I had to see if you would actually come.” Agnes took hold of the neck of his jumper then. Shug picked up his money belt and kissed her with a forceful tongue. He had to squeeze all the small bones in her hands to get her to release him. She had loved him, and he had needed to break her completely to leave her for good. Agnes Bain was too rare a thing to let someone else love. It wouldn’t do to leave pieces of her for another man to collect and repair later.

Elle aurait écouté des heures durant cette parole arrachée à l'épaisseur des jours. Parce que le temps passé à se parler ainsi n'est pas du temps, c'est de la lumière. Le temps passé à se parler ainsi, c'est de l'eau qui lave l'âme, le bon ange.

As I was a stranger in Olondria, I knew nothing of the splendour of its coasts, nor of Bain, the Harbour City, whose lights and colours spill into the ocean like a cataract of roses. I did not know the vastness of the spice markets of Bain, where the merchants are delirious with scents, I had never seen the morning mists adrift above the surface of the green Illoun, of which the poets sing; I had never seen a woman with gems in her hair, nor observed the copper glinting of the domes, nor stood upon the melancholy beaches of the south while the wind brought in the sadness from the sea. Deep within the Fayaleith, the Country of the Wines, the clarity of light can stop the heart: it is the light the local people call 'the breath of angels'...

Le seul véritable voyage, le seul bain de Jouvence, ce ne serait pas d'aller vers de nouveaux paysages, mais d'avoirs d'autres yeux, de voir l'univers avec les yeux d'un autre, de cent autres, de voir les cent univers que chacun d'eux voit, que chacun d'eux est.

How can trade be bad if you don’t make money even when it’s good?” inquired Gleed, reasonably applying the information Harrison had given him. Jeff’s big moon eyes went over him slowly then turned to Harrison. “So he’s another bum off your boat, eh? What’s he talking about?” “Money,” explained Harrison. “It’s stuff we use to simplify trade. It’s printed stuff, like documentary obs of various sizes.” “That tells me a lot,” Jeff Baines observed. “It tells a crowd that has to make a printed record of every ob is not to be trusted — because they don’t even trust each other.

Luce se dépêche. Elle doit attraper un bus pour se rendre chez Titouan. Détour par la salle de bains pour vérifier que ses cheveux n'ont pas décidé de déclarer leur autonomie ; elle presse l'interrupteur. Un flash lui répond, accompagné d'un claquement sec. Cette fois, la lampe a grillé.

I've stuck like a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes; there's this to be said for the Church, a man can belong to the Church and bide in his cheerful old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. But to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and make yerself as frantic as a skit. Not but that chapel members be clever chaps enough in their way. They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all about their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper." "They can -- they can," said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling; "but we Churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or, dang it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer like the Lord than babes unborn," "Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we," said Joseph, thoughtfully. "Yes," said Coggan. "We know very well that if anybody do go to heaven, they will. They've worked hard for it, and they deserve to have it, such as 'tis. I bain't such a fool as to pretend that we who stick to the Church have the same chance as they, because we know we have not. But I hate a feller who'll change his old ancient doctrines for the sake of getting to heaven.

Sometimes the biggest decisions you make come by doing absolutely nothing.

You can't search for the truth with integrity if you're only looking to find the kind that benefits you.

But The Preacher operated on the theory that if you told a big enough lie often enough, people would accept it as the truth.

Agnes kissed him then. Eugene, solid and true. His lips were hard but tasted sweet.

He looked like a man made of graphite, like one of his own black-and-white drawings.

Everywhere he looked, McEwan’s Lager was spelt out in big white letters. Shuggie put his hand in his pocket and felt better feeling the dog-eared red book there.

Does your maw take a drink?” she asked abruptly. “Sometimes. Just a little,” admitted Shuggie. “How can you tell?” “You are too worried-looking.

She shrugged. “I dunno. I think it’s what all alkies want anyways.” She shivered. “To die, I mean. Some are just taking the slow road to it.

It’s hard to not know what you are coming in to at nights.” “Aye, but it’s never a hot dinner, is it?

Rain was the natural state of Glasgow. It kept the grass green and the people pale and bronchial.

Ego sum in flammis, ramen non adolebit. (frei übersetzt: Ich stehe in Flammen, aber ich verbrenne nicht)

Men were losing their very masculinity.

Colleen, you breathe like an old cocker spaniel. In the future when you phone someone to harass them, maybe you should try to shut your mouth and breathe through your nose.

He had been rubbing her back one morning as she told him she wanted to live somewhere she could have her anonymity back, a place her pride could be restored.

Shug would have liked to leave a sovereign print on his face.

A murdered young girl, and the best photo her family could provide was the extra copies she had done for her monthly transit pass.

From his real father he had inherited a gentle personality, quiet and pensive, lonesome and faraway.

Her brother had been gifted with legendary stubbornness; he just stared through you and floated away, leaving behind his frame to be pecked to pieces.

Whole housing estates of young men who were promised the working trades of their fathers had no future now. Men were losing their very masculinity.

Shug took the tip reluctantly. Fuck the English tourists and their bastarding Kodaks. Shug had seen it before, those with least to give always gave the most.

That was the problem with the young ones; they saw no reason to not expect better for themselves. She’d definitely have to go.

The day was flat. He nodded, all Gallup’s, and spun, just the once, on his polished heels.

Don’t let it bother you. They see the one thing that’s a bit more special than them and then they just pile on.

She thought of the happy hours parked under the Anderston overpass, happy hours before they really truly knew one another.

Red-haired, stocky, and flat-faced, his head joined directly to his body as if a neck were an unnecessary luxury.

With a heavy blink Agnes drew her eyes over the officious woman. The end of her nose was pitted like a small strawberry.

They were silent a good long time after that. It grew so late it became early.

the

A wise man is the master of his own mind” “A fool is a slave to his” - Publilius Syrus

Never be too proud to take advantage of the resources around you. Roanas’s voice echoed in my ears. A silver rope might burn, but you can still use it to climb out of a pit. Tears

Menschen haben das Recht, anders zu sein - sogar radikal anders -, vorausgesetzt sie fügen anderen durch ihre Taten keinen Schaden zu.

She didn't remember feeling nervous, as though someone was stalking her, watching her every move.

And then there was one nonsense phrase he said near constant. Sounded like ‘Cat hoodoo fat hag hen!

Time, he realized, while it seems so firm and constant, is really a slippery, barely-there substance, solid only as shapes made of fog.

Whiskey would do better to charge the conversation, but we’ll be wanting our wits about us. We have strange business to discuss.” ***

Er war blind dafür, so wie für die meisten schönen Dinge, denn die Gier hatte seine Seele überwuchert und alles andere verdrängt.

When we get to heaven we will be able to put the load down and just be nice!

We rise to defy the word of God, you will not stop us this time!

He shook his head no, but his lips said, “What are they?” She came closer and set the bag between them like she was feeding a cautious beast. Then Joanie the Hoor took two steps back.

My essay had evolved into thinking about fucking. You could be raped a thousand times and still be a virgin. I was writing about fucking by a master and fucking as a slave, about Hegel, the comfort women and teenage porno stars. Ms. Bain and Mr. Rotowsky could fail me, I didn’t care. I’d pass just with the bibliography. I was compiling a list of every single book I’d read or that I wanted to read that was about power and sex. High school should have a whole fucking course on just this. I was helping the school make curriculum… I was writing my essay, writing easily now. I didn’t have a reader anymore like Lee or Chris but I imagined that I was writing for them both. Maybe I was writing for anyone who could fucking stand me.

If I were you, I would keep dancing.” “I can’t.” The tears were coming. “You know they only win if you let them.” “I can’t.” His arms and fingers were still outstretched and frozen, like a dead tree. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.” “Mammy, help. I can’t.” “Yes. You. Can.” She was still smiling through her open teeth. “Just hold your head up high and Gie. It. Laldy.

Death in Scarsadale. B.S. Latrodectus Mactans Productions. Cosgrove Watt, Marlon R. Gain; 78 mm.; 39 minutes; color; silent w/ closed-captioned subtitles. Mann/Allen parody, a world-famous dermatological endocrinologist (Watt) becomes platonically obsessed with a boy (Bain) he is treating for excessive perspiration, and begins himself to suffer from excessive perspiration. UNRELEASED

The torchlight shone up her skirt, trying to illuminate her gusset. They were taunting her, their voices pitched, ready to break, the dangerous sound of little boys coming into the intoxicating power of manhood.

Twenty. Five. Years. Out at the Dalmarnock Iron Works, and all he got was three weeks’ wages. Three weeks! I went up there maself, chapped on the big red gaffer’s door, and I telt him what he could dae with three weeks’ wages.

Ah have been lonely fur years now. Lonely long afore ma wife died. Don't get us wrong. She was a guid wummin, a guid wummin just like our Colleen, but we were jist stuck in our wee routine. When ye think about it, ah've been under the ground most of ma life. There wasn't much in me for sharing at the end of a day. After twenty years, what do you talk about? But she was a guid wummin. She used to make me these big hot dinners, with meat and gravy, the plate scalding hot cos she'd warm it up all day in the oven. We ate big hot dinners because we had nothing left to say. Nothing worthwhile anyway. Ah'm forty-three. That's four years older than when ma father died, so I should've been done. I should've been retiring from the pits, living the rest of ma days out with her and with nothing to say. When I saw ye I wasn't looking. I didn't know of you then, hadn't heard our Colleen lift your name. That's wummin's stuff, isn't it? They don't talk to the men about that. Gossip. Telling tales. Chapel. That's their club. All I know is when I saw you sat behind that glass, I saw someone lonely too, and I hoped we might have something to say to each other. I realised then. Ah don't want to be done.

should just get the fuck on with it.” He slapped his hands and threw them open in a wide tah-dah gesture. “Get on wi’ yer fuckin’ life. Have a great life. Ah promise that nothing would piss the pig-faced baldy bastard off more. Guar-rant-teed.

I had a bad blackout last night.” Agnes then told Jinty the story of the bingo and the taxi and the driver pulling over into the Pit mouth. She lifted the sleeve on her jumper and showed Jinty the finger marks the rapist had left in her white skin.

When you were talking about the caste system, I was thinking about how Mexicans still have to come to terms with this in our own culture. We spoke earlier about the castas paintings that were made during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Mexico. The Spanish, establishing a form of racial apartheid, delineate the fifty-three categories of racial mixtures between Africans, Indians, and the Spanish. And they have names, like tiente en el aire, which means stain in the air; and salta otras, which means jump back; or mulatto, a word that comes from mula, the unnatural mating between the horse and the donkey. “Sambo” is now a racial epithet in the US, but it was first used as one of the fifty-three racial categories in the castas paintings.

In many of these subsidy programs, no jobs are created. Instead the state income taxes are given to companies that agree to move jobs from one state across the border to another, as AMC Theatres agreed to do in moving its headquarters from Kansas City, Missouri, to Leawood, Kansas, just ten miles away. AMC will get to pocket $47 million withheld from its workers, a boon to its major owners: J. P. Morgan, Apollo Management, the Carlyle Group and the firm Mitt Romney cofounded in 1984, Bain Capital Management.

Separately, the two women had spent whole afternoons hiding behind settees from the Provident man. It was like an odd synchronized swimming, the way the Pithead women all sank to the carpet and crawled across the floor. The Provvie was a thin man in a big suit.

At half past ten her hair and her make-up were already done, and although she wasn’t leaving the house she put on her low-cut jumper and a fitted grey skirt. She sat drinking the dregs of old lager and wondering where exactly her boy was hiding from his childhood.

The widow of Michael Reardon was a full‐breasted woman in her late thirties. She had dark hair and green eyes, and an Irish nose spattered with a clichéful of freckles. She had a face for merry‐go‐rounds and roller coaster rides, a face that could split in laughter and girlish glee when water was splashed on her at the seashore. She was a girl who could get drunk sniffing the vermouth cork before it was passed over a martini. She was a girl who went to church on Sundays, a girl who’d belonged to the Newman Club when she was younger, a girl who was a virgin two days after Mike

Agnes’s face was very thickly made up, and it looked to Shuggie like the paint had been layered over several other faces she had forgotten to take off first. The boy followed her at a discreet distance, stopping now and then to gather up things that fell from the pocket of her matted mink coat.

Their donkey jackets were clean and their boots were still shiny as they jerked along the road. Shuggie stepped back as they passed, their heads lowered like those of tired black mules. Without a word, each man collected a handful of thin children, who followed obediently, like reverential shadows.

Simply put, the best teachers believe that learning involves both personal and intellectual development and that neither the ability to think nor the qualities of being a mature human are immutable. People can change, and those changes--not just the accumulation of information--represent true learning.

What does this F. — I.W. mean?” “Initial-slang,” informed Baines. “Made correct by common usage. It has become a worldwide motto. You’ll see it all over the place if you haven’t noticed it already.” “I have seen it here and there but attached no importance to it and thought nothing more about it. I remember now that it was inscribed in several places including Seth’s and the fire depot.” “It was on the sides of that bus we couldn’t empty,” put in Gleed. “It didn’t mean anything to me.” “It means plenty,” said Jeff. “Freedom — I Won’t!” “That kills me,” Gleed responded. “I’m stone dead already. I’ve dropped in my tracks.” He watched Harrison thoughtfully pocketing the plaque. “A piece of abracadabra. What a weapon!” “Ignorance is bliss,” asserted Baines, strangely sure of himself. “Especially when you don’t know that what you’re playing with is the safety catch of something that goes bang.” “All right,” challenged Gleed, taking him up on that. “Tell us how it works.” “I won’t.” Baines’ grin reappeared. He seemed to be highly satisfied about something. “That’s a fat lot of help.” Gleed felt let down, especially over that momentary hoped-for reward. “You brag and boast about a one-way weapon, toss across a slip of stuff with three letters on it and then go dumb. Any folly will do for braggarts and any braggart can talk through the seat of his pants. How about backing up your talk?” “I won’t,” repeated Baines, his grin broader than ever. He gave the onlooking Harrison a fat, significant wink. It made something spark vividly within Harrison’s mind. His jaw dropped, he dragged the plaque from his pocket and stared at it as if seeing it for the first time. “Give it back to me,” requested Baines, watching him. Replacing it in his pocket, Harrison said very firmly, “I won’t.” Baines chuckled. “Some people catch on quicker than others.

America’s last step into the Vietnam quagmire came on November 22, 1963, when Lyndon Baines Johnson was sworn in as the thirty-sixth president of the United States. Unlike Kennedy, Johnson was no real veteran. During World War II he used his influence as a congressman to become a naval officer, and, despite an utter lack of military training, he arranged a direct commission as a lieutenant commander. Fully aware that “combat” exposure would make him more electable, the ambitious Johnson managed an appointment to an observation team that was traveling to the Pacific. Once there, he was able to get a seat on a B-26 combat mission near New Guinea. The bomber had to turn back due to mechanical problems and briefly came under attack from Japanese fighters. The pilot got the damaged plane safely back to its base and Johnson left the very next day. This nonevent, which LBJ had absolutely no active part of, turned into his war story. The engine had been “knocked out” by enemy fighters, not simply a routine malfunction; he, LBJ, had been part of a “suicide mission,” not just riding along as baggage. The fabrication grew over time, including, according to LBJ, the nickname of “Raider” Johnson given to him by the awestruck 22nd Bomber Group.

I can’t believe this. You go ashore for two hours of trade, and somehow you’ve exchanged an experienced sailor for a governess.” “Well, and goats. I did buy a few goats-the boatman will have them out presently.” “Damn it, don’t try to change the subject. Crew and passengers are supposed to be my responsibility. Am I captain of this ship or not?” “Yes, Joss, you’re the captain. But I’m the investor. I don’t want Bains near my cargo, and I’d like at least one paying passenger on this voyage, if I can get one. I didn’t have that steerage compartment converted to cabins for a lark, you realize.” “If you think I’ll believe your interest in that girl lies solely in her six pound sterling…” Gray shrugged. “Since you mention it, I quite admired her brass as well.” “You know damn well what I mean. A young lady, unescorted…” He looked askance at Gray. “It’s asking for trouble.” “Asking for trouble?” Gray echoed, hoping to lighten the conversation. “Since when does the Aphrodite need to go asking for trouble? We’ve stowed more trouble than cargo on this ship.” He leaned back, propping both elbows on the ship’s rail. “And as trouble goes, Miss Turner’s variety looks a damn sight better than most alternatives. Perhaps you could do with a bit of trouble yourself.

D'un œil sévère, tel un général d'armée s'adonnant à la décimation, je scrutai mon studio à la recherche d'une source potentielle de liquidités. Les objets tremblaient sous mon regard. Pas moi ! Pas moi ! semblaient-ils me dire. Le sort tomba sur le plus jeune : un grille-pain offert à noël et qui ayant adopté les mœurs locales, lisait, le ventre vide, un volume de Jean Racine. Je m'approchai de lui. A ses côtés, la bouilloire électrique poussa un soupir de soulagement. Le grille-pain, comprenant son sort, s'accrocha en pleurant à sa prise électrique. -Quel est mon crime ? Pourquoi m'assassiner ? Qu'ai-je fait ? A quel titre ? Qui te l'a dit ?

I will have you for husband tonight,” she said in fierce, low tones, “or I will not go until I do!” “If there was any way, I would,” he protested. “Daise Congar would crack my head if I wanted to go against custom. For the love of the Light, Faile, just carry the message, and I’ll wed you the very first day I can.” He would. If that day ever came. Suddenly she was very intent on his beard, smoothing it and not meeting his eyes. She started speaking slowly but picked up speed like a runaway horse. “I … just happened to mention … in passing … I just mentioned to Mistress al’Vere how we had been traveling together—I don’t know how it came up—and she said—and Mistress Congar agreed with her—not that I talked to everybody!—she said that we probably—certainly—could be considered betrothed already under your customs, and the year is just to make sure you really do get on well together—which we do, as anyone can see—and here I am being as forward as some Domani hussy or one of those Tairen galls—if you ever even think of Berelain—oh, Light, I’m babbling, and you won’t even—” He cut her off by kissing her as thoroughly as he knew how. “Will you marry me?” he said breathlessly when he was done. “Tonight?” He must have done ever better with the kiss than he thought; he had to repeat himself six times, with her giggling against his throat and demanding he say it again, before she seemed to understand. Which was how he found himself not half an hour later kneeling opposite her in the common room, in front of Daise Congar and Marin al’Vere, Alsbet Luhhan and Neysa Ayellin and all the Women’s Circle. Loial had been roused to stand for him with Aram, and Bain and Chiad stood for Faile. There were no flowers to put in her hair or his, but Bain, guided by Marin, tucked a long red wedding ribbon around his neck, and Loial threaded another through Faile’s dark hair, his thick fingers surprisingly deft and gentle. Perrin’s hands trembled as he cupped hers. “I, Perrin Aybara, do pledge you my love, Faile Bashere, for as long as I live.” For as long as I live and after. “What I possess in this world I give to you.” A horse, an axe, a bow. A hammer. Not much to gift a bride. I give you life, my love. It’s all I have. “I will keep and hold you, succor and tend you, protect and shelter you, for all the days of my life.” I can’t keep you; the only way I can protect you is to send you away. “I am yours, always and forever.” By the time he finished, his hands were shaking visibly. Faile moved her hands to hold his. “I, Zarine Bashere …” That was a surprise; she hated that name. “ … do pledge you my love, Perrin Aybara … .” Her hands never trembled at all.

Pour écrire vite, il faut avoir beaucoup pensé, — avoir trimballé un sujet avec soi, à la promenade, au bain, au restaurant, et presque chez sa maîtresse. E. Delacroix me disait un jour : « L’art est une chose si idéale et si fugitive, que les outils ne sont jamais assez propres, ni les moyens assez expéditifs. » Il en est de même de la littérature ; — je ne suis donc pas partisan de la rature ; elle trouble le miroir de la pensée ... Couvrir une toile n’est pas la charger de couleurs, c’est ébaucher en frottis, c’est disposer des masses en tons légers et transparents. — La toile doit être couverte — en esprit — au moment où l’écrivain prend la plume pour écrire le titre.

Shug smiled. She was only twenty-four and already his doormat. “I didnae think you were coming,” she said, climbing into the back of the taxi. “What did you call me out here fur?” “I missed ye, that’s all,” she said. “I haven’t seen ye in weeks.” She rolled her thick legs open and shut coquettishly. “You’ve no gone off o’ me, have ye?” She grinned.

Opposite the gates was a low concrete building. Dozens of men were spilling out of its windowless structure and stood in dark clumps on the Pit Road. At first it looked like they were leaving chapel, but as the diesel engine roared nearer, they turned as if they were one. The miners stopped their talking and squinted to get a good look. They all wore the same black donkey jackets and were holding large amber pints and sucking on stubby doubts. The miners had scrubbed faces and pink hands that looked free of work. It seemed wrong, these men being the only clean thing for miles. Reluctantly, the miners parted and let the taxi go by. Leek watched them as they were watching him. His stomach sank. The men all had his mother’s eyes.

When they are away, you will often look for the baby doll, but it is not always there, where it is supposed to be, where you left it. Sometimes The Baby moves it, or she takes it with her, and you have to settle for some other toy. You bring it into the living room and set it between your paws as you sleep. It helps you believe that one day you might be a real mother.

Wullie and Shuggie were sitting at the round dining table eating soft eggs and soldiers. Sixty years apart, they were huddled together in the far corner like old drinking pals. Leek was upended on the settee, his bare legs up and over the back, a sketchbook in hand. When he saw his mother, he got up very quietly and passed her with a polite nod, like a stranger in the street.

Not only do you have to work on avoiding the negativity of others, not taking things personally, and growing from the pain, you need to build a positive mindset. When you think about how destructive stress and chronic negativity is to your physical, mental, emotional, social, spiritual, and occupational well-being, it should be obvious why you should build up your immune system or your positivity.

That morning she had tilted her head forward and asked Catherine what she thought of her new mascara. The mascara looked too heavy for her eyelids, like she was on the edge of sudden sleep. Now, as the taxi pulled out into the main road, Agnes made a show of looking back and waving mournfully through the rear window with a long, heavy blink. She thought it was a cinematic touch, like she was the star of her own matinee.

Un soir qu'elle descendait, d'un pas dansant, vers le fond du jardin, elle se sentit, sous le charme lunaire, changée, forte, exaltée. Au bord de la rivière, elle s'arrêta : l'eau, dans sa course, luisait doucement ; elle la scruta dans tous les sens et la vit entièrement déserte, entièrement à elle seule. Elle retira le peu de vêtements qu'elle portait, et elle entra dedans, plongea bien vite ; l'eau glissa sur son sein, autour de ses épaules, et l'enveloppa tout entière. (...) C'était une douceur exquise d'être nue sous l'emprise glacée de l'eau. En comparaison, le plaisir de nager en costume de bain lui parut méprisable et vulgaire. Nager seule, sous le clair de lune, était un mystère sacré, qui la passionnait. L'eau était amoureuse de son corps ; elle s'abandonnait, tout en y résistant, à sa mordante étreinte ; elle la subissait, bientôt elle la désira; elle était amoureuse de l'eau.

In so many introductory science classes, the chemist [Dudley Herschbach] observed, students encounter what they see as "a frozen body of dogma" that must be memorized and regurgitated. Yet in the "real science you're not too worried about the right answer... Real science recognizes that you have an advantage over practically any other human enterprise because what you are after- call it truth or understanding- waits patiently for you while you screw up.

Donald Saari uses a combination of stories and questions to challenge students to think critically about calculus. “When I finish this process,” he explained, “I want the students to feel like they have invented calculus and that only some accident of birth kept them from beating Newton to the punch.” In essence, he provokes them into inventing ways to find the area under the curve, breaking the process into the smallest concepts (not steps) and raising the questions that will Socratically pull them through the most difficult moments. Unlike so many in his discipline, he does not simply perform calculus in front of the students; rather, he raises the questions that will help them reason through the process, to see the nature of the questions and to think about how to answer them. “I want my students to construct their own understanding,” he explains, “so they can tell a story about how to solve the problem.

When are you coming home?” “Look, don’t upset yourself. Doesn’t Mammy deserve a party? It’s been that long, Hugh.” Her voice trailed off. “I’ve been promised that many parties in my day. Why are you trying to ruin my party.” She was repeating herself now. “Mammy, I’m scared. Where are you?” “I’m up at Anna O’Hanna’s. Away to your bed, and I’ll see you when I get home.” This part was ominously vague. The line went dead, and it took him a while to replace the receiver.

Before he could answer, it started. It sounded like a murmur, and then someone said it out loud, and the whisper became outright laughter. “Is eht Gaylord?” said a rat-faced boy at the front. The room erupted. “Big Bobby Bender?” said another. Shuggie tried to talk over them. His face burned red. “It’s Shuggie, sir. Hugh Bain. I’m transferred here from Saint Luke’s.” “Listen tae that voice!” said another boy, with tight curly hair. He opened his eyes wide like he had hit the bullying jackpot. “Ere, posh boy. Whaur did ye get that fuckin’ accent? Are ye a wee ballet dancer, or whit?” This went down the best of all. It was a divine inspiration to the others. “Gies a wee dance!” they squealed with laughter. “Twirl for us, ye wee bender!” Shuggie sat there listening to them amuse themselves. He took the red football book and dropped it into the dark drawer of this strange school desk. He was glad, at least, to be done with that. It was clear now: nobody would get to be made brand new.

Enough of this ruminatory bullshit,” Sargent said. “You’d think I had a crystal ball, knew the future. You’d think thee roads couldn’t still fork this way and that, sitting there, waiting for you and your fellow travelers, the good, the bad and the scuzzy, to make your choices and move on down the blacktop. Palaver with you two is through for now. All shall be revealed in time - which is, as I’ve said before, a fluid thing. No more spiritual fuckery. We ride where there are roads. Time to get on with it. Into the mist boys.

She was pleading now. “When I found out I took every Askit powder I could get. Great big handfuls of it. It was just. It was just too late.” “I don’t need to know, Lizzie.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her then. It was the first kiss she had been given since he had kissed her at Saint Enoch’s on the day he left. She had never let Mr Kilfeather kiss her, she felt she had to tell him that. He said, “I’m sorry I was away so long.” Then Wullie took the pram, and the strange baby, and went out into the mild spring morning.

— Ainsi tu as eu droit toi aussi aux séances de bain forcé ? s’exclama-t-il. — Forcé et gelé, rétorqua Ellana en lui rendant son sourire. — Et l'escalade des tours ? — Uniquement la nuit quand il pleuvait. Sayanel t'a-t-il fait subir l'épreuve des dix serrures ? — À ouvrir en dix secondes ? Tous les matins pendant trois mois. Le lancer de couteau dans le noir ? — Toutes les nuits depuis trois mois ! Et... Un raclement de gorge les interrompit. Sayanel et Jilano les regardaient, bras croisés, une lueur amusée dans les yeux. — Seriez-vous en train de vous plaindre ? demanda Sayanel. Je dois vous avertir que de la part d'élèves en qui nous avons placé quelque espoir, ce serait malvenu ! Nillem rougit, mais Ellana ne se démonta pas. — Nous ne nous plaignons pas. Nous comparons simplement nos expériences afin de juger l'originalité de nos professeurs. Je dois avouer que je suis un peu déçue ! Sayanel se tourna vers Jilano. — Tu n'as pas réussi, n'est-ce pas ? — À lui enseigner mesure et humilité ? Non. Sur ce plan-là, j'admets un échec complet. — Et le reste ? — Plutôt bien. Et toi ? — Ça va.

In the beginning, when Twaslitri (the Divine Artificer) came to the creation of woman he found that he had exhausted his materials in the making of man and that no solid elements were left. In this dilemma, after pro-found meditation, he did as follows: he took the rotundity of the moon, and the curves of the creepers, and the clinging of tendrils, and the trembling of grass, and the slenderness of the reed, and the bloom of flowers, and the lightness of leaves, and the tapering of the elephant's trunk, and the glances of deer, and the clustering of rows of bees, and the joyous gaiety of sun-beams, and the weeping of clouds, and the fickleness of the winds, and the timidity of the hare, and the vanity of the peacock, and the softness of the parrot's bosom, and the hardness of adamant, and the sweetness of honey, and the cruelty of the tiger, and the warm glow of fire, and the coldnesss of snow, and the chattering of jays, and the cooing of the kokila, and the hypocrisy of the crane, and the fidelity of the chakravaka; and compounding all these together, he made woman and gave her to man. (Written by scholars of the Vedic Age)

With curious fingers he started to stroke the metal watch chain that hung from her pocket. “Do they leave on a bus for heaven?” A patronizing smirk crossed her lips, and she reached out a scrubbed hand to pat him on the head. He ducked instinctively and tutted, “Please don’t do that! I just had it parted.” With a sullen look he came closer again and resumed twisting the interlocking links. Sister Meechan’s hand wavered awkwardly in the air, unaccustomed to not being in command. “Ye are a very tidy little boy.” “My mother says it doesn’t cost anything to take pride in your appearance.

He gave a snide toot to the boys and drove on lower towards the river. Rain was the natural state of Glasgow. It kept the grass green and the people pale and bronchial. Its effect on the taxi business was negligible. It was a problem because it was mostly inescapable and the constant dampness was pervasive, so fares might as well sit damp on a bus as damp in the back of an expensive taxi. On the other hand, rain meant that the young lassies from the dancing all wanted to take a taxi home so as not to ruin their stiff hair or their sharp shoes. For that Shug was in favour of the endless rain.

Agnes put her head in her hands. She listened to her parents roar with laughter at some effeminate English comedian. Her eldest two were out, who knows where. They always seemed to be gone now, ducking her kisses, rolling their eyes at everything she said. She ignored Shuggie’s light breathing, and for a moment it was like she was not nearly forty, not a married woman with three children. She was Agnes Campbell again, stuck in her bedroom, listening to her parents through the wall. “Dance for me,” she said suddenly. “Let’s have a wee party.” She stabbed at the alarm clock, and the cassette squealed forward, the slow sad music speeding up to something happier.

The doctrine of Relativity is carried to a fallacious pitch, when applied to prove that there must be something absolute, because the Relative must suppose the non- Relative. If there be Relation, it is said, there must be something Un-related, or above all relation. But Relation cannot in this way, be brought round on itself, except by a verbal juggle. Relation means that every conscious state has a correlative state ; which brings us at last to a couple (the subject-mind, and the object or extended world). This is the final end of all possible cognition. We may view the two facts separately or together; and we may call the conjunct view an Absolute (as Ferrier does), but this adds nothing to our knowledge. A self-contradiction is committed by inferring from * everything is relative,' that * something is non-relative.' Fallacies of Relativity often arise in the hyperboles of Rhetoric. In order to reconcile to their lot the more humble class of manual labourers, the rhetorician proclaims the dignity of all labour, without being conscious that if all labour is dignified, none is ; dignity supposes inferior grades ; a mountain height is abolished if all the surrounding plains are raised to the level of its highest peak. So, in spurring men to industry and perseverance, examples of distinguished success are held up for universal imitation ; while, in fact, these cases owe their distinction to the general backwardness.

Sure, they became frustrated with students at times and occasionally displayed impatience, but because they were willing to face the failures of teaching and believed in their capacity to solve problems, they tried not to become defensive with their students or build a wall around themselves. Instead, they tried to take their students seriously as human beings and treated them the way they might treat any colleague, with fairness, compassion, and concern. That approach found reflection in what they taught, how they taught it, and how they evaluated students, but it also appeared in attempts to understand their students’ lives, cultures, and aspirations. It even emerged in their willingness to see their students outside of class.

At first Shuggie had recoiled and looked like he had never heard a worse idea. She had cried in the bath later that night, trying to dig the oil out from her skin and feeling like a fool. Shuggie had heard her there, sat in the cold water, crying to herself. She had been mostly sober, and to him it was different from the drunken poor me’s. He resolved to show an interest in the fishing, anything to make her happy again. He fixated on the planning of the day, the organizing, the list making and the list checking. He planned the lunch and the clothes, the things he would put in his school bag and the little things he would put in each pocket: tomato sandwiches, a toy robot for sharing, a little plasticky pair of sunglasses, and a Christmas cracker whistle. When he had laid out all the preparations and put everything neatly in its place, he sat on the edge of his bed like a patient little dog.

The least you can do is buy the lady a drink.” As the tavern-goers returned to their carousing, he turned his arrogant grin on Sophia. “What are you having, then?” She blinked at him. What was she having? Sophia knew exactly what she was having. She was having colossally bad luck. This well-dressed mountain of insolence looming over her was Captain Grayson, of the brig Aphrodite. And the brig Aphrodite was the sole ship bound for Tortola until next week. For Sophia, next week might as well have been next year. She needed to leave for Tortola. She needed to leave now. Therefore, she needed this man-or this man’s ship-to take her. “What, no outpouring of gratitude?” He cast a glance toward Bains, who was lumbering up from the floor. “I suppose you think I should have beat him to a pulp. I could have. But then, I don’t like violence. It always ends up costing me money. And pretty thing that you are”-his eyes skipped over her as he motioned to the barkeep-“before I went to that much effort, I think I’d at least need to know your name, Miss…?” Sophia gritted her teeth, marshaling all her available forbearance. She needed to leave, she reminded herself. She needed this man. “Turner. Miss Jane Turner.” “Miss…Jane…Turner.” He teased the syllables out, as if tasting them on his tongue. Sophia had always thought her middle name to be the dullest, plainest syllable imaginable. But from his lips, even “Jane” sounded indecent. “Well, Miss Jane Turner. What are you drinking?” “I’m not drinking anything. I’m looking for you, Captain Grayson. I’ve come seeking passage on your ship.” “On the Aphrodite? To Tortola? Why the devil would you want to go there?” “I’m a governess. I’m to be employed, near Road Town.” The lies rolled effortlessly off her tongue. As always. His eyes swept her from bonnet to half boots, stroking an unwelcome shiver down to her toes. “You don’t look like any governess I’ve ever seen.

When I interviewed one of the mathematicians in the study, he asked me if I knew how to define a function. I confessed that my knowledge was a little rusty, and that the definition I remembered memorizing in college didn’t spring immediately to mind, something about variables being related to the values of other variables. “But can you explain the basic concept in your own words?” he persisted. I stammered and began looking for the nearest exit. At that point, he tossed a pen in my direction, which I instinctively reached out to catch. “How did you catch that?” he asked. “I opened my hand and then closed it around the pen at the right moment.” “But how did you know when to open your hand and when to close it?” he pressed. After a little struggling, and some additional questioning from the mathematician, I stumbled to the conclusion that I predicted where the pen would be by observing its flight. “That’s a function,” he exploded. “You took information about where it was at this point, this point, and this point, and predicted when it would arrive in your hand.” He then turned to the board and wrote a formula. “I could have explained it this way, and that’s the way it’s ordinarily done. But when we do it that way, students just memorize formulas or definitions and really don’t grasp what’s involved in the concept.