Bates Quotes

O beautiful for spacious skies for amber waves of grain

To those waiting with bated breath for that favorite media catchphrase, the U-turn, I have only this to say, ‘You turn if you want; the lady’s not for turning.

Psychopaths don't act like Hannibal Lecter or Norman Bates. They come off like Hugh Grant, in his most adorable role.

There are no negatives in life, only challenges to overcome that will make you stronger.

Women who lead, read

My mom said the moon landing was faked,” said Eddie. “But she also said she saw Jackie Kennedy, Jimmy Hoffa, Elvis and Bigfoot at the IHOP out by the interstate. Elvis picked up the check.

The greatest minds are like film, they take the negatives and develop themselves in darkness...

Glorious Leader, we are approaching the galaxy known as the Milky Way,” reported the navigator. “The one named after a candy bar. How silly those Earthlings are.

It is such a happiness when good people get together -- and they always do.

I'm waiting with bated breath to hear what you'll say next." "Ah, sarcasm, how refreshing," he said pleasantly.

Speaking psycho-analytically, it may be laid down that any "great ideal" which people mention with awe is really an excuse for inflicting pain on their enemies. Good wine needs no bush, and good morals need no bated breath.

Norman Bates will never die...

He didn’t save us ; haven’t you been listening?” Elizabeth held an icepack to her chin where she’d been hit by an meaty elbow . “Fiona stabbed one of them with a Susan Bates needle, Marie was wielding a tequila bottle, Sandra pistol-whipped the other, and I shot the third.” “Where were Janie and Kat?” Ashley looked from me to Kat. “Hiding behind the couch like sane people!” Kat said before anyone else could speak.

No man or woman who tries to pursue an ideal in his or her own way is without enemies.

Norman Bates heard the noise and a shock went through him.

Fuck," Ranger said. Ranger didn't often curse and he rarely raised his voice. The fuck has been entirely conversational. Like he was now midly inconvenienced. He put his Bates boot to the door and the door popped open..

You don't have to be anyone but yourself.

All those other girls are cake...I'm Crème brûlée...Tiramisu, if you will. Just a few notches above.

I have discovered that mortality is a boon as well as a curse. Knowing that you will die makes you appreciate each day that you are alive.

Love planted a rose, and the world turned sweet.

I open my eyes. I want to know: what is in the abyss of a kiss? Are stars born in these black caves that house bated breaths and unspoken words? Do our souls crawl on these tender cheeks to greet one another by ivory gates? What happens when we kiss? Where do you go? Don’t tell me. For I have lost my desire to know. Kiss me so that I forget myself. I close my eyes and fall in the abyss.

Wrote my way out of the hood...thought my way out of poverty! Don't tell me that knowledge isn't power. Education changes everything.

What’s wrong with nature shows?” “You can’t believe anything the narrators say. One claimed that some animals mate for life. Come on, they need time off to eat and sleep, don’t they?

I was thinking of that old expression: Those who fail to repeat history are doomed to learn it.

Your typical Six-year-old is a paradoxical little person, and bipolarity is the name of his game.

There really will be seventeen world wars?” asked Wade. “No, only sixteen that we know of. Everyone got together and agreed to skip number thirteen, because it would be unlucky.

Aren’t there limits to your powers? Can you do things like read my mind?” “I knew you were going to ask that.

I wasn’t born yesterday. Or was I? All this time travel gets me so confused.

That's always the worst: the not knowing. Because then you're stuck with a hundred questions no one can answer.

Então, que seja doce. Repito todas as manhãs, ao abrir as janelas para deixar entrar o sol ou o cinza dos dias, bem assim, que seja doce. Quando há sol, e esse sol bate na minha cara amassada do sono ou da insônia, contemplando as partículas de poeira soltas no ar, feito um pequeno universo; repito sete vezes para dar sorte: que seja doce que seja doce que seja doce e assim por diante. Mas, se alguém me perguntasse o que deverá ser doce, talvez não saiba responder. Tudo é tão vago como se fosse nada.

You have to be out of your mind. What kind of clinic lets people operate on themselves?” “Well, Suture Self.”  

Sir, what’s wrong?” “I just lost my wife.” “Bummer. I’ve got a couple of minutes. I’ll be glad to help you look for her.

There had been that battle over the awful sign the city put up near his house when he was about seven years old, the one that read “Slow Children Playing”. He was so proud of his mom when she called the city government to complain about it and then appealed to the city council. “Why don’t you put up signs saying ‘Smart Children Playing’ on other streets instead of picking on kids like mine?

In order to grow, I promise you'll have to let go of some habits. 10 times out of 10, they'll be the habits you're most in love with.

Unapologetically smitten with thunderstorms...the thought of rough sex beneath an acid washed moon and hydrated stars...

Drama does not just walk into our lives. Either we create it, invite it, or associate with it.

Pressure is a privilege, Miller. Expectations are high because you’re successful. If you were average, no one would be waiting on bated breath for you. I think about that every night I take the mound. You just have to decide if your dreams and goals are worth the pressure. If you want to live up to the expectations set for you.

This is not a men vs women issue. It’s about people vs prejudice.

You settle for less, you get less.

This is a battle that we will win. Because women are wittier, brighter, stronger and braver than a misogynistic and patriarchal world has given us credit for.

I was creeped out, though and dragged a chair into the bathroom and wedged it against the door so no one could come in without me knowing. That was the very reason why I had a see-through vinyl shower curtain. Norman Bates was never going to get the best of me. -Jory

Women are silenced by both the invisibility and the acceptability of the problem.

I disguised the time machine as a 1974 Pinto because that’s the model with the exploding gas tank. No one will come near it.

Give me Pablo Neruda, picnic beneath a full moon & iridescent stars, black olives, cherries, dark things, canoe on a river...that's romance.

But now, Mr. Bates didn't scream or try to get the truck's license plate, nor did Mrs. Bates, who had once wept when we set off firecrackers in her state-fair tulips - they said nothing, and our parents said nothing, so that we sensed how ancient they were, how accustomed to trauma, depressions, and wars. We realized that the version of the world that they rendered for us was not the world they really believed in, and that for all their caretaking and bitching about crabgrass they didn't give a damn about lawns.

Successful people replace the words “wish”, “should” and “try” with “I will”.

A vida é cruel por ter inventado a memória. Como os velhos que recobram em matizes suas lembranças mais antigas, à beira da morte minha memória gravita em torno do sol, e como ele clareia tudo! Tudo é presente, nada está perdido. É como uma força oculta que nos impele para nos estimular de novo: diante da evidência de que não mais haverá futuro, o passado se amplifica, suas raízes engrossam, tudo em mim é rizosfera, as cores se cristalizam sobre cada estrato, a mais insignificante imagem toca o seu absoluto, o coração bate em crescendo.

What if I told thou that I come from the future. A future beyond thy imagination, where the colonies rebel against the British and gain their independence, where slavery be outlawed, where immigrants stream into the land and manufacture refrigerator magnets by the millions?

We use time machines to learn from the past,” Chris continued. “But there are still a few things that have been puzzling some of us, and maybe you can help clear up one of them. There’s a person called Kim Kardashian—someone born in your time, I believe. She has had thousands of regeneration and cybernetic enhancement procedures. But no one can seem to recall her purpose. Does she have any special talent or reason for being kept alive all these centuries?” Heads shook in bafflement. “Anyway,” said Chris, “you’ll be glad to know that Tom Brady is still slinging footballs as far as ever. And Brett Favre is considering another comeback.

Do little things every day that no one else seems to want to do, be patient, and success will find you.

Quando é que isto começou? Isto, o quê? Isto. O amor? Talvez. O amor? Sim, pode ser isso. Quando é que o amor começou? Começou antes de ter começado. E depois? E depois não acabou quando devia acabar. Durou mais tempo. O coração bate mais tempo. Não há maneira de parar o coração.

As long as we as a society continue to belittle and dismiss women's accounts, disbelieve and question their stories, and blame them for their own assaults, we are playing right into the hands of those who silence victims by asking: "who would believe you anyways?".

miras como yo: con los ojos y con las manos y con el sexo y con el alma mientras la memoria hecha de piel de tambor bate ritmos cada vez más urgentes, que en verdad son llamadas, que en verdad son plegarias tácitas hechas de un silencio alborotado en donde las cosas corren y mi amor corre y todo en mí es un agua precipitada, absolutamente loca y ardiente.

Research is the process of going up alleys to see if they are blind.

Wind as old as Rome outside my window, inky fleece clouds against charcoal crushed velvet skies, fall feels soulful, like a LaBelle octave.

A heart can only discover what it really wants with experience.

Some roses grow through concrete. Remember that.

Why do we assume that educating a criminal is merely helping him commit more sophisticated crimes? Why can’t we assume that an education can give this person the tools to make more acceptable choices?

I’m fifteen and I feel like girl my age are under a lot of pressure that boys are not under. I know I am smart, I know I am kind and funny, and I know that everyone around me keeps telling me that I can be whatever I want to be. I know all this but I just don’t feel that way. I always feel like if I don’t look a certain way, if boys don’t think I’m ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’ then I’ve failed and it doesn’t even matter if I am a doctor or writer, I’ll still feel like nothing. I hate that I feel like that because it makes me seem shallow, but I know all of my friends feel like that, and even my little sister. I feel like successful women are only considered a success if they are successful AND hot, and I worry constantly that I won’t be. What if my boobs don’t grow, what if I don’t have the perfect body, what if my hips don’t widen and give me a little waist, if none of that happens I feel like what’s the point of doing anything because I’ll just be the ‘fat ugly girl’ regardless of whether I do become a doctor or not. I wish people would think about what pressure they are putting on everyone, not just teenage girls, but even older people – I watch my mum tear herself apart every day because her boobs are sagging and her skin is wrinkling, she feels like she is ugly even though she is amazing, but then I feel like I can’t judge because I do the same to myself. I wish the people who had real power and control the images and messages we get fed all day actually thought about what they did for once. I know the girls on page 3 are probably starving themselves. I know the girls in adverts are airbrushed. I know beauty is on the inside. But I still feel like I’m not good enough.

He opened the door wearing an oversized wife-beater and dirty trunks to match. Funny, but he recognized me withouta struggle. Immediately, I assumed he was sober, which was a good thing. Yet, seeing me wasn’t expected or desired. For sure, I was the last person on his list of surprises. Jerry adjusted his head and sharpened his bloodshot eyes. It wasthen his booze-bated breath greeted me well before he did. Ok, he was in a stupor or maybe on the rebound. Next, soiled diapers stole the little oxygen I had left—and I was still OUTDOORS. Yet somehow, I mustered enough wind to greet my brother. I tried to beat him to the punch and said, “What’s up bruh?” What happened next stomped my soul me for years to come! He never bothered to truly acknowledge me. Yet, heresponded without hesitation, “You know I can’t have any company!” Then he violently slammed the door shut! Jerry was gone! I couldn’t differentiate from being stupid or dumbstruck. I just stood silent on his porch all alone for about five minutes. I’d dealt with Jerry’s nastiness many times before. But he would initially warm up before dropping his hammer. Without a doubt, l was lost, confused, and bewildered like a teen-age boy losing a prom date. Foolishly, I used logic to dissect my embarrassment. First, the guy scolded me as if I should’ve known better! To be fair, Jerry was the breadwinner. His wife left him years ago. That part I understood. Only a fool would have hung around his crazy ass. It was amazing they got together, let alone stayed that way long enough to create those children. Yet, all his kids were pushing the ages of twenty andabove. What the hell did he mean, “I can’t receive any company!” Of course, I heard those crying babies which madehim a granddaddy. That was strangely obvious to his existence. Yes, the cycle continues! Second, I really didn’t care to go inside. I didn’t want to be in his business. I just wanted his input on Aunt Kathy’s memorial.

Lick my finger so I can scan your table of contents- fuck the index- I yearn to ride your story line.

There's no need for a piece of sculpture in a home that has a cat.

...everyone would wonder, 'What's he doing with her?' And then you'd say, 'Hmm, good question,' and you'd dump me. That wouldn't be nice.

Stupid patriarchal culture with stupid ideas of beauty—stupid me for going along with it.

You see, in my time, no one eats real meat anymore. Much of the food tastes like quinoa that’s been pummeled by days of acid rain, because that’s what it is.

Everyone's life changes when they meet their Obi-Wan & their Yoda, or their Morpheus & their Oracle; those who help remove the veil.

When we suggest victims can stop rape, we also (however unintentionally) imply that rape is an inevitable aspect of life rather than an action deliberately carried out by a perpetrator.

Nu-i acoperiţi pieptul – Aş vrea să văd dacă inima lui mai bate Acest trup trecător Păstrează în el sănătatea Nemuritoare a unui întreg indestructibil Ce cântă şi merge Pe o melodie imposibilă. Încă mai ascult cântecele sale Pe care nicio armă nu le poate străpunge Şi nici focul nu le poate arde. Îl voi vedea încă o dată Dincolo de marea de lacrimi.

All I could feel was love leaking in my soul and my heart seeping bits of heaven.

Myers was not a neighborhood to visit on a lark. Hi reached over and hit the door locks. “Next right,” Shelton said. Then, “There, on the left. Bates Pawn-and-Trade.” “Are we one hundred percent sure about exiting the vehicle?” Hi’s voice was a bit high. “It might not be here when we get back.” “I’ll park right in front.” Ben also sounded tense. “We’ll be fine,” I said. “In and out.” “That’s what she said,” Hi mumbled, hauling himself from the car.

No matter what the industry you choose to ultimately invest all your time and energy in, be sure you're the owner, founder, and CEO. Remember, if you don't own it, you can't control it nor can you depend on it.

The editorial director of the Hysteria Channel needs to be tough. This is a highly competitive business. We thrive on conflict. Do you have any experience with the kind of human misery that drives our ratings?” “If you look at the second page of my resume, you’ll see that I have destroyed at least 114 civilizations, have threatened three dozen galaxies and have haunted dimensions you’ve never even heard of. Twice, I was named Demon of the Month. That earned me a premium parking spot.”  

Rape is not a sexual act; it is not the result of a sudden, uncontrollable attraction to a woman in a skimpy dress. It is an act of power and violence. To suggest otherwise is deeply insulting to the vast majority of men, who are perfectly able to control their sexual desires. The

The idea that girls are somehow responsible for 'provoking' harassment from boys is shamefully exacerbated by an epidemic of increasingly sexist school dress codes. Across the United States, stories have recently emerged about girls being hauled out of class, publicly humiliated, sent home, and even threatened with expulsion for such transgressions as wearing tops with 'spaghetti straps,' wearing leggings or (brace yourself) revealing their shoulders. The reasoning behind such dress codes, which almost always focus on the girls' clothing to a far greater extent than the boys', is often euphemistically described as the preservation of an effective 'learning environment.' Often schools go all out and explain that girls wearing certain clothing might 'distract' their male peers, or even their male teachers....in reality these messages privilege boys' apparent 'needs' over those of the girls, sending the insidious message that girls' bodies are dangerous and provoke harassment, and boys can't be expected to control their behavior, so girls are responsible for covering up....his education is being prioritized over hers.

Another [change] affects Chip and Joanna Gaines. This couple, who had reached unfathomable heights of popularity with their ‘Fixer Upper’ TV program in the 21st century, are instead homeless and living in a large cardboard box behind the Waco, Texas, bus station.” “That’s harsh,” said Eddie. “What did they do to deserve that?” “Nothing. It’s just one of those undesirable consequences that we could not avoid. It was either that or lose Australia.

How can I believe the people that say women have equal rights? When the worst insult a man can be called is a woman, girly, a twat, a cunt, that he needs to 'man up' and the list goes on. My gender is not an insult. I'm tired of all this shit.

Miss Bates…had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal goodwill and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body’s happiness and quick-sighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body and a mine of felicity to herself.

If you don’t mind my asking, why would a demon be concerned about appearances? Aren’t you all about killing, maiming, and torturing?” “That’s the kind of stereotyping that has afflicted demons for billions of years. Don’t you think some of us want to branch out, to explore other options?” “It never occurred to me.” “Yes, we obtain great satisfaction from killing and maiming and torturing. But there’s a lot of competition these days for the torturing thing. So many physical therapists around.”  

On Slavery: The saddest slap in the face is we have NO monument, no real statues or memorials, no special day of Atonement or Remembrance (NOT ONE), no thanks for 400+ years of free labor, forced servitude across the Trans-Atlantic, ass beatings, buying ourselves and families out of slavery, rape and plunder...but everyone else has monuments, special museums, and even movies. This is what America thinks of black people, so-called black president and all, who has been largely silent on this subject...we'll even celebrate Leprechauns, Easter Bunnies, and Secretary's Day before we acknowledge our history.

...I never would have seen Chelsea reach up, take Logan's face in her hands, and kiss him. So the off again was definitely on again. And I knew then that Patrick was very wrong about my heart, because if it had actually been an encyclopedia I could have watched it all with perfect composure.

You think he is marrying her for money?' 'Yes, I do. Don't you think so?' 'I should say quite certainly,' said Miss Marple. 'Like young Ellis who married Marion Bates, the rich ironmonger's daughter. She was a very plain girl and absolutely besotted about him. However, it turned out quite well. People like young Ellis and this Gerald Wright are only really disagreeable when they've married a poor girl for love. They are so annoyed with themselves for doing it that they take it out of the girl. But if they marry a rich girl they continue to respect her.

All the books were beginning to turn against me. Indeed, I must have been blind as a bat not to have seen it long before, the ludicrous contradiction between my theory of life and my actual experiences as a reader. George MacDonald had done more to me than any other writer; of course it was a pity that he had that bee in his bonnet about Christianity. He was good in spite of it. Chesterton has more sense than all the other moderns put together; bating, of course, his Christianity. Johnson was one of the few authors whom I felt I could trust utterly; curiously enough, he had the same kink. Spenser and Milton by a strange coincidence had it too. Even among ancient authors the same paradox was to be found. The most religious (Plato, Aeschylus, Virgil) were clearly those on whom I could really feed. On the other hand, those writers who did not suffer from religion and with whom in theory my sympathy ought to have been complete -- Shaw and Wells and Mill and Gibbon and Voltaire -- all seemed a little thin; what as boys we called "tinny". It wasn't that I didn't like them. They were all (especially Gibbon) entertaining; but hardly more. There seemed to be no depth in them. They were too simple. The roughness and density of life did not appear in their books.

SMART My dad gave me one dollar bill 'Cause I'm his smartest son, And I swapped it for two shiny quarters 'Cause two is more than one! And then I took the quarters And traded them to Lou For three dimes - I guess he don't know That three is more than two! Just then, along came old blind Bates And just 'cause he can't see He gave me four nickels for my three dimes, And four is more than three! And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs Down at the seed-feed store, And the fool gave me five pennies for them, And five is more than four! And then I went and showed my dad, And he got red in the cheeks And closed his eyes and shook his head - Too proud of me to speak!

The window flew open all the way. The stack of papers in Lincoln’s hand was sucked out. “Oh man,” said Eddie. “I’m so sorry.” “Do not be disconsolate,” said Lincoln. “Perhaps we have just witnessed the hand of Providence.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a broad envelope and a pen. “I have some thoughts.” He stared into the distance. “How about, ‘Four score and seven years ago—” “That’s, um, thirty-five, right?” said Eddie. “Four scores is twenty-eight points. Unless they went for two-point conversions.

in a society in which misogyny and violence against women are so widespread and so normalized, it is difficult for us to consider these things “extreme” or “radical,” because they are simply not out of the ordinary. We do not leap to tackle a terrorist threat to women, because the reality of women being terrorized, violated, and murdered by men is already part of the wallpaper.

Tired of feeling tired? Take Liftoff, the new energy pill. Liftoff is made entirely from chemicals, with no naturally occurring ingredients. Designed to shock the nervous system into involuntary spasms, Liftoff can energize your day. Or, it can kill you. Sometimes, death comes slowly and painfully. Other times, it comes rapidly and painfully. Side effects include, but are not limited to, swelling of the throat, gagging, asphyxiation, abnormal bleeding, normal bleeding, uncontrollable laughter, uncontrollable sobbing, the desire to poke someone with a foreign object, the desire to poke oneself with a foreign object, and bed-wetting.

Norman Bates: ... No one really runs away from anything. It's like a private trap that holds us in like a prison. You know what I think? I think that we're all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out. We scratch and we claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch. Marion Crane: Sometimes... we deliberately step into those traps. Norman Bates: I was born into mine. I don't mind it anymore. Marion Crane: Oh, but you should. You should mind it. Norman Bates: Oh, I do... [laughs] Norman Bates: But I say I don't.

Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling began to affect the netting under which the three children lay. It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a metallic sound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire. This was accompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries. The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead, and chilled with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but the elder brother had already shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered. Then the little one, who could no longer control his terror, questioned Gavroche, but in a very low tone, and with bated breath:-- "Sir?" "Hey?" said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes. "What is that?" "It's the rats," replied Gavroche. And he laid his head down on the mat again. The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of the elephant, and who were the living black spots which we have already mentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle, so long as it had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern, which was the same as their city, had returned to darkness, scenting what the good story-teller Perrault calls "fresh meat," they had hurled themselves in throngs on Gavroche's tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begun to bite the meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap. Still the little one could not sleep. "Sir?" he began again. "Hey?" said Gavroche. "What are rats?" "They are mice." This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice in the course of his life, and he was not afraid of them. Nevertheless, he lifted up his voice once more. "Sir?" "Hey?" said Gavroche again. "Why don't you have a cat?" "I did have one," replied Gavroche, "I brought one here, but they ate her." This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the little fellow began to tremble again. The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:-- "Monsieur?" "Hey?" "Who was it that was eaten?" "The cat." "And who ate the cat?" "The rats." "The mice?" "Yes, the rats." The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice which ate cats, pursued:-- "Sir, would those mice eat us?" "Wouldn't they just!" ejaculated Gavroche. The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:-- "Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here! Here, catch hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers!

You can't worry about what other people think you should do. The only way you'll ever be happy or make a real difference is by pursuing the things that motivate you and make you excited to be alive. Life is too short to waste years of it being miserable or asking 'What if?

Cînd mă gîndesc la faptul că mizeria este strîns legată de existenţa omenească, nu mai pot adera la nici o teorie şi la nici o doctrină de reformă socială. Toate îmi par egal de stupide şi de inutile. Chiar şi tăcerea îmi pare un urlet. Animalele, care trăiesc fiecare din silinţa lor, nu cunosc mizeria, fiindcă nu cunosc ierarhia şi dependenţa unora de alţii. Fenomenul mizeriei apare numai la om, fiindcă numai el a putut să-şi creeze din semen un supus. Nici un animal nu-şi bate joc de altul, asemănător pînă la identitate cu el. Numai omul este capabil de atît autodispreţ. Toată caritatea din lume nu face decît să evidenţieze şi mai mult mizeria, arătînd-o mai îngrozitoare şi mai ininteligibilă decît în părăsirea absolută. Ca şi în faţa ruinelor, în mizerie te doare vidul de umanitate, regretul că oamenii nu schimbă esenţial ceea ce este în putinţa lor de a schimba. De altă parte, acest sentiment se combină cu unul al imanenţei şi eternităţii mizeriei, al caracterului ei ineluctabil şi fatal, acolo unde există viaţă omenească. Deşi ştii că oamenii ar putea înlătura mizeria, îţi dai totuşi seama de veşnicia ei, dînd astfel naştere la un sentiment neobişnuit de nelinişte amară, la o stare sufletească paradoxală şi tulbure, în care omul apare în toată inconsistenţa şi mizeria lui. Căci mizeria obiectivă din viaţa socială nu este decît un reflex palid al infinitei lui mizerii lăuntrice. Nu admit o revoltă relativă în faţa nedreptăţilor, ci numai o revoltă eternă, fiindcă eternă este mizeria în umanitate.

Ruby Bates, one of the young white girls, was a remarkable person. She told me she had been driven into prostitution when she was thirteen. She had been working in a textile mill for a pittance. When she asked for a raise, the boss told her to make it up by going with the workers. She told me there was nothing else she could do...Ruby Bates was a remarkable woman. Underneath it all—the poverty, the degradation—she was decent, pure. Here was an illiterate white girl, all of whose training had been clouded by the myths of white supremacy, who, in the struggle for the lives of these nine innocent boys, had come to see the role she was being forced to play. As a murderer. She turned against her oppressors. . .. I shall never forget her.

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances; Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, For suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe; You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help; Go to, then; you come to me, and you say ‘Shylock, we would have moneys.’ You say so: You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold; moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say ‘Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?’ Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this:— ‘Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; You spurn’d me such a day; another time You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys?

People who shout at women in the street don’t do it because they think there’s a chance the woman will drop her shopping, willy-nilly, and leap into their arms! It isn’t a compliment – and to call it that disparages the vast majority of lovely men who are perfectly able to pay a real compliment. It is an exertion of power, dominance and control. And it’s utterly horrifying that we’ve become so used to it that it’s considered the norm. ▶

Were any other crisis to cost the lives of more than two people every week in the UK – or to threaten one third of the entire world’s population – it would be considered an international emergency. But the rape, assault and murder of women by men is enshrined in our international history. It is so common that it has become an accepted part of the wallpaper. Women are

I stared at him, baffled. But at that moment Gideon began to play, and I entirely forgot what I had been going to ask the count. Oh, my god! Maybe it was the punch—but wow! That violin was really sexy! Even the way Gideon raised it and tucked it under his chin! He didn’t have to do more than that to carry me away with him. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and a lock of hair fell over his face as he began passing the bow over the strings. The first notes filling the room almost took my breath away, they made such tender, melting music, and suddenly I was close to tears. Until now, violins had been way down on my list of favorite instruments, and I really liked them only for accompanying certain moments in films. But this was just incredibly wonderful—well, all of it was: the bittersweet melody and boy enticing it out of the instrument. All the people in the room listened with bated breath, and Gideon played on, immersed in the music as if there were no one else there. I didn’t notice that I was crying until the count touched my cheek and caught a tear gently with his finger. Then I jumped in alarm. He was smiling down at me, and I saw a warm glow in his dark brown eyes. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly. “If it were otherwise, I’d have been very disappointed.

God speed fair Helena! whither away? HELENA Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching: O, were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I'd give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart. HERMIA I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

Amazing what a man thought of, looking at a fully clothed woman who did nothing more provocative than sipping her tea while gazing thoughtfully into the distance. For the thousandth time he wished he’d just met her. That they were but two strangers traveling together, that such lovely, filthy thoughts did not break him in two, but were only a pleasant pastime as he slowly fell under the spell of her aloof beauty and her hidden intensity. There were so many stories he could tell her, so many ways to draw her out of her shell. He would have waited with bated breath for her first smile, for the sound of her first laughter. He would be endlessly curious about her, eager to undress her metaphorically as well as physically. The first holding of hands. The first kiss. The first time he saw her unclothed. The first time they became one. The first time they finished each other’s sentences. But no, they’d met long ago, in the furthest years of his childhood. Their chances had come and gone. All they had ahead of them were a tedious road and a final good-bye.

Hard Times Music is silenced, the dark descending slowly Has stripped unending skies of all companions. Weariness grips your limbs and within the locked horizons Dumbly ring the bells of hugely gathering fears. Still, O bird, O sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. It's not melodious woodlands but the leaps and falls Of an ocean's drowsy booming, Not a grove bedecked with flowers but a tumult flecked with foam. Where is the shore that stored your buds and leaves? Where the nest and the branch's hold? Still, O bird, my sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. Stretching in front of you the night's immensity Hides the western hill where sleeps the distant sun; Still with bated breath the world is counting time and swimming Across the shoreless dark a crescent moon Has thinly just appeared upon the dim horizon. -But O my bird, O sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. From upper skies the stars with pointing fingers Intently watch your course and death's impatience Lashes at you from the deeps in swirling waves; And sad entreaties line the farthest shore With hands outstretched and crooning 'Come, O come!' Still, O bird, O sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. All that is past: your fears and loves and hopes; All that is lost: your words and lamentation; No longer yours a home nor a bed composed of flowers. For wings are all you have, and the sky's broadening countryard, And the dawn steeped in darkness, lacking all direction. Dear bird, my sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings!

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner As Phaethon would whip you to the west, And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods: Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven's back. Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night, Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.

Sunt un om viu. Nimic din ce-i omenesc nu mi-e străin. Abia am timp să mă mir că exist, dar mă bucur totdeauna că sunt. Nu mă realizez deplin niciodată, pentru că am o idee din ce în ce mai bună despre viaţă. Mă cutremură diferenţa dintre mine şi firul ierbii, dintre mine şi lei, dintre mine şi insulele de lumină ale stelelor. Dintre mine şi numere, bunăoară între mine şi 2, între mine şi 3. Am şi-un defect un păcat: iau în serios iarba, iau în serios leii, mişcările aproape perfecte ale cerului. Şi-o rană întâmplătoare la mână mă face să văd prin ea, ca printr-un ochean, durerile lumii, războaiele. Dintr-o astfel de întâmplare mi s-a tras marea înţelegere pe care-o am pentru Ulise - şi bărbatului cu chip ursuz, Dante Alighieri. Cu greu mi-aş putea imagina un pământ pustiu, rotindu-se în jurul soarelui... (Poate şi fiindcă există pe lume astfel de versuri.) Îmi olace să râd, deşi râd rar, având mereu câte o treabă, ori călătorind cu o plută, la nesfârşit, pe oceanul oval al fantaziei. E un spectacol de neuitat acela de-a şti, de-a descoperi harta universului în expansiune, în timp ce-ţi priveşti o fotografie din copilărie! E un trup al tău vechi, pe care l-ai rătăcit şi nici măcar un anunţ, dat cu litere groase, nu-ţi pferă vreo şansă să-l mai regăseşti. Îmi desfac papirusul vieţii plin de hieroglife, şi ceea ce pot comunica acum, aici, după o descifrare anevoioasă, dar nu lipăsită de satisfacţii, e un poem închinat păcii, ce are, pe scurt, următorul cuprins: Nu vreau, când îmi ridic tâmpla din perne, să se lungească-n urma mea pe paturi moartea, şi-n fiece cuvânt ţâşnind spre mine, peşti putrezi să-mi arunce, ca-ntr-un râu oprit. Nici după fiecare pas, în golul dinapoia mea rămas, nu vreau să urce moartea-n sus, asemeni unei coloane de mercur, bolţi de infern proptind deasupra-mi... Dar curcubeul negru-al ei, de alge, de-ar bate-n tinereţia mea s-ar sparge. E o fertilitate nemaipomenită în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării, magnetic, timpul, clipită cu clipită, gândurile mi le-nalţă ca pe nişte trupuri vii. E o fertilitate nemaipomenită în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării. Umbra de mi-aş ţine-o doar o clipă pironită, s-ar şi umple de ferigi, de bălării! Doar chipul tău prelung iubito, lasă-l aşa cum este, răzimat între două bătăi ale inimii mele, ca între Tigru şi Eufrat.