Bel Air Quotes

You're divine. Didn't anyone ever tell you It's OK to shine?

Bel Air, I am convinced, was laid out by some diabolic sadist who deliberately decided not to use a compass or a surveyor.

There was no time for kissing but she wanted him to know that in the future there would be. A kiss in so much loneliness was like a hand pulling you up out of the water, scooping you up from a place of drowning and into the reckless abundance of air. A kiss, another kiss.

It was one of those bitter mornings when the whole of nature is shiny, brittle, and hard, like crystal. The trees, decked out in frost, seem to have sweated ice; the earth resounds beneath one's feet; the tiniest sounds carry a long way in the dry air; the blue sky is bright as a mirror, and the sun moves through space in icy brilliance, casting on the frozen world rays which bestow no warmth upon anything.

The world could burn around her, the cities turn to dust, the cries of a hundred thousand fill the air, and she would get up after the fire died and walk barefoot and burned over the charred soil in search of clean water, a weapon, a purpose. She would rebuild.

ALL OF THE PRINCE OF BEL AIR

A kiss in so much loneliness was like a hand pulling you up out of the water, scooping you up from a place of drowning and into the reckless abundance of air.

Ellysetta was sitting at the secretary in Rain's suite, penning a note to her parents, when Bel burst through the doors. The other members of the quintet followed so swiftly that all five warriors nearly ended up in a heap on the floor. They were breathless and flushed, perspiration trickling down the sides of their faces. Kieran bent over, hands on his knees, and dragged air into his lungs. "Well done,brothers. We beat the smug chervil.” "You all look like you could use a drink." Cool and unwinded, Gaelen smiled at the new arrivals from the sofa near the window. "Water? Or perhaps something a little stronger to help you regain your strength?

He was so close to her then that they owned every molecule of air in the tiny room and the air grew heavy with their desire and worked to move them together.

Rien n'est jamais acquis à l'homme Ni sa force Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur Et quand il croit Ouvrir ses bras son ombre est celle d'une croix Et quand il croit serrer son bonheur il le broie Sa vie est un étrange et douloureux divorce Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Sa vie Elle ressemble à ces soldats sans armes Qu'on avait habillés pour un autre destin A quoi peut leur servir de se lever matin Eux qu'on retrouve au soir désoeuvrés incertains Dites ces mots Ma vie Et retenez vos larmes Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Mon bel amour mon cher amour ma déchirure Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé Et ceux-là sans savoir nous regardent passer Répétant après moi les mots que j'ai tressés Et qui pour tes grands yeux tout aussitôt moururent Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Le temps d'apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard Que pleurent dans la nuit nos coeurs à l'unisson Ce qu'il faut de malheur pour la moindre chanson Ce qu'il faut de regrets pour payer un frisson Ce qu'il faut de sanglots pour un air de guitare Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne soit à douleur Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit meurtri Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit flétri Et pas plus que de toi l'amour de la patrie Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne vive de pleurs Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Mais c'est notre amour à tous les deux

The time came to put Iris Duarte back on the plane. It was a morning flight which made it difficult. I was used to rising at noon; it was a fine cure for hangovers and would add 5 years to my life. I felt no sadness while driving her to L.A. International. The sex had been fine; there had been laughter. I could hardly remember a more civilized time, neither of us making any demands, yet there had been warmth, it had not been without feeling, dead meat coupled with dead meat. I detested that type of swinging, the Los Angeles, Hollywood, Bel Air, Malibu, Laguna Beach kind of sex. Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part—a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating each other. People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lacked the ability to feel or to love. So they became swingers. The dead fucking the dead. There was no gamble or humor in their game—it was corpse fucking corpse. Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience down through the centuries. Some morals tended to keep people slaves in factories, in churches and true to the State. Other morals simply made good sense. It was like a garden filled with poisoned fruit and good fruit. You had to know which to pick and eat, which to leave alone.

Manila is a city of extremes. The poor are very poor and the rich very rich. They live side by side. The rich live in sprawling houses in residential subdivisions with fancy names like Green Meadows, White Plains, Corinthian Plaza, Bel Air, San Lorenzo, Magallanes and the very exclusive Forbes Park, a leafy enclave that was home to the famous Manila Polo Club. The poor are not far from sight. They live in little pockets on the periphery of these affluent subdivisions. A constant reminder to the rich that there is another side to life.

Now, an hour later, Ethan stood at a window, gazing at the rain, like threads of seed pearls, accessorizing the hills of Bel Air. Watching weather clarified his thinking. Sometimes only nature felt real, while all human monuments and actions seemed to be the settings and the plots of dreams.

Julian’s not at the house in Bel Air, but there’s a note on the door saying that he might be at some house on King’s Road. Julian’s not at the house on King’s Road either, but some guy with braces and short platinum-blond hair and a bathing suit on lifting weights is in the backyard. He puts one of the weights down and lights a cigarette and asks me if I want a Quaalude. I ask him where Julian is. There’s a girl lying by the pool on a chaise longue, blond, drunk, and she says in a really tired voice, ‘Oh, Julian could be anywhere. Does he owe you money?’ The girl has brought a television outside and is watching some movie about cavemen. ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Well, that’s good. He promised to pay for a gram of coke I got him.’ She shakes her head. ‘Nope. He never did.’ She shakes her head again, slowly, her voice thick, a bottle of gin, half-empty, by her side. The weightlifter with the braces on asks me if I want to buy a Temple of Doom bootleg cassette. I tell him no and then ask him to tell Julian that I stopped by. The weight-lifter nods his head like he doesn’t understand and the girl asks him if he got the backstage passes to the Missing Persons concert. He says, ‘Yeah, baby,’ and she jumps in the pool. Some caveman gets thrown off a cliff and I split.

Los Angeles was the most glamorous, tackiest, most elegant, seediest, most clever, dumbest, most beautiful, ugliest, forward-looking, retro-thinking, altruistic, self-absorbed, deal-savvy, politically ignorant, artistic-minded, criminal-loving, meaning-obsessed, money-grubbing, laid-back, frantic city on the planet. And any two slices of it, as different as Bel Air and Watts, were nevertheless uncannily alike in essence: rich with the same crazy hungers, hopes, and despairs.

Extraordinary—that Willowdale Academy and Calvin Coolidge High School should both be institutions of learning! The contrast is stunning. I had a leisurely tea with the Chairman of the English Department. I saw several faculty members sitting around in offices and lounges, sipping tea, reading, smoking. Through the large casement windows bare trees rubbed cozy branches. (One of my students had written wistfully of a dream-school that would have "windows with trees in them"!) Old leather chairs, book-lined walls, air of cultivated casualness, sound of well-bred laughter.

You can read the book, you can wear the shirt, you can even shout the slogans, but unless you know ALL the history behind it, you're trivializing the entire struggle.

He could see in his face a love so obviously displayed that she must already know everything there was to know about it. He was so close to her then that they owned every molecule of air in the tiny room and the air grew heavy with their desire and worked to move them together. It was with the smallest step forward that his face was in her hair and then her arms were around his back and they were holding each other. It seemed so simple to get to this place, such a magnificent relief, that he couldn't imagine why he had not been holding her every minute since they first met.

et, en effet, si le plus bel air du monde devient vulgaire, insupportable, dès que le public le fredonne, dès que les orgues s'en emparent, l'œuvre d'art qui ne demeure pas indifférente aux faux artistes, qui n'est point contestée par les sots, qui ne se contente pas de susciter l'enthousiasme de quelques-uns, devient, elle aussi, par cela même, pour les initiés, polluée, banale, presque repoussante.

What we want out of a vacation changes as we age. It changes from vacation to vacation. There was a time when it was all about culture for me. My idea of a real break was to stay in museums until my legs ached and then go stand in line to get tickets for an opera or a play. Later I became a disciple of relaxation and looked for words like beach and massage when making my plans. I found those little paper umbrellas that balanced on the side of rum drinks to be deeply charming then. Now I strive for transcendent invisibility and the chance to accomplish the things I can’t get done at home. But as I pack up my room at the Hotel Bel-Air, I think the best vacation is the one that relieves me of my own life for a while and then makes me long for it again.” – Ann Patchett, “Do Not Disturb,” This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage

What looks good to you?” he asked as if we were out for ice cream. Rocky road or pistachio? Like my Corvette sitting back in the shop, he had a penchant for American-made classics, the ones Detroit had long-since forgotten it once knew how to make. Slowly, I walked around looking at each one—the acid green Shelby Mustang with white racing stripes, the powder blue Ford Fairlane, the black Chevy Bel-Air— each in pristine condition and only because his blood and sweat coursed through them as surely as gasoline. But if he was serious that I could take my pick and drive it out of here, there was only one choice for me: the cherry red 1955 Ford Bronco.

going on. Models had always been different each year, but consistently solid and square, usually black or dark green. Suddenly a completely new generation was on gleaming display – wider and softer than ever. I’ve looked at the advertisements for that year. The earthy colours of previous decades were replaced by pastels, pinks and pale blues. The Chevrolet Bel Air and the Pontiac Star Chief, with their Strato-Streak V8 engines, were available in ‘Avalon Yellow’ as well as ‘Raven Black’. The new models had rounded, panoramic windscreens and, in the case of the new Cadillac, a strange rear end with tail fins like a fighter plane. Sales soared, rising by thirty-seven per cent between 1954 and 1955 alone. People were no longer so concerned about technology and durability; it was more

Another time, he blew up his house in Bel Air. Someone was doing drugs there and they left the ether open. The fumes are like wavy cartoon lines; they find fire and then the fire follows the fumes back to the source and explodes. When it’s going critical, you can hear it go up in a whistle. Sly was back in a corner of his house, in a bathroom, and the ether had drifted from the kitchen. When he lit the pipe, it blew up the part of the house he was in—it was an addition, and it separated from the rest of the structure. When the smoke cleared, the bathroom had fallen clean off. He was standing on the edge of the house as cars drove by. He was standing on a ledge about six inches wide, with the door heading into the kitchen right next to him. He slid back into the house, closed the door, and stayed like that for more than a year.

March 9: With Schenck’s help, Marilyn obtains a contract with Columbia Pictures for $125 a week. The studio puts her up at the Hotel Bel-Air. Ed Cronenwerth shoots her in various exercise positions, toning and stretching her body. She is also shown seated on steps, her right elbow on her raised right thigh and her right hand on her chin next to the sign “Los Angeles City Limits.” He also photographs makeup sessions. Marilyn applies lipstick, looking into a hand-held mirror, and is shot sitting while Helen Hunt styles her hair.

There was something about those birds in the glass aviary that was foreboding and sad. They could fly, but they had no sky. The one who had escaped- the homing pigeon- was mourned, but shouldn't he have been celebrated? He had freedom; he had escaped his predictable route between Malibu and Bel-Air and was now flying in bigger and brighter skies, with a flight plan that was spontaneous and new. And then there was the girl: I had forced myself to forget her but was only successful for an hour or two, and then she would creep back in, the way a spider returns to a musty corner of a room to spin her web.

I really believe that people don’t understand how much I learned from watching Family Matters, The Fresh Prince of Bel-air and A Different World. Dwayne Wayne’s character taught me that not matter how hard school gets or not matter what people say about your physical appearance, push through it and be yourself, and always give back to the place that gave to you. Steve Urkel’s character taught me how to love a girl and the importance of patience. The Fresh Price of Bel-air demonstrated how to be a good son, and even if you are without a father, there is still a bright future that lies ahead. I practice everything I learn from these shows in my daily life and I get positive results.

Back in L.A., I’d remained friends with my freshman-year boyfriend, Collin, and we’d become even closer after he confided in me one dark and emotional night that he’d finally come to terms with his homosexuality. Around that time, his mother was visiting from Dallas, and Collin invited me to meet them at Hotel Bel Air for brunch. I wore the quintessential early-1990s brunch outfit: a copper-brown silk tank with white, dime-size polka dots and a below-the-knee, swinging skirt to match. A flawless Pretty Woman--Julia Roberts polo match replica. I loved that outfit. It was silk, though, and clingy, and the second I sat down at the table I knew I was in trouble. My armpits began to feel cool and wet, and slowly I noticed the fabric around my arms getting damper and damper. By the time our mimosas arrived, the ring of sweat had spread to the level of my third rib; by mealtime, it had reached the waistline of my skirt, and the more I tried to will it away, the worse it got. I wound up eating my Eggs Florentine with my elbows stuck to my hip bones so Collin and his mother wouldn’t see. But copper-brown silk, when wet, is the most unforgiving fabric on the planet. Collin had recently come out to his parents, so I’d later determined I’d experienced some kind of sympathetic nervousness on Collin’s behalf. I never wore that outfit again. Never got the stains out. Nor would I ever wear this suit again.

What we want out of a vacation changes as we age. It changes from vacation to vacation. There was a time when it was all about culture for me. My idea of a real break was to stay in museums until my legs ached and then go stand in line to get tickets for an opera or a play. Later I became a disciple of relaxation and looked for words like beach and massage when making my plans. I found those little paper umbrellas that balanced on the side of rum drinks to be deeply charming then. Now I strive for transcendent invisibility and the chance to accomplish the things I can’t get done at home. But as I pack up my room at the Hotel Bel-Air, I think the best vacation is the one that relieves me of my own life for a while and then makes me long for it again. I am deeply ready to be seen, thrilled at the thought of my own beloved civilization. I have done a month’s worth of work in five days. I have filled up to the gills on solitude. I am insanely grateful at the thought of going home.

So you walk along Bunker Hill, and you shake your fist at the sky, and I know what you're thinking, Bandini. The thoughts of your father before you, lash across your back, hot ire in your skull, that you are not to blame: this is your thought, that you were born poor, fled from your Colorado town because you are poor, hoping to write a book to get rich, because those who hated you back there in Colorado will not hate you if you write a book. You are a coward, Bandini, a traitor to your soul, a feeble liar before your weeping Christ. This is why you write, this is why it would be better if you died. Yes, it's true: but I have seen houses in Bel-Air with cool lawns and green swimming pools. I have wanted women whose very shoes are worth all I have ever possessed. I have seen golf clubs on Sixth Street in the Spalding window that make me hungry just to grip them. I have grieved for a necktie like a holy man for indulgences. I have admired hats in Robinson's the way critics gasp at Michelangelo.

No, you do not understand me now, but later on you will remember what I am saying to you at this moment. A day comes, and it comes early for many, when there is an end to mirth, for behind everything one looks at one sees death. You do not even understand the word. At your age it means nothing; at mine it is terrible. Yes, one understands it all at once, one does not know how or why, and then everything in life changes its aspect. For fifteen years I have felt death assail me as if I bore within me some gnawing beast. I have felt myself decaying little by little, month by month, hour by hour, like a house crumbling to ruin. Death has disfigured me so completely that I do not recognize myself. I have no longer anything about me of myself—of the fresh, strong man I was at thirty. I have seen death whiten my black hairs, and with what skillful and spiteful slowness. Death has taken my firm skin, my muscles, my teeth, my whole body of old, only leaving me a despairing soul, soon to be taken too. Every step brings me nearer to death, every moment, every breath hastens his odious work. To breathe, sleep, drink, eat, work, dream, everything we do is to die. To live, in short, is to die. I now see death so near that I often want to stretch my arms to push it back. I see it everywhere. The insects crushed on the path, the falling leaves, the white hair in a friend's head, rend my heart and cry to me, "Behold it!" It spoils for me all I do, all I see, all that I eat and drink, all that I love; the bright moonlight, the sunrise, the broad ocean, the noble rivers, and the soft summer evening air so sweet to breathe.

to wander among the neat rows of boutiques.

The week of the Reagan funeral, makeshift shrines of flowers and such sprung up at Eureka College and in Dixon, Illinois, at the presidential library in Simi Valley, at the Reagan Ranch Center in Santa Barbara, at the Reagan home in Bel Air, and in towns and villages across the nation. Memorials appeared, too, in Prague and Budapest and in cities and villages across the former “Captive Nations” of the Baltics, as well as in the former Warsaw Pact countries. Few, if any, were visible on the campus of Harvard or in the tony Georgetown section of Washington, nor in the Upper West Side of Manhattan or in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Depois, imaginou que a grita da multidão protestante era filha de um velho instinto de resistência à autoridade. Advertiu que o homem, uma vez criado, desobedeceu logo ao Criador, que aliás lhe dera um paraíso para viver; mas não há paraíso que valha o gosto da oposição. Que o homem se acostume às leis, vá; que incline o colo à força e ao bel prazer, vá também; é o que se dá com a planta, quando sopra o vento. Mas que abençoe a força e cumpra as leis sempre, sempre, sempre, é violar a liberdade primitiva, a liberdade do velho Adão.

I have seen more courage on this peninsular by men who will never be decorated for it. It takes all forms, and one does not have to be in the illustrious 11th to possess it, I assure you, Rowan. For me, courage is to now stand up and say I have had enough of soldiering. I shall not bring my sons up to be inevitable warriors, neither shall I force Bel’s boy into a cocked hat and tunic as soon as he can walk. What I have seen here has given me the courage to defy my family name and retire from the lists with a clear conscience. As I said earlier, we once had the ridiculous airs of inexperience and fine distinctions of honour and integrity that made us behave like arrogant fools. All I want now is to live my life out in peace, and allow others to do the same. I will be ruled by my own conscience from now on.

She followed shows she had watched in Nigeria—The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, A Different World—and discovered new shows she had not known—Friends, The Simpsons—but it was the commercials that captivated her. She ached for the lives they showed, lives full of bliss, where all problems had sparkling solutions in shampoos and cars and packaged foods, and in her mind they became the real America, the America she would only see when she moved to school in the autumn.

Bel Air (music) Fresh Prince". About how My life upside down backwards. I would like to take a moment. Sitting there I can tell you that I was a prince of a town called Bel Air. Born in West Philadelphia. I spent most of my court date. All is well for fun "Relaxin" Maxi. And every school to take some balls B-. When a few good ones. The problem started in my field. I had to struggle a little afraid of my mother. He said: "You went to live with her aunt and uncle in Bel Air.". I confess and diary But boxed me on my way. He kissed me and I gave him my card. I put my Walkman and said. "I can" I first layer is bad. Champagne glass of orange juice consumption. This is what people who live in Bel Air? Ah, this could be good But wait, I hear you're a prude, all middle class. This is a place where you just need to write a cool cat? I do not I do not know, but I do not understand. I hope you're ready for Prince of Bel-Air. Good landing, and I A police man at my name. However, any attempt to stop. I just moved here I grew up at a high speed, I lost. I whistled for a cab and asked him to come. Put the dice "live" and a mirror. If what I say in the cab are small. But I thought, "No, we must not forget.". -. "I'm home Bel Air". I went to the house about seven or eight. The taxi driver where I wanted to scream. "I do not smell it.". I looked at my kingdom. Eventually, I was able When he sat on the throne, Prince of Bel Air.

Twice the clouds came down, to swathe Bel Air in their delicate folds of moisture for twenty-four hours. On the second occasion, the five of us walked in cloud halfway to the Col de Fer. By road, of course. The exercise acted like a cure. I never remember feeling fitter in all my life. And the music of the orchestra of waters we could not see was unforgettable.

Prince’s grip. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “First of all,” Prince said, “I want to apologize for the tenor of our conversation when we last met. It was not my purpose to establish an adversarial relationship with you or your client, and things, somehow, went awry. I hope we can establish a more cordial atmosphere for discussions from here on in.” “I hope so, too,” Stone replied. “Now, what discussions?” Prince looked around as if he were worried that someone might overhear them. “I understand that Arrington Calder has bought two pieces of property adjoining her Bel-Air estate. This is a matter of public record.” “Then I have no problem confirming it,” Stone said. “May I ask, then, what do those acquisitions bring her total acreage to?” “I believe it’s eighteen acres,” Stone said. “And this is quite near the Bel-Air Country Club?” “Some of the property is directly across the street.” “May I ask,” Prince said again, “how she and her late husband came to own such a large chunk of Bel-Air?” “In

Yo maté a Chanquete y a Laura Palmer. Pamela Anderson me salvó la vida verano tras verano embutida en un ceñido bañador rojo de socorrista. Viajé en la nave Enterprise y me emborraché en la barra de Cheers mucho antes de recibir la invitación para asistir a la boda roja de Juego de Tronos. He presenciado multitud de historias de la cripta y cientos de cuentos asombrosos en los límites de la realidad. Nunca fui un gran héroe americano, pero me llamaban El príncipe de Bel Air. Yo soy el hijo putativo de La tribu de los Brady y el hijastro de Los Simpsons. Soy un spoiler humano.

Long before the bombs fell and soldiers and civilians died, long before extermination camps did their work of horror, there was the war of nerves, the propaganda war being fought for people’s minds. Despite the stories that are told in retrospect where everything is clear and predictable, it is never easy to decipher where the real enemy is or who will be the victim. In France the illusion of normalcy was sustained for years. And then, in a moment, the world collapsed like a burnt husk. Millions of people were blindsided. Despite the ominous signs, they could not believe a world war could happen. Not a second time.

[...] O homem, uma vez criado, desobedeceu logo ao Criador, que aliás lhe dera um paraíso para viver; mas não há paraíso que valha o gosto da oposição. Que o homem se acostume às leis, vá; que incline o colo à força e ao bel-prazer, vá também; é o que se dá com a planta, quando sopra o vento. Mas que abençoe a força e cumpra as leis sempre, sempre, sempre, é violar a liberdade primitiva, a liberdade do velho Adão.

—Me llamo Greg... —Te llamas Elton John —dijo Aline, anotándolo. —No —insistió el licántropo—. Me llamo Greg. Greg Anderson. —Elton John —repitió Aline, cogiendo un sello—. Tienes treinta y seis años y eres un limpiachimeneas que vive en Bel Air. —Selló el papel con tinta roja: INSCRITO, y se lo devolvió. El licántropo cogió el papel, confuso. —¿Qué estás haciendo? —Esto significa que la Clave no podrá encontrarte —explicó Tavvy, que estaba bajo la mesa, jugando con un coche de juguete—. Pero que estás inscrito en el Registro. —Técnicamente —dijo Helen, esperando que él aceptara la triquiñuela. Si no lo hacía, tendrían problemas con el resto. Greg miró otra vez el papel. —Es solo mi opinión —dijo—, pero el tipo que viene detrás de mí se parece a Humphrey Bogart. —¡Pues Humphrey será! —exclamó Aline, agitando el sello—. ¿Quieres ser Humphrey Bogart? —le preguntó al siguiente subterráneo, un brujo alto y delgado con cara triste y orejas de caniche. —¿Y quién no? —repuso el brujo. La mayoría de los subterráneos se mostraban inquietos mientras avanzaba la cola, pero cooperativos. Hubo incluso algunas sonrisas y agradecimientos. Parecieron entender que Aline y Helen estaban tratando de socavar el sistema, aunque no el porqué. De pronto Aline señaló a un hada alta y rubia, con un vestido de bambula. —Esa es Taylor Swift.

I had always coveted darker-skinned women their color. There was a mystery to their beauty that I found hypnotizing, Siren-like. They were hardly ever in Jet or Ebony or Essence, the magazines we subscribed to, unless they themselves were famous—the mom from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Whoopi Goldberg, Jackie Joyner, Oprah. Most of the Black women the public pronounced beautiful looked like Mama. Black Barbies. Bright. Hair wavier than curly. Petite figures.

Depuis le métro aérien, je regarde la station Bel-Air défiler sous mes yeux, mais je pleure tant que le soleil dégouline sur la vitre.

Okay, let's get something straight here, shall we?  You're not my lord.  I'm not your subject.  Furthermore, I'm not gonna kiss your king-sized ass and you better just get used to it.  Cathy, on the other hand, is my client and I intend to get her a fair settlement.

Let us kill all the lawyers!

No. I actually don’t know much about cars in general. But I saw an old Bel Air in a calendar once in our garage and have been a little obsessed with them ever since.” The response launches Thomas into a dissertation about classic cars, which I tune out as soon as I hear the word carburetor. Olivia hangs on his every word.

He felt a new serenity in his life. To the guys it seemed more like madness, and they felt increasingly alienated, resentful, bewildered, and angry all at once. Elvis appeared to be leaving them with his almost daily visions, his tales of going off in a spaceship, his delusions of being able to turn the sprinkler system of the Bel Air Country Club golf course behind the house on and off with his thoughts, his conviction that he could cure them of everything from the common cold to more serious aches and pains by his healing powers. To Marty he announced that a bird’s song had turned into the voice of Christ, and under other circumstances they might have been tempted to commit him to a doctor’s care, but reason told them that he would come out of this obsession, too, just as he had come out of all of his other momentary impulses and infatuations.

I could go on all week about how your tax money is being used, but let it suffice for me to say it is not being used to help you or yours. You are getting no return on your investment. This is what taxes are supposed to be all about, an investment in the community, the society, a pooling of each individual’s resources so that the administration can be financed, so that the administration can perform the jobs which must be done to ensure public welfare, and the jobs which no individual can do well alone. Now it follows that if everyone pays, everyone should get proper returns. The streetlights should be the same in Watts and Bel Air. It seems that some dereliction of duty has indeed taken place. George

Tell me what you found out about Callum McCord.” Instantly, Dani perks up. “Lots. He’s thirty-five, never been married, and lives in this gigantic mansion in Bel Air that used to belong to Jennifer Lopez. He’s the oldest of three brothers who all work for the company. You have to check out this family photo.

Now, this is a story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down. And I’d like to take a minute, just sit right there—I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel-Air.

world,” Arrington pointed out.

Barron, and he’s going to talk with some of the

Il n’est point de désespoir Il n’est point de désespoir si fort soit-il qui ne trouve au carrefour sa mort à l’aube et bien parce qu’il n’est point de désespoir qui ne trouve au carrefour sa mort à l’aube l’écho avec son œil mauvais la langue saburrale a bel et bien tort de prendre cet air entendu quelque part et de répéter à tout venant tout vent trop tard trop tard Car l’écho que j’ai à l’œil de vouloir se donner l’air d’avoir l’œil mauvais et la langue saburrale ignore que le désespoir est mort à l’aube

Je tenais dans mes bras une superbe danseuse d’un théâtre d’Italie, venue à Paris pour le Carnaval ; elle était en costume de Bacchante, avec une robe de peau de panthère. Jamais je n’ai rien vu de si languissant que cette créature. Elle était grande et mince, et, tout en valsant avec une rapidité extrême, elle avait l’air de se traîner ; à la voir, on eût dit qu’elle devait fatiguer son valseur ; mais on ne la sentait pas, elle courait comme par enchantement. Sur son sein était un bouquet énorme, dont les parfums m’enivraient malgré moi. Au moindre mouvement de mon bras, je la sentais plier comme une liane des Indes, pleine d’une mollesse si douce et si sympathique, qu’elle m’entourait comme d’un voile de soie embaumée. À chaque tour on entendait à peine un léger froissement de son collier sur sa ceinture de métal ; elle se mouvait si divinement que je croyais voir un bel astre, et tout cela avec un sourire, comme une fée qui va s’envoler. La musique de la valse, tendre et voluptueuse, avait l’air de lui sortir des lèvres, tandis que sa tête, chargée d’une forêt de cheveux noirs tressés en nattes, penchait en arrière, comme si son cou eût été trop faible pour la porter.

Orpheus, Gathering the Trees" The Metamorphoses of Ovid, Book X, Lines 86-110. When love died the second time, he sang at dawn in the empty field and the bees came to listen. A little song for the tag alder, the rue cherry the withe-willow— the simple-hearted ones that come quickly to loneliness. Then he sang for the mulberry with its purple fruit, for the cedar and the tamarack. He sang, bel canto. for the quaking aspen and the stave oak; something lovely for the white pine, the fever tree, the black ash. From the air, he called the sparrows and the varieties of wrens. Then he sang for a bit of pestilence— for the green caterpillars, for the leaf worms and bark beetles. Food to suit the flickers and the crows. So that, in the wood lot, there would always be empty places. So he would still know loss.

You don’t want to be the chick on TMZ that killed the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Bel chose, and she chose right this time. Head and heart and gut. She closed the gap between her and Rachel, eyes fixing on the key, watering because she couldn't blink, blink and everything might disappear. Bel reached out, fingers gliding through the air, a shiver as she touched the skin of Rachel's palm. Warm, not cold. She closed Rachel's hand around the key, into a fist. Skin to skin, bone to bone. Held it there, tight. Eyes on her mom's. She chose her.

The woman you love puts her gun beside a blue gravy boat at night so that you can teach her to read. She came into your life through an air-conditioning vent and how she will leave is the question that keeps you awake in the few free moments you have to sleep.