Bella Vista Quotes

Y si, digo que me parecería de lo más bonito del mundo tomarnos de la mano y besarnos frente a los demás. Y comer fresas con crema de tu boca o de tus piernas en mi casa de campo mientras preparo chocolate caliente y tu enciendes la calefacción. Y estar cada noche en la azotea viendo constelaciones mientras te hago dibujos en la espalda de las mismas. Y decirte que me encantaría pasar horas dando vueltas en la cama mirandote y jugando contigo a que somos gatos que no quieren dormirse y quieren jugar hasta que se vaya la luna. Y quisiera despertar todos los días viendote despertar. Hacerte el desayuno, el amor. Compartirte mi vida. Decir que no hay peor ciego que el que no te quiera ver, y que la verdad el mundo sería bastante aburrido sin tu existencia. Y que me ha gustado un montón haberte encontrado. Y que sólo me sentiría perdido si te suelto de la cintura cuando bailemos. Que sólo en tus labios es que puedo calmar mi sed de verdad, y en tus ojos es que puedo disfrutar de un próspero amanecer. Que con nuestros cuerpos rozados uno al otro mi corazón da latidos de fuego artificial. Que la vida sin ti es un desperdicio, y que no me importa el tiempo que tenga que pasar esperandote por que te vistas a la hora de salir. Que no me importaría llegar tarde al trabajo si cada mañana despertamos, te hago el café comemos y hacemos el amor antes de despedirnos. Que sonreír es mucho más bonito cuando lo hago porque lo haces tú. Que me encantas con pijama, sin pijama, con lo que sea. Que eres tan bella que no dejas que nadie más para mí lo sea. Corretear por la cocina desnudos por estar jugando a las escondidas, aparecerme en la ducha cuando tu lo estás, abrazarte y besarte haciendote saber que eres la mejor persona del mundo y que ser feliz es sinónimo de estar contigo. Y besar tu cuello y acariciar tu vientre mientras digo que soy capaz de darle la vuelta al mundo para abrazarte por la espalda. Así te quedaría claro que eres amada por mí.

You’ll never be happy with what you want until you can be happy with what you’ve got.

And if you don't believe memories are worth more than money, then perhaps you've not made the right kind of memories.

..."books were alive in a special way. Between the covers, characters are living their lives, enacting their dramas, falling in and out of love...Even sitting closed on a shelf, a book had a life of its own. When someone opened the book, that was when the magic happened.

My really smart mom used to say there'd be things in life I don't like, but's that no reason to stop liking life.

Feed your friends, and their mouths will be too full to gossip, Bubbie used to say. Feed your enemies, and they’ll become your friends.

A strange lightness enveloped her as she drove to her apartment, past the shady village green, the trendy shops and cafés and galleries and tasting rooms. Her favorite spot in town was the White Rabbit Bookstore with a sign over the door----FEED YOUR HEAD.

the best ideas are big ideas that come straight from your gut, not your head. Ideas that give you big feelings.

She loved him so much that it hurt. Maybe that was how love worked. If you could handle the pain, you’d find the sweetness.

Sometimes the true value of the piece is how much a person loves it.

Dreams changed a person, and there was a little danger in that, because having a powerful dream made you vulnerable to failure and disappointment.

Nobody can fix another person. But everybody tries.

You can't rewind life or undo things.

Di solito nei nostri muri trasparenti, che sembrano tessuti d’aria scintillante, noi viviamo sempre in bella vista, eternamente lavati dalla luce. Non abbiamo da nasconderci nulla l’un l’altro.

When she was very small, her mother used to tell her that books were alive in a special way. Between the covers, characters were living their lives, enacting their dramas, falling in and out of love, finding trouble, working out their problems. Even sitting closed on a shelf, a book had a life of its own. When someone opened the book, that was when the magic happened.

DESPEDIDA DE UN PAISAJE No le reprocho a la primavera que llegue de nuevo. No me quejo de que cumpla como todos los años con sus obligaciones. Comprendo que mi tristeza no frenara la hierba. Si los tallos vacilan será sólo por el viento. No me causa dolor que los sotos de alisos recuperen su murmullo. Me doy por enterada de que, como si vivieras, la orilla de cierto lago es tan bella como era. No le guardo rencor a la vista por la vista de una bahía deslumbrante. Puedo incluso imaginarme que otros, no nosotros, están sentados ahora mismo sobre el abedul derribado. Respeto su derecho a reír, a susurrar y a quedarse felices en silencio. Supongo incluso que los une el amor y que él la abraza a ella con brazos llenos de vida. Algo nuevo, como un trino, comienza a gorgotear entre los juncos. De veras los deseo que lo oigan. No exijo ningún cambio de las olas a la orilla, ligeras o perezosas, pero no obedientes. Nada le pido a las aguas junto al bosque, a veces esmeralda, a veces zafiro, a veces negras. Una cosa no acepto. Volver a ese lugar. Renuncio al privilegio de la presencia.

When she returned to Bella Vista, she discovered Isabel in her manic-baking mode. The kitchen was filled with the aromas of butter, vanilla and cinnamon. She'd created Danishes and rugelach and crispy twisty things that promised to glue themselves promptly to Tess's hips.

What a joy life is when you have made a close working partnership with Nature, helping her to produce for the benefit of mankind new forms, colors, and perfumes in flowers which were never known before; fruits in form, size, and flavor never before seen on this globe." -Luther Burbank.

Try to be conspicuously accurate in everything, pictures as well as text. Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is more interesting. -William Randolph Hearst

Seeing him amid the yellow leaves and berry-colored hips of the spent roses, and the fading hollyhocks gone to seed along the garden wall, filled her heart.

Why do we remember the bad stuff and not the good?

Sometimes you have to let the right book find you

Autumn was San Francisco's summer. The days were bright and warm, scented with drying leaves and fading flowers and the ever-present salt air.

Survival was a powerful driving force, stronger than hatred and love combined.

He was the worst kind of liar, the kind who took hearts as hostages and broke them with impunity.

Falling for him was too easy. Falling in general was easy. It was the landing you had to watch out for.

She was starting to see that there was nothing wrong with sometimes letting the day unfold according to its own rhythm.

They spent the day with Lucia, who promised that the following day she would take them up to Scala, an even tinier, loftier town where her parents now lived. That evening, Mac took her to a restaurant called Il Flauto di Pan- Pan's Flute- perched at the Villa Cimbrone among the gardens and crumbling walls. It was probably the most beautiful restaurant she'd ever seen. The centuries-old villa was embellished with incredible gardens of fuchsia bougainvillea, lemon and cypress trees and flowering herbs that scented the air. Their veranda table had an impossibly gorgeous view of the sea.

Memories are like a series of locked doors, and once you manage to get one open, it leads to another, and then another and so on. The hard part is finding the key to that first lock and getting through it.

The moon garden of the mansion was famous, having been designed with night-blooming flowers lining the pathways and hillocks of the landscape. They stepped through open doors, went down the wide stone steps, and were greeted by the heady perfume of late-blooming autumn flowers. The pale blossoms were lit from below, setting a mood of mystery. A fountain of natural stone rose up out of a pond surrounded by terra-cotta sculptures.

I'm heading over to visit Tess for some tea and sympathy." "I don't like tea," Ollie said. "What's sympathy taste like?" Natalie laughed and ruffled his hair, then got back in the car. "Like a melted marshmallow with chocolate sauce.

Here, he felt like a stranger in a strange- and extremely seductive- land. In contrast to the places of his past, Bella Vista seemed weighted by a sense of permanence- the old country house with its courtyard and patios, the rustic stone barn and machine shop, outbuildings and weathered work sheds, the acres of age-gnarled apple trees, now covered in springtime blooms. He wondered what it would be like to watch the seasons change all in one place, year after year.

There is more real wealth in a pound of honey, or a load of manure for that matter, than all the currency in the world. We often destroy the world’s real wealth to create an illusion of wealth, confusing symbol and substance.” —William Longgood, The Queen Must Die

Is she pretty?” That would be a hell yes. Big soft eyes, full pink lips. Legs and tight skirts. And those damn cowboy boots. And the yoga pants and bra top she wore sailing. Long blond hair—-at least he thought it was long; she always kept it wound up and clipped in a messy bun. He’d dated white girls before, a time or two. But never someone that white, from Texas. Or that young. She was what, fifteen years younger, at least. An itty-bitty thing who could throw a grown man to the ground. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s real pretty.

This time of year, the purple blooms were busy with life- not just the bees, but butterflies and ladybugs, skippers and emerald-toned beetles, flitting hummingbirds and sapphire dragonflies. The sun-warmed sweet haze of the blossoms filled the air. "When I was a kid," said Isabel, "I used to capture butterflies, but I was afraid of the bees. I'm getting over that, though." The bees softly rose and hovered over the flowers, their steady hum oddly soothing. The quiet buzzing was the soundtrack of her girlhood summers. Even now, she could close her eyes and remember her walks with Bubbie, and how they would net a monarch or swallowtail butterfly, studying the creature in a big clear jar before setting it free again. They always set them free. As she watched the activity in the hedge, a memory floated up from the past- Bubbie, gently explaining to Isabel why they needed to open the jar. "No creature should ever be trapped against its will," she used to say. "It will ruin itself, just trying to escape." As a survivor of a concentration camp, Bubbie only ever spoke of the experience in the most oblique of terms.

I like the organza tiebacks. They're pretty and ethereal." "Lovely. I think those are the ones." "Me, too. And hey, can we invent a signature cocktail for the wedding, using honey?" "I'm working on one made with honey syrup, apple juice and calvados. Garnished with an apple slice, of course.

What a joy life is when you have made a close working partnership with Nature, helping her to produce for the benefit of mankind new forms, colors, and perfumes in flowers which were never known before; fruits in form, size, and flavor never before seen on this globe.”—Luther Burbank. “It’s the

El punto de vista oficial del estoicismo es que, en la naturaleza, existe un principio racional responsable de su orden y de su movimiento. A este principio lo llaman «Dios» (Zeus). Pero este dios no es una persona ni algo sobrenatural, sino simplemente naturaleza. La naturaleza no es ciega ni caótica, sino bella y ordenada,

For the bee, honey is the ultimate reality. It represents the fulfillment of her life mission, the triumph over her enemies, the continuity of the hive, the justification for working herself to death. Honey is to bees what money in the bank is to people—a measure of prosperity and well-being. But there is nothing abstract or symbolic about honey, as there is about money, which has no intrinsic value. There is more real wealth in a pound of honey, or a load of manure for that matter, than all the currency in the world. We often destroy the world’s real wealth to create an illusion of wealth, confusing symbol and substance.” —William Longgood, The Queen Must Die

They just started throwing these canisters. One of them hit me so I lobbed it back.” “Nothing at all would have hit you if you’d been minding your business.” “And nothing will change if nobody takes action against injustice. Remember when you and Mama took me to hear Dr. King speak? Remember what he said? ‘We die when we refuse to stand up for justice.

The garden flourished that summer because Magnus's mother was determined to feed her family despite the depredations of the distant war. In the fall, there were beans and tomatoes and pickles to can, and jar after jar of applesauce. Mama's hives yielded fresh honey, and then willow skeps were winterized. The bees would not come out until the air warmed and the sun appeared.

The last dress in the wardrobe was loosely wrapped in thin tissue paper that tore away at the slightest touch. Isabel was intrigued by this one, a cocktail dress in peach-colored silk, embellished with a line of crystal bugle beads around the neckline, a fitted bodice and flaring skirt. In the glow of the bedside lamp, the dress was luminous and shimmering with a life of its own.

Jūtarō si chiese perché Sayama e Otoki avessero deciso di morire proprio lì. Avrebbero potuto trovare un posto migliore. Due innamorati prossimi al suicidio dovrebbero scegliere con cura il luogo in cui morire. Vicino a una fonte termale, per esempio, o in una località rinomata per la sua bellezza. Certo, anche lì la vista era bella, ma perché proprio su quelle rocce dure e non su un morbido prato?

There, a simple headstone marked the grave of Eva Saloman Johansen, "beloved wife and grandmother." Tess was intrigued to see a phrase in Hebrew characters. Her paternal grandmother had apparently been Jewish. Beside that was a marker for Erik Karl Johansen, inscribed, 'Measure his life not by its length but by the depths of joy he brought us. He jumped into life and never touched bottom. We will never laugh the same again.

El punto de vista oficial del estoicismo es que, en la naturaleza, existe un principio racional responsable de su orden y de su movimiento. A este principio lo llaman «Dios» (Zeus). Pero este dios no es una persona ni algo sobrenatural, sino simplemente naturaleza. La naturaleza no es ciega ni caótica, sino bella y ordenada, con sus propios ritmos y patrones. No está formada por materia muerta; es un solo organismo vivo del que todos nosotros formamos parte.

She loved old things. The brown-brick place was a survivor of the 1907 earthquake and fire, and proudly bore a plaque from the historical society. The building had a haunted history- it was the site of a crime of passion- but Tess didn't mind. She'd never been superstitious. The apartment was filled with items she'd collected through the years, simply because she liked them or was intrigued by them. There was a balance between heirloom and kitsch. The common thread seemed to be that each object had a story, like a pottery jug with a bas-relief love story told in pictures, in which she'd found a note reading, "Long may we run. -Gilbert." Or the antique clock on the living room wall, each of its carved figures modeled after one of the clockmaker's twelve children. She favored the unusual, so long as it appeared to have been treasured by someone, once upon a time. Her mail spilled from an antique box containing a pigeon-racing counter with a brass plate engraved from a father to a son. She hung her huge handbag on a wrought iron finial from a town library that had burned and been rebuilt in a matter of weeks by an entire community. Other people's treasures captivated her. They always had, steeped in hidden history, bearing the nicks and gouges and fingerprints of previous owners. She'd probably developed the affinity from spending so much of her childhood in her grandmother's antique shop.

Blythe's favorite shelf near the coffee area. She'd labeled it W.O.W. (WORDS OF WISDOM) and it was stocked with her perennial favorites with bookmarked passages. Natalie used to love browsing that shelf. A book would never betray you or change its mind or make you feel stupid. She took down The Once and Future King and found a marked passage: "The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails."

[Sonetto XVI] Vede perfettamente onne salute chi la mia donna tra le donne vede; quelle che vanno con lei son tenute di bella grazia a Dio render merzede. E sua bieltate è di tanta vertute, che nulla invidia a l’altre ne procede, anzi la face andar seco vestute di gentilezza, d’amore e di fede. La vista sua fa onne cosa umile; e non fa sola sé parer piacente, ma ciascuna per lei riceve onore. Ed è ne li atti suoi tanto gentile, che nessun la si può recare a mente, che non sospiri in dolcezza d’amore.

[Sonetto VIII] Ciò che m’incontra, ne la mente more, quand’i’ vegno a veder voi, bella gioia; e quand’io vi son presso, i’ sento Amore che dice: "Fuggi, se ’l perir t’è noia". Lo viso mostra lo color del core, che, tramortendo, ovunque pò s’appoia; e per la ebrietà del gran tremore le pietre par che gridin: Moia, moia. Peccato face chi allora mi vide, se l’alma sbigottita non conforta, sol dimostrando che di me li doglia, per la pietà, che ’l vostro gabbo ancide, la qual si cria ne la vista morta de li occhi, c’hanno di lor morte voglia.

If you like cool, funny entertainment, you might like this one. It's a first novel by a local author." She handed him a copy of Practical Demonkeeping. "A very different kind of buddy novel. I thought it was hilarious." "You're reading me like a book." The guy shook his head as if embarrassed by his own lame joke. Then he looked over at Blythe. Natalie saw his gaze move swiftly over her mother's red V-neck sweater and short skirt. "How can you tell that's exactly what would make me happy?" he asked. Oh boy. He was flirting. Guys did that a lot with her mom. She was super pretty, and Natalie knew it wasn't only because Mom was her mom and all kids thought their moms were pretty. Even her snottiest friends like Kayla said Blythe looked like a model. Like Julia Roberts. Plus, her mom had a knack for dressing cool and being social---she could talk to anyone and make them like her. Also, she had a superpower, which was on full display right now. She had the ability to see a person for the first time and almost instantly know what book to recommend. She was really smart and had also read every book ever written, or so it seemed to Natalie. She could talk to high school kids about Ivanhoe and Silas Marner. She ran a mystery discussion group. She could tell people the exact day the new Mary Higgins Clark novel would come out. She knew which kids would only ever read Goosebumps books, no matter what, and she knew which kids would try something else, like Edward Eager or Philip Pullman. Sometimes people didn't know anything about the book they were searching for except "It's blue with gold page edges" and her mom would somehow figure it out.

Servers moved among the guests with trays of hors d'oeuvres and the signature cocktail, champagne with a honey infused liqueur and a delicate spiral twist of lemon. The banquet was bursting with color and flavor- flower-sprinkled salads, savory chili roasted salmon, honey glazed ribs, just-harvested sweet corn, lush tomatoes and berries, artisan cheeses. Everything had been harvested within a fifty-mile radius of Bella Vista. The cake was exactly what Tess had requested, a gorgeous tower of sweetness. Tess offered a gracious speech as she and Dominic cut the first slices. "I've come a long way from the city girl who subsisted on Red Bull and microwave burritos," she said. "There's quite a list of people to thank for that- my wonderful mother, my grandfather and my beautiful sister who created this place of celebration. Most of all, I'm grateful to Dominic." She turned to him, offering the first piece on a yellow china plate. "You're my heart, and there is no sweeter feeling than the love we share. Not even this cake. Wait, that might be overstating it. Everyone, be sure you taste this cake. It's one of Isabel's best recipes.

Of course his name would be Dominic. It meant "gift from God." AKA a life-support system for an ego. Still, that didn't mean he wasn't fun to stare at. Dominic Rossi looked like a dream, the kind of dream no woman in her right mind would want to wake from. She had always been susceptible to male beauty, ever since the age of ten, when her mother had taken her to see Michelangelo's David in Florence. She recalled staring at that huge stone behemoth, all lithe muscles and gorgeous symmetry, indifferent about his nudity, his member inspiring a dozen questions her mother brushed aside.

Grandfather, is it all right if we join you for a bit?" "Of course. Particularly since you've brought sustenance." He eyed the tray of food. It looked like a food magazine layout, featuring a variety of cheeses with fresh berries on brightly painted Italian pottery, and a tiny glass container of honey with the smallest spoon he'd ever seen. Isabel laced a thread of honey across the cheeses. "These are my favorite honey and cheese pairings. Comte, Appenzeller and ricotta. I had my first honey harvest last summer- a small one. That's when I realized I needed extra help with my beekeeping." "Sorry I wasn't your guy," said Mac.

Cleo was like those little bluebirds of happiness in Cinderella, flitting around until Natalie had been transformed into a princess. A fraudulent one, to be sure, but a princess nonetheless. The silk dress from her mother's closet had been transformed into a couture masterpiece by the sartorial skills of Cleo's talented aunt. The sheath now fit like an extremely flattering glove. Its color, and the bright handwork accents, echoed the colors of the precious vase---jade green, turquoise, marigold, and fuchsia with veins of cobalt blue. She paired it with the gold-heeled sandals, the vintage watch, and a gold snake belt borrowed from Cleo.

The proper balance of sugar and salt was the key to perfect barbecue sauce. Of course, when it came to barbecue sauce, everybody had an opinion about the combination of acid, aromatics, fruit, and flavorings---the ineffable umami---that made each bite so satisfying. But Margot Salton knew with utter certainty that it all started with sugar and salt. She'd even named her signature product after it: sugar+salt. This sauce was her superpower. Her secret. Her stock-in-trade. When she'd had nothing---no home, no education, no family, no means of support---she had created the powerful alchemy of flavors that made grown men moan with pleasure, cautious women ignore their diets, and skeptical foodies beg for more.

Books were alive in a special way. Between the covers, characters were living their lives, enacting their dramas, falling in and out of love, finding trouble, working out their problems. Even sitting closed on a shelf, a book had a life of its own. When someone opened a book, that was when the magic happened. The bookshop cat, curled into a marmalade-colored ball. The sun shone with the kind of golden clarity that made people fall in love with San Francisco autumn. The way you spend your day is the way you spend your life. Unlike men, books were easy. They filled you with all the emotions in the world - joy, dread, fear, hurt, gratification - and then they came to an end. People were different. Unpredictable. Impossible to manage.

Con estas cartas he iniciado mi aproximación a Rilke. No cabe duda de que el checo respiraba y exhalaba poesía. Para ilustrarlo, unas breves citas que no necesitan mayor explicación, sólo hay que gozarlas. “Y aun permaneciendo en mi tristeza, soy feliz sintiendo que es usted, Bella; soy feliz por haberme entregado sin miedo a su belleza como un pájaro se entrega al espacio; feliz, Querida, por haber caminado como un verdadero creyente sobre las aguas de nuestra incertidumbre hasta la isla de su corazón donde florecen dolores. En fin: feliz.” "El trabajo del artista debe ser como la muerte; hay que entrar por entero en él, sin reserva alguna, solo, sin poseer nada salvo esta moneda que se ponía en la boca de los muertos para asegurarles el trayecto de ese río trágico que les separaba para siempre de sus amigos. ¿Sentirá usted, al menos, mi alma que volteará a menudo a su alrededor y al de nuestros queridos recuerdos?" "Estará usted aquí, se lo digo a mi habitación, sobre todo al gran sillón al que le gusta hacerse más vasto a su alrededor y que está infinitamente orgulloso de ser casi tocado por un Alma; pues sabe que sólo un poco de delicioso cuerpo lo separa de la suya. Hasta la vista, Querida, has muy pronto." "Mi estado, tal como lo vio, seguía empeorando; no he escrito ni una sola línea durante esos largos meses y ni siquiera la primavera ha sabido, esta vez, aliviarme; aumentaba, pero yo estaba separado de ella por todos mis sentidos que permanecían cerrados y opacos. Ése debe de ser (cuántas veces lo habré pensado) el estado de un tallo roto que una brizna de corteza sujeta todavía a su árbol, pero que, interiormente, no corresponde ya a la feliz savia con la que se embriagan todas las ramas a su alrededor.

En un libro de Alfonso Karr, titulado "Am Rauchem", hay un hombre que sigue por la noche a una mujer muy elegante, de quien se ha enamorado a primera vista, tan bella es. Por besar la mano de esta mujer, se halla con fuerzas para emprenderlo todo, con voluntad para conquistarlo todo, con coraje para efectuarlo todo. No se atreve casi a mirar el tobillo coqueto que descubre ella a fin de no manchar su vestido al contacto del polvo. Mientras él sueña en todo lo que haría para poseer a esa mujer, ella le para en la esquina de una calle y le invita a subir con ella. Desvía él la cabeza, cruza la calle y vuelve muy triste a su casa. Recordé este estudio psicológico, y yo, que habría desea sufrir por aquella mujer, temía que me aceptara ella de buenas a primeras y me otorgara demasiado pronto un amor que, por mi parte, habría querido pagar con una larga espera o con un gran sacrificio.

BACKYARD GARDEN SALAD In wartime, patriotic families cultivated “Victory Gardens” to promote self-sufficiency and help the war effort. 4 cups mixed greens 1/4 cup fresh sprigs of dill 1/4 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves 4 large basil leaves, rolled up and thinly sliced crosswise 1 large lemon, halved 1/4 cup fruity olive oil pinch of salt fresh ground black pepper to taste 1 cup toasted walnuts 3/4 cup crumbled feta cheese 1 cup fresh edible flowers; choose from bachelor’s buttons, borage, calendulas, carnations, herb flowers (basil, chives, rosemary, thyme), nasturtiums, violas, including pansies and Johnny-jump-ups, stock Toss salad greens and herbs in a large bowl. Squeeze lemon juice (without the seeds) over the greens and season with olive oil, salt and pepper. Toss again. Add walnuts and feta and toss well. Divide salad and pansies among four serving plates and serve. (Source: Adapted from California Bountiful)

Language, Sweet," said Magnus's mother, arriving with a plate full of homemade biscuits. She didn't scold him too harshly about his talk these days. Magnus suspected this was because Mama shared Uncle Sweet's opinion about the Nazis. Yet despite the shortages and rationing, she had managed to turn out the most delicious biscuits Magnus had ever tasted. They were redolent of butter, which Mrs. Gundersen up the hill traded for apples from the family orchard. Uncle Sweet made a great show of fanning himself and swooning as he ate a biscuit. "Language," he said, "is nothing but a bunch of words, and there are no words to express how wonderful this cookie is. I swear, if you were not already married, I would have you locked in a workroom like Rumpelstiltskin's daughter, forced to bake for me all day." He stole another biscuit from the platter and headed for the basement, lighting his way with an oil lamp. No one ever asked where his photographic chemicals came from- no one wanted to hold the answer like a piece of stolen fruit.

It was a gorgeous evening, with a breeze shimmering through the trees, people strolling hand in hand through the quaint streets and the plaza. The shops, bistros and restaurants were abuzz with patrons. She showed him where the farmer's market took place every Saturday, and pointed out her favorite spots- the town library, a tasting room co-op run by the area vintners, the Brew Ha-Ha and the Rose, a vintage community theater. On a night like this, she took a special pride in Archangel, with its cheerful spirit and colorful sights. She refused to let the Calvin sighting drag her down. He had ruined many things for her, but he was not going to ruin the way she felt about her hometown. After some deliberation, she chose Andaluz, her favorite spot for Spanish-style wines and tapas. The bar spilled out onto the sidewalk, brightened by twinkling lights strung under the big canvas umbrellas. The tables were small, encouraging quiet intimacy and insuring that their knees would bump as they scooted their chairs close. She ordered a carafe of local Mataro, a deep, strong red from some of the oldest vines in the county, and a plancha of tapas- deviled dates, warm, marinated olives, a spicy seared tuna with smoked paprika. Across the way in the plaza garden, the musician strummed a few chords on his guitar. The food was delicious, the wine even better, as elemental and earthy as the wild hills where the grapes grew. They finished with sips of chocolate-infused port and cinnamon churros. The guitar player was singing "The Keeper," his gentle voice seeming to float with the breeze.

Donna pietosa e di novella etate, adorna assai di gentilezze umane, ch’era là ’v’io chiamava spesso morte, veggendo li occhi miei pien di pietate, e ascoltando le parole vane, si mosse con paura a pianger forte. e altre donne, che si fuoro accorte di me per quella che meco piangía, fecer lei partir via, e approssimâsi per farmi sentire. Qual dicea: "Non dormire", e qual dicea: "Perché sì ti sconforte?" Allor lassai la nova fantasia, chiamando il nome de la donna mia. Era la voce mia sì dolorosa e rotta sì da l’angoscia del pianto, ch’io solo intesi il nome nel mio core; e con tutta la vista vergognosa ch’era nel viso mio giunta cotanto, mi fece verso lor volgere Amore. Elli era tale a veder mio colore, che facea ragionar di morte altrui: "Deh, consoliam costui" pregava l’una l’altra umilemente; e dicevan sovente: "Che vedestù, che tu non hai valore?" E quando un poco confortato fui, io dissi: "Donne, dicerollo a vui. Mentr’io pensava la mia frale vita, e vedea ’l suo durar com’è leggiero, piansemi Amor nel core, ove dimora; per che l’anima mia fu sì smarrita, che sospirando dicea nel pensero: - Ben converrà che la mia donna mora -. Io presi tanto smarrimento allora, ch’io chiusi li occhi vilmente gravati, e furon sì smagati li spirti miei, che ciascun giva errando; e poscia imaginando, di caunoscenza e di verità fora, visi di donne m’apparver crucciati, che mi dicean: - pur morràti, morràti -. Poi vidi cose dubitose molte, nel vano imaginare ov’io entrai; ed esser mi parea non so in qual loco, e veder donne andar per via disciolte, qual lagrimando, e qual traendo guai, che di tristizia saettavan foco. Poi mi parve vedere a poco a poco turbar lo sole e apparir la stella, e pianger elli ed ella; cader li augelli volando per l’âre, e la terra tremare; ed omo apparve scolorito e fioco, dicendomi: - Che fai? non sai novella? Morta è la donna tua, ch’era sì bella -. Levava li occhi miei bagnati in pianti, e vedea (che parean pioggia di manna), li angeli che tornavan suso in cielo, e una nuvoletta avean davanti, dopo la qual gridavan tutti: -"Osanna"- e s’altro avesser detto, a voi dirèlo. Allor diceva Amor: - Più nol ti celo; vieni a veder nostra donna che giace -. Lo imaginar fallace mi condusse a veder madonna morta; e quand’io l’ebbi scorta, vedea che donne la covrían d’un velo; ed avea seco umiltà verace, che parea che dicesse: - Io sono in pace -. Io divenia nel dolor sì umile, veggendo in lei tanta umiltà formata, ch’io dicea: - Morte, assai dolce ti tegno; tu dei omai esser cosa gentile, poi che tu se’ ne la mia donna stata, e dèi aver pietate e non disdegno. Vedi che sì desideroso vegno d’esser de’ tuoi, ch’io ti somiglio in fede. Vieni, ché ’l cor te chiede -. Poi mi partia, consumato ogne duolo; e quand’io era solo, dicea, guardando verso l’alto regno: - Beato, anima bella, chi te vede! - Voi mi chiamaste allor, vostra mercede".

[Canzone II] Donna pietosa e di novella etate, adorna assai di gentilezze umane, ch’era là ’v’io chiamava spesso morte, veggendo li occhi miei pien di pietate, e ascoltando le parole vane, si mosse con paura a pianger forte. e altre donne, che si fuoro accorte di me per quella che meco piangía, fecer lei partir via, e approssimâsi per farmi sentire. Qual dicea: "Non dormire", e qual dicea: "Perché sì ti sconforte?" Allor lassai la nova fantasia, chiamando il nome de la donna mia. Era la voce mia sì dolorosa e rotta sì da l’angoscia del pianto, ch’io solo intesi il nome nel mio core; e con tutta la vista vergognosa ch’era nel viso mio giunta cotanto, mi fece verso lor volgere Amore. Elli era tale a veder mio colore, che facea ragionar di morte altrui: "Deh, consoliam costui" pregava l’una l’altra umilemente; e dicevan sovente: "Che vedestù, che tu non hai valore?" E quando un poco confortato fui, io dissi: "Donne, dicerollo a vui. Mentr’io pensava la mia frale vita, e vedea ’l suo durar com’è leggiero, piansemi Amor nel core, ove dimora; per che l’anima mia fu sì smarrita, che sospirando dicea nel pensero: - Ben converrà che la mia donna mora -. Io presi tanto smarrimento allora, ch’io chiusi li occhi vilmente gravati, e furon sì smagati li spirti miei, che ciascun giva errando; e poscia imaginando, di caunoscenza e di verità fora, visi di donne m’apparver crucciati, che mi dicean: - pur morràti, morràti -. Poi vidi cose dubitose molte, nel vano imaginare ov’io entrai; ed esser mi parea non so in qual loco, e veder donne andar per via disciolte, qual lagrimando, e qual traendo guai, che di tristizia saettavan foco. Poi mi parve vedere a poco a poco turbar lo sole e apparir la stella, e pianger elli ed ella; cader li augelli volando per l’âre, e la terra tremare; ed omo apparve scolorito e fioco, dicendomi: - Che fai? non sai novella? Morta è la donna tua, ch’era sì bella -. Levava li occhi miei bagnati in pianti, e vedea (che parean pioggia di manna), li angeli che tornavan suso in cielo, e una nuvoletta avean davanti, dopo la qual gridavan tutti: -"Osanna"- e s’altro avesser detto, a voi dirèlo. Allor diceva Amor: - Più nol ti celo; vieni a veder nostra donna che giace -. Lo imaginar fallace mi condusse a veder madonna morta; e quand’io l’ebbi scorta, vedea che donne la covrían d’un velo; ed avea seco umiltà verace, che parea che dicesse: - Io sono in pace -. Io divenia nel dolor sì umile, veggendo in lei tanta umiltà formata, ch’io dicea: - Morte, assai dolce ti tegno; tu dei omai esser cosa gentile, poi che tu se’ ne la mia donna stata, e dèi aver pietate e non disdegno. Vedi che sì desideroso vegno d’esser de’ tuoi, ch’io ti somiglio in fede. Vieni, ché ’l cor te chiede -. Poi mi partia, consumato ogne duolo; e quand’io era solo, dicea, guardando verso l’alto regno: - Beato, anima bella, chi te vede! - Voi mi chiamaste allor, vostra mercede".

3 cups flour 2 cups sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon table salt 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon bananas (about 3) 2 cups diced overripe bananas 3 beaten eggs 1 cup chopped toasted pecans 1 cup vegetable oil 2 tablespoons honey 1 (8-oz.) can crushed pineapple, drained Preheat oven to 350°. Sift together first 5 ingredients in a large bowl; add the remainder of the ingredients, stirring just until dry ingredients are moistened. Pour batter into 4 greased and floured 9-inch square or round cake pans. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pans on wire racks for about 10 minutes; then remove from pans and place the cakes on wire racks, to cool completely. Browned Butter Frosting 1 cup butter 1 lb. powdered sugar ¼ cup milk 1 tablespoon honey Melt butter in a heavy saucepan over medium heat, stirring constantly for 8 to 10 minutes or until butter begins to turn golden-brown. Remove pan immediately from heat, and pour butter into a small bowl. Chill for an hour or until butter begins to solidify. Beat butter with an electric mixer until fluffy, and add sugar alternately with milk. Stir in the honey. Frost the cake and sprinkle with pecans. Chill for at least 1 hour before serving to make it easier to cut and serve.

Vincotto (Italian for cooked wine) is a tradition dating back to Roman times as a way to preserve wine. Its complex, sweet properties have recently attracted culinary interest as a condiment with many uses. 4-5 cups red wine—Primitivo is a good choice ⅔ cup honey 3 cinnamon sticks 3 whole cloves Combine everything in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and bring to a boil. Then simmer, stirring occasionally, for about 30 minutes, until the liquid is reduced to about a cup. Once it’s cool, remove the cinnamon sticks and cloves, and pour into a jar or cruet. It’s delicious drizzled over salads, cooked meats, grilled vegetables or ricotta cheese. [Source: Traditional]

If possible, get the ingredients at your local farmer’s market. Food tastes better when you know where it comes from. ⅓ cup honey 2 cups melon cubes ⅓ cup lemon or lime juice 2 cups green seedless grapes 6 fresh mint leaves, 1 cup fresh blueberries finely snipped 1 cup fresh pineapple chunks Use a whisk or hand mixer to whip the honey until it turns thick and opaque. Add the lemon or lime, then stir in the mint leaves. Combine the fruit in a large glass or pottery bowl. Pour the honey mixture over and stir gently to coat. Serve immediately with a clear flute of sparkling water or Prosecco. [Source: Original]

The best honey comes from a source you know, and is processed without heat. Raw, unfiltered honey retains its royal jelly, bee pollen and propolis—three major sources of antioxidants, vitamins and minerals. 1 cup of locally produced, raw organic honey 1 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice Additional water, about 2 cups 2-½ cups water Ice cubes or crushed ice 1 tablespoon dried culinary lavender Combine honey and 2-½ cups of water in a saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the honey. When the mixture reaches a boil, stir in the lavender and remove from heat. Let the mixture steep for 20 minutes. Strain the lavender from the liquid, then add the fresh lemon juice and an additional 2 cups of water. Use sparkling water if you wish. Pour into glasses full of ice and serve, garnished with a sprig of lavender or mint. [Source: Original]

Y decía de ellos: son campesinos y no de la clase media: por eso no carecen de inteligencia. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 13193-13193 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 09:52:26 El escepticismo, esa caries de la inteligencia, no le había dejado ni una idea entera en la cabeza. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 13201-13202 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 09:54:04 siempre nos atrae los que nos falta; nadie ama la luz como el ciego; ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 13365-13366 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 11:56:15 Londres, metrópoli del lujo, es capital de la miseria. Sólo en la parroquia de Charing-Cross mueren cien personas al año de hambre. Tal es la Albión. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 13651-13651 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 16:51:26 Era tímido hasta la aspereza. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 13653-13653 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 16:51:48 El alma es el único pájaro que sostiene su jaula. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 13850-13852 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 17:17:36 Creía, y tal vez con razón, haber llegado a la verdad de la vida y de la fisonomía humana, y había concluido por no mirar casi más que al cielo, única cosa que la verdad puede ver desde el fondo de un pozo. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 13852-13854 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 17:18:22 Esto no le impedía multiplicar los planes, las combinaciones, los castillos en el aire, los proyectos para el porvenir. En aquel estado fantástico, si la vista de un hombre hubiera podido penetrar hasta el interior de Mario, se habría deslumbrado ante la pureza de aquella alma. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 14020-14022 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 17:39:30 La persona que ahora veía era una hermosa y alta criatura con las formas más encantadoras de la mujer, en ese momento preciso en que se combinan todavía con las gracias más cándidas de la niña; momento fugaz y puro, que sólo pueden traducir estas dos palabras: quince años. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 14022-14027 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 17:40:28 Tenía admirables cabellos castaños, matizados con reflejo de oro; una frente que parecía hecha de mármol; mejillas que parecían formada de hojas de rosa; un sonrosado pálido; una blancura que revelaba cierta emoción interior; una boca de forma exquisita, de la cual se desprendía la sonrisa como una luz y la palabra como una música, una cabeza que Rafael hubiera dado a María, colocada sobre un cuello que Juan Gujon hubiera dado a Venus. Y para que nada faltase a aquella figura encantadora, la nariz no era bella, era linda; ni recta, ni aguileña, ni italiana, ni griega; era la nariz parisiense, es decir, algo espiritual, fina, irregular y puro que desespera a los pintores y encanta a los poetas. ========== Los miserables (Colección Sepan Cuantos: 077) (Spanish Edition) (Hugo, Victor) - Tu subrayado en la posición 14062-14063 | Añadido el jueves, 5 de febrero de 2015 17:44:44 Es un lazo que la inocencia tiende a su pesar, y en el cual aprisiona los corazones sin saberlo y sin quererlo; es una virgen que mira como una muje

I trust.

No creature should ever be trapped against its will,” she used to say. “It will ruin itself, just trying to escape.

The term honeymoon was coined to refer to the sweetness of a new marriage. But according to Norse legend, a man abducted his bride from a neighboring village. He was then required to take her into hiding until the bride’s family abandoned their search. His whereabouts were known only to his best man. While in seclusion, the couple drank mead, a honeyed wine. 1 ½ oz. good quality bourbon 1 oz. apple cider ½ oz. Calvados ½ oz. honey syrup* A dash of bitters 1 wide slice of orange peel *To make honey syrup, boil ½ cup of water together with a cup of honey until the honey dissolves. Store in a sealed jar. Measure everything into a cocktail shaker and add a good handful of ice. Shake vigorously and then strain the drink into a clear lowball glass with one large piece of ice. Rub the orange peel around the rim of the glass. Garnish with an apple slice. [Source: Original]

«Ho visto la forza incrollabile dell’idea del bene sociale, che è nata nel mio paese. L’ho vista nel periodo della collettivizzazione forzata e nel Trentasette. Ho visto uccidere nel nome di un ideale bello e umano come quello cristiano. Ho visto le campagne morire di fame, e i figli dei contadini che morivano tra le nevi della Siberia; ho visto le tradotte che da Mosca, Leningrado e altre città della Russia portavano in Siberia centinaia di migliaia di uomini e donne, i nemici della grande, luminosa idea del bene sociale. Era un’idea bella e grande, e ha ucciso senza pietà, ha rovinato le vite di molti, ha separato le mogli dai mariti, i figli dai padri. «Ora sul mondo incombe il grande orrore del nazismo tedesco. L’aria è impregnata delle grida e dei lamenti dei giustiziati. Nero è il cielo, e il sole si è spento nel fumo dei forni crematori. «Ma anche questi crimini – inauditi non solo per l’Universo, ma anche per gli uomini di questa Terra – sono compiuti in nome del bene.

When nature drew a creature to sweetness, there could be no stopping it.

Turns out a woman choosing adoption, even a woman behind bars, gets a lot more support than a woman who needs an abortion or who plans on keeping her baby.

Ida B. Miller,

3 cups flour 2 cups sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon table salt 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon bananas (about 3) 2 cups diced overripe bananas 3 beaten eggs 1 cup chopped toasted pecans 1 cup vegetable oil 2 tablespoons honey 1 (8-oz.) can crushed pineapple, undrained Preheat oven to 350°. Sift together first 5 ingredients in a large bowl; add the remainder of the ingredients, stirring just until dry ingredients are moistened. Pour batter into 4 greased and floured 9-inch square or round cake pans. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pans on wire racks for about 10 minutes; then remove from pans and place the cakes on wire racks, to cool completely. BROWNED BUTTER FROSTING 1 cup butter 1 lb. powdered sugar ¼ cup milk 1 tablespoon honey Melt butter in a heavy saucepan over medium heat, stirring constantly for 8 to 10 minutes or until butter begins to turn golden-brown. Remove pan immediately from heat, and pour butter into a small bowl. Chill for an hour or until butter begins to solidify. Beat butter with an electric mixer until fluffy, and add sugar alternately with milk. Stir in the honey. Frost the cake and sprinkle with pecans. Chill for at least 1 hour before serving to make it easier to cut and serve. [Source: Adapted from a traditional Southern recipe]

She joined a book group and actually read each selection, remembering that at several places in her life, books have been her refuge.

I read books, …Like, all the time.

She read books that took her to faraway places. Books that let her live a different life. Books that made her see the world with new eyes.

A kid deserved to take pride and joy in his identity.

Coffee? I make a mean decaf cappuccino.

You know what Winston Churchill famously said? ‘When you’re going through hell, keep going.

She read voraciously, devouring a dog-eared copy of The Handmaid’s Tale it one sleepless night.

She loved reading books. While her mom was busy making sandwiches, she would curl up in a corner and read to keep herself company.

She was in the middle of reading The Book Thief about a girl in Nazi Germany surviving something horrific.

HONEY BUTTER FRIED CHICKEN Brine: 1 pint buttermilk mixed with 2 teaspoons kosher salt and ½ teaspoon pepper Chicken: 1 cup all-purpose flour ¼ teaspoon black pepper 1 free range, organic chicken, cut into 8 pieces 2 teaspoons salt 2 teaspoons paprika ½ cup butter Sauce: 4 tablespoons (¼ cup) butter ¼ cup lemon juice ¼ cup honey Make a buttermilk brine for the chicken by combining the buttermilk, salt and pepper in a large resealable plastic bag. Add chicken pieces and chill overnight. Drain before using. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Combine flour, salt, pepper and paprika in a bag and

The penthouse bar had an even more commanding view, and craft cocktails named after local or formerly local writers and their books--- the Anne Rice blood orange martini, the Tsukiyama Samurai, the Christopher Moore Demon, the Joy Luck Cocktail.

In walked a vision of elegance that might have just stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. She didn't even bother trying not to stare. Peach Gallagher had arrived. And all her expectations exploded. Not only did he appear to understand the meaning of black tie, he walked into the reception room as if he had invented the look---a perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket and matching trousers, a shirt with studs and cuff links, an expertly tied bow tie, and black laced oxfords. His long hair managed to make the attire seem more formal. He was every crush she'd ever had from junior high onward. Every album cover she'd stared at, listening to torch songs until she cried. Every mooned-over heartthrob she could never have.

A parade of servers came through with domed platters of incredible food---handmade Chinese dumplings and dim sum shaped like tiny pomegranates and tangerines, gorgeously presented noodles in every color of the rainbow, and dishes with ingredients Natalie could only guess at. A red tea called Da Hong Pao was served, and one of the people at the table said it was so rare that it couldn't be bought for any price but had to be received as a gift.

The sommelier had given them a lesson about the stomach-settling qualities of grappa, a humble liqueur made from something called pomace. "A fancy word for what's left after the juice is squeezed out of the grapes," Natalie explained.

I drew the things of nature, leaves and berries, shore grasses and nuts and long fronds of fern. I drew a curlew perched at the end of a pier, and a cormorant with wings outstretched to catch the breeze. Drawing is a way to make sense of the world in my heart and mind. I speak through my drawing and sometimes I discover my own feelings that were hidden from me.

They passed a special display---marked by warning signs---of poisonous plants. Natalie had always been intrigued by the pendulous white angel's trumpets and the small, deceptively innocent-looking berries of deadly nightshade. "That one's a favorite in murder mysteries," she said. "Supposedly ten berries will kill a person. The poison's called atropine." "The name comes from Atropos, one of the Three Fates," Peach said. "Oh, now you're showing off again." "What good is knowing stuff if you can't use it? Atropos was a bitch of a Fate. She could take you out by cutting the last thread of your life's tapestry." He made a snipping motion with his hand. "I'll steer clear of her.

It's a sadness, yet this has only made me look deeper to find the joy.

It’s not for me to judge what a person did in her past. That belongs to her and her alone.” “You give people a lot of grace, Jerome. It’s really nice.” “Everyone has a past. It’s who you are right now that matters.

Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. —Buddha

she learned early on that looking pretty wasn’t always an advantage. Sometimes it attracted the wrong kind of attention.

When Darla told her parents she was pregnant, they made her leave. They were old-school. Said they couldn’t handle the shame.

How did you convince a whole town that their homegrown hero was a vicious rapist?

It? You mean preserving a zygote or blastula or whatever? That’s their moral obligation? Not their obligation to a living, breathing woman who just got raped?

And they didn’t think to tell me they were using something that might not work?” Margie felt dizzy with rage. It blew her mind that no one had bothered to explain this to her. It was a violation of a different kind, a complete disregard for her as a person.