Ben Johns Quotes

Getting you a date to prom is so hard that the hypothetical idea itself is actually used to cut diamonds," I added. Radar tapped a locker twice with his fist to show his approval, and then came back with another. "Ben, getting you a date to prom is so hard that the American government believes the problem cannot be solved with diplomacy, but will instead require force.

Do you guys remember that time when we were all definitely going to die and then Ben grabbed the steering wheel and dodged a ginormous freaking cow and spun the car like the teacups at Disney World and we didn't die?

Being a doctor at Johns Hopkins does not make me any better in God's sight than the individual who has not had the opportunity to gain such an education but who still works hard.

Radar revs the engine as to say hustle, and we are running through the parking lot, Ben's robe flowing in the wind so that he looks vaguely like a dark wizard, except that his pale skinny legs are visible, and his arms hug plastic bags. I can see the back of Lacey's legs beneath her dress, her calves tight in midstride. I don't know how I look, but I know how I feel: Young. Goofy. Infinite.

Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt

Despite being the only one of us who owned the game, I wasn't very good at Resurrection. As I watched them tramp through a ghoul-infested space station, Ben said, "Goblin, Radar, goblin." I see him." Come here you little bastard," Ben said, the controller twisting in his hand. "Daddy's gonna put you on a sailboat across the River Styx." Did you just use Greek mythology to talk trash?" I asked. Radar laughed. Ben started pummeling buttons, shouting, "Eat it, goblin! Eat it like Zeus ate Metis!

Ben starts. "I Spy with my little eye something I really like." "Oh I know," Radar says. "It's the taste of balls." "No." "Is it the taste of penises?" I guess. "No, dumbass." "Hmm," says Radar. "Is it the smell of balls?" "The texture of balls?

Ben, if you get pee in my brand-new car, I am going to cut your balls off." Still peeing, Ben looks over at me smirking. "You´re gonna need a hell of a big knife, bro.

Ben's tongue is like sunscreen...It's good for your health and should be applied liberally.

I don’t think you’re entirely understanding how this boyfriend thing works, Ben. Denying me in the shower, it’s very hurtful.” “You do realise I can actually hear the air quotes when you say boyfriend.

A small olive-skinned creature who had hit puberty but never hit it very hard, Ben had been my best friend since fifth grade, when we both finally owned up to the fact that neither of us was likely to attract anyone else as a best friend.

Oh no you didn't," Radar says when I show him why we're laughing. "Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt.

The thing had woken him up as usual, an alarm clock. as reliable and stiff off the ground as Big Fucking Ben. [John Matthew]

We're only together because we don't think about it too much? I'm gratified and flattered by your devotion." Ben sighed. "When was the last time you thought about breathing?" "What?" "Breathing? Lungs in and out? Air? When did you last think about it? You're like breathing. I don't think about it, but I need it to stay alive." A faint smile came to Nikolas's lips. "Then you're like a heartbeat. I'll miss you when you stop.

You can cry until there's nothing wet left in you. You can scream and curse until your throat rebels and ruptures. You can pray all you want, to whatever god you think will listen, and still it makes no difference. It goes on with no sign as to when it might release you, and you know that if it ever did relent, it would not be because it cared.

But Radulf had always proved very discreet in his observations about Ben’s sex life, so he trusted the dog not to comment to anyone on his sartorial dilemmas either.

It's gas! It's gonna blow!" Ben shouts. He throws open the passenger door and takes off, running in a panic. He hurdles a split-rail fence and tears across a hay field. I get out as well, but not in quite the same hurry. Radar is outside, too, and as Ben hauls ass, Radar is laughing. "It's the beer," he says.

Go shower. I’ll do penance and take Radulf out." Ben ruffled his hair. "It’s very cold. Not too long, yeah?" "For God’s sake, I survived a Siberian gulag." "I was talking about the dog.

From the front Rdar announces, "Don't you go talking bad about GoFast bars. Do you want me to stop this car?" "Whenever I eat a GoFast bar," Ben says, "I'm always like, 'So this is what blood tastes like to mosquitoes.

It was no dream. The Ben-Elim, he gave me a choice. Go forward or go back. I wanted to cross over, to be with my kin, my friends. To find peace.´ ´Why did you come back, then?´Fidele asked him. ´Three reasons. Three people. Jael. Lykos. You.´He paused and looked up into her eyes. ´Two for vengeance. One for love.´ She stared at him a long, timeless moment, then she leaned forwards and kissed him. Page 273 (Fidele and Maquin)

If Ben hadn't known better, he'd have said the dog was knowingly working the case with them he was so convincing.

The beers all broke," he says again, and nods toward the split-open cooler, gallons of foaming liquid pouring out from inside it. We try to call Ben buy he can't hear us because he's to busy screaming, "IT'S GONNA BLOW!" as he races acrossthe field. His graduation robe flies up in the gray dawn, his bony bare ass esposed.

Well," Ben went on,"someone should just tell her to come on home, because she can find the world's largest balls right here in Orlando, Florida. They're located in a special display case known as 'my scrotum.'" Radar laughed, and Ben continued. "I mean seriously. My balls are so big that when you order french fries from McDonald's, you can choose one of four sizes: small, medium,large, and my balls.

Which meant I spent my spare time learning theory, studying dead languages and reading books like Essays on The Metaphysical by John "never saw a polysyllabic word he didn't like" Cartwright.

When Ben unfurls the T-shirts, there are two small problems. First, it turns out that a large T-shirt in a Georgia gas station is not the same size as a large T-shirt at, say, Old Navy. The gas station shirt is gigantic-more garbage bag than shirt. It is smaller than the graduation robes, but not by much. But this problem pales in comparison to the other problem, which is that both T-shirts are embossed with huge Confederate flags. Printed over the flag are the words HERITAGE NOT HATE. "Oh no you didn't," Radar says when I show him why we're laughing. "Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt." "I just grabbed the first shirts I saw, bro." "Don't bro me right now," Radar says, but he's shaking his head and laughing. I hand him his shirt and he wiggles into it while driving with his knees. "I hope I get pulled over," he says. "I'd like to see how the cop responds to a black man wearing a Confederate T-shirt over a black dress.

The Magic Circle by John William Waterhouse [...] stuck in my mind because of the subject's flagrant health and safety violation. As any competent practitioner will tell you, you always complete your protective circle *before* you start your workings.

Our founders did not believe that our society could thrive without this kind of moral social structure. In fact, it was our second president, John Adams, who said of our thoroughly researched and developed governing document, “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.

As a writer, politician, scientist, and businessman, [Ben] Franklin had few equals among the educated of his day—though he left school at ten. (...) Boys like Andrew Carnegie who begged his mother not to send him to school and was well on his way to immortality and fortune at the age of thirteen, would be referred today for psychological counseling; Thomas Edison would find himself in Special Ed until his peculiar genius had been sufficiently tamed.

Ben wanted to kill something but he didn’t have the energy.

A quarantatré anni compiuti, William Stoner apprese ciò che altri, ben più giovani di lui, avevano imparato prima: che la persona che amiamo da subito non è quella che amiamo per davvero e che l'amore non è una fine ma un processo attraverso il quale una persona tenta di conoscerne un'altra.

Why are we doing it? We could both do other things." "Oh, this will be interesting." "You could...crap, I don't know. Be a translator! There you go." "This is true. You could be a dog walker." "Thanks. You could run a riding stable." "Death first. You could be a model." Ben smiled. "Aftershave?" Nikolas raised an eyebrow. "I was hoping for underwear.

Ben, there are more important things going on,” I answered. “DESIGNATED DRIVER!” “What?” “You’re my designated driver! Yes! You are so designated! I love that you answered! That’s so awesome! I have to be home by six! And I designate you to get me there! YESSSSSSS!” “Can’t you just spend the night there?” I asked. “NOOOO! Booooo. Booo on Quentin. Hey, everybody! Boooo Quentin!” And then I was booed. “Everybody’s drunk. Ben drunk. Lacey drunk. Radar drunk. Nobody drive. Home by six. Promised Mom. Boo, Sleepy Quentin! Yay, Designated Driver! YESSSS!

Just saying: stop thinking Ben should be you, and he needs to stop thinking you should be him, and y'all just chill the hell out.

An entire life spent on the offensive. But he´d never thought to be fighting God. That was new. Well, God wanted to battle him for Ben Rider-Mikkelsen? Fucking bring it on.

Ben actually had no intention of dancing at the ball. That, as far as he was concerned, was for pussies, a judgement he also gave to art, classical music, black and white films, and any books without serial killers, or explosions, or zombies

Bu dünyada incinip incinmeyeceğine dair tercih yapma şansın yok ancak seni kimin inciteceğini seçebilirsin, ihtiyar. Ben kendi tercihlerimden memnunum. Umarım o da tercihlerini sever.

In all those stories about people who sold their souls to the devil, I never quite understood why the devil was the bad guy, or why it was okay to screw him out of his soul. They got what they wanted: fame, money, love, whatever—though usually it turned out not to be what they really wanted or expected. Was that the devil's fault? I never thought so. Like John Wayne said, "Life's tough. It's even tougher when you're stupid.

Dickens became one of the greatest interpreters of urban life because he was a prodigious walker; his visceral encounters with the physical and human cityscape run through all his work. Urban literature is bound up with walking, because walking takes you away from the familiar, down “long perplexing lanes untrod before,” as John Gay put it in his 1716 poem “Trivia; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London.

Unutulmaktan korkmak başka şey, hayatımın karşılığında hiçbir şey veremeyecek korkusu o. Eğer hayatını başkaları uğruna yaşayamazsan en azından başkaları uğruna ölmelisin, tamam mı? Ben de ne yaşarken ne ölürken anlam ifade edecek bir hayatım olmamasından korkuyorum.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I wasn't thinking about none of y'all. I. Wanted. To. Save. My. Ass

Oh no you didn’t,” Radar says when I show him why we’re laughing. “Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt.

I love you." "I love you, too,Ben." "No. I love you. Not like a sister loves a brother or like a friend loves a friend. I love you like a really drunk guy loves the best girl ever.

Oh no you didn't, " Radar says when I show him why we're laughing. "Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt.

toffs could get up to speed. But Ben at least knew roughly

Shakespeare was not even able to perform a function that we consider today as perfectly normal and ordinary a function as reading itself. He could not, as the saying goes, “look something up.” Indeed the very phrase—when it is used in the sense of “searching for something in a dictionary or encyclopedia or other book of reference”—simply did not exist. It does not appear in the English language, in fact, until as late as 1692, when an Oxford historian named Anthony Wood used it. Since there was no such phrase until the late seventeenth century, it follows that there was essentially no such concept either, certainly not at the time when Shakespeare was writing—a time when writers were writing furiously, and thinkers thinking as they rarely had before. Despite all the intellectual activity of the time there was in print no guide to the tongue, no linguistic vade mecum, no single book that Shakespeare or Martin Frobisher, Francis Drake, Walter Raleigh, Francis Bacon, Edmund Spenser, Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Nash, John Donne, Ben Jonson, Izaak Walton, or any of their other learned contemporaries could consult.

She laughed. ''You seem pretty normal.'' ''You've never seen Ben snort Sprite up his nose and then spit it out of his mouth,'' I said. ''I look like a demented carbonated fountain,'' he deadpanned.

Ben kissed deeply into his neck at the same time as he tipped over the edge into sleep, and Nikolas plunged after him, unwilling, even in this, to be left alone and in a conscious world where Ben wasn’t present.

Randomisation is not a new idea. It was first proposed in the seventeenth century by John Baptista van Helmont, a Belgian radical who challenged the academics of his day to test their treatments like blood-letting and purging (based on ‘theory’) against his own, which he said were based more on clinical experience: ‘Let us take out of the hospitals, out of the Camps, or from elsewhere, two hundred, or five hundred poor People, that have Fevers, Pleurisies, etc. Let us divide them into half, let us cast lots, that one half of them may fall to my share, and the other to yours … We shall see how many funerals both of us shall have.

As I walked up toward the band kids, Ben shouted, ''Jacobsen, was I dreaming or did you-'' I gave him the slightest shake of my head and he changed gears mid sentence- ''and me go on a wild adventure to French Polynesia last night, traveling in a sailboat made of bananas?'' ''That was one delicious sailboat,'' I answered.

Disbelievingly, Ben saw that they were canopied by a mass of stars, the Milky Way spiralling above them in the clear summer sky. Nikolas was kissing slowly around Ben’s ear and down his neck in time to their slow steps. In all the years he’d known Nikolas and all the things they’d done together, Ben wondered if this moment was the one he’d remember at the final count of days. It was an occasion for declarations of something, proposals perhaps…A time to say...

Kilmartin wrote a highly amusing and illuminating account of his experience as a Proust revisionist, which appeared in the first issue of Ben Sonnenberg's quarterly Grand Street in the autumn of 1981. The essay opened with a kind of encouragement: 'There used to be a story that discerning Frenchmen preferred to read Marcel Proust in English on the grounds that the prose of A la recherche du temps perdu was deeply un-French and heavily influenced by English writers such as Ruskin.' I cling to this even though Kilmartin thought it to be ridiculous Parisian snobbery; I shall never be able to read Proust in French, and one's opportunities for outfacing Gallic self-regard are relatively scarce.

Men use these words to frighten us, Livia would tell them. To intimidate and paralyze. We need to habituate to what upsets us so we can fight through it. Deny our attackers the weapon of their words. And what was true for the verbal was true, too, for the physical.

The greatest writers of spy fiction have, in almost every case, worked in intelligence before turning to writing. W. Somerset Maugham, John Buchan, Ian Fleming, Graham Greene, John le Carré: all had experienced the world of espionage firsthand. For the task of the spy is not so very different from that of the novelist: to create an imaginary, credible world and then lure others into it by words and artifice.

Tek bir insanın yaptığı, sanki bütün insanlar tarafından yapılmış gibidir. Bu nedenle cennet bahçesindeki söz dinlemezliğin bütün insanlığı kirletmesi haksızlık sayılmaz; gene bu nedenle tek bir Yahudi'nin çarmıha gerilmesinin insanlığı kurtarmaya yetmesi de haksızlık sayılmaz. Belki de Schopenhauer haklıydı; ben başkalarıyım, her insan bütün insanlardır. Shakespeare de neredeyse, zavallı John Vincent Moon'dur.

We are redeemed one man at a time. There is no family pass ticket or park hopping pass to life. One ticket — one at a time. Man doesn’t vanquish hatred or bigotry. The target keeps moving. From the blacks to the Irish; atheists to Christians. But as always there are a few leaders: Ben Franklin, John Quincy Adams, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Abraham Lincoln, Fredrick Douglas, Booker T Washington, Ghandi and Martin Luther King. They know that the march toward freedom never ends, man must be ever vigilant and pray less with his lips and more with his legs.

RHAPAW ran not on gasoline, but on the inexhaustible fuel of human hope. You would sit on the blisteringly hot vinyl seat and hope she would start, and then Ben would turn the key and the engine would turn over a couple times, like a fish on land making its last, meager, dying flops. And then you would hope harder, and the engine would turn over a couple more times. You hoped some more, and it would finally catch.

I need you to use Radar's login to the student directory and look up an address. Chuck Parson." "No." "Please," I said. "No." "You'll be glad you did this, Ben. I promise." "Yeah yeah. I just did it. I was doing it while saying no--can't help but help. Four-two-two Amherst. Hey, why do you want Chuck parson's address at four-twelve in the morning?

On Saturday Ben and I drove to Johns Island to see Skyfall.” “You did?” Hi asked sharply. “Thanks for the invite, jerks.” Shelton raised his palms. “You were at temple. We’re supposed to just wait around? Plus, you’ve seen that move like five times.” “You still could’ve asked,” Hi grumbled. “I don’t—” “Guys!” I clapped my hands once. “The story, please.” “An hour in, I go for a popcorn refill.” Shelton shuddered. “When I get back, Ben’s sitting in the dark, flaring away, and he’s not even wearing his sunglasses! I almost wet myself. He said he wanted to watch the movie in HD. Man, I don’t remember a single minute from the rest of the film.” “In a theater!?” My temper exploded. “That stupid mother—” “Hiram!” Our heads whipped. Ruth Stolowitski was standing on her front stoop. “Get back in here this instant! You’re not dressed.” Ruth wore a fuzzy pink bathrobe, her free hand vising the garment closed. Her eyes darted, as if worried that cagey perverts were surveilling our remote island, waiting for just this opportunity to get an eyeful.

we rarely see what we prefer to overlook.

Medicine isn’t supposed to taste good—that’s what candy is for. Medicine is supposed to make you better.

the young man’s blindness irreparable, his mistakes immutable, the consequences irreversible.

Checking your six?” he said, still smiling. “I thought you wanted an airport because they’re safe. What is it about me that scares people so much?

mono no aware, the sadness of being human,

Do all the people who know me know me better than I know myself?

Sometimes, the way you think about a person isn't the way they actually are. People are different when you can smell them and see them up close. - Ben Starling

Yeah, well, I wasn’t complimenting you. Just saying: stop thinking Ben should be you, and he needs to stop thinking you should be him, and y’all just chill the hell out.

Ben came out then, his bedhead seeming to challenge our basic understanding of the force gravity exerts upon matter.

You think my life is camouflage?" Ben held the stare. "Sir, I think everything you do from the moment you wake up to the moment you let yourself sleep is nothing more than a shadow dance.

Nikolas didn’t respond, so Ben just continued anyway. “Promise me you’ll come back, and promise me you won’t sleep with him. Or with anyone, I guess. And that means what everyone means by that, yeah? Sleep, as in fuck, or anything to do with fucking—which includes kissing. Anywhere. And don’t start smoking again. And make sure you eat?” Nikolas chuckled. “That’s a great deal more than one thing, but I’d promise you anything you want, Ben. Take advantage of this moment.” Ben held him off. “The most important is that you come back.” Nikolas nodded. “I can’t live without a heart. Of course I’ll come back.

Do you think he’s, like, embarrassed of me?” Ben laughed. “What? No,” he said. “Technically,” I added, “you should be embarrassed of him.” She rolled her eyes, smiling. A girl accustomed to compliments.

The insult was calculated. Whether this guy was an amateur or a professional, he would perceive himself as the latter, and would now be invested in proving it to me. Interrogators call the technique ego down.

What about a judicial branch?” “No lawyers, Ben. We don’t have time for that nonsense either. The justice system we have in place is fair. We’re not going to start hanging people, if that’s what you’re worried about.

I lay down and started to feel a little depressed about prom. I refused to feel any kind of sadness over the fact that I wasn't going to prom, but I had - stupidly, embarrassingly - thought of finding Margo, and getting her to come home with me just in time for prom, like late on Saturday night, and we'd walk into the Hilton ballroom wearing jeans and ratty T-shirts, and we'd be just in time for the last dance, and we'd dance while everyone pointed at us and marveled at the return of Margo, and then we'd fox-trot the hell out of there and go get ice cream at Friendly's. So yes, like Ben, I harbored ridiculous prom fantasies. But at least I didn't say mine out loud.

Sinema salonlarından çıkıp gerçeğe alışabilmek için gözlerini kırpıştırdıklarını gördüm, dünyada neler olup bittiğini öğrenmek için sendeleyerek evlerine Times okumaya gidişlerini izledim. Onların gazetelerine kustum ben, edebiyatlarını okudum, örf ve adetlerine uydum, yemeklerini yedim, sanatlarına esnedim. Ama ben yoksulum, soyadımın sonu ünlü bir harfle bitiyor ve benden nefret ediyorlar, babamdan ve babamın babasından da, ellerinden gelse kanımı içerler ama yaşlanmışlar artık, güneşin altında ölüyorlar, oysa ben genç ve umut doluyum, yaşadığımız zamanı ve ülkemi seviyorum ve sana Yağlı dediğimde yüreğim değildi konuşan, eski bir yara titreşti sadece. Yaptığımdan çok utanıyorum.

First was the fewer, not less. Now it was the care in avoiding a preposition at the end of a sentence. An educated man, presumably. Precise. Apparently fussy about small-minded rules, perhaps to compensate for a willingness to ignore large ones.

But I am scared. Everybody's scared." "You know what I mean, like scared scared. Like coward scared, like if you never went to begin with. But with everything you've done nobody's going to doubt you." Then she made a somewhat frantic speech about a website she found that listed how certain people had avoided Vietnam. Cheney, Four education deferments, then a hardship 3-A. Limbaugh,4-F thanks to a cyst on his ass. Pat Buchanan, 4-F. Newt Gingrich, grad school deferment. Karl Rove, did not serve. Bill O'Reilly, did not serve. John Ashcroft, did not serve. Bush, AWOL from the Air National Guard, with a check mark in the "do not volunteer" box as to service overseas. "You see where I'm going with this?' "Well, yeah." "I'm just saying, those people want a war so bad, they can fight it themselves. Billy Lynn's done his part.

And all day long, it was hard not to walk around, thinking about the lastness of it all: The last time I stand in a circle outside the band room in the shade of this oak tree that has protected generations of band geeks. The last time I eat pizza in the cafeteria with Ben. The last time I sit in this school scrawling an essay with a cramped hand into a blue boo. The last time I glance up at the clock. The last time I see Chuck Parson prowling the halls, his smile half a sneer. God. I was becoming nostalgic for Chuck Parson. Something sick was happening inside of me.

Hij herinnert me er graag aan dat ik gemaakt ben van de grondstoffen van het heelal, dat ik uit niets anders besta dan die grondstoffen. 'Eigenlijk,' zei hij eens, 'ben je gewoon een brokje Aarde dat zich heeft losgemaakt van het chemisch evenwicht en op eigen benen probeert te blijven staan.

Missing you I wish I could hold you in my arms again all through the night. As we lay together I hold you so tight. To feel your soft skin up against mine as we sleep. I feel your breath on my skin and it feels so deep. If this is a dream and you’re not real I do not wish to wake. I’m hoping this is true and I enjoy this time we take. Two souls together as one with a single beating heart. I’m thankful for this time and never want to be apart. I don’t want to rise and greet the new day. I want you here forever and wish you could stay. As the sun rises and god knows I try. I awake alone and then begin to cry. For you have left me and now its ben a year. I think of you often as I wipe away a tear. I miss you so much as I take a deep breath. I will see you again when It’s time for my death. I want you to know that you are my love. I think of you often when I look at the stars above. I walk in a daze and talk to your stone. I want to be with you I’m tired of being alone. The day is over and night time is here. I wait for you again and in my arms you appear. For tonight is different and you won’t have to leave. Were together again and I’m happy, so please dont grieve. John a Miller

We drove all the way out Colonial Drive, past the movie theaters and the bookstores that I had been driving to and past my whole life. But this drive was different and better because it occurred during calculus, because it occurred with Ben and Radar, because it occurred on our way to where I believed I would find her.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light; I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

At least, right up to the point where she bit his dick off. ‘With her vagina?’ I asked, just to be clear. ‘Yep,’ said St John. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘It’s not the sort of thing you make a mistake about,’ he said. ‘And you’re sure it was teeth?’ ‘It felt like teeth,’ he said. ‘But to be honest, after it happened I really stopped paying attention.

Ben no deja de mover las piernas -¿Quieres parar? -Hace tres horas que me meo. -Ya lo dijiste. -El pis me subió hasta las costillas-dice- de verdad que estoy repleto. Amigos, ahora el setenta por ciento de mi peso es pis. -Bueno- dijo esbozando a pensas una sonrisa. Tiene gracia, no digo que no, pero estoy cansado. -Creo que si me pongo a llorar, lloraré pis.

Terms BEN MARCUS, THE 1. False map, scroll, caul, or parchment. It is comprised of the first skin. In ancient times, it hung from a pole, where wind and birds inscribed its surface. Every year, it was lowered and the engravings and dents that the wind had introduced were studied. It can be large, although often it is tiny and illegible. Members wring it dry. It is a fitful chart in darkness. When properly decoded (an act in which the rule of opposite perception applies), it indicates only that we should destroy it and look elsewhere for instruction. In four, a chaplain donned the Ben Marcus and drowned in Green River. 2. The garment that is too heavy to allow movement. These cloths are designed as prison structures for bodies, dogs, persons, members. 3. Figure from which the antiperson is derived; or, simply, the antiperson. It must refer uselessly and endlessly and always to weather, food, birds, or cloth, and is produced of an even ratio of skin and hair, with declension of the latter in proportion to expansion of the former. It has been represented in other figures such as Malcolm and Laramie, although aspects of it have been co-opted for uses in John. Other members claim to inhabit its form and are refused entry to the house. The victuals of the antiperson derive from itself, explaining why it is often represented as a partial or incomplete body or system--meaning it is often missing things: a knee, the mouth, shoes, a heart

But this problem rather pales in comparison to the other problem, which is that both T-shirts are embossed with huge Confederate flags. Printed over the flag are the words HERITAGE NOT HATE. “Oh no you didn’t,” Radar says when I show him why we’re laughing. “Ben Starling, you better not have bought your token black friend a racist shirt.” “I just grabbed the first shirts I saw, bro.

Ben turned around and offered me his fist. I punched it softly, even though I hated that greeting. “Q!” he shouted over the music. “How good does this feel?” And I knew exactly what Ben meant: he meant listening to the Mountain Goats with your friends in a car that runs on a Wednesday morning in May on the way to Margo and whatever Margotastic prize came with finding her. “It beats calculus,

As far as I can tell, there are two basic rules: 1. Don’t bite anything without permission, and 2. The human tongue is like wasabi: it’s very powerful, and should be used sparingly.” Ben’s eyes suddenly grew bright with panic. I winced, and said, “She’s standing behind me, isn’t she?” “‘The human tongue is like wasabi,’” Lacey mimicked in a deep, goofy voice that I hoped didn’t really resemble mine. I wheeled around. “I actually think Ben’s tongue is like sunscreen,” she said. “It’s good for your health and should be applied liberally.” “I just threw up in my mouth,” Radar said. “Lacey, you just kind of took away my will to go on,” I added. “I wish I could stop imagining that,” Radar said. I said, “The very idea is so offensive that it’s actually illegal to say the words ‘Ben Starling’s tongue’ on television.” “The penalty for violating that law is either ten years in prison or one Ben Starling tongue bath,” Radar said. “Everyone,” I said. “Chooses,” Radar said, smiling. “Prison,” we finished together. And then Lacey kissed Ben in front of us. “Oh God,” Radar said, waving his arms in front of his face. “Oh, God. I’m blind. I’m blind.” “Please stop,” I said. “You’re upsetting the black Santas.

Among the guests who appeared on Information, Please were Ben Hecht, George S. Kaufman, Basil Rathbone, Dorothy Thompson, Lillian Gish, Alexander Woollcott, H. V. Kaltenborn, Alice Roosevelt Longworth, Carl Sandburg, Albert Spalding, Boris Karloff, Marc Connelly, Dorothy Parker, Beatrice Lillie, and Postmaster General James Farley. Prizefighter Gene Tunney surprised the nation with his knowledge of Shakespeare. Moe Berg, Boston Red Sox catcher, had a

Fiziksel yönden, ben onların içinde hareket ediyorum; ama metafizik yöndense onlar benim içimde hareket ediyor sanki, tıpkı bir film seyrettiğimde fiziksel olarak bir yerde durduğum, ama kayan şeyin projektörden çıkan görüntüler olduğu gibi. Bütün yolculuklarda var olan bu, fiziksel hareketin içsel ya da mental olarak tersine dönmesi, romandan sinemaya kadar tüm anlatım sanatında en sevdiğim şeye, yani görülen bir şimdiden, gizli bir geleceğe doğru harekete çok benziyor.

and said, “She’s standing behind me, isn’t she?” “ ‘The human tongue is like wasabi,’” Lacey mimicked in a deep, goofy voice that I hoped didn’t really resemble mine. I wheeled around. “I actually think Ben’s tongue is like sunscreen,” she said. “It’s good for your health and should be applied liberally.” “I just threw up in my mouth,” Radar said. “Lacey, you just kind of took away my will to go on,” I added. “I wish I could stop imagining that,” Radar said. I said, “The very idea is so offensive that it’s actually illegal to say the words ‘Ben Starling’s tongue’ on television.” “The penalty for violating that law is either ten years in prison or one Ben Starling tongue bath,” Radar said. “Everyone,” I said. “Chooses,” Radar said, smiling. “Prison,” we finished together. And then Lacey kissed Ben in front of us. “Oh God,” Radar said, waving his arms in front of his face. “Oh, God. I’m blind. I’m blind.” “Please stop,” I said. “You’re upsetting the black Santas.

One of my favorite stories is about a newly hired traveling salesman who sent his first sales report to the home office. It stunned the brass in the sales department because it was obvious that the new salesman was ignorant! This is what he wrote: “I seen this outfit which they ain’t never bot a dim’s worth of nothin from us and I sole them some goods. I’m now goin to Chicawgo.” Before the man could be given the heave-ho by the sales manager, along came this letter from Chicago: “I cum hear and sole them haff a millyon.” Fearful if he did, and afraid if he didn’t fire the ignorant salesman, the sales manager dumped the problem in the lap of the president. The following morning, the ivory-towered sales department members were amazed to see posted on the bulletin board above the two letters written by the ignorant salesman this memo from the president: “We ben spendin two much time trying to spel instead of trying to sel. Let’s watch those sails. I want everybody should read these letters from Gooch who is on the rode doin a grate job for us and you should go out and do like he done.

So began my love affair with books. Years later, as a college student, I remember having a choice between a few slices of pizza that would have held me over for a day or a copy of On the Road. I bought the book. I would have forgotten what the pizza tasted like, but I still remember Kerouac. The world was mine for the reading. I traveled with my books. I was there on a tramp steamer in the North Atlantic with the Hardy Boys, piecing together an unsolvable crime. I rode into the Valley of Death with the six hundred and I stood at the graves of Uncas and Cora and listened to the mournful song of the Lenni Linape. Although I braved a frozen death at Valley Forge and felt the spin of a hundred bullets at Shiloh, I was never afraid. I was there as much as you are where you are, right this second. I smelled the gunsmoke and tasted the frost. And it was good to be there. No one could harm me there. No one could punch me, slap me, call me stupid, or pretend I wasn’t in the room. The other kids raced through books so they could get the completion stamp on their library card. I didn’t care about that stupid completion stamp. I didn’t want to race through books. I wanted books to walk slowly through me, stop, and touch my brain and my memory. If a book couldn’t do that, it probably wasn’t a very good book. Besides, it isn’t how much you read, it’s what you read. What I learned from books, from young Ben Franklin’s anger at his brother to Anne Frank’s longing for the way her life used to be, was that I wasn’t alone in my pain. All that caused me such anguish affected others, too, and that connected me to them and that connected me to my books. I loved everything about books. I loved that odd sensation of turning the final page, realizing the story had ended, and feeling that I was saying a last goodbye to a new friend.

Most of the original Jewish freedom fighters who fought to establish Israel against all worldly forces, are now dead. Israel’s David Ben-Gurions and Moshe Dayans are gone. The next generation of Israeli leadership were tough, disciplined and resolute in preserving control over the land that God placed in their hands. Those leaders are now no longer in power. Recently, Israel was led by Prime Minister Ehud Olmert, who was, to put it charitably, no David Ben Gurion. He made it clear that he would deal away the land that the Lord granted to Israel, even saying in his final days in office that to attain peace with the Palestinians, Israel would have to withdraw “from nearly all of the West Bank as well as East Jerusalem.

The people in a position to resolve the financial crisis were, of course, the very same people who had failed to foresee it: Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson, future Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner, Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke, Goldman Sachs CEO Lloyd Blankfein, Morgan Stanley CEO John Mack, Citigroup CEO Vikram Pandit, and so on. A few Wall Street CEOs had been fired for their roles in the subprime mortgage catastrophe, but most remained in their jobs, and they, of all people, became important characters operating behind the closed doors, trying to figure out what to do next. With them were a handful of government officials—the same government officials who should have known a lot more about what Wall Street firms were doing, back when they were doing it. All shared a distinction: They had proven far less capable of grasping basic truths in the heart of the U.S. financial system than a one-eyed money manager with Asperger’s syndrome.

Pastor Max Lucado of San Antonio, Texas, said in an editorial for the Washington Post in February 2016 that he was “chagrined” by Trump’s antics. He ridiculed a war hero. He made a mockery of a reporter’s menstrual cycle. He made fun of a disabled reporter. He referred to a former first lady, Barbara Bush, as “mommy” and belittled Jeb Bush for bringing her on the campaign trail. He routinely calls people “stupid” and “dummy.” One writer catalogued 64 occasions that he called someone “loser.” These were not off-line, backstage, overheard, not-to-be-repeated comments. They were publicly and intentionally tweeted, recorded and presented.18 Lucado went on to question how Christians could support a man doing these things as a candidate for president, much less as someone who repeatedly attempted to capture evangelical audiences by portraying himself as similarly committed to Christian values. He continued, “If a public personality calls on Christ one day and calls someone a ‘bimbo’ the next, is something not awry? And to do so, not once, but repeatedly, unrepentantly and unapologetically? We stand against bullying in schools. Shouldn’t we do the same in presidential politics?” Rolling Stone reported on several evangelical leaders pushing against a Trump nomination, including North Carolina radio host and evangelical Dr. Michael Brown, who wrote an open letter to Jerry Falwell Jr., blasting his endorsement of Donald Trump. Brown wrote, “As an evangelical follower of Jesus, the contrast is between putting nationalism first or the kingdom of God first. From my vantage point, you and other evangelicals seem to have put nationalism first, and that is what deeply concerns me.”19 John Stemberger, president and general counsel for Florida Family Action, lamented to CNN, “The really puzzling thing is that Donald Trump defies every stereotype of a candidate you would typically expect Christians to vote for.” He wondered, “Should evangelical Christians choose to elect a man I believe would be the most immoral and ungodly person ever to be president of the United States?”20 A

Nikolas Mikkelsen. I’ve never strayed, never not loved you, never not wanted to be by your side. My only fault is wanting you too much, wanting you beyond this life, which is something you can’t control or give me. I realise that now. It was too much to ask of you.” Nikolas sighed. The intense focus on his profile didn’t waver. He shrugged. That usually worked. He twitched his nose then muttered, exasperated, “I suppose I could try.” He sensed a shift in something, possibly the fabric of the universe but it could have just been Ben’s position on the couch. “I will defeat death for you, Ben, if I can. That seems like a small request in comparison to the things I would do for you.” He turned his head as well and they were facing each other at last. “I have also never strayed, never not loved you, never not wanted to be by your side.” He made a tiny movement with his hand and then brought it up to rest on Ben’s thigh. The ring, replaced on his finger, was still heavy, but in a different way now. It was his anchor, his tether, his gravity.

In first-century Palestine, nearly every claimant to the mantle of the messiah neatly fit one of these messianic paradigms. Hezekiah the bandit chief, Judas the Galilean, Simon of Peraea, and Athronges the shepherd all modeled themselves after the Davidic ideal, as did Menahem and Simon son of Giora during the Jewish War. These were king-messiahs whose royal aspirations were clearly defined in their revolutionary actions against Rome and its clients in Jerusalem. Others, such as Theudas the wonder worker, the Egyptian, and the Samaritan cast themselves as liberator-messiahs in the mold of Moses, each would-be messiah promising to free his followers from the yoke of Roman occupation through some miraculous deed. Oracular prophets such as John the Baptist and the holy man Jesus ben Ananias may not have overtly assumed any messianic ambitions, but their prophecies about the End Times and the coming judgment of God clearly conformed to the prophet-messiah archetype one finds both in the Hebrew Scripture and in the rabbinic traditions and commentaries known as the Targum.

Christ himself was accused of heresy, and quite justifiably. John the Baptist and his school called Jeshu ben Miriam-the son of Miriam the deceiver, the traitor, because he had betrayed the mysteries; he became an individual, the son of God, and received immediate revelation, and that was an awful sin and the real cause of his death. It is an old Jewish tradition also that he betrayed the mysteries and so had to suffer the death of a traitor. In the literature of the Manichaeans, the disciples of John, there is a text containing a discussion between Christ and John the Baptist upon that question. They both presented very good arguments. Christ's very practical argument was: 'Do I not make the lame walk? Do I not restore sight to the blind?' But John would not hear of that, he said that Christ betrayed the mysteries, he gave them out to the world, and that they would be destroyed by the world. And the world did destroy them. The projection of the Self belonged to the psychology of ancient times, when the chief or the king represented the whole people and had to suffer and to die for the people. Then another old rite played a certain role in the history of Christ; it is to a great extent legend, but legends are so true that they repeat themselves literally in reality, real events are like legends.

Nobody can become king except the one who is supposed to be king, the one who contains the idea of the Self. That is Christ according to the still generally prevailing Christian idea, and from such a standpoint any attempt at getting at individuation would be heretic, as it has always been; it has always been the party of the left hand and a crime. Christ himself was accused of heresy, and quite justifiably. John the Baptist and his school called Jeshu ben Miriam-the son of Miriam the deceiver, the traitor, because he had betrayed the mysteries; he became an individual, the son of God, and received immediate revelation, and that was an awful sin and the real cause of his death. It is an old Jewish tradition also that he betrayed the mysteries and so had to suffer the death of a traitor. In the literature of the Manichaeans, the disciples of John, there is a text containing a discussion between Christ and John the Baptist upon that question. They both presented very good arguments. Christ's very practical argument was: 'Do I not make the lame walk? Do I not restore sight to the blind?' But John would not hear of that, he said that Christ betrayed the mysteries, he gave them out to the world, and that they would be destroyed by the world. And the world did destroy them. The projection of the Self belonged to the psychology of ancient times, when the chief or the king represented the whole people and had to suffer and to die for the people. Then another old rite played a certain role in the history of Christ; it is to a great extent legend, but legends are so true that they repeat themselves literally in reality, real events are like legends.

Monty küçük tuvaletin kapısını kilitleyip, klozetin kapalı kapağının üstüne oturdu. Biri tuvalet kağıdı rulosunun takılı olduğu plastiğin üzerine, cehenneme kadar yolunuz var, yazmıştı. Kesinlikle diye düşündü o da. Ama senin de cehenneme kadar yolun var. Herkesin. Kapıdaki Fransız kadının, şarap içerek yemek yiyenlerin, siparişleri alan garsonların, hepinizin canı cehenneme. Bu kentin ve içindeki herkesin canı cehenneme. Sokak köşelerinde sırıtarak dilenen serserilerin, türbanlı Sihlerin, sarı taksileriyle birbiriyle yarışan yıkanmak bilmez Pakistanlıların da. Göğüs kıllarını alıp, memelerini büyüten Chelsea'li ibnelerin de. Hepsinin canı cehenneme. Aşırı pahalı meyvelerinden piramitler yapan Koreli manavların, onların plastik ambalajlara sarılı lale ve güllerinin de. Beşinci Cadde'de sahte Gucci satan beyaz cübbeli Nijeryalıların da. Brighton Sahili'nde küp şekerleri dişlerinin arasında tutarak çaylarını cam bardaklardan içen Rusların da. Hepsinin canları cehenneme. 47. Cadde'de elmas satan şapkalı, kirli gabardin takımlı, Mesih'in gelmesini beklerken sürekli para sayıp duran Yahudilerin de. Sokaklarda sürtenlerin, yaşlıların ve de spastiklerin de. Kendini beğenmiş, metrolarda sürekli gazete okuyan, kolonya sürünmüş Wall Street borsacılarının da. Hepsinin canı cehenneme. Washington Square Park'ta, bellerinden cüzdan zincirleri sarkan patenli punkçıların, her yere bayrak asan, otomobillerinin açık camlardan dinledikleri müziği bangır bangır herkese dinleten Porto Rikoluların da. Naylon eşofmanları ve St. Anthony madalyonlarıyla gezip, saçlarına durmadan briyantin süren Bensonhurst İtalyanlarının da. Enginarı Balducci'den, eşarbı Hermes'ten alan, büzük dudaklı, asık suratlı ev kadınlarının da. Asla pas vermeyi bilmeyen, savunma yapmayan, her turnikeye girişte bir adım fazladan atan varoş çocuklarının da. Babaları Tokyo'ya iş gezisine giderken mutfakta oturup esrar çeken okullu uyuşturucu müptelalarının da. Mavi giysileri içinde kabadayılık taslayarak dolaşan, kalın enseli, Krispy Kreme'e giderken bile kırmızı ışığı takmayan polislerin de. Knicks'in, Indiana'ya karşı oyunu nedeniyle Patrick Ewing'in, Charles Smith ve onun Chicago maçındaki başarısız uzaktan atışlarının, John Starks'ın Houston maçındaki korkunç şutlarının da canı cehenneme. Jordan'ı hiç yenemedikleri için cehennemin dibine kadar yolları var. Sürekli söylenip duran bücür Jakob Elinsky'nin de canı cehenneme. Hep sevgililerimin kıçlarına bakıp duran Frank Slattery'nin de canı cehenneme. Ben gidince özgürlüğünü ilan edecek Naturelle Rosariao'nun da canı cehenneme. Güvendiğim ama beni gammazlayan Kostya Novotyny'in de. Karanlık odasında film banyo edip duran babamın da. Karlar altında çürüyen annemin de. Bu kadar çabuk kurtulan İsa'nın da canı cehenneme. Çarmıhta yalnızca birkaç saat, cehennemde bir hafta sonu sonra melek ordusuyla eğlence. Bu şehrin ve içindeki her şeyin canı cehenneme. Astoria'daki tek katlı evlerden Park Avenue'daki dublekslere, Brownsville'deki projelerden, Soho'daki mağazalara, Bellevue Hastanesi'nden Alphabet City'deki meskenlere, Park Slope'un kahverengi taşlarına kadar her şeyin canı cehenneme. Bırakın Araplar her tarafı bombalasınlar, bırakın sular yükselsin ve bu fare delikleri yok olsun, depremler yıksın tüm bu yüksek binaları, alevler sarsın her yanı. Yaksın, yıksın, bitirsin. Ve senin de canın cehenneme Montygomery Brogan. Her şeyi mahveden asıl sensin.