Bernardo Quotes

Edward smiled, I smiled, even Bernardo smiled. Olaf just looked sinister.

He’s a senior in high school Bernardo. Jean-Claude is his legal guardian and had to enroll him in school. He comes home with homework and shit and then he wants to cuddle and have sex. It weirds me the fuck out.

I’ll take him to the hospital ” Bernardo said “but what do we put on the paperwork ” “Tell them it was a lover’s quarrel ” Olaf said. “Over my dead body ” I said. “Eventually ” he said. “Don’t be a sick fuck Olaf ” I said.

Nunca amamos alguém. Amamos, tão-somente, a ideia que fazemos de alguém. É a um conceito nosso - em suma, é a nós mesmos - que amamos. Isto é verdade em toda a escala do amor. No amos sexual buscamos um prazer nosso por intermédio de um corpo estranho. No amor diferente do sexual, buscamos um prazer nosso dado por intermédio de uma ideia nossa. O onanista é objecto, mas, em exacta verdade, o onanista é a perfeita expressão lógica do amoroso. É o único que não disfarça nem se engana.

Indeed, it is nearly impossible for any person inserted in a modern cultural context to escape the haze of the zeitgeist and develop a truly unbiased, critical, and personal worldview.

materialism is a fantasy. It’s based on unnecessary postulates, circular reasoning and selective consideration of evidence and data. Materialism is by no stretch of the imagination a scientific conclusion, but merely a metaphysical opinion that helps some people interpret scientific conclusions.

We now find our gods not on the altar, but in the bottle of alcohol, the football match on television, the new pair of shoes and the arms of the casual lover.

A good deed is not a good deed if you brag about it

if we could escape the hysterical cacophony of culture so to develop a more authentic and unbiased worldview,

My father had a similar saying. He said that in heaven there's a huge cake reserved solely for married people who've never once regretted getting married. The cake's never been touched.

Si no les gusta como soy, cambien ustedes.

Repudiei sempre que me compreendessem. Ser compreendido é prostituir-se.

I think of the memory as being rather like a dam," he said, after a pause for thought. "It irrigates and gives life to our whole spirit. But, like a dam, it needs overflow channels if it's not to burst its banks. Because if it ever does overflow or burst, its waters will destroy everything in its path.

The ability to turn conscious apprehension itself into an object of conscious apprehension is what fundamentally characterizes our ordinary state of consciousness

The (volleyball) player is not a soloist, but a member of an orchestra. When that player begins to think, 'Im special,' (The player) is finished.

Only nothing is true.

As a loyal believer in the Auteur Theory I first felt editing was but the logical consequence of the way in which one shoots. But, what I learned is that it is actually another writing.

Bernardo looked at me, shaking his head. "I've never heard Edward talk about any woman the way he talks about you." I raised eyebrows at him. "Meaning?" "Dangerous. He talks about you like you're dangerous.

The past is a mental, intellectual construct meant to give context to your present perceptions. There has never been a moment in your entire life in which the past has been anything else; I challenge you to find one.

Minha alma é uma orquestra oculta; não sei que instrumentos tangem e rangem, cordas e harpas, timbales e tambores, dentro de mim. Só me conheço como sinfonia." Fernando Pessoa (Bernardo Soares) in Livro do Desassossego

If the church as a whole is losing its ability to be “salt and light” in the culture, it is not because its members have no opinion of the films of Bernardo Bertolucci, no appreciation for the poetry of Emily Dickinson, and no regular slot on The Charlie Rose Show. More likely, it is because they do not have a solid grasp of the basic elements of the faith, as taught in Scripture and affirmed by the confessions and catechisms of the church.

Truth-seeking is the path to self-annihilation and thus to liberation.

Our myth-making capacity may be our key role in the dance of existence.

O que há de mais reles nos sonhos é que todos os têm.

«Anja, perché mi hai voluto?», le dissi con un filo di voce. «Perché sei fragile. E delicato. Perché non mi farai mai del male.»

Particular experiences – that is, particular contents of mind – are just mind in movement.

Partake in reality as an actor in a theatrical play: with attention, dedication and an open heart. But never believe yourself to be your character, for characters spend their lives chasing their own shadows, whereas actors embody the meaning of existence.

„Mi-am cucerit, puţin câte puţin, teritoriul interior care urma să fie al meu. Mi-am cerut, unul după altul, întinsurile de mlaştină în care nu mai rămăsese nimic din mine. Şi am scos la iveală fiinţa mea infinită, dar a trebuit să mă scot pe mine din mine cu forcepsul”. - Fernando Pessoa, "Cartea neliniştirii

... nada na geografia física ou humana, na economia ou na tradição das regiões que vieram a compor [o reino] determinava que se destacasse da restante Península o "rectângulo" que veio a construir-se como o reino mais ocidental da Europa.

A religious myth infuses ordinary aspects of life with enchantment and significance: accidents and coincidences become invested with hidden purposes; our actions in the world acquire the importance of a cosmic mission; our suffering becomes the carrier of critical insights; even objects and people around us acquire a numinous aura.

[D]eep within, in a way that isn't self-reflective, there is that intuition that you aren't really this character you seem to be playing in this story.

«Cuando deje de buscar que me cuiden, me cuidaré. Cuando deje de buscar que me lo den todo, produciré. Cuando deje de buscar a alguien que falla, triunfaré.»

A menudo creemos que las cosas son de por sí grandes o de por sí pequeñas, y no nos damos cuenta de que lo que llamamos tamaño no es sino una relación entre las cosas.

«Cuanto más gordo sea tu enemigo, mejor para vencerle. Es más fácil clavar un cuchillo en el buey que una uña en la pulga.»

Finalmente, ¿qué es un crimen sexual sino la destrucción radical y última de la belleza?

«El verdadero modo de vengarse de un enemigo es no parecérsele.» Marco Aurelio La

The way you held me. It’s what held me together.

Wars today seem to occur at a more precise point in time but deep down they are permanent.

A tremendous mystery unfolds in front of our senses every waking hour of our lives; a mystery more profound, more tantalizing, more penetrating and urgent than any novel or thriller. This unfolding mystery is nature’s challenge to us. Are we paying enough attention to it?

Knowing what you don't want in life is almost as helpful as having a five year plan. Vision doesn't always mean you know exactly what you want to do or where you want to be in life; sometimes, vision is knowing where you don't want to be in order to find where you should end up!

Materialism represents an astonishing failure of the human intellect to see what’s right under its nose. It hides nature’s marvelous simplicity behind a veil of contrivance. Its continuing survival in face of the mounting odds of reason, evidence and direct experience requires constant and deliberate maintenance. Indeed, materialism serves powerful economic and political interests.

E. E.Cummings decía: «Ser sólo tú mismo, en un mundo que hace lo posible, noche y día, para hacerte semejante a los demás, significa librar la batalla más difícil que cualquier ser humano pueda librar.»

Michael Jordan dijo: «Visualicé adónde quería ir, qué tipo de jugador quería ser; sabía con exactitud adónde llegar, qué quería obtener, me concentré en conseguirlo y lo logré.» Si algo sucede en tu vida será por ti.

The pattern here is not only clear, but striking. The most complex, coherent, intense, non-local, and transpersonal experiences people report are associated precisely with reductions, or even elimination, of brain activity

Una serpiente estaba persiguiendo a una luciérnaga. Cuando estaba a punto de comérsela, ésta le dijo: «¿Puedo hacerte una pregunta?» La serpiente respondió: «En realidad nunca contesto preguntas de mis víctimas, pero por ser tú te lo voy a permitir.» Entonces, la luciérnaga preguntó: «¿Yo te he hecho algo?» «No», respondió la serpiente. «¿Pertenezco a tu cadena alimenticia?», preguntó la luciérnaga. «No», volvió a responder la serpiente. «Entonces, ¿por qué me quieres comer?», inquirió el insecto. «Porque no soporto verte brillar», respondió la serpiente.

La vida no es tan cruel como dice Wok. No puede serlo. Tampoco es como lo que venden los gurús de la superación personal. No es cebolla cruda ni pastel de cerezas. Es agridulce como el amor. Dulce como el querer, agria como el dolor

San Bernardo dice en términos formales lo mismo para inspirarnos esta práctica: “Si Ella te sostiene, no caes; si Ella te protege, no temes; si Ella te guía, no te fatigas; si Ella te es favorable, llegas hasta el puerto de salvación”.

In today's culture we take the package for the content, the vehicle for the precious cargo. We attribute reality to physical phenomena while taking their *meanings* to be inconsequential fantasies. By extricating 'reality' from mind, materialism has sent the significance of nature into exile. With the pathetic grin of hubris stamped on our foolish faces, we carefully unwrap the package and then proceed to throw away its contents while proudly storing the empty box on the altar of our ontology.

Luís Bernardo deixou-se ficar até ao fim, sozinho, mais sozinho do que nunca, como se toda a ilha se tivesse despovoado de repente e, por entre os sinais de abandono e de solidão, ele buscasse os sinais da passagem de Ann para não morrer de loucura.

It has become indispensable for us to rationally understand how and why a religious myth can carry truth. Without this understanding, the myth is dismissed by the intellect - bouncer of the heart - thereby losing its colors and becoming irrelevant to us.

Kristen was held for three whole days—the entire Easter weekend—and both Bernardo and Homolka videotaped themselves as they tortured, raped, and sodomized the young girl, constantly forcing her to drink copious amounts of alcohol and submit to Paul’s every will.

In 1469, or earlier, printing began in Venice and Milan. In 1471 Bernardo Cennini opened a printing establishment in Florence, to the dismay of Politian, who mourned that “now the most stupid ideas can in a moment be transferred into a thousand volumes and spread abroad

Erano vecchi, storpi, malati, ciechi. Abbandonati dagli altri ma sempre legati alla vita, come ogni animale. Osservando quei musi sofferenti, illuminandoli con una lampada che avevo preso, pensavo a Dio; a quanto potesse essere crudele farci combattere per qualcosa che alla fine ci viene tolta.

Tuco Medrano, wearing a black ski mask, walked quickly across the busy Bulevar Ignacio Bernardo Norzagaray and put two rounds through the driver side window of the lead truck. The bullets struck Officer Ignacio Reyes in the head, killing him instantly, and sprayed bloody bits of brain matter and bone all over his wide-eyed female partner.

A thought occurred to me. "Or are you saying that you're on his side, really on his side?" I had the Browning out in my hand already. I clicked the safety off, and Bernardo heard it. I saw him stiffen. "Well, that's not fair. If I take my left hand off to pull a gun, then we wreck." "I didn't like the way the conversation was going," I said.

spirituality is the notion that there is an aspect of reality that (a) is not physically determined and (b) plays a causal role in the material world.

The essence of both consciousness and the unconscious is thus experiential, experience being the unifying factor that brings them together as integral parts of the psyche.

In other words, causality is to synchronicity as Newtonian mechanics is to quantum physics.

«El cambio es una puerta que sólo puede abrirse desde dentro.» Terry Neill

no existe «la crítica constructiva», así como tampoco existe una enfermedad «constructiva», o se «critica» o se «construye».

El cambio es una puerta que sólo puede abrirse desde dentro.

Las dificultades tienen el propósito de hacerte mejor, no más amargado. Cuando logres ver los problemas como oportunidades, te ayudarán a crecer.

Nadie puede salir de una crisis o de un dolor si permanentemente escucha de sí mismo palabras de dolor, de angustia y de fracaso.

Cuantas más ganas tengas de superarte y sanar tu interior, mejor preparado estarás para alcanzar nuevas fuerzas con las que seguir

No pidamos que nuestros problemas sean más fáciles, sino ser más fuertes. No tenemos que pedir menos retos, sino más sabiduría, porque nuevos retos vendrán.

Mesta su ljudi.

No idealices. No esperes nada de nadie.

Cuando te critiquen, evalúa si lo que dicen es verdad o mentira. Si es verdad, escucha, porque eso te ayudará a crecer. Si es mentira, ¡no le prestes atención! Y

conoce muy bien tu «talón de Aquiles».

«De noventa enfermedades, cincuenta son producidas por la culpa y las otras cuarenta, por la ignorancia.»

Sin embargo, no hay humillación que pueda vencer a alguien determinado a alcanzar su propósito.

«El hombre es víctima de una soberana demencia que le hace sufrir siempre, con la esperanza de no sufrir más. Y así la vida se le escapa, sin gozar de lo ya adquirido.» Leonardo da Vinci

Therefore, even for those lucky souls who receive the grace of experiencing a transcendent truth directly, the religious myth remains an important reminder; an important link to transcendence that infuses meaning into earthly life after one’s cognitive vantage point returns to the intellect. The pointing finger now says: ‘Look! You’ve been there! Never forget what you knew to be true then!

Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli (May 3, 1469 – June 21, 1527) was an Italian political philosopher, musician, poet, and romantic comedic playwright. He is a figure of the Italian Renaissance and a central figure of its political component, most widely known for his treatises on realist political theory (The Prince) on the one hand and republicanism (Discourses on Livy) on the other. Source: Wikipedia

«È ora che ti faccia accorciare i capelli» disse una mattina ad Ernesto sua madre. « Cosí non ti voglio piú vedere. Prima di pranzo, passa da Bernardo. Eccoti i soldi». Bernardo era un barbiere che aveva la bottega in faccia alla casa di Ernesto. Da piú di un mese la signora Celestina pregava Ernesto di farsi fare quella piccola operazione. Molto amante dell’ordine, non poteva vedere suo figlio andare in giro come un selvaggio

Los jesuitas eran muy astutos, porque no se negaban ningún placer: fumaban, bebían, comían y cogían como cualquier persona. Y hacían bien. Por cada sacerdote que amaba a una mujer, pensó Alfredo, había un niño a salvo…

Not…” Bree struggled for the right words. “All my life, I’ve just wanted someone to put me first. I thought Alessandro was that man. But even after everything Bernardo has done, I mean, Arturo wouldn’t have ever shot Alessandro if Bernardo hadn’t raised him to be a monster, even knowing that, Alessandro refuses to cut his ties with his father. So…yeah, I guess I do blame Alessandro for getting shot. God, that sounds so horrible.” Bree covered her face with her hands again.

What I want you to understand is that when I heard your words, it was as if every single second we had spent together up to that point was a lie. Every word, every touch, every kiss. You were looking at me, but you wanted him. I was this…thing to be endured to keep your family safe. You would allow me to touch you, to make love to you all the while wishing for Colin. I thought all that passion we had between us was a complete figment of my imagination and it was a bitter pill to swallow. I hated you. Worse than I’d ever hated anyone in my life. I was determined to make you pay. I’d keep you shackled to me forever as punishment. Keep you away from your true love.” Bree stared at him, unable to fathom such cruelty. Who was this man she loved that was capable of such a thing? “And then?” He took a deep shaky breath and leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then I spent all my energy trying to prove to myself by looking at you that you were lying to me, to justify what I was doing by picking up little gestures or flickers in your eyes that would prove to me that you felt nothing for me.” Bree rolled her eyes and gave a tearful snort. “And did you, after how hard I fought for you, did you get what you wanted? Did you prove to yourself what a lying bitch I am?” “No. Of course not. So I started to doubt what I heard.” “After living with Bernardo for all your life it had just occurred to you that he just may have tampered with the fucking thing?” Bree bit out, furiously.

Fue Lautaro industrioso, sabio, presto, de gran consejo, término y cordura, manso de condición, y hermoso gesto, ni grande, ni pequeño de estatura; el ánimo en las cosas grandes puesto, de fuerte trabazón y compostura, duros los miembros, recios y nerviosos, anchas espaldas, pechos espaciosos.

I glanced at Bernardo, but kept my gaze on the big man across the table. "What gives, Bernardo? He does talk, right?" Bernardo nodded. "He talks." I turned my full attention back to Olaf. "You're just not going to talk to me, is that it?" He just glared at me. "You think not hearing the dulcet sounds of your voice is some kind of punishment? Most men are such jabber mouths. Silence is nice for a change. Thanks for being so considerate, Olaf, baby." I made the last word into two very separate syllables. "I am not your baby." The voice was deep and matched that vast chest. There was also a guttural accent underneath all that clear English, German maybe. "It speaks. Be still my heart." Olaf frowned. "I did not agree with your being included on this hunt. We do not need help from a woman, any woman." "Well, Olaf, honey, you need help from someone because the three of you haven't come up with shit on the mutilations." A flush of color crept up his neck into his face. "Do not call me that." "What? Honey?" He nodded. "You prefer sweetheart, honeybun, pumpkin?" The color spread from pink to red, and was getting darker. "Do not use terms of endearment to me. I am no one's sweetheart.

Well, no, Sister Brannigan was the one putting her name on the checks to the cemetery. Someone else was making the deposits into her personal account.” “But now that she’s gone?” “I suppose the Neapolitan benefactor will have to find someone else if he wants to remain anonymous.” Bree snorted, “For a second I thought maybe it might be Bernardo.” “Well, why not? I mean, a little bank fraud isn’t likely to keep my father up at night,” Alessandro said. “But he’s in New York,” Bree reminded him. “Geography, darling?” Alessandro asked amused. “You say that with such pride it scares me,” Bree said rolling her eyes. “I love you too,” Alessandro smiled. “But no. If he was, why let us go off on this whole journey?” “It’s Bernardo. If there’s something I’ve learned about your father it’s that the rules of logic don’t apply to him. Or any other kind of rules,” Bree added, “Maybe this is all some kind of big elaborate plan and we’re gonna go home and find out he’s been keeping Francesca and Adriano frozen in his basement in one of those sci-fi freezers that they say you can buy and use to come back to life in a hundred years.” Alessandro shook his head at her, not impressed with her sense of humour.

It was while he was fixing the footage Max had given him that the doubts about the disc Bernardo had played for him began to plague him with ever growing strength. Alessandro couldn’t contemplate his father doing something so cruel but…Bernardo would certainly know how. Hell, Bernardo had taught him how to fiddle with electronics when he was still a teenager. And he wanted Alessandro under his control, under his roof. Knowing that Alessandro was trying to keep his family together and that entailed moving into their own house, out from the Dardano mansion, would Bernardo try to turn him with false information?

He looked behind me to Bernardo. "Can you think of anything else she needs to know?" "Only that he brags about the rape and what he did to her." "All right," I said, "you've both made your point. I only have one question." Edward just looked at me expectantly, Bernardo said, "Shoot." "If I kill another one of your backups, do I owe you another favor?" "Not if he deserves it." I dumped the bag on the doorsill. "Shit, Edward, if you keep putting me together with fucking crazies and I keep having to defend myself, I'll be owing you favors until we're in our graves." Bernardo said, "You're serious. You really killed his last backup." I glanced at him. "Yeah, I'm serious. And I want permission to off Olaf if he gets out of hand, without having to owe Edward another pound of flesh." "Who'd you kill?" Bernardo asked. "Harley," Edward said. "Shit, really?" I walked up to Edward, invading his space, trying to read past the blank blue of his eyes. "I want permission to kill Olaf if he gets out of hand, without owing you another favor." "And if I don't give it?" he asked, voice low. "Drive me to a hotel because I'm not staying in a house with a bragging rapist if I can't kill him." Edward looked at me for a long slow moment, then gave a small nod. "Done, as long as he's in this house. Outside the house, play nice.

In an invited address to the Society for Psychical Research in 1919, he uttered the following memorable words: “I shall not commit the fashionable stupidity of regarding everything that I cannot explain as a fraud.” Unfortunately, from my perspective, many of those who call themselves Jungians do not share Jung’s courageous attitude.

In Bernardo Soares – a prose writer who poetizes, a dreamer who thinks, a mystic who doesn’t believe, a decadent who doesn’t indulge – Pessoa invented the best author possible (and who was just a mutilated copy of himself) to provide unity to a book which, by nature, couldn’t have one. The semi-fiction called Soares, more than a justification or handy solution for this scattered Book, is an implied model for whoever has difficulty adapting to real, normal, everyday life. The only way to survive in this world is by keeping alive our dream, without ever fulfilling it, since the fulfilment never measures up to what we imagine – this was the closest thing to a message that Pessoa left, and he gave us Bernardo Soares to show us how it’s done.

Bree crossed her arms over her protruding belly. “I’m fine. No one has shot at me in the last twenty four hours, and my family is talking to me again. Things are looking up.” He grimaced at the mention of her family. “How fortunate for you.” Bree narrowed her eyes at him, picking up on the derogatory tone. “Well, you should know all about the importance of family. You’d do anything for yours, right? Bernardo says jump, you ask ‘how high?’ “ Alessandro felt a sick twist of guilt in his chest, “Well, congratulations, Brianna. You’ve worked very hard for the title of O’Reiley doormat. I hope it’s all you’ve ever wanted. I hope you’re happy.” “Blissfully,” Bree shot back and turned on her heel, leaving him there filled with anger and regret.

Look, you are my father and I love you. I will always love you. But that love is not an all or nothing proposition. Brianna is my wife. Will and Gianni are my sons. You are all my family, but if you push me, Father, if you force me to choose between you and them you will not like the choice I make. You are never to treat William the way you did today, ever. Am I making myself clear?” “Is that a threat, Alessandro?” Bernardo asked, his voice cold. Bree felt her body stiffen with nervous tension. Her heart was racing, both with nervousness and joy that Alessandro was drawing a line in the sand with his father and that he was sticking up for them over Bernardo. “Remember, Father, you raised me. You raised me to be a Dardano. That’s who I am and I’m sure you know exactly what that means.

La depresión es tóxica, ya que constituye la alteración del estado anímico, alteración que influye y afecta a todas las áreas de la vida. Cuando tu ánimo baja, comienzas a actuar como si estuvieras anestesiado. Nada de lo que antes te importaba ahora te interesa, parece que nada te alegra ni nada te moviliza. Todas y cada una de estas reacciones están conectadas con la depresión que estás sintiendo.

De todas maneras - continuó -, la pretensión de entresacar los momentos especiales de nuestra vida puede ser un grave error. Es posible que la vida sólo pueda ser juzgada en su totalidad, in extenso, y no a trozos, no tomando un día y quitando otro, no separando los años como las piezas de un rompecabezas para acabar diciendo que tal fue muy bueno y tal muy malo. Y es que todo lo que vive, vive como un río. Sin cortes, sin paradas.

El violinista interpreta una pieza. Cuando termina, en la sala todos aplauden, pero en uno de los palcos hay cuatro personas que no aplauden. ¿Qué puede hacer el violinista? Tres cosas: a. Mirar a los que aplauden e ignorar a los que no aplauden. b. Mirar a los que no aplauden e ignorar a los que aplauden. c. Disfrutar de los que aplauden y «de reojo» mirar a los que no aplauden y tomarlos como una motivación para seguir creciendo.

Bree stared down at Bernardo’s still form. The monitor was the only sound in the room apart from his deep breathing. Alessandro had gone down to the cafeteria with Will and Gianni to grab something to eat before they left for home. Bree lied and told him that she wanted to check in with Tina and her mother Roxanna for a few minutes before they left. Even unconscious, the son of a bitch was formidable and Bree felt nervous around him. “Why don’t you do everyone a favour and just die already?” Bree said. No response. Bree sneered and shook her head, turning to leave. “You could always smother me with a pillow,” a groggy voice said behind her, making her heart nearly stop. Bree whirled around wide-eyed and met Bernardo’s dark gaze. She forced herself to shrug and crossed her arms. “Do you think Alessandro would forgive you for murdering his father?” Bernardo asked. They both knew the answer to that.

Philosophy is the discipline of human thought that allows us to interpret our experience of ourselves and of the world at large, thereby giving meaning to our existence. While science constructs models of reality that predict the behavior of matter and energy, philosophy asks how those models relate to our condition as conscious entities. Without philosophy, science is merely an enabler of technology; it tells us nothing about the underlying nature of nature.

Reality is far too diverse, broad, elusive, ambiguous and complex for us to pin down. Even the limited empirical data we do manage to collect can only be interpreted within the framework of a subjective paradigm. It is, therefore, not really neutral. But in our desperate search for closure and reassurance we confabulate entities and explanations to construct huge edifices of assumed truths. They make up the world we actually experience; a self-woven cocoon of stories, not facts.

El envidioso Una serpiente estaba persiguiendo a una luciérnaga. Cuando estaba a punto de comérsela, ésta le dijo: «¿Puedo hacerte una pregunta?» La serpiente respondió: «En realidad nunca contesto preguntas de mis víctimas, pero por ser tú te lo voy a permitir.» Entonces, la luciérnaga preguntó: «¿Yo te he hecho algo?» «No», respondió la serpiente. «¿Pertenezco a tu cadena alimenticia?», preguntó la luciérnaga. «No», volvió a responder la serpiente. «Entonces, ¿por qué me quieres comer?», inquirió el insecto. «Porque no soporto verte brillar», respondió la serpiente.

Bree grit her teeth and lunged for him but Brian held her back and Will spoke up instead. “You go away!” Will cried back angrily. “I know you did sumting dat made my mommy mad at my daddy. Is you fault!” “I suggest you put a muzzle on your brat and get back in the living room,” Bernardo ordered. “Careful, Father. This is none of your concern,” Alessandro said. “Are you kidding me?” Bree asked. “Of course this is his concern because he’s the only one you give a damn about. You’ll do anything for him. Absolutely anything even if it means betraying me or Will or God forbid Gianni.” “That is not true. I would never—” “It is true!” Bree yelled. “Everything you’ve done has proven that.” “Look, every marriage has problems and that is no reason to turn back on the vows you made to each other,” Bernardo pointed out. “You made a promise to honor the terms of the O'Reiley/Dardano vendetta. Be careful before you renege on those vows, Mrs. Dardano.” “You and your stupid vendetta!” Bree hissed. “Begun by a man who couldn’t handle the fact that he couldn’t have what he wanted! God it must be genetic. Well, I guess I shouldn’t blame you, Alessandro. Knowing Bernardo and Adriano, at least you come by it honestly.

She met her father in the living room. “I'm begging you not to kill him.” Her father scowled at her. “This man is our sworn enemy. He has-” “I know who he is and I know what he's done. I also know he is Gianni's father, and in our hearts, he is Will's father. Will loves him.” “And you,” Jack snorted. She glared at her uncle. “This is not about me.” He was silent, but his disbelief was there in his eyes. Bree turned back to her father. “He did what he did on the order of his father. Even though I despise Bernardo, we all know that family is everything. It doesn't make it forgivable, but it does make it understandable. I'm begging you for Will's sake. Don't make him lose another father.” “She could be pregnant with his child,” Beth said softly, coming out of the kitchen. Bree gave a start. They hadn't been trying to conceive but it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility. She grabbed on to the lie. “I am.” Her father's mouth fell open and her uncle swore. She met her sister's gaze in gratitude. “That's right. I found out in Ireland that, yes, I'm pregnant again.” Beth gave her a tiny nod, acknowledging the lie. “Son of a…” Her father clenched his fists. “Don't leave this baby without a father, Daddy. Please.” John looked from her to her sister. “Untie the son of bitch and toss him on the street.

Colin. Just the name made Alessandro’s gut burn. He knew the man wanted his wife, even if Brianna was too blind to see it. The moron had been cuckolded by the paragon of supposed virtue, his wife Carrie and now he had finally opened his eyes and seen what Alessandro had known all along. Brianna put every other woman in New York to shame. No woman could come near her beauty, her passion, her fire. Colin had tossed her aside for the angelic Carrie and now he was changing his mind. Oh no you don’t, you miserable fucker. “Her friend indeed,” Bernardo drawled, his Italian accent thick with unmistakable implication. “Dat’s da truth. He no make her cry all da time.” That was directed at Alessandro, with small dark accusatory eyes. “He nice.” Alessandro couldn’t look at those eyes without feeling a sickening pang of guilt. She’s mine! He wanted to scream. Mine! Mine! Mine! “Oh yes. Very nice. He was very nice when he held her at the cemetery and very nice when he was dancing with her at Adresca.” That made Alessandro’s head lift in surprise. “Oh yes, my boy. She’s been there, cleaning up the rubble and word is that she’s working on re-opening it. Her friend Colin has been quite helpful in that endeavour.” “I don’ like how you say dat,” Will said scowling. “Really young William, I only speak the truth,” Bernardo taunted. Alessandro’s mind was racing. NO! Not Colin. He could not let that imbecile take Brianna away from him. He’d have to be eliminated somehow. Alessandro began to plot all the different ways he could ensure that Colin Neally stayed away from his wife, permanently. They all involved grisly, violent methods. He could not be allowed to win Brianna.

The SWAT team leader didn't like us cutting up the body. He and Ramirez went into a yelling match. While everyone was watching the argument, I nodded to Olaf and he beheaded the corpse in one blow. Blood gushed out onto the cave floor. "What the fuck are you doing?" one of the SWAT cops asked, bringing his gun pointed at us. "My job," I said. I put the tip of the blade under the ribs. The policeman brought the gun up to his shoulder. "Get away from the body until the captain tells you it's okay to do it." I kept the knife against the body. "Olaf." "Yes." "If he shoots me, kill him." "My pleasure." The big man turned his eyes to the policeman, and there was something in that gaze that made the heavily armed man take a step back. I plunged the blade into the skin, and it slid home. I cut a hole just below his ribs and reached into the hole. It was tight and wet and slick, and it took two hands to get the heart out, one to cut it free of the connecting tissue, and one to hold onto it. I drew it from the chest, blood stained to my elbows. I caught Ramirez and Bernardo both looking at me, with nearly identical looks on their faces. I didn't think either of them would be wanting a date any time soon. They'd always remember watching me cut a man's heart out, and that memory would stain anything else. With Bernardo, I didn't give a shit. With Ramirez, it hurt to see that look in his eyes. A hand touched the heart. I stared at that hand, then looked up to meet Olaf's eyes. He wasn't repulsed. He stroked the heart, hands sliding over mine. I pulled away, and we looked at each other over the body we'd butchered. No, Olaf wasn't repulsed. The look in his eyes was that pure darkness that only fills a man's eyes in the most intimate of situations. He raised the severed head up by the hair and held it almost as if he'd let me kiss it. Then I realized he was holding it over the heart, like a matched pair. I had to turn away from what I saw in his face.

Conheci que Madalena era boa em demasia, mas não conheci tudo de uma vez. Ela se revelou pouco a pouco, e nunca se revelou inteiramente. A culpa foi minha, ou antes, a culpa foi desta vida agreste, que me deu uma alma agreste. E, falando assim, compreendo que perco o tempo. Com efeito, se me escapa o retrato moral de minha mulher, para que serve esta narrativa? Para nada, mas sou forçado a escrever. Quando os grilos cantam, sento-me aqui à mesa da sala de jantar, bebo café, acendo o cachimbo. Às vezes as idéias não vêm, ou vêm muito numerosas e a folha permanece meio escrita, como estava na véspera. Releio algumas linhas, que me desagradam. Não vale a pena tentar corrigi-las. Afasto o papel. Emoções indefiníveis me agitam inquietação terrível, desejo doido de voltar, tagarelar novamente com Madalena, como fazíamos todos os dias, a esta hora. Saudade? Não, não é isto: é desespero, raiva, um peso enorme no coração. Procuro recordar o que dizíamos. Impossível. As minhas palavras eram apenas palavras, reprodução imperfeita de fatos exteriores, e as dela tinham alguma coisa que não consigo exprimir. Para senti-las melhor, eu apagava as luzes, deixava que a sombra nos envolvesse até ficarmos dois vultos indistintos na escuridão.

Conheci que Madalena era boa em demasia, mas não conheci tudo de uma vez. Ela se revelou pouco a pouco, e nunca se revelou inteiramente. A culpa foi minha, ou antes, a culpa foi desta vida agreste, que me deu uma alma agreste. E, falando assim, compreendo que perco o tempo. Com efeito, se me escapa o retrato moral de minha mulher, para que serve esta narrativa? Para nada, mas sou forçado a escrever. Quando os grilos cantam, sento-me aqui à mesa da sala de jantar, bebo café, acendo o cachimbo. Às vezes as idéias não vêm, ou vêm muito numerosas e a folha permanece meio escrita, como estava na véspera. Releio algumas linhas, que me desagradam. Não vale a pena tentar corrigi-las. Afasto o papel. Emoções indefiníveis me agitam inquietação terrível, desejo doido de voltar, tagarelar novamente com Madalena, como fazíamos todos os dias, a esta hora. Saudade? Não, não é isto: é desespero, raiva, um peso enorme no coração. Procuro recordar o que dizíamos. Impossível. As minhas palavras eram apenas palavras, reprodução imperfeita de fatos exteriores, e as dela tinham alguma coisa que não consigo exprimir. Para senti-las melhor, eu apagava as luzes, deixava que a sombra nos envolvesse até ficarmos dois vultos indistintos na escuridão. Lá fora os sapos arengavam, o vento gemia, as árvores do pomar tornavam-se massas negras. - Casimiro! (...) A figura de Casimiro Lopes aparece à janela, os sapos gritam, o vento sacode as árvores, apenas visíveis na treva. Maria das Dores entra e vai abrir o comutador. Detenho-a: não quero luz. O tique-taque do relógio diminui, os grilos começam a cantar. E Madalena surge no lado de lá da mesa. Digo baixinho: - Madalena! A voz dela me chega aos ouvidos. Não, não é aos ouvidos. Também já não a vejo com os olhos. Estou encostado à mesa, as mãos cruzadas. Os objetos fundiram-se, e não enxergo sequer a toalha branca. - Madalena... A voz de Madalena continua a acariciar-me. Que diz ela? Pede-me naturalmente que mande algum dinheiro a Mestre Caetano. Isto me irrita, mas a irritação é diferente das outras, é uma irritação antiga, que me deixa inteiramente calmo. Loucura estar uma pessoa ao mesmo tempo zangada e tranqüila. Mas estou assim. Irritado contra quem? Contra Mestre Caetano. Não obstante ele ter morrido, acho bom que vá trabalhar. Mandrião! A toalha reaparece, mas não sei se é esta toalha sobre que tenho as mãos cruzadas ou a que estava aqui há cinco anos. (...) Agitam-se em mim sentimentos inconciliáveis, colerizo-me e enterneço-me; bato na mesa e tenho vontade de chorar. Aparentemente estou sossegado: as mãos continuam cruzadas sobre a toalha e os dedos parecem de pedra. Entretanto ameaço Madalena com o punho. Esquisito. Distingo no ramerrão da fazenda as mais insignificantes minudências. Maria das Dores, na cozinha, dá lições ao papagaio. Tubarão rosna acolá no jardim. O gado muge no estábulo. O salão fica longe: para irmos lá temos de atravessar um corredor comprido. Apesar disso a palestra de Seu Ribeiro e Dona Glória é bastante clara. A dificuldade seria reproduzir o que eles dizem. É preciso admitir que estão conversando sem palavras. Padilha assobia no alpendre. Onde andará Padilha? Se eu convencesse Madalena de que ela não tem razão... Se lhe explicasse que é necessário vivermos em paz... Não me entende. Não nos entendemos. O que vai acontecer será muito diferente do que esperamos. Absurdo. Há um grande silêncio. Estamos em julho. O nordeste não sopra e os sapos dormem. (...) Repito que tudo isso continua a azucrinar-me. O que não percebo é o tique-taque do relógio. Que horas são? Não posso ver o mostrador assim às escuras. Quando me sentei aqui, ouviam-se as pancadas do pêndulo, ouviam-se muito bem. Seria conveniente dar corda ao relógio, mas não consigo mexer-me.