Binder Quotes

Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report written on birds that he'd had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books about birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.

Words are everything. Words give wings even to those who have been stamped upon, broken beyond all hope of repair.

On more than one occasion I have been ready to abandon my whole life for love. To alter everything that makes sense to me and to move into a different world where the only known will be the beloved. Such a sacrifice must be the result of love... or is it that the life itself was already worn out? I had finished with that life, perhaps, and could not admit it, being stubborn or afraid, or perhaps did not known it, habit being a great binder. I think it is often so that those most in need of change choose to fall in love and then throw up their hands and blame it all on fate. But it is not fate, at least, not if fate is something outside of us; it is a choice made in secret after nights of longing. ... I may be cynical when I say that very rarely is the beloved more than a shaping spirit for the lover's dreams... To be a muse may be enough. The pain is when the dreams change, as they do, as they must. Suddenly the enchanted city fades and you are left alone again in the windy desert. As for your beloved, she didn't understand you. The truth is, you never understood yourself.

The franchise and the virus work on the same principle, what thrives in one place will thrive in another. You just have to find a sufficiently virulent business plan, condense it into a three-ring binder ― its DNA ― Xerox it, and embed it in the fertile line of a well-traveled highway, preferably one with a left turn lane. Then the growth will expand until it runs up against its property lines.

And our love goes beyond flesh; it transcends Death's reminder. In the Underworld Library, two books sharing a binder

You know what my father told me when I was little, one day, when he found me crying? He told me that God gave people a fixed number of tears and are of two kinds: tears of sadness and tears of happiness. And that I should not waste my tears elsewhere, but keep them for the moments of happiness. Would be a shame to not have tears to cry then ...

Where's your binder?" Teo asked. Xio gave him a confused look, his hand automatically moving to his chest. "No, I mean with the trading cards and stuff," Teo corrected.

Dacă mă judeci doar după trecutul meu, să nu te miri dacă vei ajunge să faci parte din el.

Her words sounded accusatory, and after the way she'd grabbed the binder, I couldn't help going on the defensive. "I'd apologize, but I'm not happy about it either.

Ranna," she said aloud, touching the first, the smallest bell. Ranna the sleepbringer, the sweet, low sound that brought silence in its wake. "Mosrael." The second bell, a harsh, rowdy bell. Mosrael was the waker, the bell Sabriel should never use, the bell whose sound was a seesaw, throwing the ringer further into Death, as it brought the listener into Life. "Kibeth." Kibeth, the walker. A bell of several sounds, a difficult and contrary bell. It could give freedom of movement to one of the Dead, or walk them through the next gate. Many a necromancer had stumbled with Kibeth and walked where they would not. "Dyrim." A musical bell, of clear and pretty tone. Dyrim was the voice that the Dead so often lost. But Dyrim could also still a tongue that moved too freely. "Belgaer." Another tricksome bell, that sought to ring of its own accord. Belgaer was the thinking bell, the bell most necromancers scorned to use. It could restore independent thought, memory and all the patterns of a living person. Or, slipping in a careless hand, erase them. "Saraneth." The deepest, lowest bell. The sound of strength. Saraneth was the binder, the bell that shackled the Dead to the wielder's will. And last, the largest bell, the one Sabriel's cold fingers found colder still, even in the leather case that kept it silent. "Astarael, the Sorrowful," whispered Sabriel. Astarael was the banisher, the final bell. Properly rung, it cast everyone who heard it far into Death. Everyone, including the ringer.

I believe that what separates humanity from everything else in this world – spaghetti, binder paper, deep-sea creatures, edelweiss, and Mount McKinley – is that humanity alone has the capacity at any given moment to commit all possible sins.” --Hey Nostradamus!

Sixth comes Saraneth, also known as the Binder. Saraneth speaks with the deep voice of power, shackling the Dead to the wielder’s will.

We became acquainted with starry skies the girls had gazed at while camping years before, and the boredom of summers traipsing from back yard to front to back again, and even a certain indefinable smell that arose from toilets on rainy nights, which the girls called "sewery." We knew what it felt like to see a boy with his shirt off, and why it made Lux write the name Kevin in purple Magic Marker all over her three-ring binder and even on her bras and panties, and we understood her rage coming home one day to find that Mrs. Lisbon had soaked her things in Clorox, bleaching all the "Kevins" out. We knew the pain of winter wind rushing up your skirt, and the ache of keeping your knees together in class, and how drab and infuriating it was to jump rope while the boys played baseball. We could never understand why the girls cared so much about being mature, or why they felt compelled to compliment each other, but sometimes, after one of us had read a long portion of the diary out loud, we had to fight back the urge to hug one another or to tell each other how pretty we were. We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colors went together. We knew that the girls were our twins, that we all existed in space like animals with identical skins, and that they knew everything about us though we couldn't fathom them at all. We knew, finally, that the girls were really women in disguise, that they understood love and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them.

A bookseller," said Grandfather, "is the link between mind and mind, the feeder of the hungry, very often the binder up of wounds. There he sits, your bookseller, surrounded by a thousand minds all done up neatly in cardboard cases; beautiful minds, courageous minds, strong minds, wise minds, all sorts and conditions. There come into him other minds, hungry for beauty, for knowledge, for truth, for love, and to the best of his ability he satisfies them all....Yes....It's a great vocation....Moreover his life is one of wide horizons. He deals in the stuff of eternity and there's no death in a bookseller's shop. Plato and Jane Austen and Keats sit side by side behind his back, Shakespeare is on his right hand and Shelley on his left.

I dealt with the White Council my whole life, so I’m used to being treated like a mushroom—” “Eh?” Ascher asked. “Kept in the dark and fed bullshit,” Binder reported calmly. “Ah.

Havilland calls himself an artist, but ultimately a binder is merely the rectum through which waste is squeezed into another shape.

Murphy caught that arm and continued the motion, using her own body as a fulcrum in a classic hip throw - except that Binder was facing in the opposite direction than usual for that technique. You could hear his arm come out of its socket fifty feet away. And then he hit the gravel face-first. Binder got extra points for brains in my book, after that: he lay still and didn't put up a struggle as Murphy dragged his wrists behind his back and cuffed him. I traded a glance with Mouse and said, wisely, 'Hard-core.

Dacă nu-i vezi lacrimile unui om, nu înseamnă că el nu plânge pe ascuns în sufletul lui.

We’re going to build a big pen out of that chicken wire,” he said. “It’ll have a top on it and a door with a snap latch. We’ll put those coconuts right in the center of the pen and leave the door open. Then we’ll tie the binder twine to the door and run it back through the pen and out into the brush a little way. When those monkeys go into the pen after those coconuts, we’ll pull the binder twine and latch the door. What do you think of that idea?” Before I answered Grandpa, I closed my eyes and drew a picture of the pen in my mind.

The broken spine of the book shows the webbing of binder's string, and my fingers have worn white spots in the cover.

the skilful binder uses no strings or knots, while to unloose what he has bound will be impossible.

Liberal politics are incompatible with . . . a [religious] community, unless it is further believed that the individual members of the community have been endowed with reason and free will by their Creator and that they have no certain knowledge of what were/are the Creator’s intentions. —Leonard Binder, Islamic Liberalism

Healer that she was, creator of medicines and poisons, binder of broken bones, comforter, could she take the remnants here and build them into a man again? Doro looked at people, healthy or ill, and wondered what kind of young they could produce. Anyanwu looked at the sick—especially those with problems she had not seen before—and wondered whether she could defeat their disease.

Already? How can this be?” I would ask, shattered by the terrible truth that I needed a three-ring binder and some #2 pencils. It’s not that school was a bad thing. Summer was just so much better.

Mă deranjezi în permanență, fiindcă-mi bați în piept!

Binder, in his youth, had always been interested in the supernatural, had felt some deep and nameless affinity for the questions that did not have any answers.

to treat a human being as an animal - as a mere space-binder - because humans have certain animal propensities, is an error of the same type and grossness as to treat a cube as a surface because it has surface properties.

The binders hinted at the reasons past relationships had gone sour. SEEKING A 28- TO 34-YEAR-OLD WITH AN OPEN PERSONALITY WHO DOESN'T GAMBLE. SEEKING A CULTIVATED PERSON NOT ADDICTED TO WINE AND WOMEN. An occasional brave soul would throw caution to the winds: SEEKING A 35- TO 45-YEAR-OLD. THE REST IS UP TO DESTINY.

He wants to help you. It's okay to ask for things, Adam. It's okay to need or want things for yourself.

He was capable of kindness, but he wasn't kind. He could act like he cared, but it would always be an act.

Sebastian notices the girl too, so he opens up his binder to a fresh sheet of paper, then takes out a pen and writes, "I still really miss you.

Binders are born, not made. And you are a binder born, boy. You may not like the idea of it much now. But you'll grow to understand.

Binders have become my protective layer, my second skin, my shield that makes me feel safe and more myself.

I kept a binder in my hands, ready to use it as a shield if necessary. Jessica thought I was hilarious, but something in my expression kept her from lobbing a snowball at me herself.

Bobby gripped his fork. "I just want you to be happy, Adam, to be-" "Normal. I know," Adam said, trying to keep calm. "But I'm not normal, Bobby. And I don't want to be. Stop trying to fix me.

Clyde had a theory that women had a book, a homemade, photocopied three-ring binder called "Surprising Things to Do in a Relationship," which they passed around to one another, adding pages from time to time, hiding it under the bed. He figured that Desiree could run home tonight and add a new page.

Charity told me that T.J. asked you out today and you just stared at him.” “What?” “T.J. asked you out. You just stared at him. Ringing bells?” Blue looked up (and up, and up) at her tall cousin. “At lunch, T.J. came over to my table and drew a penis on the unicorn on my binder. Is that the incident Charity is referring to?” “Don’t Richard Gansey the Third at me,” Orla replied. “Because if that’s what she meant, then yes, I just stared at him. I didn’t realize it was a conversation because penis.

The franchise and the virus work on the same principle: what thrives in one place will thrive in another. You just have to find a sufficiently virulent business plan, condense it into a three-ring binder ― its DNA ― xerox it, and embed it in the fertile lining of a well-traveled highway, preferably one with a lef- turn lane. Then the growth will expand until it runs up against its property lines. In olden times, you’d wander down to Mom’s Café for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your hometown. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate Special would be something you didn’t recognize. If you did enough traveling, you’d never feel at home anywhere. But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald’s and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald’s is Home, condensed into a three-ringed binder and xeroxed. “No surprises” is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin. The people of America, who live in the world’s most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto.

Tears carry creative power. In mythos, the giving of tears causes immense creation and heartfelt reunion. In herbal folklore, tears are used as a binder, to secure elements, unite ideas, join souls. In fairy tales, when tears are thrown, they frighten away robbers or cause rivers to flood. When sprinkled, they call the spirits. When poured onto the body, they heal lacerations and restore sight. When touched, they cause conception

Det som binder henne och det som också binder honom är ögonblickets skönhet. Ingenting är ju så vackert som de första ensamma minuterna med någon som skulle kunna älska en och någon man själv skulle kunna älska. Det finns ingenting så tyst som de minuterna, ingenting så mättat med ljuv förväntan. För de få minuterna är det som man älskar, inte för de många som följer. Aldrig mer, vet de, skall något så vackert hända dem. Gladare skall de kanske bli, hetare också och oändligt nöjda med sina egna kroppar och varandras. Men aldrig mer skall det bli så vackert.

The old man kept going about how he could never keep her home, how she loved to roam. He said she should have been a sheep in the foothills of Scotland. Now if that wasn't a load of shit I don't know what is. I'll tell you why that sheep roamed. The fences around here was held up with goddamn binder twine and half-assed prayers. That's why.

People aren't less just because they don't live the way you do." "I didn't say that," Robert said. "You think it," Adam said. "You think we're all trash because we don't have nice cars and ugly houses. Life isn't just about money.

Prea târziu" este doar la ultima bătaie a inimii, dar că nimic nu trebuie amânat până atunci deoarece nu știi niciodată când ajungi la capătul vieții.

Dacă oamenii îți vor lua, Dumnezeu îți va da înapoi înzecit. Dacă oamenii te vor nedreptăți, Dumnezeu îți va face dreptate. Dacă oamenii te vor lovi, Dumnezeu te va mângâia.

Acum știu că, indiferent cine mă pune la pământ, numai în fața lui Dumnezeu pot să îmi plec genunchii.

...de cate ori ma aflu aproape de tine, fac eforturi disperate sa nu te imbratisez...

We’ve survived it. It’s a known quantity. I have a binder with nine hundred pages of analysis and contingency plans for conflict with Mars, including fourteen different scenarios about what we do if they develop an unexpected new technology. The binder for what we do if something comes up from Venus? It’s three pages long, and it begins Step One: Find God.” Errinwright

Necazurile - tocmai ele, care te pun la pământ şi care te fac să crezi că nu vei reuşi niciodată să te mai ridici - te fac să devii puternic. Nu ştii niciodată cât de puternic eşti, până când a fi puternic, este singura ta şansă să supravieţuieşti.

Books seem to me to be pestilent things, and infect all that trade in them … with something very perverse and brutal. Printers, binders, sellers, and others that make a trade and gain out of them have universally so odd a turn and corruption of mind, that they have a way of dealing peculiar to themselves, and not conformed to the good of society, and that general fairness that cements mankind.

Oameni se intorc iar si iar in locuri unde au suferit , constirnti ca vor suferi din nou, de parca n-ar putea trai fara suferinta. Oricat de tare ne-ar speria suferinta, mai tare ne sperie singuratatea. Nu puteam sta departe de ceea ce iubim, oricata durere ar aduce iubirea

So that's how we end up helping Aviva pick out a male escort. Even Darcy is impressed with Eugene's organization; each profile in the boy binder has two pictures, a head shot and a full-body shot, and lists essential information: age, school, height, weight, extracurriculars, hobbies, and dance ability (which ranges from "occasional Dance Dance Revolution participation" to "so good he could back up the Biebs").

We are type designers, punch cutters, wood cutters, type founders, compositors, printers, and book binders from conviction and with passion, not because we are insufficiently talented for other higher things, but because for us the highest things stand in close kinship to those ends

My father worked on a farm - and his father. They both got very near to ninety, I believe. They were hardy old sorts. They never had a thing amiss with them. They worked and lived, and then kind of toppled over at the end. I should have been like them but my accident made the difference to me. The horses ran away with me on the farm. It was only two fields away from this house. It was a terrible accident; it jagged me all to pieces. The horses bolted in the field and ruined me. We were using the self-binder at the time. It was the second year I was in this village and thirty-eight year ago or more. I was at the top of the field whole and then at the bottom of the field, broken, and all in minutes. I should not have come here.

On a normal day, these people would be buying from the bakers, tailors, cordwainers, binders and candlemakers lining the boulevard. They’d be smiling and laughing, grumbling about the infernal heat, but manacle a man and offer him up to torment, and even the meekest soul surrendered itself to the devil.

Vine un moment în viaţa omului în care trebuie să se trezească din rutină şi din amorţeala sufletului şi să-şi evalueze viaţa, cu tot ceea ce înseamnă ea: realizări, eşecuri, fericire, tristeţe şi oameni. Un moment de sinceritate, în care să înceteze să se mai amăgească. De prea multe ori amânăm acel moment. Îl amânăm, poate, din lipsa de curaj, de dragul unor oameni pe care-i iubim şi care depind de noi, de teama că un nou început nu ne asigură o reuşită, sau poate pentru că încă nu suntem pregătiţi să abandonăm drumul care nu ne duce nicăieri şi să pornim spre drumuri noi. Nu e uşor... Pentru că un astfel de moment presupune rupturi dureroase de oameni, de locuri şi renunţări la vise. Omul nu ştie cât este de puternic până când nu se aruncă în luptă. Iar teama de eşec îl face uneori laş şi îl obligă să se resemneze cu o viaţă lipsită de frumos şi de sens. Sau e posibil ca, uneori, omul să uite să se preţuiască şi trăieşte cu impresia că nu merită o viaţă frumoasă, că fericirea este pentru cei aleşi, şi de aceea nici nu îndrăzneşte măcar să spere, să viseze şi să lupte. Acest moment îl sperie... îl sperie schimbările drastice, alegerile, luptele, incertitudinile şi nu se gândeşte aproape deloc că el înseamnă, de fapt, un nou început, alte posibilităţi, o salvare dintr-o viaţă netrăită aşa cum ar trebui. Şi astfel îşi iroseşte viaţa şi se abandonează pe sine neputinţei. Iar într-o zi se trezeşte cu sufletul încărcat cu regrete şi cu convingerea că e prea târziu...

Acum știu că există Dumnezeu care mă poartă pe brațe atunci când nu mai pot să merg,care îmi trimite un om bun atunci când rămân singură, care îmi trimite un vis nou atunci când nu mai aspir la nimic. Acum știu că nimic nu este posibil fără Dumnezeu.

They're both smart, quick to learn. But their lives have been so expansive, their traumas so adult. They are young women and now they're meant to clip themselves into a three-ring binder each day. They're meant to hang their jackets in lockers and flirt with boys in the hallways. They're supposed to regress into shapes that were never familiar to them.

70,000 to 100,000 births; twins joined at the head occur only once in 2 to 2.5 million births. Siamese twins received their name because of the birthplace (Siam) of Chang and Eng (1811 - 1874) whom P.T. Barnum exhibited across America and Europe. Most cranio pagus Siamese twins die at birth or shortly afterward. So far as we know, not more than 50 attempts had previously been made to separate such twins. Of those, less than ten operations have resulted in two fully normal children. Aside from the skill of the operating surgeons, the success depends largely on how much and what kind of tissue the babies share. Occipital cranio pugus twins (such as the Binders) had never before been separated with both surviving.

Just remember, it’s always darkest right before it goes pitch black.

Fiecare zi din viața ta este un dar.Un dar fragil ca o floare trecăatoare, de care îți poate oferi bucurii, lecții importante,șanse și amintiri eterne și prețioase.

Fiecare zi e o mică viață.O viață în care ne naștem deodată cu zorii zilei, trăim, simțim, dăm naștere unor visuri, renunțăm la visuri, iubim, iertăm, învățăm, uităm, murim...

Numai momentul prezent este certitudine.

Un om care are inima plină de iubire nu va fi niciodată singur, sărac sau urât.

Frumusețea nu e definită de un chip anumit fel, nici de un corp armonios și niciun caz de machiaj, de haine sau de bijuterii frumoase.

like Adam because he does the right thing whether or not anyone is watching, without a promise of praise or reward.

floor, surrounded by piles of feather-like receipts and a flock of black three-ring binders, wings spread wide, was a perfectly normal thing to see.

Some of the information in those binders was even manipulated to appear more damaging to Oppenheimer.

De Havilland calls himself an artist, but ultimately a binder is merely the rectum through which waste is squeezed into another shape.

habit being a great binder, i think it is often so that those most in need of change choose to fall in love and then throw up their hands and blame it all on fate.

Acum știu răutatea este boala sufletelor singure și neîmplinite, iar bunătatea-o binecuvântare oferită de Dumnezeu.

He reread the contents of the binder at night in bed, because the better prepared he was, the better chance he had of being helpful. William could feel the information swirling around inside him. He believed—even if that belief was couched in worry—that he could provide a service to this team that no one else could. It might be something small, almost unnoticeable, but there was something. He just had to figure out what it was.

Edgerton walks out of the interrogation room with a small kernel of rage growing inside him, a heat that few murderers ever manage to spark inside a detective. Part of it is the stupidity of Dale’s first attempt at a statement, part of it his childlike denial, but in the end what angers Harry Edgerton most is simply the magnitude of the crime. He sees Andrea Perry’s school picture inside the binder and it stokes the rage; how could such a life be destroyed by the likes of Eugene Dale?

Toward the end of the meeting, Xi asked about Trump. Again, Obama suggested that the Chinese wait and see what the new administration decided to do in office, but he noted that the president-elect had tapped into real concerns among Americans about the fairness of our economic relationship with China. Xi is a big man who moves slowly and deliberately, as if he wants people to notice his every motion. Sitting across the table from Obama, he pushed aside the binder of talking points that usually shape the words of a Chinese leader. We prefer to have a good relationship with the United States, he said, folding his hands in front of him. That is good for the world. But every action will have a reaction. And if an immature leader throws the world into chaos, then the world will know whom to blame.

Știi unde sunt bucuriile vieții? În faptul că azi poți vedea cerul. Că te poți ridica din pat și că te poți gândi la viitor. Că ești liber și poți alege cum să îți trăiești viața. Că te poți bucura de trăiri, de arome, de tot ceea ce vezi. Că ai un loc care se numește "acasă". Că ai pe cine suna și că acel om se va bucura că te aude. Că poți spera și că îți poți construi visuri după bunul plac. Că ai în fiecare zi șansa să o iei de la capăt, să te redescoperi, să devii cine îți dorești să fii. Că viața îți oferă în fiecare zi o lecție și ocazii să înveți ceva nou și să construiești oameni noi. Că ai un suflet viu, dependent de iubire. Zâmbește și bucură-te de viața ta!

Nu sunt săraci oamenii care nu au, ci aceia care nu dăruiesc din puținul pe care-l au. Nu sunt singuri oamenii fără familie și prieteni, ci aceia care nu se au pe ei înșiși. Nu sunt invalizi oamenii fără mâini, ci aceia care nu și le folosesc pentru a dărui, pentru a mângâia, pentru a îmbrățișa, pentru a munci.

Şi chiar dacă frumuseţea sufletului nostru este considerată naivitate... Şi chiar dacă sensibilitatea noastră este considerată slăbiciune... Şi chiar dacă bunătatea este considerată prostie... Şi chiar dacă sinceritatea este adesea pedepsită... Şi chiar dacă încrederea ne este adesea trădată... Şi chiar dacă iertarea ne este răsplătită cu alte greşeli... Şi chiar dacă respectul oferit este tratat cu lipsă de consideraţie... Şi chiar dacă nu primim întotdeauna ceea ce oferim... Şi chiar dacă la iubire ni se răspunde uneori cu indiferenţă... noi să rămânem buni, frumoşi, sensibili, naivi, sinceri! Să credem cu toată forţa inimii în oameni, în frumos, în prietenie şi în iubire!

Rounding a bend, they almost ran into a flock of sheep, tended by a boy in a coat that was far too big for him and belted at the waist with a twist of yellow binder twine. Reck stopped the van and the two men sat stranded amid a moving sea of dirty gray fleece. Strafford idly studied the milling animals, admiring their long aristocratic heads and the neat little hoofs, like carved nuggets of coal, on which they trotted so daintily. He was struck too by their protuberant and intelligent-seeming shiny black eyes, expressive of stoical resignation tinged with the incurable shame of their plight, avatars of an ancient race, being herded ignominiously along a country road by a snot-nosed brat with a stick.

Chilton nodded. "To begin with, Dr. Lecter will stay in his room. That is absolutely the only place where he is not put in restraints. One wall of his room is a double barrier which opens on the hall. I'll have a chair put there, and screens if you like. "I must ask you not to pass him any objects whatever, other than paper free of clips or staples. No ring binders, pencils, or pens. He has his own felt-tipped pens." "I might have to show him some material that could stimulate him," Graham said. "You can show him what you like as long as it's on soft paper. Pass him documents through the sliding food tray. Don't hand anything through the barrier and do not accept anything he might extend through the barrier

Sufletul omului este ca o casă:nu insista să rămâi dacă nu te simți dorită acolo...

Kaley Cuoco: Oh my gosh, the backstory and the research! He probably made fun of me because I had done zero research to play Penny. I’d give him a hard time and be like, “Got your binder?! It’s season ten, hope you know what your backstory is now!” I gave him so much shit. I was like, “What was Leonard doing before this last scene? Where was Leonard? Tell us!

She had to do something. She felt so desperate she couldn't even stand to be in her own skin. She would rather have clubbed herself over the head with her history binder than feel the things she was feeling. This was why she had broken up with him. So she wouldn't have to go through this. The wishing and wanting and not having. Why had it turned out so wrong?

The skilful traveller leaves no traces of his wheels or footsteps; the skilful speaker says nothing that can be found fault with or blamed; the skilful reckoner uses no tallies; the skilful closer needs no bolts or bars, while to open what he has shut will be impossible; the skilful binder uses no strings or knots, while to unloose what he has bound will be impossible.

Adevăratele comori ale unui om se află în suletul său.Sunt toate sentimentele frumoase, forța cu care se ridică ori de câte ori viața îl îngenunchează, spiritul liber, bunătatea, generozitatea cu care împarte tot ceea ce are mai bun și mai frumos, credința și iubire cu care se dăruiește lumii.Iar fără aceste comori până și cei mai bogați oameni sunt foarte, foarte săraci.

Most people actually ignore things out of the ordinary. Or, worse, hope that someone else will take care of it. I remember being on the train in Chicago in a car with about a dozen other people. On the other side of the car, a man suddenly fell off his seat. Just… toppled over into the aisle. He started convulsing. There were three people between me and him. But nobody said anything. Nobody did anything. I stood up, “Sir?” I said, and started toward him. And that’s when everyone started to move. I called for someone at the back to push the operator alert button, to tell the train driver to call for an ambulance at the next stop. After I moved, there were suddenly three or four other people with me, coming to the man’s aid. But somebody had to move first. I stood in a crowded, standing-room only train on another day and watched a young woman standing near the door close her eyes and drop her papers and binder onto the floor. She was packed tight, surrounded by other people, and no one said anything. Her body began to go limp. “Are you OK!?” I said loudly, leaning toward her, and then other people were looking, and she was sagging, and the buzz started, and somebody called up from the front of the car that he was a doctor, and someone gave up their seat, and people moved, moved, moved. Somebody needs to be the person who says something is wrong. We can’t pretend we don’t see it. Because people have been murdered and assaulted on street corners where hundreds of people milled around, pretending everything was normal. But pretending it was normal didn’t make it so. Somebody has to point it out. Somebody has to get folks to move. Somebody has to act.

Mike glanced at the two computer towers lying half-autopsied on her kitchen table. One had a bag of chips in it, the top held shut with a binder clip. A stack of motherboards rested on the chair in Mylar bags. “Maid’s been on vacation, I see,” said Mike. “Yeah. She ran off with the guy who writes your jokes.” “Ouch.” “There’s a postcard from them here somewhere. Want me to look for that instead?” “No, no. Just the logs will be fine.

The most remarkable thing in Binder's article may be her reference to a Women's Studies professor at the University of Michigan who, in Binder's words, worries that Fat Studies "may lead to a social proselytizing rather than serious study." In short, identity studies are becoming so far removed from any hint of academic or intellectual legitimacy that even teachers of a more established and only moderately asinine disciplines are reacting to the far more extreme asininity of newer ones.

Sufletele mărunte, meschine, reci și goale ca niște peșteri pustii, se mulțumesc să îngroașe straturile gloatei, să facă parte din opbriul public, să trăncănească și să nu întindă o mână spre ființa decăzută, chiar dacă aceasta le-a fost cândva prieten.

A fi om înseamnă să te comporți ca o mamă, ca un tată, ca o soră, ca un frate, ca un fiu sau ca o fiică nu numai față de cei dragi, ci și față de un străin care are nevoie de ajutorul tău.Ura, disprețul, invidia nu ajută, atenția, compasiunea, iubirea da.

In olden times, you'd wander down to Mom's Cafe for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your home-own. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate Special would be something you didn't recognize. If you did enough traveling, you'd never feel at home anywhere. But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald's and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald's is Home, condensed into a three-ring binder and xeroxed. “No surprises” is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin. The people of America, who live in the world's most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto. Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles; Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bungee jumping. They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture.

Bogățiile unui om nu se măsoară în lucrurile pe care le are, ci în comorile pe care le poartă în suflet și în faptele lui bune, în toate cuvintele prin care a oferit învățătură, mângâiere, speranță, curaj dar și în momentele în care s-a dăruit semenilor lui.Așa cum a știut.Așa cum a putut.

You do know, right, that between the no- longer & the still- to-come you are being continually tattooed, inked with the skulls of everyone you’ve ever loved—the you & the you & the you & the you—you don’t sit in a chair, thumb through a binder, pick a design, it simply happens each time you bring your fingers to your face to inhale him back into you . . . tiny skulls, some of us are covered. You, love, could simply tattoo an open door, light pouring in from somewhere outside, you could make your body a door so it appears you (let her fill you) are made of light.

The smallest bell was Ranna. Sleeper, some called it, its voice a sweet lullaby calling those who heard it into slumber. The second bell was Mosrael, the Waker. Lirael touched it ever so lightly, for Mosrael balanced Life with Death. Wielded properly, it would bring the Dead back into Life and send the wielder from Life into Death. Kibeth was the third bell, the Walker. It granted freedom of movement to the Dead, or it could be used to make them walk where the wielder chose. Yet it could also turn on a bell-ringer and make her march, usually somewhere she would not wish to go. The fourth bell was called Dyrim, the Speaker. This was the most musical bell, according to The Book of the Dead, and one of the most difficult to use as well. Dyrim could return the power of speech to long-silent Dead. It could also reveal secrets, or even allow the reading of minds. It had darker powers, too, favored by necromancers, for Dyrim could still a speaking tongue forever. Belgaer was the name of the fifth bell. The Thinker. Belgaer could mend the erosion of mind that often occurred in Death, restoring the thoughts and memory of the Dead. It could also erase those thoughts, in Life as well as in Death, and in necromancers’ hands had been used to splinter the minds of enemies. Sometimes it splintered the mind of the necromancer, for Belgaer liked the sound of its own voice and would try to steal the chance to sing of its own accord. The sixth bell was Saraneth, also known as Binder. Saraneth was the favorite bell of all Abhorsens. Large and trustworthy, it was powerful and true. Saraneth was used to dominate and bind the Dead, to make them obey the wishes and directions of the wielder. Lirael was reluctant to touch the seventh bell, but she felt it would not be diplomatic to ignore the most powerful of all the bells, though it was cold and frightening to her touch. Astarael, the Sorrowful. The bell that sent all who heard it into Death.

Anger and resentment can stop you in your tracks. That's what I know now. It needs nothing to burn but the air and the life that it swallows and smothers. It's real, though - the fury, even when it isn't. It can change you... turn you... mold you and shape you into something you're not. The only upside to anger, then... is the person you become. Hopefully someone that wakes up one day and realizes they're not afraid to take the journey, someone that knows that the truth is, at best, a partially told story. That anger, like growth, comes in spurts and fits, and in its wake, leaves a new chance at acceptance, and the promise of calm. Then again, what do I know? I'm only a child.

In the parking lot of a Safeway on Oahu," he says. And he's telling the truth; in the background she can hear the shopping carts performing their clashy, anal copulations. "I'm kind of busy now, Whitey -- but what can I do for you?" "It's Y.T., " she says, "and you can help bust me out of The Clink." She gives him the details. "How long ago did he put you there?" "Ten minutes." "Okay, the three-ring binder for Clink franchises states that the manager is supposed to check on the detainee half an hour after admission." "How do you know this stuff?" she says accusingly. "Use your imagination. As soon as the manager pulls his halfhour check, wait for another five minutes, and then make your move. I'll try to give you a hand. Okay?" "Got it.

I recall a frosty sunny morning in March when I was sitting in the interrogator's office. He was asking his customary crude questions and writing down my answers, distorting my words as he did so. The sun played in the melting latticework of frost on the wide window... In the gaps where the frost had melted, the rooftops of Moscow could be seen, rooftop after rooftop, and above them merry little puffs of smoke. But I was staring not in that direction but at a mound of piled-up manuscripts which had been dumped there a little while before and had not yet been examined. In notebooks, in file folders, in homemade binders, in tied and untied bundles, and simply in loose pages. The manuscripts lay there like the burial mound of some interred human spirit, its conical top rearing higher than the interrogator's desk, almost blocking me from his view. And brotherly pity ached in me for the labor of that unknown person who had been arrested the previous night, these spoils from the search of his premises having been dumped that very morning on the parquet floor of the torture chamber... I sat there and I wondered: Whose extraordinary life had they brought in for torment, for dismemberment, and then for burning? Oh, how many idea and works had perished in that building - a whole lost culture? Oh, soot, soot, from the Lubyanka chimneys! And the most hurtful thing of all was that our descendants would consider our generation more stupid, less gifted, less vocal than in actual fact it was.

The floor was of warm, old oak planks, many of the individual planks extraordinarily long, as if sawn from the mast of a tall ship. There were two working tables in the middle of the room, and around the walls were located a binder’s press, with its tall screw; a camera stand; an industrial sewing machine; a gluing cabinet with exhaust hood; a guillotine table and cutting board; a TRS-80 computer and dot matrix printer on a narrow mahogany desk that might have come from a boat; a partner’s table topped in green leather and gilt edging on which resided no fewer than six typewriters, ranging from a 1920s Underwood to a very recent all-plastic Brother machine; a mid-eighteenth-century highly polished flame mahogany map cabinet of twelve drawers;

I threw my binder of materials down on our apartment’s floral couch. “Seriously, pink is a neutral color! And what’s elegant about navy blue? No one ever says, ‘Hey, you know what’s elegant? The Navy!’” Arianna rolled her dead guys. “There is nothing neutral about pink. They need a color that looks good as a background to any shade of dress.” “What color clashes with pink?” “Orange?” “Well, if anyone shows up in an orange dress, she deserves to clash. Yuck.” “Chill out. You can do a lot with navy.” I sank down into the couch next to her. “I guess. I could do navy with silver accents. Stars?” “Yawn.” “Snowflakes?” “Gee, now you’re getting creative for a winter formal.” I ignored her tone, as usual. I was just glad she was here. She’d been gone a lot lately. “Hmm . . . maybe something softer. Like a water and mist theme?” I asked. “I . . . actually kind of like that.” “Wanna help me with the sketches?” She leaned forward and turned on Easton Heights. “Decorating a stupid dance is all yours. You’re the one who decided to be more involved in your ‘normal life.’ I’d prefer to be sleeping six feet under.” “This is probably a bad time to mention I also might have signed up to help with costumes for the spring play. And since I know nothing about sewing, I kind of maybe signed you up as a volunteer aide.” She sighed, running one glamoured corpse hand through her spiky red and black hair. “I am going to kill you in your sleep.” “As long as it doesn’t hurt.” We hummed along to the opening theme, which ended when the door banged open and my boyfriend walked through, shrugging out of his coat and beaming as he dropped a duffel bag. “Free! What did I miss?” Lend asked, his cheeks rosy from the cold and his smile lighting up his watery eyes beneath his dark glamour ones. “I lost the vote on color schemes for the dance, the last episode of Easton Heights before they go into reruns is back on in three minutes, and Arianna is going to murder me in my sleep.” “As long as it doesn’t hurt.” “That’s what I said!

Dacă aș putea, aș opri timpul pentru tine, dragă mamă.Aș opri timpul tău ca să poți trăi, în sfârșit, tot ceea ce nu ai trăit atunci când ar fi trebuit.Aș opri timpul tău ca să nu-ți răsară fire albe atât de devreme, ca să nu te împovăreze ridurile, ca să mai ai răgaz pentru a te simți frumoasă, femeie, plină de viață.Aș opri timpul tău ca să-ți ofer toate momentele pe care le-ai fi meritat, toate mângâierile, îmbrățișările și toate bucuriile de care ai fost privată pe nedrept.Aș opri timpul tău ca să te odihnești, să îți relaxezi mâinele atât de muncite, să ai și tu timp doar pentru tine.Să te văd bucurându-te de lucrurile pentru care ai muncit atât de mult, să faci numai ceea ce-ți place, și nu doar ceea ce trebuie.Aș opri timpul ca să te răsfăț, să te alint și să te copleșesc cu iubire.Să îți șterg lacrimile și să le acopăr urmele cu săruturi.Aș opri timpul tău ca să mă pot plimba cu tine, să îți împărtășesc din visele mele și să îți aflu cele mai frumoase povești.Aș opri timpul tău ca să te cunosc și să te înțeleg.Să îți aflu durerile, temerile, dorințele neîmplinite, să știu cum aș putea să îți bucur sufletul și cum ar trebui să fiu ca să fii mândră de mine.Aș opri timpul tău ca să îți împlinești visurile frumoase pe care le-ai abandonat atunci când ai început să visezi doar pentru mine.Aș opri timpul tău ca să te văd râzând și ca să memorez fiecare zâmbet al tău, de care îmi va fi atât de dor atunci când mă vei lăsa singură și când voi avea nevoie de o amintire sfântă.Aș opri timpul tău ca să primești fiecare clipă de fericire atât de meritată.Aș opri timpul tău ca să te învăț de la tine tot ce trebuie să știu despre viață, despre renunțări, despre puterea de a trăi prin și pentru cei dragi.Aș opri timpul ca să îți spun toate cuvintele frumoase pe care nu ți le-am mărturisit la timp.Aș opri timpul tău ca să nu pleci nicicând de lângă mine...

Obama met with the president of China, Xi Jinping, in a sterile hotel conference room, untouched cups of cooling tea and ice water before us. There was a long review of all the progress made over the last several years. Xi assured Obama, unprompted, that he would implement the Paris climate agreement even if Trump decided to pull out. “That’s very wise of you,” Obama replied. “I think you’ll continue to see an investment in Paris in the United States, at least from states, cities, and the private sector.” We were only two years removed from the time when Obama had flown to Beijing and secured an agreement to act in concert with China to combat climate change, the step that made the Paris agreement possible in the first place. Now China would lead that effort going forward. Toward the end of the meeting, Xi asked about Trump. Again, Obama suggested that the Chinese wait and see what the new administration decided to do in office, but he noted that the president-elect had tapped into real concerns among Americans about “the fairness of our economic relationship with China. Xi is a big man who moves slowly and deliberately, as if he wants people to notice his every motion. Sitting across the table from Obama, he pushed aside the binder of talking points that usually shape the words of a Chinese leader. We prefer to have a good relationship with the United States, he said, folding his hands in front of him. That is good for the world. But every action will have a reaction. And if an immature leader throws the world into chaos, then the world will know whom to blame.

Fiecare viață poate fi asemănată cu o călătorie.Nu știm niciodată cât de lungă este călătoria noastră prin lume și nici când și unde se va termina.Nu știm dacă va fi frumoasă, monotonă sau plină de neprevăzut.Nu știm ce oameni vom întâlni în călătoria noastră și nici cine ne va fi alături până la sfârșit.Nu știm ce experiențe vom trăi, ce bucurii, ce dureri, ce iluzii, ce speranțe.Știm doar că drumul nostru nu va fi întotdeauna lin,că uneori vom întâmpina obstacole și chiar și oameni care vor încerca să ne abată de la calea noastră.Uneori ne vom opri acolo unde vom avea impresia că ne-am găsit locul sub Soare, apoi vom realiza că nu ne regăsim în locul acela și nici alături de oamenii lângă care am zăbovit...Ruptura de ei va apărea imposibil de suportat și vom amâna o vreme plecarea, irosind timp și iluzionându-ne că poate, într-un târziu, vom primi ceea ce dorim.Iar când nu va mai suporta pustiul din el și lipsa iubirii, sufletul nostru va găsi forța de a-și urma călătoria de unul singur, până ce va întâlni pe altcineva lângă care să i se pară că a găsit locul sub Soare...Nu știm niciodată ce oameni ni se vor alătura în călătoria noastră și nici cât timp ne vor însoți.Unii vor rămâne în urma noastră, pe neașteptate, fiindcă acolo se încheie drumul lor, alții vor călători mai repede și ne vor depăși din mers, îndreptându-se spre zări de ei știute și nouă necunoscute.Vor fi persoane care ni se vor alătura pe drum pentru perioade scurte, căutând să își aline singurătatea alături de noi, ne vom lăsa amăgiți de promisiunile lor, vom trăi deziluzii ce ne vor face să ne pierdem încrederea în oameni și să fim precauți cu aceia care vor încerca să se alăture călătoriei noastre.