Binoculars Quotes

I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong. I will love you as a battlefield loves young men and as peppermints love your allergies, and I will love you as the banana peel loves the shoe of a man who was just struck by a shingle falling off a house. I will love you as a volunteer fire department loves rushing into burning buildings and as burning buildings love to chase them back out, and as a parachute loves to leave a blimp and as a blimp operator loves to chase after it. I will love you as a dagger loves a certain person’s back, and as a certain person loves to wear dagger proof tunics, and as a dagger proof tunic loves to go to a certain dry cleaning facility, and how a certain employee of a dry cleaning facility loves to stay up late with a pair of binoculars, watching a dagger factory for hours in the hopes of catching a burglar, and as a burglar loves sneaking up behind people with binoculars, suddenly realizing that she has left her dagger at home. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled. I will love you until every fire is extinguised and until every home is rebuilt from the handsomest and most susceptible of woods, and until every criminal is handcuffed by the laziest of policemen. I will love until M. hates snakes and J. hates grammar, and I will love you until C. realizes S. is not worthy of his love and N. realizes he is not worthy of the V. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple, and until the apple hates a tree and the tree hates a nest, and until a bird hates a tree and an apple hates a nest, although honestly I cannot imagine that last occurrence no matter how hard I try. I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where we once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from slim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and now matter how I am discovered after what happens to me as I am discovering this.

Goodness gracious me,' exclaimed Alexia, 'what are you wearing? It looks like the unfortunate progeny of an illicit union between a pair of binoculars and some opera glasses. What on earth are they called, binocticals, spectoculars?

As night fell, Yamamoto, aboard the huge battleship Yamato, steamed eastward at full speed into the night. Far ahead the destroyers went to flank speed to search for the US carriers. Lookouts, with the best night-vision binoculars in the world, swept the night horizon where the very dark sky meets the black ocean. The faintest shape, the tiniest pinprick of light, would show there was something out there, like the superstructure of a ship over the horizon. There was nothing.

The cat, covered in dust and standing on its hind legs, bowed to Margarita. Round its neck it was now wearing a made-up white bow tie on an elastic band, with a pair of ladies’ mother-of-pearl binoculars hanging on a cord. It had also gilded its whiskers.

The truth is that I’ve spent all my life with my binoculars trained on the Maybe Islands, a pristine place of fantasy that is really no better than the razor-rocks of misery. Maybe if I had stayed on the farm… maybe if I hadn’t gone with Spike… maybe if I could have lived more peaceably… maybe if I’d met the right person years ago, maybe if I hadn’t done this, or that or, its cousin, the other. Maybe, baby, the promised land was there and I missed it. Look at it glittering in the light. But the truth is I am inventing the maybe. I can only make the choices I make, so why torture myself with what I might have done, when all I can handle is what I have done. The Maybe Islands are hostile to human life.

They say asteroids hit the moon pretty often, which is how the moon gets its crater, but this one is going to be the biggest asteroid ever to hit it and on a clear night you should be able to see the impact when it happens, maybe even with the naked eye but certainly with binoculars. They made it sound pretty dramatic, but I still don't think it's worth three homework assignments.

It’s almost painful, the way little children just trustingly hold out their hearts for you to look at—the way they haven’t learned yet how to conceal what matters to them, even if it’s just chewing gum or a plush dolphin or plastic binoculars.

But when you’re a kid it’s like you’re wearing these binoculars strapped to your eyes and you can’t see anything except what’s in the dead center of the lenses

I’d ask how you’re doing and if you’ve been busy today, but these new binoculars work great—a “must-have” for all intense investigators.

Goodness gracious me,” exclaimed Alexia, “what are you wearing? It looks like the unfortunate progeny of an illicit union between a pair of binoculars and some opera glasses. What on earth are they called, binocticals, spectaculars?” The earl snorted his amusement and then tried to pretend he hadn't. “How about glassicals?” he suggested, apparently unable to resist a contribution.

I’m often asked by parents what advice can I give them to help get kids interested in science? And I have only one bit of advice. Get out of their way. Kids are born curious. Period. I don’t care about your economic background. I don’t care what town you’re born in, what city, what country. If you’re a child, you are curious about your environment. You’re overturning rocks. You’re plucking leaves off of trees and petals off of flowers, looking inside, and you’re doing things that create disorder in the lives of the adults around you. And so then so what do adults do? They say, “Don’t pluck the petals off the flowers. I just spent money on that. Don’t play with the egg. It might break. Don’t….” Everything is a don’t. We spend the first year teaching them to walk and talk and the rest of their lives telling them to shut up and sit down. So you get out of their way. And you know what you do? You put things in their midst that help them explore. Help ‘em explore. Why don’t you get a pair of binoculars, just leave it there one day? Watch ‘em pick it up. And watch ‘em look around. They’ll do all kinds of things with it.

Still she wondered: did the present deliver up the future, or must you chase your destiny like a harpoonist?

I’m looking for a girlfriend. That’s why I brought binoculars.

No one cared about a woman staring through binoculars from a parked car. It was a common sight. There were three other cars with binoculared, watching women just on that block, and that was light by Night Vale standards.

I like people. I like watching them. It's just I'd prefer to do it from a mile away using very poweful binoculars.

Binoculars, and a hawk-like vigilance, reduce the disadvantage of myopic human vision.

Sabine stood up, satisfied that her friends were safe and content. When she moved, Calla lifted her head. Her eyes focused in Sabine's direction. Despite the distance between them, Sabine Could have sworn Calla was looking right at her. The white wolf's ears flicked back and forth. She lifted her muzzle and howled. The sound filled Sabine with a mixture of sweetness and sorrow. The other wolves joined the song, their familiar voices blending in the winter air. Sabine watched them from another minute, then she turned and walked back to Ethan. "Everything okay?" he asked. She handed him the binoculars. "They're happy. So I'm happy." ... She turned, listening to the song carried on the stiff winter breeze. Nev's voice rose about the other wolves' as the chorus of howls wove through the air. Sabine wondered if somehow they knew she was here, and if they might be saying good-bye or if they were asking her to stay.

And I loved you I loved you so There were times I forgot to breathe Waiting for the phone call For the sound of your voice Touching me places You couldn't touch For the miles between us. And I loved you Like a forest loves the spring Waiting for the smallest signs Of you coming back And breathing life back into me Warming me up On my brightest fields And my darkest valleys But you stayed away. And I loved you But fate seemed to have Different plans for us. I guess now I see that It was a one-sided love Peeking through The large glasses of a binocular I am here, so very close But you are far-far-away...

I partnered you with Jim all those years ago because you were complimentary kinds of crazy. You kept each other in check. I need you to not crawl back inside your own skull and watch the world with binoculars from deep cover.

Birdwatching, at first glance, seems like a pursuit designed specifically for people who find stamp collecting too stimulating. But oh, how wrong they would be. Behind the courteous nods, the gentle lift of binoculars and the soft pitter-patter of birder footsteps on dew-dappled gum leaves lies a world of unexpected drama – a scandalous underbelly of rivalry, controversy and intrigue. Indeed, what appears to be a peaceful communion with nature masks a tempest of Shakespearean passion.

Don't get your panties all twisted over a pair of binoculars" "There will be no talk of the duchess's panties" Jareth warned,but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He wore binoculars around his neck the way librarians wear their glasses.

I believe solitude to be not only the unavoidable human condition but also the sensible human preference." ― Edith Pearlman, Binocular Vision: New and Selected Stories, (from "Mates")

Man as we realize if we reflect for a moment, never perceives anything fully or comprehends anything completely. He can see, hear, touch, and taste; but how far he sees, how well he hears, what his touch tells him, and what he tastes depend upon the number and quality of his senses. These limit his perception of the world around him. By using scientific instruments he can partly compensate for the deficiencies of his senses. For example, he can extend the range of his vision by binoculars or of his hearing by electrical amplification. But the most elaborate apparatus cannot do more than bring distant or small objects within range of his eyes, or make faint sounds more audible. No matter what instruments he uses, at some point he reaches the edge of certainty beyond which conscious knowledge cannot pass.

The Death of Allegory I am wondering what became of all those tall abstractions that used to pose, robed and statuesque, in paintings and parade about on the pages of the Renaissance displaying their capital letters like license plates. Truth cantering on a powerful horse, Chastity, eyes downcast, fluttering with veils. Each one was marble come to life, a thought in a coat, Courtesy bowing with one hand always extended, Villainy sharpening an instrument behind a wall, Reason with her crown and Constancy alert behind a helm. They are all retired now, consigned to a Florida for tropes. Justice is there standing by an open refrigerator. Valor lies in bed listening to the rain. Even Death has nothing to do but mend his cloak and hood, and all their props are locked away in a warehouse, hourglasses, globes, blindfolds and shackles. Even if you called them back, there are no places left for them to go, no Garden of Mirth or Bower of Bliss. The Valley of Forgiveness is lined with condominiums and chain saws are howling in the Forest of Despair. Here on the table near the window is a vase of peonies and next to it black binoculars and a money clip, exactly the kind of thing we now prefer, objects that sit quietly on a line in lower case, themselves and nothing more, a wheelbarrow, an empty mailbox, a razor blade resting in a glass ashtray. As for the others, the great ideas on horseback and the long-haired virtues in embroidered gowns, it looks as though they have traveled down that road you see on the final page of storybooks, the one that winds up a green hillside and disappears into an unseen valley where everyone must be fast asleep.

together any sort of response to that, so I turned and left. At the store, I got a bag and started stuffing it with one of everything in sight. When I got to the binoculars, I took

When I looked back at my stalker, he was staring at me. Holding my binoculars. With smoothie dribbling down my chin. I’d been caught looking every bit the stalker in this situation. Kill me now.

They weren’t creepy stalker binoculars. Because I wasn’t a stalker. He was. These were like fancy opera watching binoculars. Or ones you’d use to watch the Kentucky Derby. I wasn’t doing anything weird.

He gave her that last word. He gave her his love. He would think of her almost every day for the rest of his life. Only his presence would he withhold.

I stood at the window, where I once stood with my father looking out through binoculars, and even now small winged creatures occasionally flitted by, but they were no more than reminders that birds mean nothing at all to me anymore.

I remember the odd sensation of living in the middle of that experience and feeling, simultaneously, like it was something happening at telescopic distance. Like something I was looking at through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.

Like a battalion of marines at roll call, her neck hairs marshaled to five-alarm status. She stumbled back to her desk, jerked open the botton drawer, retrieved a pair of Nighthawk binoculars, fixed the scopes on him, and fiddled with the focus. Gotcha. Hair the colour of coal. Chocolate brown eyes. A five-o'clock shadow ringing his craggy jawline. Handsome as the day was long... He sauntered towards her, oozing charisma from every pore. Charlee forgot to breathe. And then he committed the gravest sin of all, knocking her world helter-skelter. The scoundrel smiled.

Rock City begins as an ornamental garden on a mountain side: its visitors walk a path that takes them through rocks, over rocks, between rocks. They throw corn into a deer enclosure, cross a hanging bridge, and peer out through a-quarter-a-throw binoculars at a view that promises them seven states on the rare sunny days when the air is perfectly clear. And from there, like a drop into some strange hell, the path takes visitors, millions upon millions of them every year, down into caverns, where they stare at black-lit dolls arranged into nursery-rhyme and fairy-tale dioramas. When they leave, they leave bemused, uncertain of why they came, of what they have seen, of whether they had a good time or not.

The binoculars in my hands were stolen.

Table 3–1. Definitions of Cognitive Distortions 1. ALL-OR-NOTHING THINKING: You see things in black-and-white categories. If your performance falls short of perfect, you see yourself as a total failure. 2. OVERGENERALIZATION: You see a single negative event as a never-ending pattern of defeat. 3. MENTAL FILTER: You pick out a single negative detail and dwell on it exclusively so that your vision of all reality becomes darkened, like the drop of ink that colors the entire beaker of water. 4. DISQUALIFYING THE POSITIVE: You reject positive experiences by insisting they “don’t count” for some reason or other. In this way you can maintain a negative belief that is contradicted by your everyday experiences. 5. JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS: You make a negative interpretation even though there are no definite facts that convincingly support your conclusion. a. Mind reading. You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and you don’t bother to check this out. b. The Fortune Teller Error. You anticipate that things will turn out badly, and you feel convinced that your prediction is an already-established fact. 6. MAGNIFICATION (CATASTROPHIZING) OR MINIMIZATION: You exaggerate the importance of things (such as your goof-up or someone else’s achievement), or you inappropriately shrink things until they appear tiny (your own desirable qualities or the other fellow’s imperfections). This is also called the “binocular trick.” 7. EMOTIONAL REASONING: You assume that your negative emotions necessarily reflect the way things really are: “I feel it, therefore it must be true.” 8. SHOULD STATEMENTS: You try to motivate yourself with shoulds and shouldn’ts, as if you had to be whipped and punished before you could be expected to do anything. “Musts” and “oughts” are also offenders. The emotional consequence is guilt. When you direct should statements toward others, you feel anger, frustration, and resentment. 9. LABELING AND MISLABELING: This is an extreme form of overgeneralization. Instead of describing your error, you attach a negative label to yourself: “I’m a loser.” When someone else’s behavior rubs you the wrong way, you attach a negative label to him: “He’s a goddam louse.” Mislabeling involves describing an event with language that is highly colored and emotionally loaded. 10. PERSONALIZATION: You see yourself as me cause of some negative external event which in fact you were not primarily responsible for.

Then he just sat there holding the binoculars and watching the ashen daylight congeal over the land. He knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.

Cat. No doubled vision: it’s a cat, singular. A solitary diurnal ambush hunter with good hearing and binocular vision and a predilection for biting the neck of its prey in half while disemboweling it with the scythe-like claws on its hind legs. Basically it’s a velociraptor with a fur coat and an outsize sense of entitlement. Right

To clarify Rear Window, I’d suggest this parable: The courtyard is the world, the reporter/photographer is the filmmaker, the binoculars stand for the camera and its lenses. And Hitchcock? He is the man we love to be hated by.

Imagine you are a member of a tour visiting Greece. The group goes to the Parthenon. It is a bore. Few people even bother to look — it looked better in the brochure. So people take half a look, mostly take pictures, remark on serious erosion by acid rain. You are puzzled. Why should one of the glories and fonts of Western civilization, viewed under pleasant conditions — good weather, good hotel room, good food, good guide — be a bore? Now imagine under what set of circumstances a viewing of the Parthenon would not be a bore. For example, you are a NATO colonel defending Greece against a Soviet assault. You are in a bunker in downtown Athens, binoculars propped up on sandbags. It is dawn. A medium-range missile attack is under way. Half a million Greeks are dead. Two missiles bracket the Parthenon. The next will surely be a hit. Between columns of smoke, a ray of golden light catches the portico. Are you bored? Can you see the Parthenon? Explain.

A teasing smirk flitted across his face, as he completed his thought, “I’ll try not to take it too hard if I fail miserably, because you can be the world’s greatest skeptic…” “Nah…” I coughed out a little chuckle, “not when you’re involved. I’m your number one fan…You couldn’t shake me if you tried.” I gave him a playful wink, adding musingly, “Though I might stop short of hanging out in the bushes with binoculars…” “Well, then,” he grinned, “clearly you’re not my number one fan.

The heart sags. My footprints forget me. I don’t think anything will ever be the same. This is the edge of the cliff and you can’t move, can’t jump. Everything is vertical. With binoculars you can see where you’ll be in an hour. Raindrops collect on the lens. A fine mist. It hides us. It drifts into clocks. Gravity presses your hands. Some hurts never get said. Some get smuggled.

From the slope of Haleakala, the Old Broad watched the activity in the channel with a two-hundred-power celestial telescope and a pair of "big eyes" binoculars that looked like stereo bazookas on precision mounts that were anchored into a ton of concrete.

With my new habit of carrying binoculars everywhere, I feel imbued with a readiness to see, an attitude that my life itself is a kind of field trip. The urban naturalist has the terrific luxury of stepping out her door and into "the field," without long rides or carpools, or putting money in for gas and Dairy Queen. When does the field trip being? Whenever we start paying attention.

A Marine trains his binoculars on the mountain again. The man is still sitting there. Japanese. Wearing a uniform. His head is floating several feet above his body. The body is in several pieces with lines of sunshine between them. His face, sweat dripping over the smooth eyelids, shows no emotion. Slowly, he raises his hand, as if wave to them, and his fingers float away from his palm.

He, the true writer, is the department store dummy at the very center of the whole establishment, the one left alone on display all night, a price tag stapled to every piece of clothing they’ve yanked onto him, binoculars and frog flippers included. He is the neutral, generic human form, the gray center who must always assume disguises — in order to be seen and, therefore, to feel himself.

Always. I’ve been watching you all this time. Sometimes from binoculars or across the room. Other times from surveillance. I’ve been with you. Each starlit walk you took with him, every small look over your shoulder waiting for someone. For me. I was there. I never left you behind.

Science and theology are both lenses through which to interact with and interpret reality, sort of like a microscope and a pair of binoculars. Both sets of lenses tell us more about the world than we could see with the naked eye, but the information we get from each can diverge considerably.

The spiraling flights of moths appear haphazard only because of the mechanisms of olfactory tracking are so different from our own. Using binocular vision, we judge the location of an object by comparing the images from two eyes and tracking directly toward the stimulus. But for species relying on the sense of smell, the organism compares points in space, moves in the direction of the greater concentration, then compares two more points successively, moving in zigzags toward the source. Using olfactory navigation the moth detects currents of scent in the air and, by small increments, discovers how to move upstream.

The things I feel cannot be put into words, or if they can, the words are in no language anyone can understand. My emotions are talking in tongues. Joy spins into anger spins into fear then into amused irony, like leaping from a plane, arms wide, knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that you can fly, then discovering you can't, and not only don't you have a parachute, but you don't have any clothes on, and people below all have binoculars and are laughing as you plummet to a highly embarrassing down.

His mistake was to think that, by seeing objectively, he was seeing the street in its entirety. What he didn't see -- what he completely missed -- was the strangest and most remarkable sight in the whole of Lough Street: an unshaven, wild-eyed man sitting in a parked van, staring at an empty house through binoculars and furiously taking notes.

But you said the words you knew, which were not always the ones you meant.

What a rich phrase. You could live a life on the income it yielded.

Put the binoculars away because my room faces the back. You’ve got no shot of a peep show.

Those two moods are so different! Is everyone in your family like that?" .... "Unquestionably." Baden nodded. "Good to know. I'll buy a shield and some binoculars.

It’s as though I’m looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars, and no matter how far I stretch out my hand, I can’t touch them.

If you see the light at the end of the tunnel, you’re looking through binoculars the wrong way

A brick could be used like Dracula uses binoculars. I swear that pervert peeps on me every night from the tree across the street.


Stop and unplug,” say I; “look around you, at the vastness and greatness of the natural world.” Some stop. Others need binoculars to tie their shoelaces.

The three of us made love like one of us was a voyeur. I was the only one using binoculars as a sex toy.


binoculars and took another look

tried to sleep. From the pilothouse of the aged trawler, I peered through my binoculars and the windscreen toward the yacht. When my eyes adjusted

Well, that’s because you’re missing the most important element of observation.” I peered at him over the top of my binoculars. “What’s that?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Patience.

I go out to the cliffs with binoculars to see whales find their way in from the southern mist and I walk here in this paddock, stubbornly, wondering at the heat each of us leaves in our wake.

Werner shyly. “Oh, come on, you didn’t already know?” With his glasses on, Frederick’s expression seems to ease; his face makes more sense—this, Werner thinks, is who he is. A soft-skinned boy in glasses with taffy-colored hair and the finest trace of a mustache needled across his lip. Bird lover. Rich kid. “I barely hit anything in marksmanship. You really didn’t know?” “Maybe,” says Werner. “Maybe I knew. How did you pass the eye exams?” “Memorized the charts.” “Don’t they have different ones?” “I memorized all four. Father got them ahead of time. Mother helped me study.” “What about your binoculars?” “They’re prescription. Cost a fortune.” They sit in a big kitchen at a butcher’s block with a marble cap. The maid named Fanni emerges with a dark loaf and a round of

Hamlet: The murmurs ebb; onto the stage I enter. I am trying, standing in the door, To discover in the distant echoes What the coming years may hold in store. The nocturnal darkness with a thousand Binoculars is focused onto me. Take away this cup, O Abba, Father, Everything is possible to thee. I am fond of this thy stubborn project, And to play my part I am content. But another drama is in progress, And, this once, O let me be exempt. But the plan of action is determined, And the end irrevocably sealed. I am alone; all round me drowns in falsehood: Life is not a walk across a field.

On September 16, in defiance of the cease-fire, Ariel Sharon’s army circled the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila, where Fatima and Falasteen slept defenselessly without Yousef. Israeli soldiers set up checkpoints, barring the exit of refugees, and allowed their Lebanese Phalange allies into the camp. Israeli soldiers, perched on rooftops, watched through their binoculars during the day and at night lit the sky with flares to guide the path of the Phalange, who went from shelter to shelter in the refugee camps. Two days later, the first western journalists entered the camp and bore witness. Robert Fisk wrote of it in Pity the Nation: They were everywhere, in the road, the laneways, in the back yards and broken rooms, beneath crumpled masonry and across the top of garbage tips. When we had seen a hundred bodies, we stopped counting. Down every alleyway, there were corpses—women, young men, babies and grandparents—lying together in lazy and terrible profusion where they had been knifed or machine-gunned to death. Each corridor through the rubble produced more bodies. The patients at the Palestinian hospital had disappeared after gunmen ordered the doctors to leave. Everywhere, we found signs of hastily dug mass graves. Even while we were there, amid the evidence of such savagery, we could see the Israelis watching us. From the top of the tower block to the west, we could see them staring at us through field-glasses, scanning back and forth across the streets of corpses, the lenses of the binoculars sometimes flashing in the sun as their gaze ranged through the camp. Loren Jenkins [of the Washington Post] cursed a lot. Jenkins immediately realized that the Israeli defense minister would have to bear some responsibility for this horror. “Sharon!” he shouted. “That fucker [Ariel] Sharon! This is Deir Yassin all over again.

you want to be charitable, then I think you should start at home—right under your nose—and give Charlie more money, rather than help this distant cousin—so distant that we’d need binoculars to see him, Mma.

Karl Selig steadied himself on the ship’s rail and peered through the binoculars at the massive iceberg. Another piece of ice crumbled and fell, revealing more of the long black object. It looked almost like

Paul stepped past her, lifting his binoculars. He adjusted their internal pressure with a quick twist, focused the oil lenses on the other cliff, lifting golden tan in morning light across open sand. Jessica

Know what I think?" said Perry. "I think there must be something wrong with us. To do what we did."' "Did what?" "Out there." Dick dropped the binoculars into a leather case, a luxurious receptacle initialed H. W. C. He was annoyed. Annoyed as hell. Why the hell couldn't Perry shut up? Christ Jesus, what damn good did it do, always dragging the goddam thing up? It really was annoying. Especially since they'd agreed, sort of, not to talk about the goddam thing. Just forget it. "There's got to be something wrong with somebody who'd do a thing like that," Perry said. "Deal me out, baby," Dick said. "I'm a normal." And Dick meant what he said. He thought himself as balanced, as sane as anyone - maybe a bit smarter than the average fellow, that's all. But Perry - there was, in Dick's opinion, "something wrong" with Little Perry.

The sight which had greeted him through his binoculars had filled the thirty-two year old major with both awe and fear. ‘There must be ten thousand ships out there,’ he told headquarters. ‘It’s unbelievable, fantastic.

He must turn to something solid, because if he didn't, who knew where his mind or his soul could blow away to, like a balloon without ballast.... He raised the binoculars and scoured the island for more signs of life: he needed to see the goats, the sheep; to count them. Stick to the solid. To the brass fittings which had to be polished, the glass which had to be cleaned—first the outer glass of the lantern, then the prisms themselves. Getting the oil in, keeping the cogs moving smoothly, topping up the mercury to let the light glide. He gripped each thought like the rung of a ladder by which to haul himself back to the knowable; back to this life.

Loni watched the horse through her binoculars. Shifting auroras reflected off its pearlescent mane, sending a cascade of prismatic brilliance across its ivory coat. Hands, smaller than Loni's own, held on to its silver reins.

the Chicago Symphony was in a class by itself. Fritz Reiner, the famous Hungarian conductor, was fascinating to watch. He was somewhat stout, hunched over with round shoulders, and his arm and baton movements were tiny—you almost had to look at him with binoculars to see what he was doing. But those tiny movements forced the players to peer at him intently, and then he would suddenly raise his arms up over his head and the entire orchestra would go crazy.

We are all sealed up alone. We all carry the center of the universe inside our own heads. It is, for each of us, a point a few inches behind our eyes where the binocular lines of vision converge. Only a narcissist or a child is fool enough to believe it.

telling me?’ ‘He put,’ I say, ‘the strap of his binoculars around my neck.’ ‘And then what?’ ‘He . . .’ I stop. I hate this man with his thick eyebrows, his beery paunch, his impatient stubby fingers. I hate him more, perhaps, than the man beside the tarn.

From the rock where I washed the dishes I could see part of a tent, in among the cedars at the distant end of the lake: their bunker. Binoculars trained on me, I could feel the eye rays, cross of the rifle sight on my forehead, in case I made a false move.

El mundo se desvaneció y se formó un túnel en su visión. Era como mirar a través de unos binoculares angostos que hacían que el mundo fuera extremadamente nítido y, sin embargo, era incapaz de comprender lo que estaba viendo. El chico…. El Centinela… Era Adrián.

Only about 6,000 stars are visible to the naked eye from Earth, and only about 2,000 can be seen from any one spot. With binoculars the number of stars you can see from a single location rises to about 50,000, and with a small two-inch telescope it leaps to 300,000.

To all the haters who think I’ll never get married and am going to die alone as a cat lady, I say ha! I’ll be the crazy bird woman with binoculars and a camouflage poncho, silently hiding out in reeds or woods. As a stealth ninja, a friend of the beaked and feathered.

The wife sits in the backyard with binoculars. She is trying to learn about the birds. She has seen robins and sparrows and wrens. A green-throated hummingbird. She wants to know the name of the black bird with the red wings. She looks it up. It is a red-winged blackbird.

Well, go back and do a bit of howling yourself,’ suggested George. ‘It may frighten the howler as much as his howling scared you.’ ‘Not a chance,’ said Julian promptly. ‘I’m not going in for any howling matches.’ He burrowed down under the rug for his binoculars and slung them round his neck. ‘I’m

Look at that crowd', he said disgustedly. 'They think it's a circus.' 'And not a single coin are they donating', said Dina. 'That's not surprising. Pity can only be shown in small doses. When so many beggars are in one place, the public goes like this' - he put his fists to his eyes, like binoculars.

But the most amazing thing is the sight I’m looking at right now, and I don’t need the binoculars to see it either: Michael wearing nothing but board shorts as he lies in the hammock across from mine, reading a book on microprocessing (I do hope the micros and the processors end up happily ever after at the end)

No, what I’m gonna do is silently compile and process enough data to know exactly what’s gonna happen for the next twenty-five years. Then I’m gonna buy a house on the top of a very tall hill at the edge of the city and become an eccentric recluse and sit on my veranda. Watch it all unfold through a pair of binoculars.

Scarlett activated the viola and it came down like short shimmering curtain that covered her eyes with a band of violet light. It dilated her eyes, increasing her binocular summation so that everything in her field of vision was magnified and clear. It also protected her retinas from any sort of laser fire or plasma flash.

This candy store! The kids used to vibrate with excitement if you even mentioned it. It’s almost painful, the way little children just trustingly hold out their hearts for you to look at—the way they haven’t learned yet how to conceal what matters to them, even if it’s just chewing gum or a plush dolphin or plastic binoculars.

He smiled at her, handsome Alan, who was always used to getting his own way. He hadn’t changed. Alan, who was already as faithless to Cinta as he had been to her. Suddenly, like a focus in binoculars, everything became clear. This was a man worth spending not one more minute thinking about, second-guessing or trying to understand.

An officer who testified that he had served in naval intelligence was convicted of perjury, on the grounds that no such thing had ever existed. Rookie pilots were required to spend the day in fur-lined winter flight suits with helmets and gloves, scanning the horizon for icebergs using “binoculars” fashioned from a pair of Coke bottles.

With the special tools of ultramicrochemistry the young chemists could work on undiluted quantities of chemicals as slight as tenths of a microgram (a dime weighs about 2.5 grams— 2,500,000 micrograms). They would manage their manipulations on the mechanical stage of a binocular stereoscopic microscope adjusted to 30-power magnification.

Make music. In fact, make your own instruments. See who can make the craziest, most unexpected instrument out of the materials you have lying around the house. Set up a bird-watching station at the front window. Include the necessary bird books and binoculars, of course, but don’t forget the kazoos and party poppers to celebrate the birds’ arrival.

They were relieved that I was chosen by a human being," she'd said to Angelica in her dry voice. "They were braced for an interspecies liaison.

know that the first mineral product of the Ohio Valley was salt?” Ned asked. When Nancy shook her head, he went on, “As you know, salt has been an essential food for man and animal since the beginning of time. In prehistoric days salt attracted not only human inhabitants to this area, but also animals like the giant sloth, the mammoth elk, deer, and buffalo.” “That’s fascinating,” said Nancy. “Don’t stop.” “Professor will relate one more story and that’s the end of his knowledge.” Nancy giggled and Ned went on, “The Indians here were fearful that the white men would take away all their territory, so they raided and burned settlements. It was not until the American Army took over that the raids were stopped, around 1794.” By this time Ned was nearing Pine Hill. Nancy happened to look up the high embankment at the woods which ran to the Rorick garden. Suddenly she caught a flash of sunlight on glass. “Ned,” she said, “somebody is watching us with binoculars! See him up there among the trees?” Ned turned to look, resting his paddle. “You think that’s your phantom?” he asked.

Next to her a man appeared, head to toe in brown camouflage, his own binoculars in his hands. Zoya knew Ruslan had a suppressed sniper rifle, a VSS Vintorez, on a bipod somewhere back there in the brush. Through the high-powered optic on the rail of the weapon, and not through the binos in his hands, he’d been watching Zoya throughout her visit here to the island

There were books everywhere. There were pens, and a blue glass vase, an ash tray from the Dolder Grand in Zürich, the rusted arrow of a weather vane, a little brass hourglass, sand dollars on the windowsill, a pair of binoculars, and empty wine bottle that served as a candle holder, wax melted down the neck. I touch this thing and that. At the end, all that's left of you are your possessions.

That night, after we'd had our tea, Kevin and I went bird-watching. Not the usual sort, plodding round the fields with great binoculars round your neck (though I did take my work binoculars). No, we go up in the big trees in the wood, where the birds live. Right to the tops we go, where the branches sway and swing like a comfy bed, and you can look along the green billows of the tree-tops. In spring, we take the eggs out of the nests, handling them gentle, like, and putting them back afterwards of course. An' getting away quickly, so the hen-bird can come back and sit on them again. That's a wonder of life to me; to hold a speckled egg in the palm of your hand, and think what a marvellous thing it's going to become, a bird that flies and feeds and takes its chance with the cats, and breeds its own young and dies back into the dust in the end. Why does anyone need those crazy Christian dreams of Heaven, wi' angels playin' their harps on fleecy clouds, when they can have a wood at sunset, when you can look down from a low branch and see young rabbits playing, or even young foxes tumbling over and over and squeaking when they nip each other with their sharp little teeth?

You may have no computer, but thank The Divine One for giving you a brain. You may have no television, but thank The Divine One for giving you an imagination. You may have no counselor, but thank The Divine One for giving you a conscience. You may have no binoculars, but thank The Divine One for giving you eyes. You may have no megaphone, but thank The Divine One for giving you a mouth. You may have no defender, but thank The Divine One for giving you hands. You may have no food, but thank The Divine One for giving you teeth. You may have no car, but thank The Divine One for giving you feet. You may have no degrees, but thank The Divine One for giving you talents. You may have no job, but thank The Divine One for giving you potential. You may have no career, but thank The Divine One for giving you inspiration. You may have no money, but thank The Divine One for giving you ambition. You may have no possessions, but thank The Divine One for giving you character. You may have no titles, but thank The Divine One for giving you honor. You may have no magic, but thank The Divine One for giving you intuition. You may have no friends, but thank The Divine One for giving you angels.

By closing one eye, you removed binocular vision, the slight variance in images, called “binocular disparity,” that occurs when we view an object with both eyes open. Binocular vision—sometimes called “depth perception”—allows us to see the world as three-dimensional. When you close one eye, the single image is two-dimensional—that is, it is flat, like a photograph, and therefore can be “copied” onto flat paper.

I was ready to give up when my eyes find someone who wasn’t familiar to me. For some reason, I feel drawn to her. What the hell? That’s never happened to me before, not even with Jennifer. “Hey, Sam, do you know that girl?” Sam took the binoculars from me to take a look. “No, never seen her before.” I scaled my way down the wall, jumping onto the sand, as Sam called out to me. “Hey! Where are you going dude?” “To meet someone new.

Through the binoculars, I saw it stretch. It lay back down. It was the ruler of its life. It was the expression of this place. Its mere presence signified its “power.” The world was its throne, it filled the space it inhabited. It incarnated that mysterious concept of the king’s body. A true regent is content simply to be. He does not trouble to act, and sees no need to make appearances. His existence is the foundation of his authority.

I close my eyes for a moment and open my inner eye. I stare at Pete, and the thing in his arms. Human. Cat. Human. Cat. No doubled vision: it's a cat, singular. A solitary diurnal ambush hunter with good hearing and binocular vision, and a predilection for biting the neck of its prey in half while disemboweling it with the scythe-like claws on its hind legs. Basically it's a velociraptor with a fur coat and an outsize sense of entitlement.

For our own part, we learned a great deal about the techniques of love, and because we didn't know the words to denote what we saw, we had to make up our own. That was why we spoke of "yodeling in the canyon" and "tying the tube," of "groaning in the pit,""slipping the turtle's head," and "chewing the stinkweed." Years later, when we lost our own virginities, we resorted in our panic to pantomiming Lux's gyrations on the roof so long ago; and even now, if we were to be honest with ourselves, we would have to admit that it is always that pale wraith we make love to, always her feet snagged in the gutter, always her single blooming hand steadying itself against the chimney, no matter what our present lovers' feet and hands are doing. And we'd have to admit, too, that in our most intimate moments, alone at night with our beating hearts, asking God to save us, what comes most often is Lux, succubus of those binocular nights.

The office, which had an outside entrance for ordinary visitors, was separated from the parlor by a sliding door; though Mr. Clutter occasionally shared the office with Gerald Van Vleet, a young man who assisted him with the management of the farm, it was fundamentally his retreat—an orderly sanctuary, paneled in walnut veneer, where, surrounded by weather barometers, rain charts, a pair of binoculars, he sat like a captain in his cabin, a navigator piloting River Valley’s sometimes risky passage through the seasons.

Khizar, can you see that star emitting bright yellow light?” She asked me while handing over the binocular she was using to see the stars. We were standing on the terrace of our university cafe. I looked through the very powerful lenses of the binocular and said “Yes, I can see. Looks like a star that must have died millions of years ago but we can still see the stardust it emitted while exploding” She took the binocular from my hands, looked into my eyes and said “Khizar, you know memories are like those particles of the stardust of a star which died millions of years ago but we can see them emitting lights now. I hope you won’t become a star that once existed in my universe”  I looked at her. Except for the tears floating in her eyes betraying the emotional turmoil she was suffering from, she was as calm as the sea is after a storm. They say that every atom in a human body is the grain of the stardust of the stars which exploded millions of years ago. Then I understood why her eyes used to sparkle when she was looking at me.

understanding. As they progressed west across the crater floor, they saw more gazelles and zebras and buffalo than she could count. She glassed the grasslands through the binoculars for a bottleneck of Land Rovers, hoping it would indicate a predator sighting. The strategy paid off. The first gathering led them to a chilled-out leopard lounging in the crotch of an acacia tree, the second to a pack of spotted hyenas making whooping-giggling noises while tearing apart the ribcage of an antelope with their bone-crushing jaws.

Just as I could not imagine a world in stereo depth, an individual with normal normal stereopsis cannot experience the worldview of a person who has always lacked steropsis. This may be surprising because you can eliminate clues from stereopsis simply by closing one eye. What's more, many people do not notice a great difference when viewing the world with one eye or two. When a normal binocular viewer closes one eye, however, he or she still uses a lifetime of past visual experiences to re-create the missing stereo information.

I’ve always wanted to kill a CIA officer. With my own hands. I’ve dreamed of the day, wrapping my fingers around his throat, squeezing the life from him, watching his eyes bug out and then go blank.” The comment was in Mandarin, and it came not from the man with the binoculars but from his partner, on his left. Both stood on the roof of an airport outbuilding, doing their best to ignore the stifling morning heat. The man with the binoculars also did his best to ignore his colleague, and he kept his focus on the approaching aircraft.

I can see the driver as if I'm looking at him through binoculars, bending to adjust the volume on his radio, eyes wide at what he hears, which I can't understand because when he hits you there is only silence. My feet, pounding through the grass, make no sound. I know that my mouth is open, that air is rushing across my stretched vocal chords, but I hear nothing. You lift into the air and the car is past before you land silently at my feet, as if something as small as you couldn't possibly make a sound in a world where buildings can come down.

Beyond the field my eyes studied a long wall of pine trees, a windbreak of sorts that stretched from the road back toward an old farmhouse and an older barn surrounded by low brush. Through the binoculars, I could just make out the top of Carney’s Impala parked in the side yard by the house. From a long way off you could see that the white house paint was blistered or gone to bare clapboard. The roof of the barn looked like it had been hit by lightning at some point. There was a charred, gaping hole on one corner. The whole structure sagged left.

I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of—are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.) I’d like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light. At night, a grog à l’américaine.

I began writing this story by subverting the dominant discourse, but that did not last long. My story decided to assert its independence. I tried to rupture all vestiges of received form, but my story fought back. It wanted to go live with its Aristotelian parents. "I'm sick of being experimented on," it said. "What's so lame about catharsis?" Then it stormed out of the barber shop, mid trim, and fumbled down the sidewalk, weak from surgery, thin in description, gaping with holes, and absolutely riddled with bruised sentences. I watched it with binoculars, but decided not to chase after it. I never liked that story anyway.

On social media platforms, everything we see corresponds to our conscious choices and algorithmically guided preferences, and all news and culture and interpersonal interaction are filtered through the home base of the profile. The everyday madness perpetuated by the internet is the madness of this architecture, which positions personal identity as the center of the universe. It's as if we've been placed on a lookout that oversees the entire world and given a pair of binoculars that makes everything look like our own reflection. Through social media, many people have quickly come to view all new information as a sort of direct commentary on "who they are.

I love birds, she says dreamily into her son's ear, or maybe she just thinks it, she the one who taught him to name and spot the rare ones-the bar-tailed godwit, the whimbrel and Blackburnian warbler-just as her father had taught her, first from the fields and beach, then from inside, his wheelchair by the window, Petersons and binoculars in his lap, and she'd bike to the salt creek or climb to the top of the Teal Rock and sit there waiting, then ride back and drop her bike on the grass and go inside, to where the names flew from her mouth into her father's ears, a gift for both of them. "I love birds." She says it again, or maybe for the first time. "I know," Charlie says.

Our house was made of stone, stucco, and clapboard; the newer wings, designed by a big-city architect, had a good deal of glass, and looked out into the Valley, where on good days we could see for many miles while on humid hazy days we could see barely beyond the fence that marked the edge of our property. Father, however, preferred the roof: In his white, light-woolen three-piece suit, white fedora cocked back on his head, for luck, he spent many of his waking hours on the highest peak of the highest roof of the house, observing, through binoculars, the amazing progress of construction in the Valley - for overnight, it seemed, there appeared roads, expressways, sewers, drainage pipes, "planned" communities with such names as Whispering Glades, Murmuring Oaks, Pheasant Run, Deer Willow, all of them walled to keep out intruders, and, yet more astonishing, towerlike buildings of aluminum and glass and steel and brick, buildings whose windows shone and winked like mirrors, splendid in sunshine like pillars of flame; such beauty where once there had been mere earth and sky, it caught at your throat like a great bird's talons, taking your breath away. 'The ways of beauty are as a honeycomb,' Father told us, and none of us could determine, staring at his slow moving lips, whether the truth he spoke was a happy truth or not, whether even it was truth. ("Family")

Some people say he engineered his own arrest to gain an insight into modern methods of policing for a thriller he had planned. But you know what happens to artistic rats in prison: they have their rectums stretched, and not by overindulgence in Michelin-star food; they have their columns examined, and not by internet humorists or a qualified medical practitioner. I’m sure Rat knew this, too. Although he likes to accumulate a wide general knowledge, he would rather have a narrow rectum. A colon comes in handy here, before examples: two dots on top of one other, like the cowboys who copulate on Brokeback Mountain, on a slope so far away you need binoculars to see them properly. In prison there are too many insights and examples. Rat would never risk it.

He went to look closely at the painting, which portrayed a parade of fat white geese strolling past the doorway of a cottage. "Someday I'll be able to afford real art," Garrett said, coming to stand beside him. "In the meantime, we'll have to make do with this." Ethan's attention was drawn to the tiny initials in the corner of the work: G.G. A slow smile broke over his face. "You painted it?" "Art class, at boarding school," she admitted. "I wasn't bad at sketching, but the only subject I could manage to paint adequately was geese. At one point I tried to expand my repertoire to ducks, but those earned lower marks, so it was back to geese after that." Ethan smiled, imagining her as a studious schoolgirl with long braids. The light of a glass-globe parlor lamp slid across the tidy pinned-up weight of her hair, bringing out gleams of red and gold. He'd never seen anything like her skin, fine and powerless, with a faint glow like a blush-colored garden rose. "What gave you the idea to paint geese in the first place?" he asked. "There was a goose pond across from the school," Garrett said, staring absently at the picture. "Sometimes I saw Miss Primrose at the front windows, watching with binoculars. One day I dared to ask her what she found so interesting about geese, and she told me they had a capacity for attachment and grief that rivaled humans. They mated for life, she said. If a goose was injured, the gander would stay with her even if the rest of the flock was flying south. When one of a mated pair died, the other would lose its appetite and go off to mourn in solitude.

In the back seat, Macanay was scanning the area through a pair of bulky Pentax binoculars. Next to him were pages of printed photos, most of them downloaded from social media accounts, of an olive-skinned young man in various posed shots. Here he was in a bath full of crushed ice with two barely dressed supermodels; here tugging on the lead of an illegally bought pet tiger cub; leaning idly on the fuselage of a private jet; or taking a draw from a hookah in the shape of a golden AK-47. There were also a half-dozen pictures of a crimson Maserati Ghibli, including blow-ups of the car’s number plate. Macanay’s silenced Beretta pistol sat on top of the pages to stop them slipping off the seat, and another identical gun was in the door compartment at Guhaad’s side, where he could reach it easily.

Man, as we realize if we reflect for a moment, never perceives anything fully or comprehends anything completely. He can see, hear, touch, and taste; but how far he sees, how well he hears, what his touch tells him, and what he tastes depend upon the number and quality of his senses. These limit his perception of the world around him. By using scientific instruments he can partly compensate for the deficiencies of his senses. For example, he can extend the range of his vision by binoculars or of his hearing by electrical amplification. But the most elaborate apparatus cannot do more than bring distant or small objects within range of his eyes, or make faint sounds more audible. No matter what instruments he uses, at some point he reaches the edge of certainty beyond which conscious knowledge cannot pass.

Occasionally we glimpse the South Rim, four or five thousand feet above. From the rims the canyon seems oceanic; at the surface of the river the feeling is intimate. To someone up there with binoculars we seem utterly remote down here. It is this know dimension if distance and time and the perplexing question posed by the canyon itself- What is consequential? (in one’s life, in the life of human beings, in the life of a planet)- that reverberate constantly, and make the human inclination to judge (another person, another kind of thought) seem so eerie… Two kinds of time pass here: sitting at the edge of a sun-warmed pool watching blue dragonflies and black tadpoles. And the rapids: down the glassy-smooth tongue into a yawing trench, climb a ten-foot wall of standing water and fall into boiling, ferocious hydraulics…

Your Sunny decided to show off for you?” Axel asked with a laugh. “She doesn’t know I’m here,” he grated, keeping the binoculars trained on her. His heart raced. He’d known she enjoyed fighting demons, but he’d never seen her wage war. Despite fear for her safety, his chest puffed with pride. The woman had skill, boundless grace and lethal precision. She was an angel of death, wielding a spear, toppling demons three by three. Magnificent. Of course, he hardened at the sight of her. Not just hardened. Burned. For the first time in centuries, William felt truly demonic. Watching his female lay waste to the enemy, his every savage instinct clambered for attention. Sunny’s companions paused to cheer her on, and a glorious smile lit her face. Killing demons, having fun. “What is she?” Axel asked, sounding awed. What else? “My greatest torment.

The reaction of the people below to this fantastic sight and sound was one of wild excitement. Details could be seen vividly from aloft. An elderly man and woman fell to their knees and prayed. People in the villages stood still and gaped upward. Most of them still had their Sunday finery on. "You could see people going to church...man, wife, and child walking along the country roads." Bombardier Herbert Light, through his binoculars, saw an open-air festival in progress, with the women dressed in colorful skirts and blouses. One of them threw her apron over her head in panic. As they roared over the wheat fields, the first unfriendly acts occurred: farmers threw stones and pitchforks at them. One farmer leading two horses was startled by the advancing planes and leaped into a nearby stream. A girl swimming in another river was reported by ten separate crews.

Looks to me like you could stand to lose a few things,” he said. “Want some help?” “Actually,” I said, smiling ruefully at him, “yes.” “All right, then. Here’s what I want you to do: pack up that thing just like you’re about to hike out of here for this next stretch of trail and we’ll go from there.” He walked toward the river with the nub of a toothbrush in hand—the end of which he’d thought to break off to save weight, of course. I went to work, integrating the new with the old, feeling as if I were taking a test that I was bound to fail. When I was done, Albert returned and methodically unpacked my pack. He placed each item in one of two piles—one to go back into my pack, another to go into the now-empty resupply box that I could either mail home or leave in the PCT hiker free box on the porch of the Kennedy Meadows General Store for others to plunder. Into the box went the foldable saw and miniature binoculars and the megawatt flash for the camera I had yet to use. As I looked on, Albert chucked aside the

On September 1, 1969, for example, members of the 196th Infantry Brigade in Quang Tin Province spotted a group of Vietnamese. Officers and sergeants, peering through binoculars, conferred about the situation. After about ten minutes of observation the senior officer, Captain David Janca, ordered his machine gunners to open fire and called in an artillery fire mission. A small patrol was then dispatched to the kill zone. “Upon arrival,” assistant machine gunner Robert Gray said later, “we found dead and wounded Vietnamese children.”28 Patrol member Welkie Louie described the scene: “I observed about four to six Vietnamese children lying in one pile, dead. About five meters from this position were two or three wounded Vietnamese children huddled together.”29 Afterward, artillery forward observer Robert Wolz told army investigators that he saw an official document in which “the dead were listed as VC.”30 Another report even referred to them as “NVA”—that is, North Vietnamese army troops.31 In death, this small group of children had morphed into guerrillas and then into uniformed enemy soldiers as the body count wound its way through the military’s statistics generation machine.

A snake doesn't need feet in grass. A seed doesn't need eyes in soil. A bird doesn't need a parachute in air. A fish doesn't need a suit in water. A bee doesn't need sugar in a hive. A spider doesn't need thread in a bush. A flower doesn't need perfume in a garden. A bat doesn't need binoculars in a cave. A giraffe doesn't need a ladder in the woods. A cricket doesn't need a violin in nature. A camel doesn't need wheels in a desert. A wolf doesn't need a knife in a forest. A lion doesn't need a spear in a jungle. If you throw a bird off a cliff, you are helping it find its wings. If you throw a fish into water, you are helping it find its fins. If you throw a seed into soil, you are helping it find its roots. If you throw a bat into the dark, you are helping it find its eyes. If you throw a flower into dirt, you are helping it find its petals. If you throw a cub into the jungle, you are helping it find its fight. If you throw a camel into the desert, you are helping it find its stride. If you throw a scorpion into nature, you are helping it find its sting. If you throw a serpent into grass, you are helping it find its fangs. If you throw a wolf into the jungle, you are helping it find its bite.

Perhaps the Hungarian humorist Ferencz Karinthy captures the spirit of the situation best in a tableau about a bored businessman who amuses himself by looking through high-powered binoculars from his office high in a skyscraper into neighbouring office rooms. On one occasion he spies a middle-aged executive chasing a comely secretary around his desk. As it happens the observers knows the building in which this drama is taking place and can even make out the name of the occupant from the plaque on his desk. He consults the telephone directory and gives the culprit, who is still trying to force his attentions on the secretary, a ring. When the culprit answers the telephone the observer announces himself as God Almighty and tells him to stop molesting the young woman in his employ. The culprit, thunderstruck and unable to account fo the observer's exact knowledge of what has been going on, fall son his knees in a paroxysm of fear and wonder and begs forgiveness. The observer roundly berates the culprit who swears he will do anything to make amends and promises never to sin again. Hereupon the observer informs the culprit that he can indeed make amends by lending him 100 pengo [dollars]. The answer, of course is a burst of profanity and the abrupt termination of the call. Karinthy then draws his moral: if you want to play God don't try to borrow money...

Out of a single man, they get a thousand: homo economicus, homo politicus, homo physico-chimicus, homo endocrinus, homo skeletonicus, homo emotions, homo percipiens, homo libidinosus, homo peregrinans, homo ridens, homo ratiocinans, homo artifex, homo aestbeticus, homo religiosus, homo sapiens, homo historicus, homo ethnographicus, and many, many more. But at the very end of the production line in this laboratory of mine sits a Scienter who is quite unique. Three thousand brains in one. His function is to collect all the data and clarifications written up by the specialist Scienters. When he has collated everything, he is convinced that he has clasped the red rabbit or the essential man entire to his understanding. There you are, you can see him from here,' he ended, with a sign to one of his assistants who brought me a pair of binoculars. I put them to my eyes and, indeed, at the far end of the gallery, I saw the Omniscienter. There he was, an enormous cranial dome with a tiny, shapeless, crumpled face, which seemed to me to be hanging by the ears from the two ebony knobs on the back of a raised throne. Swinging to and fro beneath this head was a little cloth puppet which dangled its empty trouser legs over the crimson plush seat. His tiny right arm was kept aloft by means of a wire, and the index finger rested on his temple in the gesture of one who knows. Above the throne ran a banner bearing this inscription: I KNOW EVERYTHING, BUT I DON'T UNDERSTAND ANY OF IT

1. ALL-OR-NOTHING THINKING: You see things in black-and-white categories. If your performance falls short of perfect, you see yourself as a total failure. 2. OVERGENERALIZATION: You see a single negative event as a never-ending pattern of defeat. 3. MENTAL FILTER: You pick out a single negative detail and dwell on it exclusively so that your vision of all reality becomes darkened, like the drop of ink that colors the entire beaker of water. 4. DISQUALIFYING THE POSITIVE: You reject positive experiences by insisting they “don’t count” for some reason or other. In this way you can maintain a negative belief that is contradicted by your everyday experiences. 5. JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS: You make a negative interpretation even though there are no definite facts that convincingly support your conclusion. a. Mind reading. You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and you don’t bother to check this out. b. The Fortune Teller Error. You anticipate that things will turn out badly, and you feel convinced that your prediction is an already-established fact. 6. MAGNIFICATION (CATASTROPHIZING) OR MINIMIZATION: You exaggerate the importance of things (such as your goof-up or someone else’s achievement), or you inappropriately shrink things until they appear tiny (your own desirable qualities or the other fellow’s imperfections). This is also called the “binocular trick.” 7. EMOTIONAL REASONING: You assume that your negative emotions necessarily reflect the way things really are: “I feel it, therefore it must be true.” 8. SHOULD STATEMENTS: You try to motivate yourself with shoulds and shouldn’ts, as if you had to be whipped and punished before you could be expected to do anything. “Musts” and “oughts” are also offenders. The emotional consequence is guilt. When you direct should statements toward others, you feel anger, frustration, and resentment. 9. LABELING AND MISLABELING: This is an extreme form of overgeneralization. Instead of describing your error, you attach a negative label to yourself: “I’m a loser.” When someone else’s behavior rubs you the wrong way, you attach a negative label to him: “He’s a goddam louse.” Mislabeling involves describing an event with language that is highly colored and emotionally loaded. 10. PERSONALIZATION: You see yourself as me cause of some negative external event which in fact you were not primarily responsible for.

She'd loved birds long before her physical limitations kept her grounded. She'd found a birding diary of her grandmother's in a trunk in the attic when she was Frankie's age, and when she asked her father about it, he dug through boxes on a shelf high above her head, handing down a small pair of binoculars and some field guides. She'd seen her first prothonotary warbler when she was nine, sitting alone on a tupelo stump in the forest, swatting at mosquitoes targeting the pale skin behind her ears. She glanced up from the book she was reading only to be startled by an unexpected flash of yellow. Holding her breath, she fished for the journal she kept in her pocket, focusing on the spot in the willow where he might be. A breeze stirred the branches, and she saw the brilliant yellow head and underparts standing out like petals of a sunflower against the backdrop of leaves; the under tail, a stark white. His beak was long, pointed and black; his shoulders a mossy green, a blend of the citron yellow of his head and the flat slate of his feathers. He had a black dot of an eye, a bead of jet set in a field of sun. Never had there been anything so perfect. When she blinked he disappeared, the only evidence of his presence a gentle sway of the branch. It was a sort of magic, unveiled to her. He had been hers, even if only for a few seconds. With a stub of pencil- 'always a pencil,' her grandmother had written. 'You can write with a pencil even in the rain'- she noted the date and time, the place and the weather. She made a rough sketch, using shorthand for her notes about the bird's coloring, then raced back to the house, raspberry canes and brambles speckling bloody trails across her legs. In the field guide in the top drawer of her desk, she found him again: prothonotary warbler, 'prothonotary' for the clerks in the Roman Catholic Church who wore robes of a bright yellow. It made absolute sense to her that something so beautiful would be associated with God. After that she spent countless days tromping through the woods, toting the drab knapsack filled with packages of partially crushed saltines, the bottles of juice, the bruised apples and half-melted candy bars, her miniature binoculars slung across one shoulder. She taught herself how to be patient, how to master the boredom that often accompanied careful observation. She taught herself how to look for what didn't want to be seen.

O outro não é apenas um duplo especular, ao modo de um espelho do Eu. Para começar, o outro tem dois olhos, não apenas um. Então em qual ponto de vista devemos nos colocar? Se os olhos piscam ao mesmo tempo, a imagem permanece ainda que não esteja em presença. Mas, se alternamos o piscar entre um olho e outro, o objeto começa a se movimentar, em função de um efeito de ilusão chamado paralaxe. Ou seja, o fato de nós termos uma visão binocular e supormos no outro um único ponto de vista corresponde a uma diferença estrutural entre o eu e o outro. Isso ocorre também porque há um ponto de ausência na visão, bem no centro do cone ótico, chamado mácula. Além disso, a visão, tomada nesse sentido geométrico, equivale à audição, não à escuta. Para escutar e não só ouvir, assim como olhar e não só ver, é preciso subtrair a representação antecipada que fazemos do outro, da imagem, e que não é uma ilusão ótica, mas uma ilusão cognitiva. Quando alguém começa a aprender a arte do desenho, uma das primeiras lições, e talvez a mais importante, no sentido inaugural, é que você deve se ater ao que objetivamente está vendo, não ao que se “sabe” sobre o formato de uma maçã ou das arestas de um cubo. Isso significa que, para que os dois olhos colaborem na apreensão de uma única imagem, é preciso pensar a partir do quadro, colocar-se no lugar do outro, mas também supor o que o quadro “ignora” sobre sua própria composição. Por exemplo, o tamanho, a disposição e a distribuição dos volumes impõem involuntariamente ao observador que se coloque no ponto exato em que o quadro forma uma boa imagem. Se nos colocamos a menos de um palmo ou a mais de cem metros da Mona Lisa, sua experiência estética simplesmente será outra. Ocorre que, nesse ponto, ao qual nos ajustamos automaticamente – como ajustamos a distância exata à qual um bebê é capaz de formar seu foco visual, sem que ninguém tenha nos ensinado isso –, emerge outro fenômeno: nos vemos sendo vistos. Nossa percepção é a de que fazemos parte da tela e estamos imersos no espaço do museu. Ou seja, recebemos nossa própria imagem, que nos enxerga ali onde não nos vemos. É assim também com a escuta. Reconhecemos o que o outro não escuta, o que ele mesmo diz, e não adianta simplesmente dizer isso, gritar ou se exasperar, porque ele não escuta. E isso acontece porque, no fundo, “não pode escutar”, pois aquilo foi feito para ficar nessa zona cinzenta do não escutado. Não obstante, há restos – penumbras, zonas de transição, rastros daquilo que não se escuta perfeitamente –, mas que se denunciam como ruídos, particularmente em distorções, exageros, inibições e excepcionalidades da sua expressividade. O senso comum tenta eliminar tais ruídos entendendo que atrapalham a funcionalidade das relações. A psicanálise dá atenção a essas bobagens e imperfeições comunicativas, pois presume que nelas falta o que não pode ser realmente escutado e que de fato está determinando impasses relacionais.

War peers through the binoculars at the South China Sea, well wrapped up despite the high summer sun, and says, “Oh I can’t ever tell! It’s just another bloody damn bit of rock, if you ask me!” “But sir, if you look closely,” said the captain, “you will see that our people have put a flag on it.” “Oh!” War chuckles, patting his rolling belly within his coat. “Well, that’s something different, isn’t it?

The clouds hang heavy, like wet wool, and stars start to appear through the trees like large, shining stones at the bottom of a river. The temperature has fallen with the sun and Lauren hugs her padded arms to her padded body. ‘It’s already dark. Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ve got homework to do.’ The thought of school tomorrow sits in her stomach. They gather various belongings and treasures scattered around the camp – some plastic binoculars, a handmade catapult, a rusty teapot, a length of rope – and put them inside the hut. They argue about whether to take home the packet of bourbons that have been stolen from Billy’s larder, before deciding to leave it in the supply tin, half buried in the frozen ground. They walk back down the looping path, banked by snow-laden ferns, towards Clavanmore. She likes Billy walking beside her like this, in his Aberdeen beanie. He’s like a big brother, but with a better face and hair. Lauren rolls the silver ring between her index finger and thumb, in her pocket. Darkness seeps into the forest and the white snow fades to a dark grey, then darker still, until the world is black.

Amy suddenly rushed into the room. “You know those binoculars Dad gave Joe for his birthday last year?” Mrs Mitchell nodded. “Yes, what about them?” “They’re gone, as well as his torch and shoes,” Amy replied. “So he must be outside.” Just as she finished speaking, lightning flashed across the sky. A moment later, thunder rumbled.

The everyday madness perpetuated by the internet is the madness of this architecture, which positions personal identity as the center of the universe. It’s as if we’ve been placed on a lookout that oversees the entire world and given a pair of binoculars that makes everything look like our own reflection. Through social media, many people have quickly come to view all new information as a sort of direct commentary on who they are.

He selected an AR-15 rifle and a Benelli M1014 12-gauge combat shotgun and propped them in the corner to take along. Cody packed a gear bag with two .45 ACP 1911 Colts with extra magazines, night vision goggles, body armor, .223 rounds for the AR-15 and 12-gauge buck for the shotgun, binoculars, rope, handcuffs and flex-ties, a pair of radios, and several cell phones. While he was bent over buckling a holster with a 9MM Model 26 “Baby” Glock to his ankle, the door was pushed open.

Early Saturday morning, Taylor sat in her jeep looking through the fence with a pair of binoculars. Although she was dressed in camouflage print, she couldn’t be sure the shrubbery really hid her. To be caught doing this again, it could be social suicide.

We are not migrating to VR and AR merely because they are a fun, new technology, but because humans have binocular vision with depth perception, and these are the only interfaces that match our biology. They will increasingly become more useful, enabling us to perform more efficient and more effective interactions in the world, driven by the biology of the human brain and nervous system.

The everyday madness perpetuated by the internet is the madness of this architecture, which positions personal identity as the center of the universe. It’s as if we’ve been placed on a lookout that oversees the entire world and given a pair of binoculars that makes everything look like our own reflection.

I’m not used to having someone’s attention on me like this. Sure, my ex used to stare at me a lot. Sometimes through binoculars

He waved Kataktovik over and handed him the binoculars, pointing toward the southern horizon.

rifle when the sled broke through the ice, along with Chafe’s best binoculars, which he’d won in a long-range shooting contest

The master bedroom is so large that I need a pair of binoculars to see the king-size bed at the other end of the room.

The master bedroom is so large that I need a pair of binoculars to see the king-size bed at the other end of the room. There’s one room that is entirely books, and I am vaguely reminded of that scene in Beauty and the Beast when Belle is taken into the book room.

Why do you have binoculars in your—” “Bird-watching, Akio,” I snapped, zooming in so I could see more clearly.

Why do you care that I like her so much?” Akio asked, putting the binoculars to his face. “Because friends don’t let friends make bad decisions,” I said.

He stands at the end of the dock, spine as straight as a steel beam. In his hands are a pair of binoculars, aimed at this side of the lake. And at me.

And then, of course, before I can praise the right for its already perfect form you shine, or bloom, or become the bird in flight and I lose my breath, drop my binoculars, don’t care that I can’t see you anymore, because what is sight really? Your hand unseeable, yes, but inside me also and what is that if not sight? What is the sky if not my body,

We're at a loss to explain it. It's a moment where I as a birder am reminded we know so very little. I'm not just okay with that; I'm thrilled by it. I'm thrilled that I can hear the sound of ravens, the bird geniuses, and have absolutely no idea what they're communicating. I'm delighted that I'm hopeless—for now—at puzzling out which little peep sandpiper is which. And that when something utterly unexpected happens, like a hovering costas hummingbird, running her bill up and down my calf because she's checking out my leg hair as potential nest material, it's more than just my skin that tingles with excitement. It means my whole life through, I'll still be learning something new from birding. Right until they pry the binoculars from my cold, dead hands. What a terrible, wonderful curse we suffer from, to find joy in chasing flying cigars through town, to witness the impossible, by the light of ordinary street lamps. What ridiculous fools we must be; what birders.

I look at the sun all the time and have no eye issues, other than those associated with aging. I wear glasses for reading at age 54. I would never look at the sun through glasses, binoculars or telescopes though, as that is really dangerous! Anything that causes magnification or increased solar radiation levels (such as reflections) is bad for the eyes.

a. Mind reading. You arbitrarily conclude that someone is reacting negatively to you, and you don’t bother to check this out. b. The Fortune Teller Error. You anticipate that things will turn out badly, and you feel convinced that your prediction is an already-established fact. 6. MAGNIFICATION (CATASTROPHIZING) OR MINIMIZATION: You exaggerate the importance of things (such as your goof-up or someone else’s achievement), or you inappropriately shrink things until they appear tiny (your own desirable qualities or the other fellow’s imperfections). This is also called the “binocular trick.” 7. EMOTIONAL REASONING: You assume that your negative emotions necessarily reflect the way things really are: “I feel it, therefore it must be true.” 8. SHOULD STATEMENTS: You try to motivate yourself with shoulds and shouldn’ts, as if you

Magnification and Minimization. Another thinking trap you might fall into is called “magnification” and “minimization,” but I like to think of it as the “binocular trick” because you are either blowing things up out of proportion or shrinking them. Magnification commonly occurs when you look at your own errors, fears, or imperfections and exaggerate their importance:

When you think about your strengths, you may do the opposite—look through the wrong end of the binoculars so that things look small and unimportant. If you magnify your imperfections and minimize your good points, you’re guaranteed to feel inferior. But the problem isn’t you—it’s the crazy lenses you’re wearing!

He looked so pitiful, so pulled apart— as if he'd been on the rack, as if every one of his bones had been disconnected from every other bone, leaving only a kind of anatomical jelly— that of course she let him in. Into her home, into her kitchen, where she made him a hot drink, and ultimately into her bed, where he clutched her, shivering. It was not a sexual clutch, it was the clutch of a man drowning. But Tony was in no danger of being dragged down. She felt, if anything, strangely dry; strangely detached from him. He might be drowning, but this time she was standing on the beach. Worse: with binoculars.

a wave of self-consciousness about my American-ness washed over me. That was to the good: done right, all travel should trigger self-scrutiny. At some point, the traveler should swing around the binoculars and train the gaze on her own culture.

Up in the crow’s nest on the foremast, lookouts Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee could see the lights of the French coast in the distance and the mast lights of other ships. For a closer look, binoculars would have helped, but the pair they had used in the crow’s nest on the trip from Belfast to Southampton had gone missing. This had been reported to Second Officer Charles Lightoller, but he had said there wasn’t a replacement set available. No one seemed bothered about it, so the lookouts weren’t worried either. Binoculars were not standard equipment in the crow’s nest on many ships. And these things just seemed to happen on a maiden voyage.

One consequence of this change was the missing binoculars for the lookouts. On the trip to Southampton from Belfast, the lookouts had used the now-departed second officer’s binoculars, which he had locked in a drawer in his cabin before he left the ship. When Lightoller inquired about binoculars for the lookouts, he was told that none were available for them.

Almost intermixed with the animals are the Masai following the grass cycle with their cattle herds, living off the milk and blood of their cows. We would go early in the morning from a base camp in Land Rovers and all-terrain vehicles, armed with cameras and binoculars. The tour operators apologized for the presence of the Masai.

Keep to yourself like there's nobody to speak to. Put on your binoculars and examine who's really worthy your presence and time. Everyone is a stranger in their own way and a friend yet to come, to those they share the interests and hearts.

I’m saying we have ourselves a mystery after all!” Rebekah handed the binoculars to RJ. “Have a look.

Rees-Mogg, a man renowned for opinions so far right they are unviewable without a pair of binoculars and a vomit bucket,

I lowered the binoculars and remembered one of my late wife’s slogans about smoking: “Cigarettes are killers that travel in packs.

Was I so obsessed that I'd be pulling out binoculars to try and catch glimpses of her through the trees?

The sun had set on Day Five and the blue of dusk was over the horizon of the multi-storey flats. The ashes of Jeffrey's cigarette had gone cold underneath his shoe, as he continued to camp out on Marsiling Hill. This time, he found a park bench by the corner, which did not provide as good a view but still enabled him to look straight into the flat. Suddenly, a figure stirred from the living room window and Jeffrey quickly picked up his binoculars.

A large group of birders had taken over three tables of the Buttered Scone. Even Julia, a non-tweeter – or was it twitcher? – could identify them by their appearance and habits. Their colouration was distinctive. They were kitted out in sombre earthy tones of brown and green, with sensible walking shoes, also commonly brown. In the winter months, they were adorned with large puffy outer layers to protect them from the cold. In summer, long sleeves guarded against the sun. The female of the species had sensibly cut hair, all the better to spot the birds, Julia presumed. The males were often bespectacled, and even more often bearded. Further clues – and key differentiators from the more common hikers and ramblers – were the presence of high-end binoculars around the neck, and birding books stuffed into pockets or, in this case, laid on the table of the Buttered Scone.

It’s almost painful, the way little children just trustingly hold out their hearts for you to look at - the way they haven’t learned yet how to conceal what matters to them, even if it’s just chewing gum or a plush dolphin or plastic binoculars.

This is the drawback of vigilance: from your watchtower you finally spy, in your binoculars, your fleeing self; and you release the hounds. There is no outrunning them—grief present and grief foreseen. There is no shelter from the interior outdoors. I speak for myself, of course, on the basis of my experiences and hunches, which is to say, my misconceptions and my stupid fears.

Distress signals at night, as defined by regulations at the time, were “rockets or shells, throwing stars of any color or description, fired one at a time, at short intervals.” The Californian saw eight such rockets at approximately the same time the Titanic was firing a similar number. Over the years the Californian’s defenders have often sought to defuse these rockets by calling them “flares.” But nobody called them flares that night. They were called “rockets”—projectiles that shot up into the sky, and burst, sending down a shower of white stars. Once, when Gibson happened to raise his binoculars at the right moment, he even saw the thin trail of the rocket as it soared upward.

Bring binoculars, and make sure your phones are charged so we can take pictures." "You'd get better images with a drone," Anil said. "I've just modded up my DJI Air 2S. It's got an operating time of around thirty minutes and the camera capabilities really make it shine. We'll be able to get close-up images while maintaining the fifty-foot distance from people required by law. It's not the best surveillance drone out there, but it was all Santa could afford this year." "Looks like the heist is a go," I said into the silence. I wasn't sure if everyone was blown away by Anil's expertise or by his reference to the big man in the red suit, but whatever. We had a plan.

That’s the thing,” Katherine says as she lowers the binoculars. “We can’t afford it. Well, Tom can’t. I pay for everything. The house. The apartment. The five-thousand-dollar wine and the Bentley, which is pretty sweet. We should take it out sometime, just you and me.” “Tom has no money of his own?

binoculars

2 Glock 9mms with extra clips KA-Bar knife Leatherman MUT Tactical $300,000 in remaining cash Compass GPS with miniature solar panel Flashlight Binoculars Burner phone Crank-operated radio Various passports

Then he saw the black Hummer, its hood crumpled, driving fast toward the burning cabin. An Eraser was leaning out the passenger window, looking through binoculars.

Merex produced police equipment – binoculars, bullet-proof jackets, radios and so on.

Another 12 ISIS terrorists were killed in the hill and inside the village and their bodies were seized by our YPG fighters besides of big amount of ammunition including 3000 bullets, 17 magazine, 2 BKC, 5 RPG launchers with 17 missiles, 7 grenades, 3 wireless devices, 1 night binocular, 19 AK47 and 1 armored vehicle.

The pilot put the helicopter in a sideways crab over the bow, enabling him to see the superstructure out his right side window and maintain the same relative position to the ship as he matched its forward speed. The crew in the helicopter cabin opened the big sliding door on the right, and I swung out in the horse collar. As I was lowered to the ship, I saw hundreds of passengers lining the rails and windows on all the forward decks with cameras and binoculars trained on me. This was probably the most exciting moment of the cruise for those folks!" (Page 273)

I’ve never owned a pair of binoculars. I’ve never been a bird-watcher. But I do sometimes wonder if birds have been watching me.

Kitty saw a dancing point of light in the direction he indicated. She hadn’t considered anyone might be watching through binoculars and flushed to

Word-of-mouth is a superb method in supporting independent authors – and it's mostly free. My life consists of cheap noodles, tap water, and my neighbor's TV (I need new binoculars to peep through his window), I need your support to sustain this 'thrifty' lifestyle.

Nah. I was just remembering the first time I saw you,” he replied. “Oh?” Baltsaros’s gaze softened in amusement. “At the brothel?” “No, before. When I watched the ship come in. You know, I could swear that you looked straight up at me that day,” said Jon. After his capture, knowing that he’d been the sole purpose for the pirate ship’s stop in Portsmouth, he’d often wondered whether the captain had actually seen and recognized him that day. “Did you know it was me?” Baltsaros’s smooth brow crinkled. “How would I know it was you? I didn’t have a description of your appearance, only of your talents of observation.” He finished wrapping up his binoculars and placed them in the leather sack he had been filling. “Oh,” Jon said. He pulled the neck of the dark-grey coat closed and shivered a little. Despite the dazzling sunshine and green hills, it felt barely above freezing. He frowned. “What is it?” asked Baltsaros. “It’s just… I don’t know how it is you knew of me.” Jon glanced over at the captain. “It’s not as if I was written about outside of Portsmouth… Was I?

Atlantic Ocean 88 Miles off the Coast of Antarctica Karl Selig steadied himself on the ship’s rail and peered through the binoculars at the massive iceberg. Another piece of ice crumbled and fell, revealing more of the long black object. It looked almost like… a submarine. But it couldn’t be.

Our earliest ancestors were descended from primates who thrived for millions of years in a treetop environment, and who in the process had evolved one of the most remarkable visual systems in nature. To move quickly and efficiently in such a world, they developed extremely sophisticated eye and muscle coordination. Their eyes slowly evolved into a full-frontal position on the face, giving them binocular, stereoscopic vision. This system provides the brain a highly accurate three-dimensional and detailed perspective, but is rather narrow. Animals that possess such vision—as opposed to eyes on the side or half side—are generally efficient predators like owls or cats. They use this powerful sight to home in on prey in the distance. Tree-living primates evolved this vision for a different purpose—to navigate branches, and to spot fruits, berries, and insects with greater effectiveness. They also evolved elaborate color vision.

his arms. Human. Cat. Human. Cat. No doubled vision: it’s a cat, singular. A solitary diurnal ambush hunter with good hearing and binocular vision and a predilection for biting the neck of its prey in half while disemboweling it with the scythe-like claws on its hind legs. Basically it’s a velociraptor with a fur coat and an outsize sense of entitlement.

Loneliness is like a set of binoculars that’s trained on the social world. This has actually been proven. Psychologists have long theorized that, when the need to belong is unmet, people automatically start to pay more attention to the social world around them. “It’s like when you’re hungry, and you notice all the food signs on the highway,” says Gardner. “When you’ve been left out, or when you feel unconnected, you notice social cues.

Let’s get to our site,” Anne said. “I’m gonna need a nap before the hunt…and lunch.” “Do you wish you would’ve gotten that rental car this morning?” Jill whispered as Anne and Ella settled into their seats. Shay nodded. “Uh-huh.” Jill had seen many campgrounds, but her jaw sagged, and her foot slipped off the gas pedal twice. Sally rolled on slowly as she stared at the cadre of camouflaged vehicles and tents. One man sat atop his RV in a lawn chair, his binoculars trained on the woods beyond. “They really do take this seriously,” Shay whispered in awe. “This is like a militaristic zone.” Jill backed into a slip covered with a quilt of netting and camouflage tarps strung from the trees high overhead. “What is the reason for all of this?” she asked. “The campground is designed to blend in with nature to be more welcoming to the Bigfoot,” Anne explained. “That’s what they told us when we checked in.” “Oh, is that it? Well, let me just craft a banner that says, ‘We come in peace or bite-sized pieces,”’ Jill said with a sardonic laugh.

The greatest mystery is not that we have been flung at random between the profusion of matter and of the stars, but that within this prison we can draw from ourselves images powerful enough to deny our nothingness.

binoculars.

It is correct (and a great improvement) to begin to think of the two parties to the interaction as two eyes, each giving a monocular view of what goes on and, together, giving a binocular view in depth. This double view is the relationship.

Through a loose screen of trees, they spotted the edges of a neighboring town. Stretching up past the roofs of the buildings was a church steeple. “You see what I’m seeing?” Reese asked, pulling up beside him. John lifted the binoculars and adjusted the focus. “Looks like a church to me,” he replied. “Look where the cross used to be.” It had been knocked off. “It

I am the presence standing here at this juncture of Time & Space—who else? & that night in my sand-colored 1987 Ford van with the American flag decal covering the rear window cruising Cedar Street, Dale Springs & parked in shadow & with my binoculars trained to the mostly shaded or darkened windows I thought, If this is where I am this is who I am. & so it was.

The train was moving too fast to see much beyond the pines stepping up rock walls, but she knew from memory the bird species that would be endemic. She could picture the colored plates in her textbooks- the greater roadrunner, with its shaggy pompadour crest; the yellow eyes of burrowing owls; the shiny, jet-black plumage of the phainopepla, which gobbled up hundreds of mistletoe berries a day. She'd missed the Festival of the Cranes by only a few weeks. How tempting, to find herself just hours from Bosque del Apache, and the Rio Grande. She imagined lying on her stomach, binoculars trained on the sandhill cranes and snow geese in their winter quarters, watching in wonder the mass morning liftoffs and evening fly-ins. It was an old desire, but even now, though she knew the impossibility of it, it persisted; the world as one giant aviary she ached to see, all of its feathered inhabitants in their natural environment, a thousand times better to hear their cries dampened by verdant jungle foliage or echoed across the wells of canyons than to listen to abbreviated bits of captured songs emanating from a machine.

Coast of Antarctica Karl Selig steadied himself on the ship’s rail and peered through the binoculars at the massive iceberg. Another piece of ice crumbled and fell, revealing more of the long black object. It looked almost like… a submarine. But it couldn’t be. “Hey Steve, come check

No one would notice the binoculars now trained towards the towpath. She had to arrive at the scene any time now, to get a good view, before the body was bagged up and taken away by the river police.

Binoculars see from far when near the eyes. Far from self, near the heart, in love. (Les jumelles voient de loin quand près des yeux. - Loin de soi, près du coeur ; amoureux.)

Imported narcotics on CIA planes and otherwise serve three purposes important to the federal government. It is good business, exceeding war profits. Drug dealers work with the intelligence and military sectors. Profits gained from drug traffic help support covert projects, including assassinations. Second, provocateurs and police agents purposely push narcotics into the ghettos to control minorities. According to Louis Tackwood, the LAPD distributed drugs, as do other police agencies. Third, the necessary violence and crime in the streets caused by supporting drug habits requires more police, local helicopters, surveillance, arrests without warrants, framing selected patsies by planting evidence, and makes the law enforcement agent the protector of our life and property. Planted marijuana in the binoculars of John Lennon was the excuse to deport him. In spite of the cultural advancements that he and Yoko Ono have made, their outspoken criticism of war, genocide and political imprisonment make them eligible for the “enemies list.

From the decks of the warships the foreign sailors watched the massacre through binoculars and took pictures. The navy bands played late and phonographs were set up on the ships and aimed at the quay. Caruso sang from Pagliacci all night across a harbor filled with bloated corpses. An admiral going to dine on another ship was late because a woman’s body fouled his propeller.

She blushed and we went into a small lab that looked not unlike a doctor’s office and smelled of naphtha. A black Formica counter ran along one wall with a shelf of little bottles above it and three light trays. A single steel sink was sunk into the counter, with a binocular microscope on one side of it and a large magnifying glass on a gooseneck stand on the other. Modern crime fighting at its cutting-edge finest.

Pike got out of the car, took off the long-sleeved shirt, then went to the trunk. He looked through the things Ronnie had left. He drank half a bottle of Arrowhead water, then collected his SOG fighting knife, a pair of Zeiss binoculars, the little .25-caliber Beretta, and a box of hollowpoints for the .45. He wouldn’t need anything else.

Having run out of ammunition, Hoshiar had discarded his rifle and picked up a Sten. However, while kneeling down to change the magazine, he was struck a blinding blow from a grenade that lacerated his upper arms and chest. Thrown backwards, he was pinned down by four Chinese soldiers who realized he was the platoon commander from the binoculars and compass on him. Even then he fought ferociously, refusing to give up. Finally, bleeding profusely and panting from his exertions, he was subdued and taken prisoner. By then, approximately four hours after the first shells had lit up the dawn sky on the Thagla, No. 6 Platoon along with the rest of Bravo Company had ceased to exist.

The doggy demolition began slowly. Clothes, hairbrushes, dishes, pens, wristwatch, toothbrush (yes, he’d reached it somehow)—anything I came in contact with became an object to chew, maul, consume. Toys, dog chews, or rawhides were scoffed at while he was alone; it had to be something of mine. He ate two remote controls, binoculars, a cherished baseball from high school, two belts, a computer mouse and keyboard, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and too many shoes to count. Even the shifter knob and window cranks in my Civic fell victim to Lou’s teeth. Anything I handled eventually became dog food.

That’s when he saw it. Halfway down the path, a dark shape lay against the rocks. He knew that whatever it was, it couldn’t have been there when he and Will had come up earlier. He raised the binoculars to his eyes. He stiffened as he realised it was a person. As he took a closer look, he realised that the motionless figure was Will.

If you're preaching, I've already got religion. And if you're selling, I ain't buying--unless you've got binoculars. I could use some new binoculars.