Body Corp Quotes

The Marines I have seen around the world have the cleanest bodies, the filthiest minds, the highest morale, and the lowest morals of any group of animals I have ever seen. Thank God for the United States Marine Corps!

Pain is weakness leaving the body.

Rien n'est plus beau qu'un corps nu. Le plus beau vêtement qui puisse habiller une femme ce sont les bras de l'homme qu'elle aime. Mais, pour celles qui n'ont pas eu la chance de trouver ce bonheur, je suis là.

A l'intérieur de ce corps vivait l'âme d'une intellectuelle et poète dont personne n'avait le soupçon. Within this body lived the soul of an intellectual and poet, which nobody had suspected.

Having her in my arms feels like coming home. I am not one to believe in all that love at first sight bullshit, but even as cynical as I am, I can recognize something bigger than lust at work. My body wants her; that is no secret, but the level of want is borderline craving. I need her. Needing someone is not something I am used to. No, I am used to being needed… something this woman clearly doesn’t want.

La beauté qui parle aux yeux, reprit-elle, n’est que le prestige d’un moment; l’œuil du corps n'est pas toujours celui de l'âme." ("The beauty that addresses itself to the eyes," she continued, "is only the spell of the moment; the eye of the body is not always that of the soul.") [Le beau Laurence]

I…missed…you…so…much.” I sob out, gasping as the emotions over take me. “God Princess, you have no idea. No fucking idea.” He says, rolling to the side and pulling me closer to his hard body. “Never letting you go, Izzy. Never.

Pain is Weekness Leaving the Body

Producing a high body count was crucial for promotion in the officer corps. Many high-level officers established “production quotas” for their units, and systems of “debit” and “credit” to calculate exactly how efficiently subordinate units and middle-management personnel performed. Different formulas were used, but the commitment to war as a rational production process was common to all.11

During Basic, sometimes you're so tired you can't even get up to piss. You're pushed beyond whatever limits you had set for yourself. You realize that your body can do things that you never imagined. But there are times when you don't think you can go on, and that's when your brother is there to lift you up and push you forward. He yells encouragement when the drill sergeant's yelling obscenities. You know that if you're ever caught by the enemy, your brothers will never stop looking for you. If you're hurt they'll help heal you. The Corps is a unit of many, not one, but dozens, thousands even, who have your back. You can smite one Marine, but a thousand will rose up to avenge him.

Body can’t contain the inside hurricane. (Corps ne peut contenir - L'ouragan intérieur)

The Emperor, you see, protects... He protects mankind, through the Legions, through the Martial corps, through the war machines of the Mechanicum. He understands the dangers. The inconsistencies. He uses you, and all the instruments like you, to protect us from harm. To protect our physical bodies from murder and damage, to protect our minds from madness, to protect our souls... There are insane dangers in the cosmos, dangers that mankind is fundamentally unable to comprehend, let alone survive. So he protects us. There are truths out there that would drive us mad by one fleeting glimpse of them. So he chooses not to share them with us. That's why he made you... Remember, Garviel. The Emperor is our truth and out light. If we trust in him, he will protect.

I want it all. Mind, body, soul, and heart. I promise you that when we finally get there, it’s going to be worth the wait. When you open yourself up to me completely… Baby, you won’t even believe how good it’s going to be.

que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions où être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instant verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir été sans cette onde où à la fin corps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissent que ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmures haletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amour sans ce ciel qui s'élève sur la poussieère de ses lests que ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'hui regardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seul à errer et à virer loin de toute vie dans un espace pantin sans voix parmi les voix enfermées avec moi Translation... what would I do without this world what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love without this sky that soars above its ballast dust what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness

I’m as fond of my body as anyone, but if I can be 200 with a body of silicon, I’ll take it. —DANIEL HILL, COFOUNDER OF THINKING MACHINES CORP.

If Cupid misses the heart, he touches the body fatally. (Si Cupidon rate le cœur, - Il touche mortellement le corps)

Ma chatte. Mon corps. Ma femme. Mon cœur. Ma vie.” My pussy. My body. My woman. My heart. My life.

The thought of her walking down the aisle towards me, her body covered in white lace, her eyes full of love, and that heart-stopping smile all for me does something to me.

Sunshine,” I murmur, “once I take you – make you mine – I won’t ever let you go. You’re mine, baby. This body, this heart, and damn sure this pussy. I won’t take you until I know you understand what I’m saying to you.” “I thought you didn’t do relationships, Ash?” she mocks. “I didn’t. You’re a game changer.

Le jugement du corps vaut bien celui de l'esprit et le corps recule devant l'anéantissement. Nous prenons l'habitude de vivre avant d'acquérir celle de penser.

Body is morning dew that shines to the rise of the hands. (Corps est rosée du matin - Qui brille au lever des mains.)

The body is a clothing that suits us for life. (Le corps est un habit - Qui nous va à vie.)

The petals of their lips don't have the thorn of bodies. (Les pétales de leur lèvres N'ont pas l'épine des corps)

Tu comprends. C'est trop loin. Je ne peux pas emporter ce corps-là. C'est trop lourd. (You understand. It is too far. I cannot carry this body with me. It is too heavy.)

Même l’élégance efféminée de sa tenue d’équitation ne parvenait pas à dissimuler l’énorme puissance de ce corps

Que naîtrait-il de mon désir? Le corps unique et inconnu de notre silence: il faut trouver cette langue sans mots et sans limites qui nous perpétuera sans erreur et sans affaiblissement.

When the Corps of Discovery dropped anchor at a Mandan village in 1804, they were met by blond-haired, blue-eyed Mandans—the offspring of native women and French explorers or trappers. On

The fingers on the windows leave traces on them; the fingers on the body leave invisible traces. (Les doigts sur les vitres - Laissent des traces sur elles; - Les doigts sur le corps - En laissent d'invisibles.)

Does this feel like I don’t love every goddamn thing about your body, Chelcie?  Hmm?  Because let me tell you, Sunshine.  I see your body and I want to throw you over my shoulder every damn time.  I see your tits and I want to take them in my hands.  I want to watch your pink nipples harden at my touch right before I suck them deep in my mouth.  I see the stomach you say isn’t firm enough and, honestly, I could care less, babe.  I see your stomach and I remember how hot you looked carrying our boy.  Then I can’t help but get hot thinking about putting another baby in there.  And that ass.  Jesus Christ, you don’t even want to know how many times I’ve had to go to the bathroom at work because I’ll picture that fine ass and all of a sudden my cock is begging for release.  I see those thighs you say are getting dimples and all I can think about is getting my hands on them—spreading your legs and digging my fingers in while I devour that sweet pussy with my tongue.

maintenant qu'il connaissait cette douleur Muzil la craignait par-dessus tout, ça se lisait désormais dans son oeil la panique d'une souffrance qui n'est plus maîtrisée à l'intérieur du corps mais provoquée artificiellement par une intervention extérieure au foyer du mal sous prétexte de la juguler, il était lair que pour Muzil cette souffrance était plus abominable que sa souffrance intime, devenue familière

Can’t wait, baby. I’m going to rip those tight-ass pants from your body and bury my face between your creamy thighs. I want to feel that sweet cunt around my tongue. Going to make you scream, Princess, and then when you can’t take it anymore”—he pushes his denim-covered hips hard into mine, his thick erection rubbing my clit in the most delicious way—“then I’m going to lick my way up this sweet fucking body and finally I’m going make you mine.

…The corporation decided that a public execution of someone as damaged as me was bad press. He was sure that the Nigerian government may have done something to me, and they’d ordered the corporation to back off so they could retrieve their specimen. Anything but me being a living machine connection, simultaneously human and machine; the result of an abnormal amount of flesh to machine wiring, some random glitch caused by combination of violence inflicted on my body, and subsequent rage.” “They hate what it does, yet Ultimate Corp continues doing it. It’s something more than human, by Allah. It’s the beast, a djinn. Fire and air, insubstantial, but very real. Human beings created it, but they will never control it.

Every conurb, my guide answered, has a chemical toilet where the city’s unwanted human waste disintegrates quietly, but not quite invisibly. It motivates the downstrata: “Work, spend, work,” say slums like Huamdonggil, “or you, too, will end your life here.” Moreover, entrepreneurs take advantage of the legal vaccuum to erect ghoulish pleasurezones for upstrata bored with more respectable quarters. Huamdonggil can thus pay its way in taxes and bribes. MediCorp opens a weekly clinic for dying untermensch to xchange any healthy body parts they may have for a sac of euthanaze. OrganiCorp has a lucrative contract with the city to send in a daily platoon of immune-genomed fabricants, similar to disastermen, to mop up the dead before the flies hatch.

Un soir qu'elle descendait, d'un pas dansant, vers le fond du jardin, elle se sentit, sous le charme lunaire, changée, forte, exaltée. Au bord de la rivière, elle s'arrêta : l'eau, dans sa course, luisait doucement ; elle la scruta dans tous les sens et la vit entièrement déserte, entièrement à elle seule. Elle retira le peu de vêtements qu'elle portait, et elle entra dedans, plongea bien vite ; l'eau glissa sur son sein, autour de ses épaules, et l'enveloppa tout entière. (...) C'était une douceur exquise d'être nue sous l'emprise glacée de l'eau. En comparaison, le plaisir de nager en costume de bain lui parut méprisable et vulgaire. Nager seule, sous le clair de lune, était un mystère sacré, qui la passionnait. L'eau était amoureuse de son corps ; elle s'abandonnait, tout en y résistant, à sa mordante étreinte ; elle la subissait, bientôt elle la désira; elle était amoureuse de l'eau.

I had a powerful personal experience of this truth. A few weeks before the end of my Peace Corps time in Thailand, I was sitting quietly in a friend’s garden listening to him read from a Tibetan text called, in that early translation, The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation. My mind had become quite concentrated and at one point, when the text was speaking of the “unborn nature of the mind,” there was a sudden and spontaneous experience of the mind opening … to zero. This momentary opening to the “unmanifest,” a reality beyond the ordinary mind and body, had the force of a lightning bolt shattering the solidified illusion of self. Immediately following this, a phrase kept repeating in my mind, “There’s no me, there’s no me.” This experience radically changed my understanding of things. Of course, since then, feelings or thoughts of “me,” of a sense of self, have arisen many times, but, still, the deep knowing remains that even the sense of self is selfless—that it’s just another thought.

swirl together and our breathing clashes, my hips are busy rubbing against his. My legs spread just about as wide as I can get, forcing my pussy to open like a flower and hug his dick tight. Pushing off his chest, I lift up, grab his dick, and slam myself home. I almost can’t hear the harsh bite of his breath over my scream. I feel the rings hitting a spot deep within me that will have me begging in no time. The one pressed tight against my clit has my vision going hazy. “Have . . . to . . . move,” he warns, and once again, I find myself rolled onto my back. He doesn’t even pause when he flips and pounds into me. His hips slap against mine, his balls make a loud, wet sound as they hit my skin, and his eyes flash something I wish to God I understood. “H-h-harder!” He slams deep and leans up on his knees causing his dick to slip out almost completely. His large hands grab my hips and bring my body half off the bed. With my head still on the bed, the rest of my body hovers under his control as he pulls back and gives me my wish. My legs are dead weight, my hands clench tightly in the sheets, and my eyes hold his. The look in his eyes combined with the hard hitting of his piercings, and the awe-inspiring thrusts is enough to have me screaming. Screaming, begging, and pleading. I have lost control of my body. It is locked tight and shattering into pieces. His hips pick up speed but then slightly slow down towards the end of my release. He brings my body back down to the mattress and rocks his hips, causing a few more aftershocks to roll through my body. “Do you like my cock? Do you like having me so deep in your body you won’t be able to walk tomorrow? The way your pussy is gripping my dick and your wetness is coating my balls, I would say you fucking love it.” I whimper and he smiles. This isn’t the attractive smile he gives the public, no . . . this smile is pure fucking sexy evil. “Going to fuck you raw.” He warns before making true to his words. When he finally grabs my hips and locks our pelvises together, I have come twice and lost track of reality.

The whole world knew about the piracy case of the tanker Maersk Alabama, which three Navy SEAL sharpshooters saved the imprisoned ship captain. Those SEALs spent a full day lying in wait with their weapons trained on the pirate boat, waiting for the kill command. When the order came down, they instantly fired their sniper rifles, with their own vessel bobbing at a different rate from the pirates’ boat, having no room for error if the captive was to survive. The snipers took out all three pirates in a single shot while sparing the kidnapped victim. Captain Richard Phillips was freed unharmed from the close quarters of that little boat, while the dead bodies of the three armed pirates slumped around him. Details of DEVGRU training are not available to explain this feat of timing and marksmanship, but the results testify to its deadly effect. SEAL Team Six founder Richard Marcinko has said that his budget for ammunition for his men’s training was greater than that of the entire Marin Corps. The comment might be dismissed as braggadocio if not for undeniable results produced under intense and deadly pressure. Consequently, by the time Jessica Buchanan was being marched into a pitched-black desert to her own mock execution two years later, the same people at the White House who took note of her disappearance had reason to wonder if it might be time for another visit to the region from the men you don’t see coming.

place; it’s a mind-set. A strange coincidence: for my project on roots, I was reading a staggering book from 1980 called Le Corps noir (The Black Body) by a Haitian writer named Jean-Claude Charles. He coined the term enracinerrance, a French neologism that fuses the idea of rootedness and wandering. He spent his life between Haiti, New York, and Paris, very comfortably rooted in his nomadism. The first line of one of his experimental chapters is this: “il était une fois john howard griffin mansfield texas” (“once upon a time there was john howard griffin in mansfield texas”). I was stunned to find the small town that shares a border with my hometown in the pages of this Haitian author’s book published in France. What in the world was Mansfield, Texas, doing in this book I’d found by chance while researching roots for a totally unrelated academic project? The white man named John Howard Griffin referred to by Charles had conducted an experiment back in the late 1950s in which he disguised himself as a black man in order to understand what it must feel like to be black in the South. He darkened his skin with an ultraviolet lamp and skin-darkening medication and then took to the road, confirming the daily abuses in the South toward people with more melanin in their skin. His experiences were compiled in the classic Black Like Me (1962), which was later made into a film. When the book came out, Griffin and his family in Mansfield received death threats. It is astounding that I found out about this experiment, which began one town over from mine, through a gleefully nomadic Haitian who slipped it into his pain-filled essay about the black body. If you don’t return to your roots, they come and find you.

In September 1999, the Department of Justice succeeded in denaturalizing 63 participants in Nazi acts of persecution; and in removing 52 such individuals from this country. This appears to be but a small portion of those who actually were brought here by our own government. A 1999 report to the Senate and the House said "that between 1945 and 1955, 765 scientists, engineers, and technicians were brought to the United States under Overcast, Paperclip, and similar programs. It has been estimated that at least half, and perhaps as many as 80 percent of all the imported specialists were former Nazi Party members." A number of these scientists were recruited to work for the Air Force's School of Aviation Medicine (SAM) at Brooks Air Force Base in Texas, where dozens of human radiation experiments were conducted during the Cold War. Among them were flash-blindness studies in connection with atomic weapons tests and data gathering for total-body irradiation studies conducted in Houston. The experiments for which Nazi investigators were tried included many related to aviation research. Hubertus Strughold, called "the father of space medicine," had a long career at the SAM, including the recruitment of other Paperclip scientists in Germany. On September 24, 1995 the Jewish Telegraphic Agency reported that as head of Nazi Germany's Air Force Institute for Aviation Medicine, Strughold particpated in a 1942 conference that discussed "experiments" on human beings. The experiments included subjecting Dachau concentration camp inmates to torture and death. The Edgewood Arsenal of the Army's Chemical Corps as well as other military research sites recruited these scientists with backgrounds in aeromedicine, radiobiology, and opthamology. Edgewood Arsenal, Maryland ended up conducting experiments on more than seven thousand American soldiers. Using Auschwitz experiments as a guide, they conducted the same type of poison gas experiments that had been done in the secret I.G. Farben laboratories.

In English: Some people, who can voluntarily get out of their body, went to "the other side" to see if there was anything there! The exciting testimonies of these explorers of the Beyond revealed that there are countless Worlds on other vibratory planes, in other Dimensions, where live the souls of the deceased living beings!!! But, I went even further and I have discovered that these countless Worlds are, in reality, countless Planets belonging to other Cosmic Universes located in other Spaces and other Times, on other vibratory planes, in other Dimensions! The Beyond is not nebulous but Cosmic!!! The famous "Gate of Heaven" which allows the souls to pass into the Beyond is, in reality, a true "StarGate", a huge Vortex, a Tunnel of Light which crosses the Space and Time, which leads the soul on another planet, in another world, in another Cosmic Universe, in another Space, in another Time, in another vibratory plane, in another Dimension...! I take you to discover the extraordinary adventure of Life, Evolution and Death, through multiple cycles, from life to life, from planet to planet, in an evolutionary spiral that leads souls ever higher, towards the Light...! En Français : Des personnes capables de sortir à volonté de leur corps charnel sont allées voir "de l'autre côté" s'il existait bien quelque chose...! Les témoignages passionnants de ces explorateurs de l'Au-delà ont révélé qu'il existe d'innombrables Mondes sur d'autres plans vibratoires, dans d'autres Dimensions, où vivent les âmes des êtres vivants décédés !!! Mais nous sommes allés encore plus loin et nous avons découvert que ces innombrables Mondes sont en réalité d'innombrables Planètes appartenant à d'autres Univers Cosmiques qui se trouvent dans d'autres Espaces et d’autres Temps, sur d'autres plans vibratoires, dans d'autres Dimensions ! L'Au-delà n'est pas nébuleux mais Cosmique !!! La fameuse "Porte du Ciel" qui permet aux âmes de passer dans l'Au-delà, est en réalité une véritable "Porte des Etoiles", un énorme Vortex, un Tunnel de Lumière qui traverse l'Espace et le Temps, qui mène l'âme sur une autre planète, dans un autre Monde, dans un autre Univers Cosmique, dans un autre Espace, dans un autre Temps, sur un autre plan vibratoire, dans une autre Dimension.

In Healing the Masculine Soul, Dalbey introduced themes that would animate what soon became a cottage industry of books on Christian masculinity. First and foremost, Dalbey looked to the Vietnam War as the source of masculine identity. The son of a naval officer, Dalbey described how the image of the war hero served as his blueprint for manhood. He’d grown up playing “sandlot soldier” in his white suburban neighborhood, and he’d learned to march in military drills and fire a rifle in his Boy Scout “patrol.” Fascinated with John Wayne’s WWII movies, he imagined war “only as a glorious adventure in manhood.” As he got older, he “passed beyond simply admiring the war hero to desiring a war” in which to demonstrate his manhood. 20 By the time he came of age, however, he’d become sidetracked. Instead of demonstrating his manhood on the battlefields of Vietnam, he became “part of a generation of men who actively rejected our childhood macho image of manhood—which seemed to us the cornerstone of racism, sexism, and militarism.” Exhorted to make love, not war, he became “an enthusiastic supporter of civil rights, women’s liberation, and the antiwar movement,” and he joined the Peace Corps in Africa. But in opting out of the military he would discover that “something required of manhood seemed to have been bypassed, overlooked, even dodged.” Left “confused and frustrated,” Dalbey eventually conceded that “manhood requires the warrior.” 21 Dalbey agreed with Bly that an unbalanced masculinity had led to the nation’s “unbalanced pursuit” of the Vietnam War, but an over-correction had resulted in a different problem: Having rejected war making as a model of masculine strength, men had essentially abdicated that strength to women. As far as Dalbey was concerned, the 1970s offered no viable model of manhood to supplant “the boyhood image in our hearts,” and his generation had ended up rejecting manhood itself. If the warrior spirit was indeed intrinsic to males, then attempts to eliminate the warrior image were “intrinsically emasculating.” Women were “crying out” for men to recover their manly strength, Dalbey insisted. They were begging men to toughen up and take charge, longing for a prince who was strong and bold enough to restore their “authentic femininity.” 22 Unfortunately, the church was part of the problem. Failing to present the true Jesus, it instead depicted him “as a meek and gentle milk-toast character”—a man who never could have inspired “brawny fishermen like Peter to follow him.” It was time to replace this “Sunday school Jesus” with a warrior Jesus. Citing “significant parallels” between serving Christ and serving in the military, Dalbey suggested that a “redeemed image of the warrior” could reinvigorate the church’s ministry to men: “What if we told men up front that to join the church of Jesus Christ is . . . to enlist in God’s army and to place their lives on the line? This approach would be based on the warrior spirit in every man, and so would offer the greatest hope for restoring authentic Christian manhood to the Body of Christ.” Writing before the Gulf War had restored faith in American power and the strength of the military, Dalbey’s preoccupation with Vietnam is understandable, yet the pattern he established would endure long after an easy victory in the latter conflict supposedly brought an end to “Vietnam syndrome.” American evangelicals would continue to be haunted by Vietnam. 23

The skeleton is the death: it’s in our body... (Le squelette, c'est la mort : - Il est dans notre corps...)

One kiss, two lips. One love, two bodies. (Un baiser, ce sont deux lèvres. - Un amour, ce sont deux corps.)

Corporations go through cycles of growth and retrenching, what I call corporate yo-yo dieting. Companies that expand continually are companies that grow fat. Then they’re forced to diet, or downsize in “corp” speak, until they can grow again and reengineer (a new body in ninety days!), merge and acquire other companies (weightlifting and muscle training) until the cycle starts anew, and they’re forced to reduce again (lose twenty pounds in six weeks!).

A glass of happiness fills whole body. (Un verre de bonheur - Remplit tout le corps)

The next time you try to make yourself come, I’m going to fucking tie you to the bed and tease you until you pass out, but I won’t let you come for goddamn hours. I’ll bring your body to the edge, primed and ready to fall over the ledge, but never let you fall. Over and fucking over. Your screams of pleasure never hitting the peak that you pray I’ll give. I’m in charge of your pussy, Emersyn. Don’t fucking forget that your sweetness will only be given by me. My fucking fingers. My mouth. And MY cock.

I can feel her smile against my cheek, and with our arms wrapped tightly around each other and our bodies connected, we both close our eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I sleep with complete peace.

They can be sensed by anyone and an audience always knows perfectly well when something is accurate and true. They may not know why, but it is up to us to know, because we are, after all, specialists.

After working my way through three security guards and a busy but very dignified outer office, I was finally handed off to a gray-haired woman at an enormous desk of steel and walnut. She looked like a member of MENSA who had been a supermodel in her youth before moving on to a career as a Marine Corps drill instructor. She looked me over with a steely, unflinching eye, and then nodded, stood up, and led me to the end of a hall, where a massive door stood open. She waved a hand to indicate that I might have the great boon of passing through the portal and into the Presence. I bowed to her formally and stepped into a large office, and found Frank Kraunauer standing by the window looking down at the beach. The window was actually a floor-to-ceiling wall of thick and tinted glass, but in spite of the huge expanse of window I didn’t think he could see very much detail from this high up. Still, the light from the window lit him with what looked like a full-body halo, the perfect effect for the Attorney Messiah. I wondered whether it was on purpose.

smooth motion, then followed up as soon as it detonated.  Several wankers who had been lying in wait had been caught in the blast; I glanced at their bodies, then led the way through the house.  Four other wankers made the mistake of running downstairs and straight into our waiting guns.  We shot them down and advanced upstairs, checking the upper rooms one by one.  The sniper who’d started the ambush was dead.  There was no way to tell which of us had shot him.   The brief encounter expanded as the QRF arrived, then started setting up barricades to trap the insurgents.  Determined to show that we would not be pushed around, we searched through

His statue served as a lesson and was inscribed: the heart of stone make the body of stone. Forever. (Sa statue servit de leçon et fut inscrit : le cœur de pierre fait le corps de pierre. Pour toujours.)

They have not the slightest awareness of how restricted their idea of "universality" is and of how few they are thinking when they talk about "everybody" and "anybody". Their universalism is a fellowship of the elite - of the elite as formed by absolutism. There is hardly a rule or a requirement of classicistic aesthetics which is not based on the ideas of this absolutism. The desire is that art should have a unifor character, like the state, should produce the effect of formal perfection, like the movement of a corps, that it should be clear and precise, like a decree, and be governed by absolute rules, like the life of every subject in the state. The artist should be no more left to his own devices than any other citizen; he should rather be guided by the law, by regulations, so as not to go astray in the wilderness of his own imagination.

I broke one terrible night when Rufo, Ramon's younger brother, arrived at the house begging me to bring medicine for Ramon and Ester, who were suddenly burning up with fever. Carrying aspirin and a thermometer, I walked up the beach through the waves at high tide, under a billion blazing southern stars, the most furiously beautiful night of my life. But the contrast of that night with the utter squalor of Ramon's house, the sweating bodies, the delirium, their childlike faith that now that I had come everything would be all right, the pathetic collection of objects they had piled in bed around them - a plaster of Paris dog with half the paint peeled off, a rusty flit gun, a jar of watermelon seed, a pail of ground corn for the chickens, a pair of worn-out gringo shoes, all their treasures - so knocked me out that walking back along the beach I began to cry as I hadn't cried since I was six years old. What finally made it funny was that I couldn't stop and h ad to stay on the beach for almost an hour, embarrassed to go wailing through the sleeping streets of Rio Verde, announcing that I was cracking up.

The boundary separating fascism from authoritarianism is more subtle, but it is one of the most essential for understanding. I have already used the term, or the similar one of traditional dictatorship, in discussing Spain, Portugal, Austria, and Vichy France. The fascist-authoritarian boundary was particularly hard to trace in the 1930s, when regimes that were, in reality, authoritarian donned some of the decor of that period’s successful fascisms. Although authoritarian regimes often trample civil liberties and are capable of murderous brutality, they do not share fascism’s urge to reduce the private sphere to nothing. They accept ill-defined though real domains of private space for traditional “intermediary bodies” like local notables, economic cartels and associations, officer corps, families, and churches. These, rather than an official single party, are the main agencies of social control in authoritarian regimes. Authoritarians would rather leave the population demobilized and passive, while fascists want to engage and excite the public. Authoritarians want a strong but limited state. They hesitate to intervene in the economy, as fascism does readily, or to embark on programs of social welfare. They cling to the status quo rather than proclaim a new way.

It is astonishing how much the prospect of hanging concentrates a person’s mind.  Unfortunately, as a long-forgotten philosopher noted, it tends to concentrate a person’s mind on the fact that it is in a body which is going to be

In the plateau the able-bodied unemployed workmen are supported by a combination of cash and commodity doles for which they render no service. Thus, being able to work, they do not. They live in idleness on government largesse while around them on every hand lie countless tasks whose doing the national welfare urgently requires. A public policy is scarcely sane when it supports idleness in the midst of a region which desperately needs public improvements. If the taxpayer is going to pay men who are jobless through no fault of their own, every element of common sense requires that he pay them for working rather than for not working. The men would benefit morally, physically and spiritually from constructive employment. Condescending charity in any form is harmful to the moral fiber of a people. If persisted in long enough, it sees pride and self-respect drain away to be replaced by cynicism, arrogance and wheedling dependence. It undermines good citizenship and contributes toward the thing a democracy can least afford — a class of unproductive and dependent citizens. At the present time practically every skilled man in the plateau has regular employment. The few genuinely competent carpenters, masons, mechanics, metal workers and electricians find regular work for their hands. They have jobs at good wages with mining companies and at other essential building and maintenance tasks. While the tiny corps of skilled men are energetically at work, the great army of their unskilled fellows drift about in dejected idleness. Irrefutable logic requires that work be found for their hands and energies also.

Stop thinking about her ass.” Beck growls, taking my hopes that we can just forget about this away in a flash. “Seriously, just forget it!” I snap. Beck breaks his heated staring contest with Maddox to look over at me. “He saw you nak*d, Dee! You want me to just forget about it?” His tone is low and lethal. I know he’s seconds away from going all alpha-man crazy. “Oh, really… you know, I’m aware that he saw me nak*d, but it was also an accident. When you were running through the house with your dick flopping all over the place for everyone to see, you didn’t see me going all crazy. Oh no, I was laughing, because, hello! It’s funny!” His nostrils flare and his eyes are still narrowed, but he doesn’t say anything. AH! I swear that these overgrown apes are going to be the death of me. “Stop your shit, John Beckett. So what? Coop got a quick look at my girls and Maddox saw my nak*d ass. THEY aren’t the ones that get the benefits of possessing this body. It’s all yours! I didn’t flip out when everyone in this house saw you, and I would appreciate it if you could tone that testosterone down a little. So, would you please stop?” “Those two bastards didn’t enjoy looking at my junk, but I know they enjoyed the hell out of yours!” For the love of God! It takes me a second to tone down my frustration, and if I’m honest with myself, it’s hot as hell to watch him get all jealous and possessive. “Are you forgetting about the very feminine set of eyes that got to take in all that is little Beck?” Coop chokes on his drink when I finish talking. Maddox booms out a laugh that shocks me enough to look his way. If I weren’t so frustrated with Beck right now, I might drool over how handsome he looks. How has no one noticed, besides Em, just how good-looking he is? Even Chelcie seems to be zoned in on all that is Maddox Locke smiling and laughing.

Shit! Just my luck. My body is telling me to start humping, my heart is telling me to run, and my mind is sitting there enjoying a cigarette as his h*ps start to move against me. “Axel Reid, you wake up right now!” I yell. “Get your paws off my tit and call your dick off its search for my p**sy, he found it a**hole, now back off.” “urmmpf…

What am I supposed to wear?” I ask in a tone that oozes sarcasm. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he moves around my body and grabs a bag off the floor behind me. Then he holds it out to me. I keep looking into his eyes, watching the deep, dark brown remain expression and emotionless. “Right. When you’re ready to use your big-boy words, maybe we can continue this playdate.

Almost.” I cap the mascara and turn, fisting his shirt and pulling him towards me. When my lips meet his, I run my hands up his solid chest before pushing my fingers into his hair. He hums his approval into my mouth and just like that, we forget the world around us. When he grabs my ass and pulls me to his body, I know I accidently woke the beast. Pulling away, offer him a look of regret before speaking, “Sorry, I really just wanted a kiss before we left.” “Happy to accommodate you Beauty, but let’s make sure the next time you want a kiss like that, that we aren’t about to go meet up with the gang to have dinner. Sitting around for hours and shooting the shit is no fun when my dick is about to be strangled by my pants.” I start to laugh and turn to walk out into the bedroom, almost knocking Cohen over in the process. “Daddy? What’s a dick and why are your pants hurting him?” I turn back and look at Greg. His face is open with astonishment and his cheeks have a little color on them. Who would have thought that it’s actually possible to shock the man.

He remembered the old Marine Corps saying about pain being weakness leaving your body. Yeah, that’s bullshit.

on corps pour vous garder au chaud. Mes bras pour vous garder en sécurité. Mon cœur pour te garder ancré.” My body to keep you warm. My arms to keep you safe. My heart to keep you anchored.

Everyone has the same chemicals in our body: endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and cortisol,” Jeff explains. “Dopamine helps us to achieve—to reach our goals. Serotonin inspires pride and esprit de corps, and oxytocin inspires love and bonding. What can we do to maximize those three chemicals? I’ll tell you what—it’s service. We are operating at our optimal levels when we are in service to our fellow man. Therefore, we have discovered the trifecta of happiness, and it’s not as if we just invented it or discovered it; it has been around for thousands of years. If you read the sacred texts of all the major religions, it really comes down to one thing: service.

barbouiller /baʀbuje/ I. vtr 1. (salir) to smear (de "with") • ~ son visage/un meuble de qch | to get sth all over one's face/a piece of furniture, to smear one's face/a piece of furniture with sth • il est tout barbouillé | his face is all dirty • il est tout barbouillé de confiture | his face is all smeared with jam 2. (couvrir) to daub [surface, support] (de "with") • ~ un plafond/une porte de peinture verte | to slap green paint on a ceiling/a door, to daub a ceiling/a door with green paint • ~ un pont d'inscriptions | to daub graffiti all over a bridge 3. (peindre) • (pej) ~ des natures mortes/des paysages | to do daubs of still lives/landscapes (péj) • ~ du papier | to write drivel (péj) 4. (rendre malade) • cela barbouille l'estomac | it makes you feel queasy • être or se sentir barbouillé | to feel queasy II. vpr • (se salir) se ~ le visage/le corps de qch | to get one's face/body all covered in sth, to smear one's face/body with sth

I watched her standing there, and a twinge of regret that this wasn’t a date washed over me. I couldn’t believe I had to give her up. When our food came out, she gave three tacos to Marv and we sat on the hood of the car to eat. “That was pretty sexy back there when you went Marine Corps on that guy,” she said as she pulled off her heels and chucked them through the open sunroof. “I wouldn’t have let him touch you.” I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, ever. She took a sip of her Sprite. “I know. That’s what was sexy about it.” For all her claims that she found me sexy, it did me no good whatsoever. She didn’t want me. None of this would continue once her boyfriend was here. I wouldn’t be able to take her out for tacos or show up with pizza. I wouldn’t even be able to sit in her living room with her. I wondered if this thought had any effect on her, or was she just happy that her boyfriend was going to be home? Probably that last one. I sat looking out over the lot, a sucking sense of loss pulling on my heart. She was like a unicorn. A mythical creature. An honest, no-drama woman who didn’t bullshit and drank beer and cussed and didn’t care about what people thought of her. She was a unicorn, tucked in the body of an attractive woman with a great ass. And I couldn’t have her. So I should just stop thinking about it.

Short story: The true and incredible tale of David Kirkpatrick, a Scottish ex-boy scout, and miner, serving in WW2 with 2nd Highland Light Infantry and the legendary elite corps 2nd SAS. A man who becomes a hero playing his bagpipe during a secret mission in Italy, March 1945, where he saved the lives of hundreds just playing during the attack. After he fought in North Africa, Greece, Albania, Sicily and being reported as an unruly soldier, (often drunk, insulting superiors and so on) in Tuscany, 23 march 1945 he joined as volunteer in the 2nd Special Air Service ( the British elite forces), for a secret mission behind enemy line in Italy. He parachuted in the Italian Apennines with his kilt on (so he becomes known as the 'mad piper' ) for a mission organized with British elite forces and an unruly group of Italian-Russian partisans (code name: 'Operation Tombola' organized from the British secret service SOE and 2nd SAS and the "Allied Battalion") against the Gothic Line german headquarter of the 51 German Mountains Corps in Albinea, Italy. The target of the anglo-partisan group's mission is to destroy the nazi HQ to prepare the big attack of the Allied Forces (US 5th Army, British 8th Army) to the German Gothic Line in North Italy at the beginning of April. It's the beginning of the liberation of Italy from the nazi fascist dictatorship. The Allied Battalion guided by major Roy Farran, captain Mike Lees Italian partisan Glauco Monducci, Gianni Ferrari, and the Russian Viktor Pirogov is an unruly brigade of great fighters of many nationalities. Among them also not just British, Italian, and Russian but also a dutch, a greek, one Austrian paratrooper who deserted the German Forces after has killed an SS, a german who deserted Hitler's Army being in love with an Italian taffeta's, two Jewish escaped from nazi reprisal and 3 Spanish anti-Franchise who fought fascism in the Spanish Civil War and then joined first the French Foreign Legion and the British Elite Forces. The day before the attack, Kirkpatrick is secretly guested in a house of Italian farmers, and he donated his white silk parachute to a lady so she could create her wedding dress for the Wedding with his love: an Italian partisan. During the terrible attack in the night of 27th March 1945, the sound of his bagpipe marks the beginning of the fight and tricked the nazi, avoiding a terrible reprisal against the civilian population of the Italian village of Albinea, saving in this way the life of hundreds The German HQ based in two historical villa's is destroyed and in flames, several enemy soldiers are killed, during the attack, the bagpipe of David played for more than 30 minutes and let the german believe that the "British are here", not also Italian and Russian partisan (in war for Hitler' order: for partisans attack to german forces for every german killed nazi were executing 10 local civilians in terrible and barbarian reprisal). During the night the bagpipe of David is also hit after 30 minutes of the fight and, three British soldiers of 2nd SAS are killed in the action in one of the two Villa. The morning later when Germans bring their bodies to the Church of Albinea, don Alberto Ugolotti, the local priest notes in his diary: "Asked if they were organizing a reprisal against the civilian population, they answered that it was a "military attack" and there would.

For the better part of a decade, I figured I was better off being slightly unhealthy and leaving the active pursuit of body-related matters alone. This all changed once I joined the Peace Corps, where it was impossible to think too much about my appearance, and where health was of such immediately importance that it was always on my mind. I developed active tuberculosis while volunteering and, for some stress- or nutrition-related reason, started to shed my thick black hair. I realized how much I had taken my functional body for granted. I lived in a mile-long village in the middle of a western province in Kyrgyzstan: there were larch trees on the snowy mountains, flocks of sheep crossing dusty roads, but there was no running water, no grocery store. The resourceful villagers preserved peppers and tomatoes, stockpiled apples and onions, but it was so difficult to get fresh produce otherwise that I regularly fantasized about spinach and oranges, and would spend entire weekends trying to obtain them. As a prophylactic measure against mental breakdown, I started doing yoga in my room every day. Exercise, I thought. What a miracle!

Franz tipped his wing and looked down on the P-38 he had wounded. It was circling downward, its engine coughing black smoke. Suddenly the hood of its canopy tumbled away in the slipstream. The pilot stood in the cockpit then dove toward the rear of the wing. The draft sucked his body under the forked tail. He free-fell from twelve thousand feet, passing through the clouds. “Pull it!” Franz shouted at the American, urging him to open his chute. When the pilot’s parachute finally popped full of air, Franz felt relief. The pilot drifted lazily downward while his P-38 splashed into the sea. Franz flew lower and saw the P-38 pilot climb into a tiny yellow raft against the whitecaps. Franz radioed Olympus to tell them to relay the American’s position to the Italians. He guessed they were seventy kilometers west of Marettimo and asked if the island could send a boat to pick up the man. For a second, Franz considered hovering over the man in the raft like an aerial beacon to steer a boat to the spot, but he shook the thought from his mind. It would put him at risk. If a prowling flight of enemy fighters found him, Franz knew he, too, could be shot into the sea. Franz and Willi departed the scene, leaving the pilot in his raft to fate. As they flew away, Franz wished the man a strong westerly wind. The American who looked up from the raft was Second Lieutenant Conrad Bentzlin, a young man from a large Swedish-American family in Saint Paul, Minnesota. He was quiet and hardworking, having taught himself English in high school. He had paid his way through the University of Minnesota by working for the government’s Civilian Conservation Corps program, cutting firebreaks in the forests of northern Minnesota. Among his buddies of the 82nd Fighter Group, Bentzlin was known as “the smartest guy in the unit.” Far from shore Bentzlin floated alone. A day later, another flight of P-38s flew over him and, through a hole in the clouds, saw him waving his arms from a raft. But he was in the middle of the sea and they could do nothing. Bentzlin would never be seen again.*

Meanwhile, biological men in women’s clothing have increasingly encroached on celebrity, sports, and politics. TIME magazine’s “Woman of the Year” Caitlyn Jenner, the first “female” four-star admiral in the Commissioned Corps Rachel Levine and the NCAA “female” swimming champion Lia Thomas are all lauded as examples of female achievement, despite their radically distinct hormonal baselines, higher testosterone levels, and greater physical strength, especially in the upper body.

I want to be judged, but not too harshly. I want you to call me a baby-killer, but not to my face. I want the veteran identity to be surgically extracted from my body, but I want you to buy me a beer so we can talk about the war, and the good times, and the bad times, and the rotten culture of the military, and the feeling of being young and in uniform and sexy and structured and free and a slave. I want you to get me to admit that I miss it.

They invented a kind of artificial being, legally a person, but not human.” Col frowns. “AIs?” “Sort of. But these were designed to have no conscience.” “So more like military cyborgs,” I say. “These didn’t have bodies, or even processors. They didn’t think or feel. They were built of legal contracts, algorithms, documents—so they couldn’t be killed or put in jail.” Yandre’s voice drops a little. “They were called corps.

Humans will run, fight, or freeze. Humans are driven by fight-or-flight responses, which translate into certain autonomic responses and behaviors. We will discuss these responses later as well as the autonomic responses to stress. For now, it is sufficient to say that our bodies often exhibit uncontrollable, automatic reactions to our emotions in response to the situations we are in. Because these reactions are automatic and uncontrollable, they are reliable indicators

Le corps n'est qu'un emballage des pures qualités qu'il renferme.

Pulling my hips back slightly, I move her body so that her legs are hanging out the side of the Jeep. I push them lightly apart and step in between her thighs. She immediately wraps her long legs around my hips and all but crawls inside my body. I stand there, running my hands down her back, and let her take every ounce of strength I have in my body. I can feel her trembling against me, her tears soaking my shirt, and her heaving breath against my neck. I just keep running my hands down her back and press my lips to her head. The feel of her body and the smell that never fails to make me roll my eyes in yearning combined with the adrenaline that is still thundering through my body does nothing to help ease the need I feel to claim. To make her mine.

Lover scuttles his body, because he sinks in happiness. (L'amoureux saborde son corps, - Car il coule dans le bonheur.)

Rain on your body burned my heart. (Pluie sur ton corps - Brûla mon coeur.)

Mon corps est une cage. Mon corps est une que que je me suis fabriquée. Je suis encore en train de rechercher le moyen de m'en échapper.

In September 1999, the Department of Justice succeeded in denaturalizing 63 participants in Nazi acts of persecution; and in removing 52 such individuals from this country. This appears to be but a small portion of those who actually were brought here by our own government. A 1999 report to the Senate and the House said "that between 1945 and 1955, 765 scientists, engineers, and technicians were brought to the United States under Overcast, Paperclip, and similar programs. It has been estimated that at least half, and perhaps as many as 80 percent of all the imported specialists were former Nazi Party members." A number of these scientist were recruited to work for the Air Force's School of Aviation Medicine (SAM) at Brooks Air Force Base in Texas, where dozens of human radiation experiments were conducted during the Cold War. Among them were flash-blindness studies in connection with atomic weapons tests and data gathering for total-body irradiation studies conducted in Houston. The experiments for which Nazi investigators were tried included many related to aviation research. Hubertus Strughold, called "the father of space medicine," had a long career at the SAM, including the recruitment of other Paperclip scientists in Germany. On September 24, 1995 the Jewish Telegraphic Agency reported that as head of Nazi Germany's Air Force Institute for Aviation Medicine, Strughold particpated in a 1942 conference that discussed "experiments" on human beings. The experiments included subjecting Dachau concentration camp inmates to torture and death. The Edgewood Arsenal of the Army's Chemical Corps as well as other military research sites recruited these scientists with backgrounds in aeromedicine, radiobiology, and opthamology. Edgewood Arsenal, Maryland ended up conducting experiments on more than seven thousand American soldiers. Using Auschwitz experiments as a guide, they conducted the same type of poison gas experiments that had been done in the secret I.G. Farben laboratories.

Olya “Lynx” Federov sat in the cockpit of her fighter. The Lightning-class attack craft that formed the mainstay of the Confederation’s fighter corps were sleek and powerful. The pilots of the fleet almost universally loved the design, save for one factor. The cockpits were too small, too cramped. But Federov didn’t care. She was slight in build, barely forty-five kilograms, and not much taller than a meter and a half. Her body was lithe, flexible. She’d wanted to be a dancer when she was younger, until she’d seen a squadron of fighters putting on a show on the vid. Flight had captured her imagination that day, and her life became a relentless pursuit of a slot at the Academy, one which saw success three days after her nineteenth birthday, when she received her billet in the following year’s class

We shared a common mission, which meant we got in plenty of shit, together: surviving as a tam was what created esprit de corps. It had nothing to do with wearing common badges, the colour of skin, or having all the same body parts. It was surviving shit together.

While this was not an atypical method for Yakutsk to change governing bodies, Oarig’s qualifications were difficult to understand. He was short-tempered, entitled, and inclined to violence. Greg was not entirely sure how he had amassed enough dedicated followers to kill for him.

The water caresses in the glass, like love in the body. (L'eau caresse dans le verre, Comme l'amour dans le corps)

au-delà de la crainte de la première fois, bien au-delà du risque de tomber enceinte, je fuyais mon propre corps, sa mise à nu, à jamais associée pour moi à l'ordre d'un nazi, à son regard humillant tandis qu'on nous rasait la tête et le sexe, à son verdict : la mort ou le sursis.

In 1937, the amphibious assault doctrine was issued by the Marine Corps and ultimately adopted by the navy. But a study was a study and a manual was a manual and tests in the field were tests in the field. The only way to see if the theory worked was to attack an entrenched enemy with real action, real bodies, and real ammunition. Tarawa became that battle, marking in earnest the start of the island-hopping campaign through the central Pacific that would ultimately lead to Okinawa on the doorstep of the Japanese homeland. The great victory at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, northeast of Australia, had been epic for the Marine Corps. But the initial landing there in August of 1942, the largest in the Solomon Islands chain, had been largely unopposed. The landing on Tarawa would not be. III