Bravo Quotes

Bravo," said Grimalkin, peering down from Cold Tom's chest. "The Winter prince and Oberon's jester agreeing on something. The world must be ending.

     Illicit flight Alfa Bravo Charlie quickly reached a predetermined altitude and stopped dead. The passengers on board screamed the way people do on fairground rides. The shuttle hesitated momentarily and then shot forward accelerating rapidly to reach a blistering 145,222 miles per hour. They were in a Mach 22 situation. The cries from on-board could not be heard from the ground. Neither did anyone in the great metropolis of Llar witness the bright blue vapour trail the craft left behind in its wake. It was after all overcast and raining heavily.

...bravo...' Mister Kindly said,'..if only I had hands to applaud..' Mia smacked her backside. 'I'd settle for lips to kiss my sweet behind. '...I would have to find it first...' Arses are like fine wine, Mister Kindly. Better too little than too much. ' ...a beauty and a philosopher. be still my beating heart...' The not-cat looked down at its translucent chest '...O,wait...

When you can write music that endures, bravo. Until then, keep quiet and study the work of those who can.

     ‘The onboard computer just wants to say a few words before we leave.’      The speakers in the cabin crackled into life. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome you on-board the presidential shuttle for tonight’s illicit flight, Alfa Bravo Charlie. I would just like to say it’s a pleasure to meet you all and thank you so much for coming here tonight to steal me. To be honest I don’t get out much these days so this is something of a special occasion.’      ‘It will be for us too if we get caught,’ Semilla said sardonically.

Nix to Declan: Begin transcript— Testing. Hello, hellooo, anybody out there? Check, check, one, two. Soft pee. Puh, puh. Resonance! Sooooooft pee. Alpha bravo disco tango duck. This is Nïx! I’m the Ever-Knowing One, a goddess incandescent, incomparable, and irresistible. But enough about what you think of me. It’s a beautiful day in New Orleans. The wind is out of the east at a steady five knots and clouds look like rabbits … But enough about what you think of me! Now, down to business— Squirrel! Where was I? [Long pause] Why am I in Regin’s car? Bertil, you crawl right back out of that bong this minute! Oh, I remember! I am hereby laying down this track for Magister Declan Chase. If you are a mortal of the recorder peon class, know that Dekko and I go waaaaay back, and he’ll go berserk (snicker snicker) if he doesn’t receive this transmittal. … Chase, riddle me this: what’s beautiful but monstrous, long of tooth but sharp of tooth and soft of mind, and can never ever tell a lie? That’s right. The Enemy of Old can be very useful to you. So use him already. P.S. Your middle name’s about to be spelled r-e-g-r-e-t. And with that, I must bid you adieu. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up very soon. … [Muffled] Who’s mummy’s wittle echolocator? That’s right—you are! —End transcript

Readers of fantasy fiction actually imagine having the abilities of the villains more often then the protagonist. Bravo writers!

Hiccup followed him carefully ... and fell over again. "BRAVO!" clapped Alvin, to Hiccup's surprise. "But I fell over again" said Hiccup. "But with such STYLE," said Alvin. "You can't teach that, it's in the blood.

Dads. Do you not realize that a child is what you tell them they are? That people almost always become what they are labeled? Was whatever your child just did really the “dumbest thing you’ve ever seen somebody do”? Was it really the “most ridiculous thing they ever could have done”? Do you really believe that your child is an idiot? Because she now does. Think about that. Because you said it, she now believes it. Bravo.

Now we will begin the dance. Remember, child, this is not the iron dance of Westeros we are learning, the knight's dance, hacking and hammering, no. This is the bravo's dance, the water dance, swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? When you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die.

For now. But if I ever decide you're useless, you are a dead man." To be killed by you is to be desired more than a life excluded from your service." Bravo." Her Imperial Viciousness laughed with genuine feeling. "Bra-vo!

Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own person and reputation say under shelter.

Your job is to be the hardest motherfucker in your platoon," he said while pointing at me across the desk. "Do that, and everything else will fall into place." He added that I was assigned to Bravo Company, call sign Hitman, and wished me luck.

The more hideous the mental contortions, the greater the delight and bravos of the mass.

Mr. Haverbink bowed deeply, muscles rippling all up and down his back, and lumbered from the room. Miss Hisselpenny sighed and fluttered her fan. "Ah, for the countryside, what scenery there abides..., " quoth she. Miss Tarabotti giggled. "Ivy, what a positively wicked thing to say. Bravo.

I realized that my eyes were closed and opened them. Augustus was staring at me, his blue eyes closer to me than they'd ever been, and behind them, a crowd of people three deep had sort of circled around us. They were angry, I thought. Horrified. These teenagers, with their hormones, making out beneath a video broadcasting the shattered voice of a former father. I pulled away from Augustus, and he snuck a peck onto my forehead as I stared down at my Chuck Taylors. And then they started clapping. All the people, all these adults, just started clapping, and one shouted "Bravo!" in a European accent. Augustus, smiling, bowed. Laughing, I curtsied ever so slightly, which was met with another round of applause.

By two o'clock in the morning they had each drunk three brandies, and he knew, in truth, that he was not the man she was looking for, and he was glad to know it. "Bravo, lionlady," he said when he left. "We have killed the tiger.

Ah, for the countryside, what scenery there abides... Ivy, what a positively wicked thing to say. Bravo.

There are blondes and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial. There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blonde who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink or where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne. There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentence out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her because in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provençal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them. And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler.

So many gentleman admirers,” Hi mused. “Must be tough, being a heartbreaker.” “Zip it. Unless you wanna see a leg-breaker, too.” Hi shook his head. “And such violent thoughts. I blame Bravo.

Tramp stamp. A tattoo in the center of a woman's lower back. Also referred to as a "California bumper sticker." The germans refer to this as "arschgeweih," which translates as "ass antler." Bravo!

Then you do not belong here. Death holds no sweetness in this house. We are not warriors, nor soldiers, nor swaggering bravos puffed up with pride. We do not kill to serve some lord, to fatten our purses, to stroke our vanity. We never give the gift to please ourselves. Nor do we choose the ones we kill. We are but servants of the God of Many Faces." "Valar dohaeris." All men must serve. "You know the words, but you are too proud to serve. A servant must be humble and obedient." "I obey. I can be humbler than anyone." That made him chuckle. "You will be the very goddess of humility, I am sure. But can you pay the price?" "What price?" "The price is you. The price is all you have and all you ever hope to have. We took your eyes and gave them back. Next we will take your ears, and you will walk in silence. You will give us your legs and crawl. You will be no one's daughter, no one's wife, no one's mother. Your name will be a lie, and the very face you wear will not be your own.

Bravo!” I yell to the actress who played the part of making two guys fall in love with her and then leaving them both for another female.

Bravo for faking it yet again, Ethan. You’re a perfect counterfeit copy of someone I thought I loved.

Bravo Sherlock. That's two lollipops I owe you.

Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta...Delta is for Charlie and Charlie is for Cain

...İbrahim Kurban 14'lüyü kafama dayadığında içimden 'Bravo Habip Beyciğim, gene başardınız." dedim. Kendime 'siz' diye hitap ederim. Saygınlığın ilk kuralı budur. Kendinizle aranıza mesafe koymazsanız, başkalarından bunu bekleyemezsiniz.

She looked at him like he personally kept the roof from caving.

Embrace Life, for life will embrace you for it

One afternoon, disgusted, bravo, you fall asleep.

Satan, if you’re listening. I know this one was made by you. And bravo. He’s a work of art.

Bravo! Then life must be tragic?" "Wrong. It's comic too.

And there it is! Bravo! I knew it was only a matter of time before Byron realized he had an audience. That man is simply incapable of keeping his shirt on when there are spectators. One Christmas Eve, he stripped his shirt off right in the middle of the choir's rendition of Oh Child of Bethlehem. Coincidentally, the next song was Come Let Us Adore Him and the imbecile actually launched into some interpretive dance.

Friendship is a difficult thing to define. Oscar here is my oldest friend. How would you define friendship, Oscar?" Oscar grunts slightly, as though the answer is obvious. "Friendship is about choice and chemistry. It cannot be defined." "But surely there's something more to it than that." "It is a willingness to overlook faults and to accept them. I would let a friend hurt me without striking back," he says, smiling. "But only once." De Souza laughs. "Bravo, Oscar, I can always rely on you to distill an argument down to its purest form. What do you think, Dayel?" The Indian rocks his head from side to side, proud that he has been asked to speak next. "Friendship is different for each person and it changes throughout our lives. At age six it is about holding hands with your best friend. At sixteen it is about the adventure ahead. At sixty it is about reminiscing." He holds up a finger. "You cannot define it with any one word, although honesty is perhaps the closest word-" "No, not honesty," Farhad interrupts. "On the contrary, we often have to protect our friends from what we truly think. It is like an unspoken agreement. We ignore each other's faults and keep our confidences. Friendship isn't about being honest. The truth is too sharp a weapon to wield around someone we trust and respect. Friendship is about self-awareness. We see ourselves through the eyes of our friends. They are like a mirror that allows us to judge how we are traveling." De Souza clears his throat now. I wonder if he is aware of the awe that he inspires in others. I suspect he is too intelligent and too human to do otherwise. "Friendship cannot be defined," he says sternly. "The moment we begin to give reasons for being friends with someone we begin to undermine the magic of the relationship. Nobody wants to know that they are loved for their money or their generosity or their beauty or their wit. Choose one motive and it allows a person to say, 'is that the only reason?'" The others laugh. De Souza joins in with them. This is a performance. He continues: "Trying to explain why we form particular friendships is like trying to tell someone why we like a certain kind of music or a particular food. We just do.

Come here, Grimaud," said Athos. To punish you for having spoken without leave my friend, you must eat this piece of paper: then, to reward you for the service which you will have rendered us, you shall afterwards drink this glass of wine. Here is the letter first: chew it hard." Grimaud smiled, and with his eyes fixed on the glass which Athos filled to the very brim, chewed away at the paper, and finally swallowed it. "Bravo, Master Grimaud!" said Athos. "and now take this. Good! I will dispense with your saying thank you." Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux; but during the whole time that this pleasant operation lasted, his eyes, which were fixed upon the heavens, spoke a language which, though mute, was not therefore the least expressive.

Down here everything is symbol and mystery.

Los más bravos son, sin duda, aquellos que tienen la visión más clara de lo que se avecina, de gloria y peligro por igual, y aun así salen a su encuentro.

Little cats who howl too loud get drowned in the canals,” warned the fair-haired bravo. “Not if they have claws.

Chi è bravo a mentire tiene la testa alta. Non ha timore. Chi non sa mentire dstoglie gli occhi.

-!Bravo!-gritó jubiloso-.!Así me gusta oírlo hablar! Con eso usted me está demostrando que ha madurado y que puede aceptar a las personas tal como son y disculpar sus errores. Hay mucho amor dentro de usted, Panchito, y el amor es lo único que transforma a las almas en excelentes.

Los cobardes mueren muchas veces antes de acabar, mas solo una vez gusta su muerte el bravo. De todos los prodigios que he escuchado, el más extraño es que los hombres teman, ya que la muerte, inevitable fin, va a venir cuando tenga que venir. William Shakespeare, Julio César, acto II, escena II

I do not understand you.” “Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly well.” “Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible.” “Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language.

The performance was exotic. It was short. And it wasn't much more dreadful than the Chinese opera that had been performed last year. "Bravo!" Ned called. He applauded madly. Thankfully, everyone joined in. Blakely bowed, rather stiffly, and picked his way through the rows toward his seat. He didn't even make eye contact with Ned, didn't acknowledge that Ned had just saved him. Ha, Just because Blakely had no humility didn't mean Ned couldn't try to humiliate him further. "Encore!" Ned shouted. Blakely fixed Ned with a look that promised eventual dismemberment. Luckily for the future attachment of Ned's limbs, nobody else took up the cry.

I love this book. When other U.S. reporters were licking Ken Lay's loafers, Leopold went for Enron's thieving throat. Leopold is a journalist who insists on real investigative reporting–inside documents, inside sources, hard knife-in-the-gut evidence–detective-style reporting that is just about illegal in the U.S.A. Bravo and my personal Pulitzer to Jason Leopold. Every journalist in America should read this, then quit or riot.

Is it that bad, Mrs. Bowen?" Clement asked. Emily shook her head. "Gertrude's been hurt and so she's generalizing. It's a pretty good country on the whole, and the people in it, too. We have our faults and they may be glaring, and we have individuals we may not be proud of, but take us by and large we'll stick our necks our for something we believe in, and that in itself may be a fault, but it's one I like." "Bravo," Abe said.

Kilowattora per sol" proprio non si riesce a dire. Inventerò una nuova unità scientifica. Un kilowattora per sol è... potrebbe essere qualsiasi cosa... ehm... non sono bravo con queste cose... sì, lo chiamerò un "ninja-pirata".

Inspiration comes unawares, from unaccountable sources that have nothing to do with planning or intelligence. Let it cool ever so slightly, and you are left, pen or brush in hand, with no inspiration at all. Gifted people need not, therefore, make a song and dance about being or supposing themselves superior. They simply happened to be born with that fortunate, subconscious equipment of theirs, and the mystery exists independently of intelligence or ambition.

The kind of friends that didn’t need invitations to hang out. The kind of friends that ate leftovers from each other’s fridges without asking.

Jimmy non era il tipo che pregava, ma aveva la sensazione che Shane sarebbe riuscito a farlo implorare con pochissimo sforzo. Era così bravo con le mani. E la bocca. Jimmy assorbì il contatto tra i loro corpi come fa il deserto con la pioggia.

The dead man's companions at the counter started to their feet, but halted as Voynod with great aplomb turned to face them. "Take care, you dunghill cocks! Notice the fate of your fellow! He died by the power of my magic blade, which is of inexorable metal and cuts rock and steel like butter. Behold!" And Voynod struck out at a pillar. The blade, striking an iron bracket, broke into a dozen pieces. Voynod stood non-plussed, but the bravo's companions surged forward. "What then of your magic blade? Our blades are ordinary steel but bite deep!" And in a moment Voynod was cut to bits. The bravos now turned upon Cugel. "What of you? Do you wish to share the fate of your comrade?" "By no means!" stated Cugel. "This man was but my servant, carrying my pouch. I am a magician; observe this tube! I will project blue concentrate at the first man to threaten me!" The bravos shrugged and turned away. Cugel secured Voynod's pouch, then gestured to the landlord. "Be so good as to remove these corpses; then bring a further mug of spiced wine.

He was a second too late. Ducking, the felt-capped man, muscles hard, dragged himself out of that grasp and, flinging off to one side, got his balance, glanced once at Jerott, and then darted off into the darkness. After the first step, breathing hard, Jerott stayed where he was, swearing. But he could hardly leave Lymond. He looked up. ‘Bravo,’ said Francis Crawford, sitting crosslegged on top of the wall, his hood shaken free on his shoulders. ‘You’re a credit to the bloody Order, aren’t you? You know you’ve got a knife in your hand?

My Chocolate Mudslide is going down smooth when we hear the three bells. Bing. Bing. Bing. But instead of Dan Dan the Party Man, it’s a woman’s voice and she’s breathing heavily. She sounds Filipina, if that’s even a thing. “Bravo… Bravo… Bravo,” she pants. “Main engine. Starboard side. Bravo… Bravo… Bravo.” We hear the speaker shut off. People look around a little nervously. The dancer warming up on stage makes a beeline for backstage. Within seconds the three bells are back. Oh, thank God, it’s our Greek captain. “Laydis and gentlemen, thissis your captain spicking. Pliss proceed to your muster stations.” This is not what I wanted him to say. We get up and make our way painfully slowly through the completely full theater. Everyone is quiet. Which is the wooooooorst. It’s scary when a group of people all know instinctively not to joke around. Another voice comes over the PA, repeating, “Please, remain calm. Please proceed to your muster stations.” The German half of me is thinking, “Shove the old people out of the way. Shove the old and the infirm! If they are strong enough to resist you, they deserve to live.” The Greek half of me wants to scream at our Greek captain. I do neither and proceed obediently.

For years I put up with Julián Bravo’s mistreatment without calling it domestic violence, making excuses: It was an accident; he went too far because he’d had too much to drink; I provoked him; he had problems and he took them out on me, it won’t happen again, he promised, he apologized. I

Philosophical question: What does a twink become when they’re in their fifties? A twas? A twank? Twinkstinct.

Anybody who says he’s not scared is either a liar or mentally deficient.

Hey, some men flirt by sending flowers. I send you wanted drug lords.

Lui sta armeggiando in macchina cercando di liberare la piccola dalle cinture del seggiolino. La bimba sembra essersi svegliata, ma lui è bravo, le parla dolcemente e lei non piange e si lascia andare persino a un risolino. «Forse ci vorrebbe del latte» faccio io raggiungendoli, come se di bambini capissi tutto. «Yeah» risponde lui. Yeah? Poi annuisce e mi chiede cortesemente di prendere la borsa rosa che è in macchina. Obbedisco e trotterello dietro di lui in casa. Red, dall’alto del suo palco reale, segue la scena un po’ seccato e commenta con un miao altezzoso. Forse invidioso. Fuck you, Red.

The ovation roared around him. He felt nothing in particular, hardly even the embarrassment he had feared. He had to go up again—this time without Fräulein Gasteiner, and it was a little peculiar to him to hear the noise of clapping hands and the loud shouts of "Bravo". He bowed several times, turned to the door and then, just as the clapping was getting weaker, he heard a voice from slightly behind him, or to the side—he couldn't quite tell—but the words were perfectly distinct, no matter how quietly they had been said: "Poor devil!" He wanted to look around, but he felt that that would seem absurd.

Se vuoi, posso provare a leggere ad alta voce. Non… non sono ancora molto bravo, ma…” “Mi piacerebbe,” lo interruppe Gray con voce bassa. “M-mi manca leggere. Mi… mi manca co-così tanto!” Aric fece finta di non sentire i suoni che Gray emetteva nel tentativo di soffocare i singhiozzi. C’erano occasioni in cui un uomo desiderava conforto, altre in cui trovava maggiore dignità nell’essere lasciato solo.

Perhaps what I am about to say may seem strange to you, who are socialists, and vaunt humanity and your duty to your neighbor, but I never seek to protect a society which does not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupies itself about me only to injure me; and thus by giving them a low place in my esteem, and preserving a neutrality towards them, it is society and my neighbor who are indebted to me.” “Bravo,

No te des por vencido, ni aun vencido, no te sientas esclavo, ni aún esclavo; trémulo de pavor, piénsate bravo, y arremete feroz, ya mal herido. Ten el tesón del clavo enmohecido, que ya viejo y ruin vuelve a ser clavo; no la cobarde intrepidez del pavo que amaina su coraje al primer ruido. Procede como Dios que nunca llora, o como Lucifer que nunca reza, o como el robledal, cuya grandeza necesita del agua y no la implora...

Don’t talk about shit you don’t know, Billy thinks, and therein lies the dynamic of all such encounters, the Bravos speak from the high ground of experience. They are authentic. They are the Real. They have dealt much death and received much death and smelled it and held it and slopped through it in their boots, had it spattered on their clothes and tasted it in their mouths. That is their advantage, and given the masculine standard America has set for itself it is interesting how few actually qualify. Why we fight, yo, who is this we? Here in the chicken-hawk nation of blowhards and bluffers, Bravo always has the ace of bloods up its sleeve.

¡Oh, bravo! Oh, sí, oh, muy bien. Bien, bien, bien... Qué curioso... Realmente qué curioso... —Perdón —dijo Harry—. Pero, ¿qué es tan curioso? —Recuerdo cada varita que he vendido, Harry Potter. Cada una de las varitas. Y resulta que la cola de fénix de donde salió la pluma que está en tu varita dio otra pluma, sólo una más. Y realmente es muy curioso que estuvieras destinado a esa varita, cuando fue su hermana la que te hizo esa cicatriz.

one of those wild, grotesque songs common among the negroes, in a rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing with many comic evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all in perfect time to the music. “Bravo!” said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange. “Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe, when he has the rheumatism,” said his master. Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appearance of deformity and distortion, as, with his back humped up, and his master’s stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room, his childish face drawn into a doleful pucker, and spitting from right to left, in imitation of an old man. Both gentlemen laughed uproariously.

O homem que se gaba de só dizer a verdade é simplesmente um homem sem nenhum respeito por ela. A verdade não é uma coisa que rola por aí, como dinheiro trocado; é algo para ser acalentada, acumulada e desembolsada apenas quando absolutamente necessário. O menor átomo da verdade representa a amarga labuta e agonia de algum homem; para cada pilha dela, há o túmulo de um bravo dono da verdade sobre algumas cinzas solitárias e uma alma fritando no Inferno.

Il professor Grammaticus Il professor Grammaticus, tra Como e Battipaglia, udì gridare a gran voce: I-ta-glia! I-ta-glia! I-ta-glia! Alcuni sventatelli apparsi in fondo alla via in coro scandivano quell’errore di ortografia. Disse il bravo docente: – Signori, non così! Non lordate la Patria con quella brutta «g»! Al fardello dei mali che affliggono il paese non aggiungete, prego, ortografiche offese… Il professor Grammaticus fu tosto circondato, di ben altre scorrettezze e di pugni minacciato. Ma dai dintorni accorse una folla di persone amanti della grammatica e della buona educazione. Cacciarono i giovinastri e gridarono così: – Viva il nostro professore e l’Italia senza «g»!

Hai bisogno di trovarti un bravo ragazzo e innamorarti. Hai bisogno di trovare qualcuno che si innamori di te.” Gli angoli della bocca di Shane tremarono. “Be’, non ho mai avuto grandi speranze a Rattlesnake, ma forse la coppia di ospiti del mese scorso mi presenterà un bravo ragazzo. Ma non importa. Anche se sarò sposato con due bambini e avrò un delizioso giardino recintato, la città sarà sempre pronta ad accoglierti a braccia aperte, le appartieni. Piaci alle persone. E sarò sempre tuo amico, Jimmy Dorsett.

If ever there was a prime-time trigger for PTSD you couldn't do much better than this, but lucky for Norm, the crowd, America, the forty-million-plus TV viewing audience, Bravos can deal, oh yes! Pupils dilated, pulse and blood pressure through the roof, limbs trembling with stress-reflex cortisol rush, but it's cool, it's good, their shit's down tight, no Vietnam-vet crackups for Bravo squad! You can march these boys straight into sound-and-light show hell and Bravos can deal, but damn, isn't it rude to put them through it.

It infuriates him, this killing, this death. Infuriating that this is what we’re known for now, drug cartels and slaughter. This my city of Avenida 16 Septembre, the Victoria Theater, cobblestone streets, the bullring, La Central, La Fogata, more bookstores than El Paso, the university, the ballet, garapiñados, pan dulce, the mission, the plaza, the Kentucky Bar, Fred’s—now it’s known for these idiotic thugs. And my country, Mexico—the land of writers and poets—of Octavio Paz, Juan Rulfo, Carlos Fuentes, Elena Garro, Jorge Volpi, Rosario Castellanos, Luis Urrea, Elmer Mendoza, Alfonso Reyes—the land of painters and sculptors—Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Gabriel Orozco, Pablo O’Higgins, Juan Soriano, Francisco Goitia—of dancers like Guillermina Bravo, Gloria and Nellie Campobello, Josefina Lavalle, Ana Mérida, and composers—Carlos Chávez, Silvestre Revueltas, Agustín Lara, Blas Galindo—architects—Luis Barragán, Juan O’Gorman, Tatiana Bilbao, Michel Rojkind, Pedro Vásquez—wonderful filmmakers—Fernando de Fuentes, Alejandro Iñárritu, Luis Buñuel, Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro—actors like Dolores del Río, “La Doña” María Félix, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, Salma Hayek—now the names are “famous” narcos—no more than sociopathic murderers whose sole contribution to the culture has been the narcocorridas sung by no-talent sycophants. Mexico, the land of pyramids and palaces, deserts and jungles, mountains and beaches, markets and gardens, boulevards and cobblestoned streets, broad plazas and hidden courtyards, is now known as a slaughter ground. And for what? So North Americans can get high.

Chondromookhi says she loves me.  I don’t want it, don’t want it.  All the world’s a stage, people put on masks, they become thieves, beggars, kings, queens – they make love, they speak loving words, they weep, as though it was all real.  Chondromookhi acts in a play – and I watch, but the one I remember – how everything changed in a moment!  Where did she go, and where did I end?  Now I must play act the rest of my life! A drunk!  and this one – what of her?  Well, what of her!  No hope – no happiness – no end.  Bravo!  the play ends – Bravo!

O the sad frugality of the middle-income mind. O the humorless neatness of an intellectuality which buys mass-produced candlesticks and carefully puts one at each end of every philosophical mantlepiece! How far it lies from the playfulness of Him who composed such odd and needless variations on the themes of leaf and backbone, eye and nose! A thousand praises that it has only lately managed to lay its cold hand on the wines, the sauces, and the cheeses of the world! A hymn of thanksgiving that it could not reach into the depths of the sea to clamp its grim simplicities over the creatures that swim luminously in the dark! A shout of rejoicing for the fish who wears his eyeballs at the ends of long stalks, and for the jubilant laughter of the God who holds him in life with a daily bravo at the bravura of his being!

Co-co… cosa… s-st… stai… fa-face…ndo?” Le catene di Gray non gi permettevano di raggiungere le sbarre della cella, ma avanzò quanto poté, come per unirsi a Bruto. “Sto… studiando le lettere. Ci provo. Non sono molto bravo.” “Pe-pe-perché?” “Perché sono goffo e stupido e…” “No! Pe-per…ché vu-vuoi… stu-stu…diarle?” “Me lo chiedono tutti. L’altro giorno sono andato a fare una passeggiata, e ho visto una libreria. Centinaia… no, migliaia di libri. Era come se ognuno di essi racchiudesse un segreto. Credo di voler vedere qualcuno di quei segreti.

«Quando un Sioux nasceva, i suoi genitori gli davano una specie di nome provvisorio. Tanto per sapere come chiamarlo finché era piccolo, mi segui? Come Margherita. Ma quando diventava grande, e la sua natura si rivelava, lo sciamano della tribù lo osservava per un po’ di tempo e alla fine trovava il nome giusto per lui. Sai cos’è uno sciamano?» «Certo che lo so. Uno stregone». «Brava. Ma non era lo sciamano a scegliere il nome, era il nome a rivelarsi. Lo sciamano era soltanto un bravo osservatore. Capisci la differenza? Lo capisci che nessuno può decidere chi sei?»

Her hands went still. Hugh stared at the nape of her neck, at the honey-colored wisps curling against her pale skin. Could he chance it? Did he have a choice? "Bravo," called Cross from his seat. "What did you think, Hastings?" He had to clear his throat. "Lovely. You've a splendid voice, Miss Cross." She twisted to look up at him, her eyes shining with delight. "Thank you, sir." Hugh smiled on instinct. That look... She wasn't a beauty, nor even very pretty. London society would call her plain. But when she gazed at a man that way, with her heart in her eyes, she was not ordinary.

«Mi dispiace molto che lei sia divenuto così cinico da non amare più la materia del suo lavoro, ma io nutro ancora una profonda passione per quello che studio e che faccio.» Non si accorse nemmeno di essersi alzata, mentre lo diceva, per difendere le sue opinioni con maggiore fermezza. «E mi intristisce vedere che ormai il mondo dell’istruzione è popolato da persone come lei, così fredde da non riuscire a farsi più trasportare da una riga o da un verso, così impermeabili a qualunque emozione scritta da riuscire ad affondare gli entusiasmi degli studenti. Lo so che ormai va di moda criticare tutto e tutti, cercare il pelo nell’uovo in ogni opera, farsi grandi mostrando di disprezzare tutti gli autori, persino i più importanti, piuttosto che provare allora a raggiungerli con qualcosa di altrettanto bello, perché la verità è che chi è così bravo a criticare non lo è poi a scrivere. Ma io non sono così, e mai lo sarò. Io amo ciò che faccio, e spero di trasmettere il mio amore attraverso ogni mia azione ed ogni mia parola, anche attraverso la mia tesi di Dottorato, e se questo talvolta mi porta ad estraniarmi dalla realtà, è un prezzo che pago più che volentieri.»

Dentro di me ospitavo delle continue guerre civili psicologiche. Mi prendo cura della mia bambina e voglio farlo, davvero. Ma allora com’è che al tempo stesso vorrei scappare, far finta che nulla di questo sia successo, ricominciare la mia vita com’era prima? “Sono tante cose. Tra queste, ora sono anche madre”, avrei voluto esprimere, ma era una concezione della maternità che non riuscivo a far capire a molte persone, a esempio ai miei genitori. No: impossibile. Se lasciavi spazio al resto di te, non eri un bravo genitore. “Ora sei mamma” continuavano a dirmi a ogni mio cenno di insofferenza.

The Mouser made a very small parry in carte so that the thrust of the bravo from the east went past his left side by only a hair's breath. He instantly riposted. His adversary, desperately springing back, parried in turn in carte. Hardly slowing, the tip of the Mouser's long, slim sword dropped under that parry with the delicacy of a princess curtsying and then leaped forward and a little upward, the Mouser making an impossibly long-looking lunge for one so small, and went between two scales of the bravo's armored jerkin and between his ribs and through his heart and out his back as if all were angelfood cake.

Love is a decision. It's not an emotion that we see on movie screens or read about in books. It isn't the dramatic crescendo that leads to happily ever after. Love is hard work. It's the decision you make, knowing your differences, knowing your flaws, but choosing anyway, because you can't imagine life without that person.

«Sticazzi!» aggiunse Italo. Rocco picchiò un pugno sul tavolo. «Allora, bisogna che qui al nord cominciate ad imparare l'uso esatto dei termini e delle locuzioni romane. Sticazzi si usa quando di una cosa non te ne frega niente. Per esempio: Lo sai che Saint-Vincent ha 4.000 abitanti? Sticazzi, puoi dire. Cioè, chissenefrega. Come lo usate voi, Italo, è sbagliato. Devi cercare un ago in un pagliaio? Allora devi dire: mecojoni! Mecojoni indica stupore, lo usi per dire: accidenti! Capisci la differenza Italo? Non puoi usare sticazzi per esprimere meraviglia, sorpresa. Sticazzi lo usi per dire chissenefrega. Ho vinto alla lotteria 40 milioni di euro? Mecojoni, devi dire! Se dici sticazzi significa: non me ne frega niente. Ecco. Ricominciamo. Deruta e D'Intino devono cercare tutti i trans di Aosta e provincia. Tu che devi dire?». «Mei cojoni?». «Me cojoni» lo corresse. «Me cojoni». «Bravo Italo. Invece che a Courmayeur c'è la funivia?». «Sticazzi». «Perfetto. Hai appena imparato l'articolo sette della costituzione romana che recita: uno sticazzi al momento giusto risolve mille problemi.

Il Consiglio dei Topi Un Gatto, che diceano il Mangialardo, facea dei Topi un così gran macello, e tanti nell’avello n’avea sospinti e sbigottiti tanti, che i pochi vivi ancora non osavano il muso cacciar fuora. Quatti nei buchi sen morian di fame, tanta paura avean di quel, non gatto, ma carnefice infame. Un giorno tuttavia, colto il momento che il gatto andò a far visita all’amante e stette in alto tutta la giornata, si radunano i Topi a parlamento. Il presidente ch’era una persona di gran senno, propose, e parve bello a tutti il suo consiglio, che si attaccasse al gatto un campanello, un campanel che suona e dia l’avviso ai topi di fuggire, quando il nemico accenna di venire. - Bravo, bene, benissimo! – Ciascuno approva la mozione. Ma quando si trattò di sceglier quello che attaccare doveva il campanello, non si trovò nessuno. O fossi matto… io no… fossi corbello… Vedendo ch’era chiacchiera perduta, il presidente leva la seduta. Ho veduto qualche altro parlamento, (non di topi) e qualche altra commissione che venne alla precisa conclusione. A ciarlar son bravi in cento, ma diverso è ben l’affare quando trattasi di fare.

Castle Bravo had been built according to the “Teller-Ulam” scheme—named for its co-designers, Edward Teller and Stanislaw Ulam—which meant, unlike with the far less powerful atomic bomb, this hydrogen bomb had been designed to hold itself together for an extra hundred-millionth of a second, thereby allowing its hydrogen isotopes to fuse and create a chain reaction of nuclear energy, called fusion, producing a potentially infinite amount of power, or yield. “What this meant,” Freedman explains, was that there was “a one-in-one-million chance that, given how much hydrogen [is] in the earth’s atmosphere, when Castle Bravo exploded, it could catch the earth’s atmosphere on fire. Some scientists were extremely nervous. Some made bets about the end of the world.

It’s our turf,” the younger woman barked. “Actually it’s my turf.” The thugs spun to me. “Let’s see . . . You’re hassling people in my territory, so you owe me a fee. A couple of fingers ought to do it. Do we have a volunteer?” The small thug pulled a bowie knife from a sheath on his waist. I kept coming. “That’s a mistake.” The thug crouched down. He clenched his knife, like he was drowning and it was a straw that would pull him out. A little crazy light danced in his eyes. “Come on, whore. Come on.” The oldest bluff in the book: get a crazy glimmer in your eyes, look like you’re ready to fight, and the other guy might back off. Heh. “That might work better for you if you held the knife properly. You were doing okay until you pulled the blade. Now I know that you have no clue how to use it and I’ll have to chop your hand off and shove that knife up your ass just to teach you a lesson. Nothing personal. I have a reputation to uphold.” I pulled Slayer out. I had years of practice to back me up and I made the draw fast. The two bravos behind the knife-wielding thug backed away. I looked at Slayer’s blade. “Well, check this out. Mine is bigger. Let’s go, knife-master. I don’t have all day.

Svoboda slova je pěkná věc; míň pěkné je, že přitom je – mimochodem ovšem – také svobodou žvanění a drzosti. Svoboda tisku je krásná a drahocenná věc; bohužel, že přitom je také svobodou lhaní a sprostoty. Z osobního přesvědčení jsem pro naprostou svobodu tisku; ale čtu-li někdy ty nebo ony noviny, cítím proti vlastním zásadám, že tohle či onohle by se přece jen nemělo pouštět na světlo denní, ne proto, že je to příliš statečné, ale proto, že je to příliš pitomé. Volnost slova, ano! volnost pro každou velkou, a třeba divou, a třeba drtivou myšlenku; ale co nás přitom ochrání před volnou a surovou hloupostí? Volnost mínění, zajisté! ale co nás uchrání před omezeností a zdivočilostí fanatiků kterékoliv politické polopravdy? Volnost politické akce, bravo! ale – znamená to i volnost šílenství či bídnosti?

With this warning, Mussolini demanded and was given authority to do just about whatever he wanted; but his initial priority, surprisingly, was good government. He knew that citizens were fed up with a bureaucracy that seemed to grow bigger and less efficient each year, so he insisted on daily roll calls in ministry offices and berated employees for arriving late to work or taking long lunches. He initiated a campaign to drenare la palude (“drain the swamp”) by firing more than 35,000 civil servants. He repurposed Fascist gangs to safeguard rail cargo from thieves. He allocated money to build bridges, roads, telephone exchanges, and giant aqueducts that brought water to arid regions. He gave Italy an eight-hour workday, codified insurance benefits for the elderly and disabled, funded prenatal health care clinics, established seventeen hundred summer camps for children, and dealt the Mafia a blow by suspending the jury system and short-circuiting due process. With no jury members to threaten and judges answerable directly to the state, the courts were as incorruptible as they were docile. Contrary to legend, the dictator didn’t quite succeed in making the trains run on time, but he earned bravos for trying.

Bruto non si allontanò, e per diversi minuti rimasero entrambi lì in piedi, mano nella mano, il respiro che risuonava contro le pareti della cella. Bruto non fu neanche particolarmente sorpreso quando Gray chinò la testa e, evitando la mano insaponata, premette le labbra sul suo grosso avambraccio. “Gra…zie, Bruto.” “Non è il mio nome.” Chiaramente non era padrone della propria lingua. Ma Gray si limitò ad alzare la testa. “Come?” “Bruto. Mi chiamano così. Mi chiamano tutti così da quando… da quando ero un bambino. Ma non è il mio vero nome.” A volte se lo dimenticava. Pensava a se stesso come a Bruto, e l’ultima persona a chiamarlo con il suo vero nome era stata sua madre, subito prima di morire. Lo aveva abbracciato e baciato sulla testa, e lo aveva chiamato ‘bravo ragazzo’, prima di avvelenarsi. “Co-co… come ti chiami?” la voce di Gray era calma. “Aric. Sono Aric.” Gray sorrise. “Ciao, Aric.

Parlammo dei vari reparti che c’erano in giro. Simeone pareva sollecito e conciliante. «C’è posto anche per i badogliani» disse a un certo punto. «Il posto c’è» dissi io; «ma dove sono i badogliani?» «No» disse lui. «I badogliani che dico io siete voi.» «Tanti saluti» disse Enrico: «firmato Badoglio»; e si avviò con Dante per tornare al campo. L’uomo disse che doveva andare anche lui per le sue strade, ma io gli dissi: «Aspetta un momento», e mi misi a polemizzare con una certa foga. «Stammi bene a sentire» gli dissi. «Noi non siamo badogliani, anzi siamo nemici personali di Badoglio. Badoglio è una carogna.» Gli spiegai ben bene le mie vedute sul maresciallo e sui suoi colleghi, inoltre sul Re Imperatore e sul Principe di Piemonte; aggiunsi un appendice sui principini. «Dunque,» conclusi «se voi mettete fuori la chiacchiera che noi siamo badogliani, noi diremo che voi siete troskisti. Lo sai chi era Trotzki?» «Era una carogna» disse Simeone. «Sbagliato» dissi. «Era il creatore dell’Armata Rossa, il più bravo dei compagni di Lenin; era bravo più o meno come Lenin, e ancora più brillante.» «Non sarete mica troskisti?» disse Simeone. «Ma sì» dissi; «l’ala troskista dei badogliani.» «Dimmelo tu cosa siete» disse lui; io fui tentato di dirgli: deviazionisti crociani di sinistra, ma poi gli dissi brevemente che eravamo studenti, e con chi eravamo lì, e perché.

«Il mio problema?» «Sì! Il tuo problema. Perché sei mister Bravo Ragazzo con tutti gli altri e con me un maledetto stronzo?» «Non solo con te.»« Anche con Nicky. Cazzo. Mi puoi svelare cosa ha fatto uno di noi due a Sua Altezza Reale del rock ‘n’ roll per comportarti così?» «Con lui, è semplice: non mi piace. Con te, c’è molto di più.» «Cosa? Io non ti piaccio, e allora sono insulti su insulti? Ottimo.» «Tu sei un treno impazzito, okay? Un cliché. Sei l’incarnazione di ogni battuta mai detta sulle vecchie rock star sbandate, e non ti rendi nemmeno conto di quanto tu sia penoso. Sì, sono attratto da te. No, non voglio fare nulla. Odio che il mio corpo reagisca al tuo, perché non voglio avere niente a che fare con quel gran casino che è Shane Ventura. Niente.» Shane si mise comodo, poggiandosi ai cuscini del sedile, sotto shock. Dio, è orribile. Avrebbe voluto poter tornare indietro, non fare domande, scendere da quella cazzo di limousine, e non dover mai più vedere l’uomo che aveva davanti

Sarebbe stato molto più semplice andarsene via prima che tutto precipitasse, rovinando ogni cosa, prima che iniziassero a odiarsi, ma Dusk non aveva smesso di fare domande, come se volesse davvero capire che cosa avesse sbagliato. Era snervante. Era qualcosa a cui non era abituato. E poi Abe si era sentito in colpa per non essere la solita persona sempre gradevole con tutti. Comunque, Abe non poteva preoccuparsi dei sentimenti altrui. Non era mai stato bravo a mantenere un’amicizia o a soddisfare le aspettative della gente. Abituato com’era a spostarsi di continuo, le persone che lo circondavano non avevano il tempo di stancarsi di lui. Non dovevano cacciarlo via, perché era sempre lui il primo a lasciarle. Tuttavia, aveva commesso un errore, aveva dimenticato le lezioni che aveva imparato, e adesso era legato agli Underdogs… a Dusk, e non aveva idea di quando quell’avventura si sarebbe trasformata in sabbie mobili che avrebbero continuato a risucchiarlo sempre più giù, finché un giorno gli avrebbero impedito di respirare

- Tu crois ça ? Alors, pour toi, les choses sont simples : il y a les bons et les méchants ? Quelle chance tu as ! Tiens, si tu avais le choix au moment des élections entre trois candidats : le premier à moitié paralysé par la polio, souffrant d'hypertension, d'anémie et de nombreuses pathologies lourdes, menteur à l'occasion, consultant une astrologue, trompant sa femme, fumant des cigarettes à la chaîne et buvant trop de martinis ; le deuxième obèse, ayant déjà perdu trois élections, fait une dépression et deux crises cardiaques, fumant des cigares et s'imbibant le soir au champagne, au porto, au cognac et au whisky avant de prendre deux somnifères ; le troisième enfin un héros de guerre décoré, respectant les femmes, aimant les animaux, ne buvant qu'une bière de temps en temps et ne fumant pas, lequel choisirais-tu ? Servaz sourit. - Je suppose que vous vous attendez à ce que je réponde le troisième ? - Eh bien bravo, tu viens de rejeter Roosevelt et Churchill et d'élire Adolf Hitler. Tu vois : les choses ne sont jamais ce qu'elles paraissent.

The capitalist-imperialist governments, even though they themselves are about to be plundered, will not fight with any conviction against Fascism as such. Our rulers, those of them who understand the issue, would probably prefer to hand over every square inch of the British Empire to Italy, Germany, and Japan than to see Socialism triumphant. It was easy to laugh at Fascism when we imagined that it was based on hysterical nationalism, because it seemed obvious that the Fascist states, each regarding itself as the chosen people and patriotic contra mundum, would clash with one another. But nothing of the kind is happening. Fascism is now an international movement, which means not only that the Fascist nations can combine for the purposes of loot, but that they are groping, perhaps only half consciously as yet, toward a world-system. For the vision of the totalitarian state there is being substituted the vision of the totalitarian world. As I pointed out earlier, the advance of machine-technique must lead ultimately to some form of collectivism, but that form need not necessarily be equalitarian; that is, it need not be Socialism. Pace the economists, it is quite possible to imagine a world-society, economically collectivist–that is, with the profit principle eliminated–but will all political, military, and educational power in the hands of a small caste of rulers and their bravos. That or something like it is the objective of Fascism. And that, of course, is the slave-state, or rather the slave-world; it would probably be a stable form of society, and the chances are, considering the enormous wealth of the world if scientifically exploited, that the slaves would be well-fed and contented.

Había un grupo de personas, hombres y mujeres, viejos y jóvenes, todos vestidos con los trajes más extraños y sin hablar. En el suelo había un montón de grandes dados, y en los seis lados de cada dado había letras. Una y otra vez, aquellas personas revolvían los dados y luego los contemplaban fijamente largo tiempo. - ¿Qué hacen? -susurró Bastián-. ¿Qué clase de juego es ése? ¿Cómo se llama? - Es el juego de la arbitrariedad -respondió Árgax. Les hizo señas a los jugadores y gritó-: ¡Bravo, muchachos! ¡Adelante! ¡No os detengáis! Luego se volvió a Bastián y le cuchicheó al oído: - Ya no saben narrar. Han perdido el lenguaje. Por eso he inventado ese juego para ellos. Como ves, los entretiene. Y es muy fácil. Si lo piensas, tendrás que admitir que todas las historias del mundo, en el fondo, se componen sólo de veintiséis letras. Las letras son siempre las mismas y sólo cambia su combinación. Con las letras se hacen palabras, con las palabras frases, con las frases capítulos y con los capítulos historias. Mira, ¿qué pone ahí? Bastián leyó: HGIKLOPFMWEZVXQ, ZXCVBNMASDFGHJKLÑ, QWERTYUIOP... -Sí -se rió sofocadamente Árgax-, casi siempre pasa eso. Pero si se juega mucho tiempo, durante años, surgen a veces, por casualidad, palabras. No palabras especialmente ingeniosas, pero por lo menos palabras. «Calambrespinaca», por ejemplo, o «choricepillo», o «pintacuellos». Sin embargo, si se sigue jugando cien años, mil años, cien mil años, con toda probabilidad saldrá una vez, por casualidad, un poema. Y si se juega eternamente tendrán que surgir todos los poemas, todas las historias posibles, y luego todas las historias de historias, incluida ésta en la que precisamente estamos hablando. ¿Es lógico, no? - Es horrible -dijo Bastián.

Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did so for his pleasures. I was the first that could plod in the public eye with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a schoolboy, strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was complete. Think of it-I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door, give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Henry Jekyll. The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centered on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered.

POMPIERUL: Nu vreţi să vă spun nişte poveşti? DOAMNA SMITH: Vai, cum să nu, sunteţi o comoară. (îl îmbrăţişează.) DOMNUL SMITH, DOAMNA MARTIN, DOMNUL MARTIN: Da, da, poveşti, bravo, bravo! (Aplaudă.) POMPIERUL: Interesant e că poveştile pompierilor sunt toate adevărate şi trăite. POMPIERUL: Vorbesc despre lucruri pe care le-am trăit pe pielea mea. Realitatea şi numai realitatea. Nimic din cărţi. DOMNUL MARTIN: Aşa e, nu în cărţi găseşti adevărul, ci în viaţă. DOAMNA SMITH: Daţi-i drumul! DOMNUL MARTIN: Daţi-i drumul! DOAMNA MARTIN: Linişte, începe. POMPIERUL tuşeşte de mai multe ori: Iertaţi-mă, dar nu vă mai uitaţi aşa la mine. Mă jenez. Ştiţi că sunt timid. DOAMNA SMITH: Ce comoară de om! (Îl îmbrăţişează.) POMPIERUL: Încerc totuşi să încep. Dar promiteţi-mi că nu ascultaţi. DOAMNA MARTIN: Păi, dacă nu ascultăm, n-auzim nimic. POMPIERUL: La asta nu m-am gândit! DOAMNA SMITH: V-am zis eu: are suflet de copil. DOMNUL MARTIN, DOMNUL SMITH: Vai ce copil mic şi scump! (îl îmbrăţişează.) DOAMNA MARTIN: Curaj. POMPIERUL: Bine. (Tuşeşte, apoi începe cu o voce tremu-rând de emoţie.) Câinele şi boul, fabulă experimentală: „într-o bună zi, alt bou l-a întrebat pe alt câine: «Tu de ce nu ţi-ai înghiţit trompa? — Pardon, i-a răspuns câinele, am crezut că-s elefant.»

- Quindi mia madre aveva già capito…- Hale stava sorridendo perspicace. - Capito cosa? - le frasi sibilline erano proprio una caratteristica di famiglia. - Che mi ero innamorato di te, doveva già averlo intuito quando sono venuto a casa tua la prima volt…- Brian gli prese il viso tra le mani e lo avvicinò ancora di più. - Sei… innamorato di me? Tu… hai appena detto che mi ami? Hale, ne sei sicuro? Perché io sono pazzo di te, e non sarà facile con il tuo carattere, ma è con te che voglio stare, solo con te, anche se mi farai impazzire, lo so già - lo baciò delicatamente, sorridendo di fronte al suo sguardo accigliato. - Guarda che anche tu mi fai impazzire, mi hai sempre risposto a tono e non hai mai fatto niente per compiacermi, anzi… sembrava che ti comportassi a quel modo per stuzzicarmi. E questa cosa mi ha colpito fin dalla prima volta che ti ho visto, mi chiedevo perché non avessi paura dei miei… cambiamenti d’umore, sembravi… divertirti a rispondermi, e mi hai intrigato. Dovevo scoprire cosa c’era sotto quell’aria da bravo ragazzo tutto studio e basta, e sono contento di averlo fatto. Adesso però non andrai più da nessuna parte senza di me… mi sono sentito perso senza di te - per la prima volta vide l’imbarazzo sul bellissimo viso di Hale, e qualcosa di caldo e dolce gli invase il petto, gli aveva mostrato la sua vulnerabilità

Jesse trattenne il respiro. Respira… respira. Era solo Shane. Era sempre solo Shane. Il problema era che Shane non era mai stato “solo” qualcosa. Era iniziata come il ragazzo più spaventoso che Jesse avesse mai conosciuto, per diventare il suo primo e vero amico, e poi… Beh, poi c’era stata la patetica cotta che aveva preso per Shane praticamente da subito. Già. “Solo Shane” era una balla.Shane era tutto per lui, lo era stato fin dall’inizio. Jesse sapeva che anche Shane gli voleva bene, ma non in quel modo. Assolutamente non in quel modo. Fissò il quaderno di appunti. Si sentiva a disagio vicino al suo miglior amico, per la prima volta da quando si erano seduti insieme in biblioteca il giorno in cui si erano conosciuti, Shane imbronciato e arrabbiato, Jesse terrorizzato a morte. Quel disagio non era niente del genere. Allora era tutto un «ti prego, non pugnalarmi con la penna!» mescolato a un po’ di «accidenti, sarebbe uno schianto se non fosse un coglione simile».Non più. Adesso era quel momento, era al punto in cui Jesse non credeva sarebbe riuscito a passare altri due anni nell’attesa di rivelare a Shane ciò che provava. Si rendeva conto – diavolo, era evidente! – che un “lui e Shane” non ci sarebbe mai stato, ma più se lo teneva dentro, più avrebbe cominciato a comportarsi in modo strano. Non era mai stato bravo ad avere dei segreti

En un pergamino de una vara de alto el bufon mojando su pluma de pavo real en purpurina escribio el dodecalogo de la ley de venus que se fue inventando poco a poco en sus ratos libres i) la procreacion no es un instinto ii) la procreacion es la consecuencia ii a) ni siquiera obligada ii b) casi siempre temida ii c) con frecuencia evitada iii) la procreacion puede ser un anhelo iii a) de orden intelectual iii b) no intuitivo iv) la copula se realiza no pensando en el posible hijo por venir sino en iv a) la complacencia del amante iv b) la satisfaccion de la libido ya que v) innumeros gestos sexuales no son fecundos vi) la copula se perfecciona en si misma no en ningun otro fin ulterior y distinto vii) en la sola idea contraria duerme el huevo de los metodos que evitan el fruto vii a) tangible vii b) no espiritual huidizo amoroso viii) el hijo puede desearse pero su presencia viii a) acontece al margen del instinto sexual e incluso viii b) puede llegar a ser su precio ix) la naturaleza en su sabiduria ix a) brinda al hijo como premio que se otorga a ella misma ix b) encela al macho y a la hembra con el señuelo del deleite sexual x) el instinto sexual x a) no cesa con la noticia del embarazo x b) salta todas las barreras x c) vive y muere con el individuo y en el xi) el amor es un sentimiento bravo xii) el cariño es un sentimiento manso y bonancible

Bless me, readers, for I have published. It's been five years since my last book. Greetings, fellow sinners! If you picked up a copy of this book, it means you are either: 1) wracked with guilt and are looking for penance, or 2) need to spend over $10.00 at the airport newsstand so you can use your credit card. Either way, welcome to Stephen Colbert's Midnight Confessions. As America's foremost TV Catholic, it was natural for me to do a segment inspired by the church. After all, the Catholic Church and late night TV actually have a lot in common: our shows last about an hour, we're obsessed with reaching younger demographics, and the hosts are almost always men. This religious-adjacent tome contains all my favorite confessions from The Late Show. These are things that aren't necessarily sins, but I do feel guilty about them. For instance, repackaging material from the show and selling it in a book. I've always been a big fan of confession. The confessional is a great place to go to relieve yourself of your sins. Unless you're claustrophobic, in which case it's a suffocating death trap of despair! And while most confession books just give you run-of-the-mill mortal sins, I go one step further and provide you with mortal sins, venial sins, deadly sins, and even sins of omission (Notice that the previous sentence didn't have a period!) This book is a throwback to a simpler life when people would go to a priest to confess their sins. As opposed to how it's done now - getting drunk and weeping to Andy Cohen on Bravo. Confessing your sins is a great way to get things off your chest. Second only to waxing. The only downside is that you get introduced to it as a kid, before you have any juicy sins to confess. Oh, you stole a cookie? That's adorable, Becky. Come back when you total your dad's Chevy. Now you might be asking yourself, "What if I'm not Catholic - can I still enjoy this book?" Of course. After all, no matter what religion you are - be it Jewish, Muslim, Lutheran, Pagan, or SoulCycle - we all have things to feel guilty about. For example, not being Catholic.

Encouraged by her parents’ applause, the girl went on: “Do you think we take off our tops to give you pleasure? We do it for ourselves, because we like it, because it feels better, because it brings our bodies nearer to the sun! You’re only capable of seeing us as sex objects!” Again Papa and Mama Clevis applauded, but this time their bravos had a somewhat different tone. Their daughter’s words were indeed right, but also somewhat inappropriate for a fourteen-year-old. It was like an eight-year-old boy saying: “If there’s a holdup, Mama, I’ll defend you.” Then too the parents applaud, because their son’s statement is clearly praiseworthy. But since it also shows excessive self-assurance, the praise is rightly shaded by a certain smile. With such a smile the Clevis parents had tinged their second bravos, and their daughter, who had heard that smile in their voices and did not approve of it, repeated with irritated obstinacy: “That’s over and done with. I’m not anybody’s sex object.” Without smiling, the parents merely nodded, not wanting to incite their daughter any further. Jan, however, could not resist saying: “My dear girl, if you only knew how easy it is not to be a sex object.” He uttered these words softly, but with such sincere sorrow that they resounded in the room for a long while. They were words difficult to pass over in silence, but it was not possible to respond to them either. They did not deserve approval, not being progressive, but neither did they deserve argument, because they were not obviously against progress. There were the worst words possible, because they were situated outside the debate conducted by the spirit of the time. They were words beyond good and evil, perfectly incongruous words.

I cooked with so many of the greats: Tom Colicchio, Eric Ripert, Wylie Dufresne, Grant Achatz. Rick Bayless taught me not one but two amazing mole sauces, the whole time bemoaning that he never seemed to know what to cook for his teenage daughter. Jose Andres made me a classic Spanish tortilla, shocking me with the sheer volume of viridian olive oil he put into that simple dish of potatoes, onions, and eggs. Graham Elliot Bowles and I made gourmet Jell-O shots together, and ate leftover cheddar risotto with Cheez-Its crumbled on top right out of the pan. Lucky for me, Maria still includes me in special evenings like this, usually giving me the option of joining the guests at table, or helping in the kitchen. I always choose the kitchen, because passing up the opportunity to see these chefs in action is something only an idiot would do. Susan Spicer flew up from New Orleans shortly after the BP oil spill to do an extraordinary menu of all Gulf seafood for a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner Maria hosted to help the families of Gulf fishermen. Local geniuses Gil Langlois and Top Chef winner Stephanie Izard joined forces with Gale Gand for a seven-course dinner none of us will ever forget, due in no small part to Gil's hoisin oxtail with smoked Gouda mac 'n' cheese, Stephanie's roasted cauliflower with pine nuts and light-as-air chickpea fritters, and Gale's honey panna cotta with rhubarb compote and insane little chocolate cookies. Stephanie and I bonded over hair products, since we have the same thick brown curls with a tendency to frizz, and the general dumbness of boys, and ended up giggling over glasses of bourbon till nearly two in the morning. She is even more awesome, funny, sweet, and genuine in person than she was on her rock-star winning season on Bravo. Plus, her food is spectacular all day. I sort of wish she would go into food television and steal me from Patrick. Allen Sternweiler did a game menu with all local proteins he had hunted himself, including a pheasant breast over caramelized brussels sprouts and mushrooms that melted in your mouth (despite the occasional bit of buckshot). Michelle Bernstein came up from Miami and taught me her white gazpacho, which I have since made a gajillion times, as it is probably one of the world's perfect foods.

I saw her as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. This beautiful woman with a gigantic smile on her face was just about bouncing up and down despite the orthopedic boot she had on her foot as she waved me into a parking space. I felt like I’d been hit in the gut. She took my breath away. She was dressed in workout clothes, her long brown hair softly framing her face, and she just glowed. I composed myself and got out of the car. She was standing with Paul Orr, the radio host I was there to meet. Local press had become fairly routine for me at this point, so I hadn’t really given it much thought when I agreed to be a guest on the afternoon drive-time show for WZZK. But I had no idea I’d meet her. Paul reached out his hand and introduced himself. And without waiting to be introduced she whipped out her hand and said, “Hi! I’m Jamie Boyd!” And right away she was talking a mile a minute. She was so chipper I couldn’t help but smile. I was like that little dog in Looney Toons who is always following the big bulldog around shouting, “What are we going to do today, Spike?” She was adorable. She started firing off questions, one of which really caught my attention. “So you were in the Army? What was your MOS?” she asked. Now, MOS is a military term most civilians have never heard. It stands for Military Occupational Specialty. It’s basically military code for “job.” So instead of just asking me what my job was in the Army, she knew enough to specifically ask me what my MOS was. I was impressed. “Eleven Bravo. Were you in?” I replied. “Nope! But I’ve thought about it. I still think one day I will join the Army.” We followed Paul inside and as he set things up and got ready for his show, Jamie and I talked nonstop. She, too, was really into fitness. She was dressed and ready for the gym and told me she was about to leave to get in a quick workout before her shift on-air. “Yeah, I have the shift after Paul Orr. The seven-to-midnight show. I call it the Jammin’ with Jamie Show. People call in and I’ll ask them if they’re cryin’, laughin’, lovin’, or leavin’.” I couldn’t believe how into this girl I was, and we’d only been talking for twenty minutes. I was also dressed in gym clothes, because I’d been to the gym earlier. She looked down and saw the rubber bracelet around my wrist. “Is that an ‘I Am Second’ bracelet? I have one of those!” she said as she held up her wrist with the band that means, “I am second after Jesus.” “No, this is my own bracelet with my motto, ‘Train like a Machine,’ on it. Just my little self-motivator. I have some in my car. I’d love to give you one.” “Well, actually, I am about to leave. I have to go work out before my shift,” she reminded me. “You can have this one. Take it off my wrist. This one will be worth more someday because I’ve been sweating in it,” I joked. She laughed and took it off my wrist. We kept chatting and she told me she had wanted to do an obstacle course race for a long time. Then Paul interrupted our conversation and gently reminded Jamie he had a show to do. He and I needed to start our interview. She laughed some more and smiled her way out the door.