Cat References Quotes

Are you here for a reason, Cheshire? Why, yes, I would enjoy a cup of tea. I take mine with lots of cream, and no tea. Thank you.

Hello?’ M-Bot said. ‘Spensa? Are you dead?’ ‘Maybe.’ ‘Oooh. Like the cat!’ ‘...What?’ ‘I’m not sure, honestly,’ M-Bot said. ‘But logically, if you’re speaking to me then possibility has collapsed in our favor. Hurray!

After scolding one's cat one looks into its face and is seized by the ugly suspicion that it understood every word. And has filed it for reference.

I thought you didn’t like animals.” “I love animals. Where did you get that idea?” Marmie put her paws on his leg, and he picked her up. “From my dog?” “That’s a dog? Jeez, I’m sorry. I thought it was an industrial-waste accident.” His long, lean fingers slid through the cat’s fur. “Slytherin.” She slapped the lid back onto the flour container. What kind of man liked a cat more than he liked an exceptionally fine French poodle? “What did you call me?” “It’s a literary reference. You wouldn’t understand.” “Harry Potter. And I don’t appreciate name calling.

Imprinting." I heard the smile disappear from Cat's face. "Next." I repeated myself. "Are you referring to Stephenie Meyer's books?" "Yes," I said. A little unwillingly. Cat chuckled. "There's no shame in reading enjoyable books. But this topic is better discussed later." "Got it.

Warning: Contains old friends, old enemies, a dramatic cat rescue, soft drink references and a lot of teasing before the steamy sex. Readers are cautioned against drinking any beverage while reading to avoid accidental snorting or spraying of said beverages.

And Smith, for future reference...’ ‘Yes, sir?’ ‘No cat nip.

I'm bringing body back. Returning corpses, but they're not intact. Kids, this is a Justin Timberlake reference. You're fine not knowing who that is.

Mud ? They're going to put mud on my face ?" "You'll love it." "Whenever the kitties and I played stalk and pounce and we ended up muddy, everyone frowned about it." Surreal grunted softly. Only Jaenelle referred to Jaal and Kaelas, a full-grown tiger and an eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat, as "the kitties"... or voluntarily played games with them to keep their predatory skills honed. "So why is this mud different ?" Jaenelle grumbled. Stretched out on the other table, Surreal turned her head and opened one eye. "It's expensive.

I don't just dare, I quadruple dare.

You just finished a job, as you refer to it. You must be tired and I can only imagine the enervating quality of an added threat of the state pen." "California's state pen is Fisher," Cat said. "It can write upside down, but I think a pencil works better for that.

Anyone can change the direction of his life, any time at all, if only he has enough motivation: that was the moral of the story. The cat found it easier to believe this than to think about what it actually meant: that the word anyone actually referred to a very small group of people, that time has no direction, and that motivation is rarely the salient difference between people.

Matt is a tortured soul,' Amanda insisted. 'He's Heathcliff and you're Cathy. He's Rochester and you're Jane Eyre. He's-' 'Darcy and I'm Elizabeth. I get it. And you're wrong.

..."Papa" referred to Frank five times as: "...the blood son of Dr. Felix Hoenikker." The phrase reeked of cannibalism.

He walked through the woods like a young Adam, naming creation. I learned to shape my mouth to the words—sasumuneash for cranberry, tunockuquas for frog. So many things grew and lived here that were strange to us, because they had not been in England. We named the things of this place in reference to things that were not of this place—cat briar for the thickets of vine whose thorns were narrow and claw-like; lambskill for the low-growing laurel that had proved poisonous to some of our hard-got tegs. But there had been no cats or lambs here until we brought them. So when he named a plant or a creature, I felt that I heard the true name of the thing for the first time.

Mocho was a Spanish word that meant maimed or referred to something that had been lopped off like a stump. To call Homer el mocho was, essentially, to call him "Stumpy" or "the maimed one." It doesn't sound particularly flattering, but among Spanish speakers the giving of nicknames is tantamount to a declaration of love. Things that would sound insulting outright in English were tokens of deep affection when said in Spanish.

I'd like to start this week with a request, and this one goes out to the followers of the three Abrahamic religions: the Muslims, Christians, and Jews. It's just a little thing, really, but do you think that when you've finished smashing up the world and blowing each other to bits and demanding special privileges while you do it, do you think that maybe the rest of us could sort of have our planet back? I wouldn't ask, but I'm starting to think that there must be something written in the special books that each of you so enjoy referring to that it's ok to behave like special, petulant, pugnacious, pricks. Forgive the alliteration, but your persistent, power-mad punch-ups are pissing me off. It's mainly the extremists obviously, but not exclusively. It's a lot of 'main-streamers' as well. Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about. Muslims: listen up my bearded and veily friends! Calm down, ok? Stop blowing stuff up. Not everything that said about you is an attack on the prophet Mohammed and Allah that needs to end in the infidel being destroyed. Have a cup of tea, put on a Cat Stevens record, sit down and chill out. I mean seriously, what's wrong with a strongly-worded letter to The Times? Christians: you and your churches don't get to be millionaires while other people have nothing at all. They're your bloody rules; either stick to them or abandon the faith. And stop persecuting and killing people you judge to be immoral. Oh, and stop pretending you're celibate -- it's a cover-up for being a gay or a nonce. Right, that's two ticked off. Jews! I know you're god's 'Chosen People' and the rest of us are just whatever, but when Israel behaves like a violent, psychopathic bully and someone mentions it that doesn't make them antisemitic. And for the record, your troubled history is not a license to act with impunity now.

Well, what’s all this now?’ exclaimed Woland. ‘Why have you gilded your whiskers? And what the devil do you need the bow-tie for, when you’re not even wearing trousers?’ ‘A cat is not supposed to wear trousers, Messire,’ the cat replied with great dignity. ‘You’re not going to tell me to wear boots, too, are you? Puss-in-Boots exists only in fairy tales, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a bow-tie? I do not intend to put myself in a ridiculous situation and risk being chucked out! Everyone adorns himself with what he can. You may consider what I’ve said as referring to the

I took a step forward. Henry caught my elbow. "No bloodshed," he said. "No blackmail. No obstruction of justice." "You drive a hard bargain," I told him. "What are your thoughts on extortion?" Without waiting for an answer, I headed for Bancroft's car. Henry and Asher followed on my heels. "The cat is dancing in the catnip," Asher reported back to Vivvie. "Grumpy lion is grumpy." "Did you just refer to me as a grumpy lion?" Henry asked Asher. "Absolutely not," Asher promised. Then he took the phone off speaker and lowered his voice. "Suspicious lion is suspicious," he stage whispered to Vivvie.

In 1967, the second resolution to the cat problem was formulated by Nobel laureate Eugene Wigner, whose work was pivotal in laying the foundation of quantum mechanics and also building the atomic bomb. He said that only a conscious person can make an observation that collapses the wave function. But who is to say that this person exists? You cannot separate the observer from the observed, so maybe this person is also dead and alive. In other words, there has to be a new wave function that includes both the cat and the observer. To make sure that the observer is alive, you need a second observer to watch the first observer. This second observer is called “Wigner’s friend,” and is necessary to watch the first observer so that all waves collapse. But how do we know that the second observer is alive? The second observer has to be included in a still-larger wave function to make sure he is alive, but this can be continued indefinitely. Since you need an infinite number of “friends” to collapse the previous wave function to make sure they are alive, you need some form of “cosmic consciousness,” or God. Wigner concluded: “It was not possible to formulate the laws (of quantum theory) in a fully consistent way without reference to consciousness.” Toward the end of his life, he even became interested in the Vedanta philosophy of Hinduism. In this approach, God or some eternal consciousness watches over all of us, collapsing our wave functions so that we can say we are alive. This interpretation yields the same physical results as the Copenhagen interpretation, so this theory cannot be disproven. But the implication is that consciousness is the fundamental entity in the universe, more fundamental than atoms. The material world may come and go, but consciousness remains as the defining element, which means that consciousness, in some sense, creates reality. The very existence of the atoms we see around us is based on our ability to see and touch them.

In the writings of many contemporary psychics and mystics (e.g., Gopi Krishna, Shri Rajneesh, Frannie Steiger, John White, Hal Lindsay, and several dozen others whose names I have mercifully forgotten) there is a repeated prediction that the Earth is about to be afflicted with unprecedented calamities, including every possible type of natural catastrophe from Earthquakes to pole shifts. Most of humanity will be destroyed, these seers inform us cheerfully. This cataclysm is referred to, by many of them, as "the Great Purification" or "the Great Cleansing," and is supposed to be a punishment for our sins. I find the morality and theology of this Doomsday Brigade highly questionable. A large part of the Native American population was exterminated in the 19th century; I cannot regard that as a "Great Cleansing" or believe that the Indians were being punished for their sins. Nor can I think of Hitler's death camps, or Hiroshima or Nagasaki, as "Great Purifications." And I can't make myself believe that the millions killed by plagues, cancers, natural catastrophes, etc., throughout history were all singled out by some Cosmic Intelligence for punishment, while the survivors were preserved due to their virtues. To accept the idea of "God" implicit in such views is logically to hold that everybody hit by a car deserved it, and we should not try to get him to a hospital and save his life, since "God" wants him dead. I don't know who are the worst sinners on this planet, but I am quite sure that if a Higher Intelligence wanted to exterminate them, It would find a very precise method of locating each one separately. After all, even Lee Harvey Oswald -- assuming the official version of the Kennedy assassination -- only hit one innocent bystander while aiming at JFK. To assume that Divinity would employ earthquakes and pole shifts to "get" (say) Richard Nixon, carelessly murdering millions of innocent children and harmless old ladies and dogs and cats in the process, is absolutely and ineluctably to state that your idea of God is of a cosmic imbecile.

The most important thing, the first thing, in understanding anything is to get the name right. If you and I were to have a conversation on any subject, say horses, and you were to refer to them as "dogs" and I were to call them "cats", there is a good chance that misunderstandings might arise—misunderstandings that could never be resolved until we decided to agree on a name for the thing we were talking about.

Time is missing. Nobody mentions anything about this missing time, except my mother. Once in a while she says, “That bad time you had,” and I am puzzled. What is she talking about? I find these references to bad times vaguely threatening, vaguely insulting: I am not the sort of girl who has bad times, I have good times only. There I am, in the Grade Six class picture, smiling broadly. Happy as a clam, is what my mother says for happy. I am happy as a clam: hardshelled, firmly closed.

Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West's handwriting. Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position To Whom It May Concern, I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred. Your servant, Galoshes the Cat Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents' questioning gazes on her. "Job application," she explained sourly. "From the cat." "How charming," Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder. "'Personal companion,' my foot," Phoebe muttered. "This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin." "I wonder," Seraphina said thoughtfully. "If she were truly feral, she wouldn't want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated." Phoebe rolled her eyes. "It seems we'll find out." The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe's lap and curled up with a sigh. "I'd say she's adjusting quite well," Seraphina commented with a grin, and elbowed Phoebe gently. "One never knows who might rise above their disreputable past.

The absence of life is not the same as material privation: we will never again see the same soul occupying the same space. The world refers to them as pets, but that is what we do, not really what they are. Affection pays for itself in proportion to the love we offer, and if the love we lavished on him was any indication, we are inconsolable. The suffering is more on our side now, for he led an enormously happy and productive life, and we are left to remember and agonize. It is all wretchedness now. Grief is the currency for death, leaving us in emotional debt perhaps forever, but love is the tax we happily pay toward the investment of another's company, and we would all rather pay it and be happy and poor than be rich in a friendless life. He is gone, and we are now beholden to him, but we are so much happier for his having been here than we deserve to be. On the death of Ted, beloved cat

A cat is not supposed to wear trousers, Messire," the cat replied with great dignity. "You're not going to tell me to wear boots, too, are you? Puss-in-Boots exists only in fairy tales, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a bow-tie? I do not intend to put myself in a ridiculous situation and risk being chucked out! Everyone adorns himself with what he can. You may consider what I've said as referring to the opera glasses as well, Messire!

Niciodata n-am visat mult. Ceea ce inseamna din cate inteleg ca pur si simplu nu-mi amintesc visele, fiindca de visat visam tot timpul cat dormim sau cel putin asa se spune. E ca si cum as avea un televizor la care nu se uita nimeni si care imi palpaie in cap cat e noaptea de lunga. Canalul viselor. As vrea sa pot sa trag toata chestia asta pe video. Poate ca atunci mi-as da cat de cat seama ce se intampla cu mine. Si nu ma refer la genunchi, ci la cap. La minte. La suflet.

Warning: “Good Intentions” contains violence, explicit sex, nudity, inappropriate use of church property, portrayals of beings divine and demonic bearing little or no resemblance to established religion or mythology, trespassing, bad language, sacrilege, blasphemy, attempted murder, arguable murder, divinely mandated murder, justifiable murder, filthy murder, sexual promiscuity, kidnapping, attempted rape, arson, dead animals, desecrated graves, gang activity, theft, assault and battery, panties, misuse of the 911 system, fantasy depictions of sorcery and witchcraft, multiple references to various matters of fandom, questionable interrogation tactics, cell phone abuse, reckless driving, consistent abuse of vampires (because they deserve it), even more explicit sex, illegal use of firearms within city limits, polyamory, abuse of authority, hit and run driving, destruction of private property, underage drinking, disturbances of the peace, disorderly conduct, internet harassment, bearers of false witness, mayhem, dismemberment, falsification of records, tax evasion, an uncomfortably sexy mother, bad study habits, and a very silly white guy inappropriately calling another white guy “nigga” (for which he will surely suffer). All characters depicted herein are over the age of 18, with the exception of one little girl who merely needs to get her cat out of a tree. Don’t worry, nothing bad happens to her. She makes it through the story just fine.

He led Jess to a painting of a Black woman selling flowers. She leaned in and read the wall plate. “Frédéric Bazille, Young Woman with Peonies. I don’t know this artist.” “He was in the outer circle of the French Impressionists. Look how she offers the bouquet to a potential client, but she doesn’t seem to care if he buys them or not. She’s got that little frown line between her eyes—see, there?—‘Take it or leave it, mister’—as if she’s impatient that he can’t make up his mind. She’s not a bit ingratiating. And the peonies, of course, are Bazille’s bisou to Manet, who was the leader of the French avant-garde at the time. Manet loved peonies, cultivated them. There’s a peony at the center of the bouquet that the Black servant is offering the prostitute in Manet’s Olympia. That painting was at the height of its notoriety when Bazille painted this one. Everyone in the Paris art world would’ve got the reference.” “A Black servant in Olympia? I only remember the scowly White nude, and how upset everyone was that Manet didn’t paint her in a classical style.” Theo pulled out his cell phone and called up the image with a few taps. “Here,” he said, handing it to Jess. “Wow. I’ve looked at that picture dozens of times. How could I not have noticed her?” Theo frowned. “I’d be surprised, I guess, except that I once sat through a forty-minute lecture on that painting and the professor didn’t mention her. He spent more time on the black cat at the nude’s feet than the interesting woman who occupies half the canvas. I call it the Invisible Man effect, or in this case, Invisible Woman. Which is kind of the whole point of my work. To say, Hey, we’re here. We’ve always been here.

America” came from a massive jam,’ Wendy told me. ‘We were playing and rehearsing for hours and hours and we hit on this one groove that we continued to play for five hours, and then subsequent days afterwards we kept referring back to it, and then Prince came in and did that “America” solo and started singing and it turned into the song we know. To this day, we can put that track on and feel that band’s energy and feel what we were like at our best together – a fucking freight train. No one was like “psst … psst … psst”, like those cats he plays with now. It was just a massive freight train, and no one moved from the tracks. I’m really proud of that song. It’s a perfect representation of Prince and The Revolution.

Why didn't I feel like this when we were actually together?" "Maybe... maybe your mango wasn't ripe." I squinted at Cat. "I'm not following. You're going to have to take me there." "There's a part in You've Got Mail when Kathleen and Joe have been hanging out together. Joe knows their online identities, but she doesn't. And they go to the farmers' market, and before parting ways she says, 'I hope your mango's ripe,' and he gives her this considering look and tells her that he thinks it is." "That is a very obscure reference." "The point is, the mango was a metaphor for their relationship. He'd waited until she'd grown and softened under the sunlight, and once she'd gotten there, he made his move---both before and after revealing his identity.

But her nose is exceedingly large. It gives the impression that it has been stolen from someone else and thereafter fastened in the center of her face. It is as if a large, stone lantern from some major shrine had been moved to a tiny ten-square-meter garden. It certainly asserts its own importance, but yet looks out of place. It could almost be termed hooked: it begins by jutting sharply out, but then, halfway along its length, it suddenly turns shy so that its tip, bereft of the original vigour, hangs limply down to peer into the mouth below. Her nose is such that, when she speaks, it is the nose rather than the mouth which seems to be in action. Indeed, in homage to the enormity of that organ, I shall refer hence forward to its owner as Madam Conk.

Thus three conclusions emerge from the eye story: (1) it is easier to inherit a ‘vision acquisition device’ than a full-blown hard-wired visual analyser; (2) the visual analyser, once ‘set up’, is refractory to radical restructuring—hence the existence of a critical period in its development in cats; (3) the eye seems to have evolved in steps from a light-sensitive, innervated cell to our complex organ by common evolutionary mechanisms. Something similar may have been taking place in evolution of the language organ, and may be occurring during individual development. An argument, put forward forcefully by Noam Chomsky and his followers, refers to the ‘poverty of stimulus’. Most permutations of word order and grammatical items in a sentence leads to incomprehensible gibberish. There is no way that children could learn without some internal ‘guide’ which sentence is grammatical and which is not, only on the basis of heard examples. To make matters worse, many parents do not correct their children’s grammatical mistakes (they seem to be much more worried about the utterance of four-letter words). Recent investigations clearly confirm that children’s ‘instinctive’ understanding of grammatical intricacies, between the ages 2 and 4, is far better than one would expect from a conventional learning mechanism. Thus there seems to be a ‘language acquisition device’ (LAD) in the brain, which must be triggered by linguistic input so that its working ultimately leads to proper language. It is the LAD, and not a fully developed linguistic processor, which seems to be innate.

Of course, people find beauty in things without wet noses, too. But there is something unique about the ways in which we fall in love with animals. Unwieldy dogs and minuscule dogs and long-haired and sleek dogs, snoring Saint Bernards, asthmatic pugs, unfolding shar-peis, and depressed-looking basset hounds - each with devoted fans. Bird-watchers spend frigid mornings scanning skies and scrub for the feathered objects of their fascination. Cat lovers display an intensity lacking - thank goodness - in most human relationships. Children’s books are constellated with rabbits and mice and bears and caterpillars, not to mention spiders, crickets, and alligators. Nobody ever had a plush toy shaped like a rock, and when the most enthusiastic stamp collector refers to loving stamps, it is an altogether different kind of affection.

I Won’t Write Your Obituary You asked if you could call to say goodbye if you were ever really gonna kill yourself. Sure, but I won’t write your obituary. I’ll commission it from some dead-end journalist who will say things like: “At peace… Better place… Fought the good fight…” Maybe reference the loving embrace of Capital-G-God at least 4 times. Maybe quote Charles fucking Bukowski. And I won’t stop them because I won’t write your obituary. But if you call me, I will write you a new sky, one you can taste. I will write you a D-I-Y cloud maker so on days when you can’t do anything you can still make clouds in whatever shape you want them. I will write you letters, messages in bottles, in cages, in orange peels, in the distance between here and the moon, in forests and rivers and bird songs. I will write you songs. I can’t write music, but I’ll find Rihanna, and I’ll get her to write you music if it will make you want to dance a little longer. I will write you a body whose veins are electricity because outlets are easier to find than good shrinks, but we will find you a good shrink. I will write you 1-800-273-8255, that’s the suicide hotline; we can call it together. And yeah, you can call me, but I won’t tell you it’s okay, that I forgive you. I won’t say “goodbye” or “I love you” one last time. You won’t leave on good terms with me, Because I will not forgive you. I won’t read you your last rights, absolve you of sin, watch you sail away on a flaming viking ship, my hand glued to my forehead. I will not hold your hand steady around a gun. And after, I won’t come by to pick up the package of body parts you will have left specifically for me. I’ll get a call like “Ma’am, what would you have us do with them?” And I’ll say, “Burn them. Feed them to stray cats. Throw them at school children. Hurl them at the sea. I don’t care. I don’t want them.” I don’t want your heart. It’s not yours anymore, it’s just a heart now and I already have one. I don’t want your lungs, just deflated birthday party balloons that can’t breathe anymore. I don’t want a jar of your teeth as a memento. I don’t want your ripped off skin, a blanket to wrap myself in when I need to feel like your still here. You won’t be there. There’s no blood there, there’s no life there, there’s no you there. I want you. And I will write you so many fucking dead friend poems, that people will confuse my tongue with your tombstone and try to plant daisies in my throat before I ever write you an obituary while you’re still fucking here. So the answer to your question is “yes”. If you’re ever really gonna kill yourself, yes, please, call me.

IT is not impossible that among the English readers of this book there may be one who in 1915 and 1916 was in one of those trenches that were woven like a web among the ruins of Monchy-au-Bois. In that case he had opposite him at that time the 73rd Hanoverian Fusiliers, who wear as their distinctive badge a brassard with ' Gibraltar ' inscribed on it in gold, in memory of the defence of that fortress under General Elliot; for this, besides Waterloo, has its place in the regiment's history. At the time I refer to I was a nineteen-year-old lieutenant in command of a platoon, and my part of the line was easily recognizable from the English side by a row of tall shell-stripped trees that rose from the ruins of Monchy. My left flank was bounded by the sunken road leading to Berles-au-Bois, which was in the hands of the English ; my right was marked by a sap running out from our lines, one that helped us many a time to make our presence felt by means of bombs and rifle-grenades. I daresay this reader remembers, too, the white tom-cat, lamed in one foot by a stray bullet, who had his headquarters in No-man's-land. He used often to pay me a visit at night in my dugout. This creature, the sole living being that was on visiting terms with both sides, always made on me an impression of extreme mystery. This charm of mystery which lay over all that belonged to the other side, to that danger zone full of unseen figures, is one of the strongest impressions that the war has left with me. At that time, before the battle of the Somme, which opened a new chapter in the history of the war, the struggle had not taken on that grim and mathematical aspect which cast over its landscapes a deeper and deeper gloom. There was more rest for the soldier than in the later years when he was thrown into one murderous battle after another ; and so it is that many of those days come back to my memory now with a light on them that is almost peaceful.

As associate beauty editor, it was my job to represent the magazine at get-togethers like these: to rub elbows and be pleasant and professional. Seriously, it was the easiest gig in the world! And yet it wasn’t always so easy for me. “I’ll take one of those.” I stopped a dude with a tray of champagne. “Thanks, honey.” “Hi, Cat!” a beauty publicist with a clipboard said. “Thanks so much for coming!” “Good to see you,” I lied. Thunder clapped outside. “The gang’s over there,” she said. The publicist was referring to the usual group of beauty editors—my colleagues. They were from every title you’ve ever heard of: Teen Vogue, Glamour, Elle, Vogue, W, Harper’s Bazaar, InStyle, O, Shape, Self. I attended events alongside them every day, and yet I never felt like I belonged. I’d spent years trying to get into their world: interning, studying mastheads, interviewing all over town. But now that I was one of them, I felt defective—self-conscious and out of place in the dreamy career I’d worked so hard for, and unable to connect with these chic women I’d idolized.

[The Great Gatsby] is a tour de force of revision. So much so that critics, who rarely mention the edit of a book, commented on the quality of Gatsby's rewriting, not just its writing, in reviews. For H. L. Mencken, the novel had 'a careful and brilliant finish. ... There is evidence in every line of hard work and intelligent effort. ... The author wrote, tore up, rewrote, tore up again. There are pages so artfully contrived that one can no more imagine improvising them than one can imagine improvising a fugue.' ... Careful, sound, carefully written, hard effort, wrote and rewrote, artfully contrived not improvised, structure, discipline: all these terms refer, however obliquely, not to the initial act of inspiration, but to editing. Organization and clarity do not dominate the writing process. At some point, though, a writer must pull coherence from confusion, illuminate what lives in shadow, shade what shines too brightly. Gatsby is the cat's meow case study of crossing what Michael Ondaatje calls 'that seemingly uncrossable gulf between an early draft of a book ... and a finished product' - in other words, editing.

KOPI LUWAK In Indonesia, Kopi Luwak refers to coffees that are produced by collecting the droppings of civet cats that have eaten coffee cherries. This semi-digested coffee is separated from the faecal matter and then processed and dried. In the last decade it has come to be seen as an amusing novelty, with unattributed claims of its excellent flavours, and it sells for spectacularly high prices. This has caused two main problems. Firstly, the forgery of this coffee is quite commonplace. Several times more is sold than produced, and often low-grade Robusta is being passed off at high prices. Secondly, it has encouraged unscrupulous operators on the islands to trap and cage civet cats, force-feed them with coffee cherries and keep them in terrible conditions. I find Kopi Luwak abhorrent on just about every level. If you are interested in delicious coffee then it is a terrible waste of money. One-quarter of the money you might spend on a bag could instead buy you a stunning coffee from one of the very best producers in the world. I can only regard the practice as abusive and unethical and I believe people should avoid all animal-processed coffees, and not reward this despicable behaviour with their money.

Elijah’s mission is to return “the so-called Negro” to Islam, to separate the chosen of Allah from this doomed nation. Furthermore, the white man knows his history, knows himself to be a devil, and knows that his time is running out, and all his technology, psychology, science, and “tricknology” are being expended in the effort to prevent black men from hearing the truth. This truth is that at the very beginning of time there was not one white face to be found in all the universe. Black men ruled the earth and the black man was perfect. This is the truth concerning the era that white men now refer to as prehistoric. They want black men to believe that they, like white men, once lived in caves and swung from trees and ate their meat raw and did not have the power of speech. But this is not true. Black men were never in such a condition. Allah allowed the Devil, through his scientists, to carry on infernal experiments, which resulted, finally, in the creation of the devil known as the white man, and later, even more disastrously, in the creation of the white woman. And it was decreed that these monstrous creatures should rule the earth for a certain number of years—I forget how many thousand, but, in any case, their rule now is ending, and Allah, who had never approved of the creation of the white man in the first place (who knows him, in fact, to be not a man at all but a devil), is anxious to restore the rule of peace that the rise of the white man totally destroyed. There is thus, by definition, no virtue in white people, and since they are another creation entirely and can no more, by breeding, become black than a cat, by breeding, can become a horse, there is no hope for them.

I have always been a teller of stories. When I was a young girl, my mother carried me out of a grocery store as I screamed about toes in the produce aisle. Concerned women turned and watched as I kicked the air and pounded my mother’s slender back. “Potatoes!” she corrected when we got back to the house. “Not toes!” She told me to sit in my chair—a child-sized thing, built for me—until my father returned. But no, I had seen the toes, pale and bloody stumps, mixed in among those russet tubers. One of them, the one that I had poked with the tip of my index finger, was cold as ice, and yielded beneath my touch the way a blister did. When I repeated this detail to my mother, something behind the liquid of her eyes shifted quick as a startled cat. “You stay right there,” she said. My father returned from work that evening, and listened to my story, each detail. “You’ve met Mr. Barns, have you not?” he asked me, referring to the elderly man who ran this particular market. I had met him once, and I said so. He had hair white as a sky before snow, and a wife who drew the signs for the store windows. “Why would Mr. Barns sell toes?” my father asked. “Where would he get them?” Being young, and having no understanding of graveyards or mortuaries, I could not answer. “And even if he got them somewhere,” my father continued, “what would he have to gain by selling them amongst the potatoes?” They had been there. I had seen them with my own eyes. But beneath the sunbeam of my father’s logic, I felt my doubt unfurl. “Most importantly,” my father said, arriving triumphantly at his final piece of evidence, “why did no one notice the toes except for you?” As a grown woman, I would have said to my father that there are true things in this world observed only by a single set of eyes. As a girl, I consented to his account of the story, and laughed when he scooped me from the chair to kiss me and send me on my way.

You smell good. Who’s this ‘guy’ you’re meeting? Are you back on the market?” He wiggled both blond eyebrows at me. “Does that mean Doc Nyce is no longer petting your cat?” I frowned. “Petting my cat?” What did Bogart, our vegetarian cat, have to do with Doc? Jeff leaned in for another sniff. “I’m really good at petting cats, too.” Oh, dear Lord! My brain had finally dipped low enough into the gutter to catch Jeff’s meaning. I shoved him back a step. “Doc is still petting my …” No! Just walk away, doofus. I started to do just that, but then stopped and turned back. In case Tiffany was going to be hearing the play-by-play of my run-in with Jeff, I wanted to clarify things so the red-headed siren wouldn’t get any ideas about trying to steal Doc away from me. We’d done that song and dance before, and there would be no encores on that score. “Doc Nyce is still my boyfriend,” I announced. Sheesh, “boyfriend” was such a silly word for a woman my age. “I mean, we’re a definite couple in all the ways.” Jeff grinned. “Which ways are those?” “You know, the ‘couple’ ways.” When he just stared at me with a dumb grin, I added, “Boom, boom, out goes the lights.” His laughter rang out loud and clear, catching the attention of people on the opposite side of the street. “I’m not sure if you know this, Violet Parker, but that old song actually refers to landing a knock-out punch.” Thinking back on all the times I’d pinched, elbowed, and tackled Doc, including the black eye I’d accidentally given him, I shrugged. “Sex with Doc is amazingly physical. He’s a real heavy hitter under the sheets, delivering a solid one-two sock-’em every time.” I wasn’t sure what I was alluding to by this point, but I kept throwing out boxing slang to fill the void. “I’d give you the real dirty blow-by-blow, but we don’t sell ringside tickets for our wild sex matches.” His jaw gaped. “No kidding?” Before my big mouth unleashed another round of idiotic sex-boxing ambiguities, I said, “See you around, Jeff.

I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.” “Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.” Peter gives me a blank look, and disbelieving, I say, “Wait a minute…have you never read Harry Potter?” “I’ve read the first two.” “Then you should know who Moaning Myrtle is!” “It was a really long time ago,” Peter says. “Was she one of those people in the paintings?” “No! And how could you stop after Chamber of Secrets? The third one’s the best out of the whole series. I mean, that’s literally crazy to me.” I peer at his face. “Do you not have a soul?” “Sorry if I haven’t read every single Harry Potter book! Sorry I have a life and I’m not in the Final Fantasy club or whatever that geek club is called--” I snatch my wand back from him and wave it in his face. “Silencio!” Peter crosses his arms. Smirking, he says, “Whatever spell you just tried to cast on me, it didn’t work, so I think you need to go back to Hogwarts.” He’s so proud of himself for the Hogwarts reference, it’s kind of endearing. Quick like a cat I pull down his mask, and then I put one hand over his mouth. With my other hand I wave my wand again. “Silencio!” Peter tries to say something, but I press my hand harder. “What? What was that? I can’t hear you, Peter Parker.” Peter reaches out and tickles me, and I laugh so hard I almost drop my wand. I dart away from him but he pounces after me, pretend shooting webs at my feet. Giggling, I run away from him, further down the hall, dodging groups of people. He gives chase all the way to chem class. A teacher screams at us to slow down, and we do, but as soon as we’re around the corner, I’m running again and so is he. I’m breathless by the time I’m in my seat. He turns around and shoots a web in my direction, and I explode into giggles again and Mr. Meyers glares at me. “Settle down,” he says, and I nod obediently. As soon as his back is turned, I giggle into my robe. I want to still be mad at Peter, but it’s just no use. Halfway through class he sends me a note. He’s drawn spiderwebs around the edges. It says, I’ll be on time tomorrow. I smile as I read it. Then I put it in my backpack, in my French textbook so the page won’t crease or crumble. I want to keep it so when this is over, I can have something to look at and remember what it was like to be Peter Kavinsky’s girlfriend. Even if it was all just pretend.

A knock at the enameled door of the carriage altered them to the presence of a porter and a platform inspector just outside. Sebastian looked up and handed the baby back to Evie. He went to speak to the men. After a minute or two, he came back from the threshold with a basket. Looking both perturbed and amused, he brought it to Phoebe. “This was delivered to the station for you.” “Just now?” Phoebe asked with a nonplussed laugh. “Why, I believe it’s Ernestine’s mending basket! Don’t say the Ravenels went to the trouble of sending someone all the way to Alton to return it?” “It’s not empty,” her father said. As he set the basket in her lap, it quivered and rustled, and a blood-curdling yowl emerged. Astonished, Phoebe fumbled with the latch on the lid and opened it. The black cat sprang out and crawled frantically up her front, clinging to her shoulder with such ferocity that nothing could have detached her claws. “Galoshes!” Justin exclaimed, hurrying over to her. “Gosh-gosh!” Stephen cried in excitement. Phoebe stroked the frantic cat and tried to calm her. “Galoshes, how . . . why are you . . . oh, this is Mr. Ravenel’s doing! I’m going to murder him. You poor little thing.” Justin came to stand beside her, running his hands over the dusty, bedraggled feline. “Are we going to keep her now, Mama?” “I don’t think we have a choice,” Phoebe said distractedly. “Ivo, will you go with Justin to the dining compartment, and fetch her some food and water?” The two boys dashed off immediately. “Why has he done this?” Phoebe fretted. “He probably couldn’t make her stay at the barn, either. But she’s not meant to be a pet. She’s sure to run off as soon as we reach home.” Resuming his seat next to Evie, Sebastian said dryly, “Redbird, I doubt that creature will stray more than an arm’s length from you.” Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West’s handwriting. Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position To Whom It May Concern, I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred. Your servant, Galoshes the Cat Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents’ questioning gazes on her. “Job application,” she explained sourly. “From the cat.” “How charming,” Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder. “‘Personal companion,’ my foot,” Phoebe muttered. “This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin.” “I wonder,” Seraphina said thoughtfully. “If she were truly feral, she wouldn’t want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “It seems we’ll find out.” The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe’s lap and curled up with a sigh.

- Auzi domnule, cum domn'e?, as putea eu sa accept vreodata sau sa fiu obligat de acest Burtica sau chiar conditionat, auzi! conditionat! - La ce va referiti, Dom' Preda? - Cum ba, tu esti pe lumea cealalta de nu intelegi? Imi vorbea de parca eu as fi fost acolo sa stiu ce a vorbit el cu Burtica. Pana la urma s-a hotarat sa ma lamureasca si pe mine. - Uite ce mi-a zis, nea Tecu, cica, tov. Preda, dumneavoastra cunoasteti parerile noastre cu privire la puterea si capacitatea de gandire a tov Nicolae Ceausescu. Stiti cu totii ca dansul e un geniu, ca are gandire creatoare in politica tarii noastre, ca el e ctitorul neegalat de nimeni in privinta indicatiilor novatoare, de construire a socialismului, cum de altfel si a culturii, precum si a cunoasterii istoriei patriei noastre. De aceea m-am gandit ca impreuna sa ajungem la un acord si sa aratam ca in cartea pe care ati scris-o pana acum din romanul Delirul, dumneavoastra ati avut ca model persoana dansului. Descrierea actiunilor din timpul celui de-al doilea razboi mondial il infatiseaza ca un personaj principal, curajos, capabil, credincios comunismului si luptator pentru infrangerea fascismului si a Germaniei hitleriste. - Si dumneavoastra ce ati raspuns? - I-am zis ca nu pricep la ce se refera. Cum, tov Preda, n-ai inteles la cine ma refer eu? Te rog sa il prezinti ca personaj principal al romanului Delirul in volumul al doilea. Dupa cum mi-a povestit el in continuare, am inteles ca Preda ramasese inmarmurit pe scaun si nu-i venea sa creada ca tot ce auzise din gura lui Burtica era aievea. Si ca Burtica s-a ridicat in picioare si s-a proptit cu ambele maini in marginea biroului si i-a repetat: "Cred ca ne-am inteles sau, mai bine zis, ai inteles, domnu' Preda in privinta recomandarii mele prin aceea de a indeplini vointa sefului statului nostru de a il prezenta cu toate meritele in locul lui Niculae, personajul dumneavoastra din volumul I, inlocuindu-l discret cu Niculae Ceausescu, atribuindu-i lui toate meritele. Dupa ce s-a mai linistit a inceput sa-mi spuna mie cu vocea unui copil batut pe nedrept de parinti: - Vezi, ma, Dumitrescule, cum te obliga cizmarul asta nenorocit, care nu stie nici sa scrie, nici sa citeasca, si nici macar sa vorbeasca, te obliga sa il incluzi pe el in toate operele literaturii romane? El habar n-are de nimic, dar de, EL detine puterea si ce vrea el si cum vrea el noi trebuie sa executam. Inclusiv eu sa-l introduc in volumul doi al Delirului. Cum sa-l introduc in cartea mea cand nu stiu nimic despre el? Ba stiu ceva. Ca a facut politica asa de buna ca a dus tara de rapa. I-am zis lui Burtica sa ma scuze, dar nu pot scrie despre un om despre a carui viata si cultura nu stiu nimic. - Si tov. Burtica n-a zis nimic? - Cum sa nu zica? A zis. Si inca ce-a zis. Bine, tov. Preda, dar te avertizez, numai sa incepi sa scrii ceva din volumul al doilea al romanului Delirul si vorbim altfel. Trebuia sa il introduci si in volumul I, dar hai, treaca-mearga. Acum trebuie sa il bagi in vol. II. - Dom Burtica, dar v-am spus ca nu pot, nu pot. Ei, daca nu poti, cat voi trai eu si dumneata, acest volum II din Delirul sa stii de la mine ca nu va aparea.

Motion in space can proceed in any direction and back again. Motion in time only proceeds in one direction in the everyday world, whatever seems to be going on at the particle level. It’s hard to visualize the four dimensions of spacetime, each at right angles to the other, but we can leave out one dimension and imagine what this strict rule would mean if it applied to one of the three dimensions we are used to. It’s as if we were allowed to move either up or down, either forward or back, but that sideways motion was restricted to shuffling to the left, say. Movement to the right is forbidden. If we made this the central rule in a children’s game, and then told a child to find a way of reaching a prize off to the right-hand side (“backward in time”) it wouldn’t take too long for the child to find a way out of the trap. Simply turn around to face the other way, swapping left for right, and then reach the prize by moving to the left. Alternatively, lie down on the floor so that the prize is in the “up” direction with reference to your head. Now you can move both “up” to grasp the prize and “down” to your original position, before standing up again and returning your personal space orientation to that of the bystanders.* The technique for time travel allowed by relativity theory is very similar. It involves distorting the fabric of space-time so that in a local region of space-time the time axis points in a direction equivalent to one of the three space directions in the undistorted region of space-time. One of the other space directions takes on the role of time, and by swapping space for time such a device would make true time travel, there and back again, possible. American mathematician Frank Tipler has made the calculations that prove such a trick is theoretically possible. Space-time can be distorted by strong gravitational fields,and Tipler’s imaginary time machine is a very massive cylinder, containing as much matter as our sun packed into a volume 100 km long and 10 km in radius, as dense as the nucleus of an atom, rotating twice every millisecond and dragging the fabric of space-time around with it. The surface of the cylinder would be moving at half the speed of light. This isn’t the sort of thing even the maddest of mad inventors is likely to build in his backyard, but the point is that it is allowed by all the laws of physics that we know. There is even an object in the universe that has the mass of our sun, the density of an atomic nucleus, and spins once every 1.5 milliseconds, only three times slower than Tipler’s time machine. This is the so-called “millisecond pulsar,” discovered in 1982. It is highly unlikely that this object is cylindrical—such extreme rotation has surely flattened it into a pancake shape. Even so, there must be some very peculiar distortions of space-time in its vicinity. “Real” time travel may not be impossible, just extremely difficult and very, very unlikely. That thin end of what might be a very large wedge may, however, make the normality of time travel at the quantum level seem a little more acceptable. Both quantum theory and relativity theory permit time travel, of one kind or another. And anything that is acceptable to both those theories, no matter how paradoxical that something may seem, has to be taken seriously. Time travel, indeed, is an integral part of some of the stranger features of the particle world, where you can even get something for nothing, if you are quick about it.

Wow, Kai,” Tomm said when he finally caught his breath. “Can’t you take a joke? What are you, a manga cat?” he asked, referring to the big felines that roamed the Tottori Desert that bordered their land.

Since 'Panther' is an ambiguous word that can refer to different leopards, jaguars, or mountain lions, it can also refer to a melanistic or black cat; hence, the name 'black panther'. It can also be crossed with a lioness for example which gives us an indication of the role which the lion had in ancient Egyptian symbolism in relation with the black panther on feminine figures. Panther/Lioness feminine emblems for Sekhmet, Bastet and Maftet were portaying that aggressive and wild nature of the big cats; they served as guardians and the latter was called as 'slayer of serpents' and protected against snakes. That was also a role which Atem played, therefore, they represent the perpendicular authority in contrast to that of the Sun (i.e., parallel authority). What proves my assertion that the Sun cult showed up later on in opposition to the upper heavens' authority is to be witnessed on the figurine which shows Tutankhamun subjugating a black panther using a sceptre which looks different than that of Thoth (stripped off from its fork and top ends); avenging thereby his cult. The Egyptian Museum guide does state that he is [assimilated to the Sun by the golden tan of his skin] and the [panther represented the night sky]. So it is evident that the warriors of the upper heavens on Earth were feminine who tried to resurrect their legacy in contrast to Isis who restores her husband's body to allow for his resurrection (referring to Sirius and Orion); intending probably thereby to give him back his role as a lion hunter. The task on the lionesses is therefore reduced to protection and guardianship against this scheme but there were no resurrection of some entity for them to take part into since the authority on whose behalf they fight were already present even though no complete submission to it were delivered.

you reckon it could have been Pete?” I glanced off to the east and saw Pete basking in the sun beside the garden gate. He was purring and washing himself, which means that he was spitting in his paw and wiping the spit over his face. That’s the way a cat takes a bath. I take tremendous pride in my personal appearance. I cultivate a rich, manly smell. I bathe regularly, in the sewer. Now, let’s look at Pete. He takes spit-baths. Has anyone ever seen him in the sewer? No sir. But has Sally May ever referred to him as a stinking cat? No sir. So there you are, and that’s one of two dozen reasons why I hate cats and Pete in particular. I had to get that off my chest. Now, where was I? “Well, Drover, we’ve broken

Librarians have proven over and over that the profession is capable of extraordinary collaboration. More than forty years ago, a group of major libraries in Ohio recognized the importance of shared computing resources and established a partnership called the Online Computer Library Center (OCLC), which is now referred to primarily by its acronym. OCLC calls itself “the world’s largest library collaborative.” The library data and services provided by OCLC to 70,000 libraries around the world enables libraries to avoid a great deal of redundant work.9 The OCLC partnership has reduced the need for every library to create its own catalog record for every book or item it collects, creating enormous efficiencies. OCLC’s WorldCat system, for instance, allows anyone with web access to search across the catalogs of a large number of libraries to locate books wherever they are in the country. WorldCat is simple, but it has proved that implementing even the simplest of systems can be remarkably useful to library patrons.

Little gods Heresy: Bishop Earl Paulk (1927-2009) was a founding member of the New Apostolic Reformation. He is the former pastor of the Cathedral of Chapel Hill in Decatur, Georgia (1). He writes in The Wounded Body of Christ, that the Church’s goal is to incarnate Christ so we can bring Him back. He says Jesus was the incarnation of God from the past, but the Church is “the only Christ, the only incarnation of God in the world today (2).” “We are the essence of God, His ongoing incarnation in the world (3).” He says we are little gods, “Just as dogs have puppies and cats have kittens, so God has little gods.” Bishop Paulk states that when God said, “Let us make man in our image,’ he created us as little gods….” He says the Church cannot manifest the Kingdom of God until they start acting like gods (4). Finally, he states “We are ‘little gods,’ whether we admit it or not (5).” References: 1. White, Gail. “Sex Charges cast pall on Bishop Paulk.” Atlanta Constitutional Journal. 08-31-2007. 2. Paulk, Earl. The Wounded Body of Christ. 2nd ed., K Dimension Publishers, 1985, pp. 92-95. 3. Paulk, Earl. Thrust in the Sickle and Reap. K Dimension Publishers, 1986, pp. 132, 70. 4. Paulk, Earl. Satan Unmasked. K Dimension Publishers, 1984, pp. 96-97. 5. Paulk, Earl. Held up in the Heavens Until... God's Strategy for Planet Earth. K Dimension Publishers, 1985, p. 171.

My little ‘bodhicatva,’” he will sometimes call me, a play on bodhisattva, a Sanskrit term that in Buddhism refers to an enlightened being.

She brings her hands together on her lap, settling in for another lesson. “Most people go through what we refer to as ‘the seven levels of anger’—stress, anxiety, agitation, irritation, frustration, anger, rage. And at the lower end of that scale, a measure of self-control can usually be applied, which means the igniting issue often gets solved. The problem is, narcissists don’t go through the seven levels like most people. The tiniest slight sends them straight to the top of the scale. To a narcissist, rage is a perfectly appropriate response to their ego being threatened, because channeling that rage restores their feelings of superiority.

Dysregulation refers to a disruptive pattern of reactivity in the functioning of your nervous system. When it’s triggered, it causes a change from the default, regulated state of your nervous system into a dysregulated state. In other words, things go “out of whack.” Imagine your regulated state as piano music that someone is playing beautifully. Dysregulation is like a cat that jumps onto the keys while the player keeps playing, overlaying the music with wrong notes that clang with random timing. The piano player can’t focus and stops playing. Likewise, dysregulation is an intrusion of disruptive activity in your nervous system that impedes normal functioning.

The symbolism of the two animals seems relatively clear if we refer to archaeological findings. A group of three clay statues was found in a field of Gallo-Roman urns that depicted a Matrona with a child, a rooster, and a dog.20 On a symbolic level, the dog represents death and the cock stands for resurrection. We can recall the Swedish saying “the dead are put to flight by a red rooster.”*25 The Latvians slew a black cat, black dog, and black rooster when they believed they were threatened by Meris, the Plague Virgin. The blood of these three was used to coat a rope twisted backward, which was then used to gird the house.21 As a symbol of resurrection, a chicken (or goose) egg was placed in Celtic tombs and, more specifically, in ossuary vessels that contained the remnants of cremated bodies.

I wish I understood their language, and could speak with them,” she said when they were alone again. “I think I did learn a few words, though, Dosa bia’isa.” She glanced up at him expectantly. Daniel’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “I know that’s what they call you, and they call me Dosa haiwi, although I don’t know what these words mean.” Daniel smiled. “To the Tukudeka, I am known as White Wolf, and Elk Runner gave you the name White Dove. But I prefer to call you gediki.” “Meaning?” She faced him, her hands on her hips. “It refers to a wild cat.

to Freyja.” and Odin is like “Can I at least have the octohorse?” and Loki is like “Only if I don’t have to do what you say anymore.” and Odin is like “FINE.” and Loki is like “HAHA, I PRANKED YOU THAT HORSE CAME OUT OF MY HORSE VAGINA.” And Odin is like “Ew, ick. I still want the horse though.” So the moral of the story is that only a sucker pays full price for masonry. Oh, speaking of which let me tell you about another really gross thing Loki had sex with . . . FENRIR IS A DILF So one day, Loki’s wandering around Jotunheim and he sees this chick Angrboða pronounced ANGER BOW THE and he is like “Well, I know she’s pretty ugly and her name is kinda like a reference book entry for THE ANGER BOW but you know what? I’m gonna tap that and have three kids with that and all three of those kids are going to be horrible beasts that bring on the apocalypse. I see no problems with this.” So for now, let’s just focus on the first kid: a giant wolf named Fenrir. Now Loki brings baby Fenrir to Asgard and the Aesir all instantly know that this wolf is gonna be the death of them mainly because it is a GIANT WOLF NAMED FENRIR. But instead of doing anything about it they decide to see if they can just raise it as their own presumably because they don’t want to hurt Loki’s feelings. So this god Tyr the god of single combat and being awesome gets put in charge of feeding Fenrir because he’s the only person with sufficient testicular mass to actually go near the wolf and Fenrir gets bigger and bigger and holy shit bigger until the gods start to be like “Uhh . . . we should really do something about this wolf.” So what they do is they make a big metal chain. This chain is so incredibly massive that they don’t feel right until they give it a name that name is Leyding. So they go up to Fenrir like “Hey, man I bet you totally can’t break out of this chain.” And Fenrir is like “Okay, bring it.” So they tie him up and he pretty much just breaks the chains like cobwebs and he gets famous because of that and the gods are like “Fuck, that backfired. Okay, let’s make a better chain.” so they make a chain that is TWO TIMES AS STRONG and they name it Dromi and they go back to Fenrir like “Bet you can’t break THIS chain.” And Fenrir is like “I don’t know if I want to let you tie me up again.” And the gods are like “Don’t you want to be double famous?” and Fenrir is like “Ugh, okay.” So he lets them tie him up again and he flexes a little, but the chain doesn’t break so then he kicks the chain, and it does break and the gods are all like “Okay we definitely need a better chain. Somebody call some dwarves.” So the dwarves are like “Okay the mistake you guys have been making is you have been trying to make a chain out of actual things that exist such as metal instead of abstract concepts such as the sound of a cat’s footfall.” So what the dwarves do is they take the sound of a cat’s footfall along with the roots of a mountain the sinews of a bear the beard of a woman— remember, these are dwarves— and the breath of a fish, and the spit of a bird so that’s why you can’t hear cats walking around and mountains don’t have roots and fish don’t breathe, and birds don’t spit but I think bears still probably have sinews and I have definitely met me some bearded ladies so I guess the dwarves were not that thorough. But anyway somehow they manage to distill all this shit into THE ULTIMATE

One thing led to another, and, notwithstanding some moments in history that dogs and cats would probably not want to bring up (like the time Pope Gregory IX declared cats to be the Devil incarnate), pets have gradually become cherished members of our families. According to “Citizen Canine,” a book by David Grimm, sixty-seven per cent of households in America have a cat or a dog (compared with forty-three per cent who have children), and eighty-three per cent of pet owners refer to themselves as their animal’s “mom” or “dad.” Seventy per cent celebrate the pet’s birthday. Animals are our best friends, our children, and our therapists.

I read this book once where the girl yelled 'cat' right before they were about to get some bow-chicka-bow-wow,' I told him. 'It was high-larious.

We remember England’s “terms of venery”— the jargon of hunting— for giving us specific words for groups of animals, such as a school of fish or a pride of lions , and also for such quaintly forgotten phrases as “a tiding of magpies” and “a kindle of cats.” Experts suggest that many of the terms that amuse us today—“ an unkindness of ravens,” “a shrewdness of apes,” “a disworship of Scots”— were fanciful even in their own time and never in common use. The true language of venery, however, did more than describe beasts by the bunch; it richly evoked their behavior. The lark’s habit of flying into the air to sing was known as “exalting.” The nocturnal song of nightingales was called “watching,” from the idea of keeping a watch through the darkness. Venery’s description of animal sounds was poetic, but also accurate: weasels really do “squeak,” mice really do “cheep.” Goldfinches chirm, boars girn, starlings murmur, geese creak. The seemingly slow, ambling walk of bears was referred to as “slothing.” Ordinary life in the past had an intimacy with other species that today we mainly associate with trained biologists and dedicated naturalists.

The term stray refers to dogs and cats, animals traditionally viewed as pet animals, that are homeless and thus devoid of human companionship and protection. Stray animals are often perceived by individual residents as “pests” and by societal officials (specifically with respect to municipal and county animal control policies) as “nuisance animals/throwaways,” especially in the context of disease control (rabies, etc.). They are particularly vulnerable to the vagaries of existence on the street and are viewed by many people as being throwaway animals; millions of them are destroyed at animal shelters and animal control facilities in the United States each year. Four of the five violent subjects who reported acts of cruelty against stray animals reported frequent acts. Stray animals, genetically coded to bond and coexist with humans, may by necessity revert to feral (or wild) behavior, but they are not wild animals. As a result, they often seek the company of humans for food and shelter. The trust that they frequently display toward humans can be dangerous. Some of the most horrific reports of animal cruelty either committed or observed by the subjects in this study involved stray animals. These reports included exploding animals by inserting fireworks into the animal’s mouth or anus, using “Crazy Glue” to glue the paws of kittens and puppies to the middle of streets and then watching the animals be killed by passing cars, throwing stray animals to their death from rooftops, and setting animals on fire after drenching them in gasoline. Stray animals who are victims of cruelty can be analogized to the victims of serial killers, such as prostitutes and runaway juveniles; their deaths are often unseen and unknown by the average citizen until the remains are found.

Anders disentangled himself from Valerie’s clinging arms and took a step back. He paused to take several breaths, attempting to give his brain a chance to recover before turning toward Lucian. Once he faced the man, he simply asked, “What did you say?” “I said I’d rather my wife not look out our French doors and see your bare ass if you don’t mind,” Lucian said succinctly. Anders glanced down at himself, relieved to see that, as he’d thought, he hadn’t yet achieved undoing and dropping his drawers. Trying for dignity he straightened his shoulders and said, “I assure you my self-control would have kicked in before things went that far.” “Yeah right,” Lucian snorted. “One more minute and you would have been bare-assed and giving Valerie a good seeing to right there on the porch rail.” Grimacing, he added, “For future reference, I don’t recommend it. Leigh got some nasty slivers off that rail some months ago. It’s too rough for such endeavors.” Anders glanced over his shoulder to Valerie with concern at this news. The shorts she was wearing weren’t especially long and he had no doubt her upper legs at least had been ground into the wood as he’d dry humped her. “Are you all right?” Blushing brightly, she nodded. “I think so.” “I’ll check later.” Anders had meant that to be reassuring, but Valerie’s blush went from a becoming rosy color to the red of a tomato and her wide eyes shot to Lucian with embarrassment. “And that is precisely why we need help at the moment,” Lucian said dryly to Valerie, obviously having read enough of their minds to know that was what Anders had been trying to show her. He clarified, however, by adding, “I’ve lost most of my best Enforcers to life mate brain . . . which means more often than not, they’re as brainless as cats in heat. Even I suffer from it on occasion. We’ll need help for the next year or so until the worst of it passes.” “Oh,” Valerie breathed.

Einstein brilliantly realized that it would be possible to patch together a comprehensive theory of gravity from free falling reference frames, treating each as it were at rest

Einstein brilliantly realized that it would be possible to patch together a comprehensive theory of gravity from free falling reference frames, treating each as it were at rest. Within each framework, he noted, each object would move in a straight line unless deflected by external forces. However, when viewed from another framework, those straight lines might appear curved. That is why we see bodies taking curved paths because of gravity- because we are viewing their motion from our framework, not theirs.

Surely,” asked the king, “man must have some respectable feature?” At this his magician relented. “I am inclined to think,” he said, “that there may be one. This, insignificant and childish as it must seem, I mention in spite of all the lucubrations of that fellow Chalmers-Mitchell. I refer to man’s relation with his pets. In certain households there are dogs which are of no use as hunters or as watchmen, and cats which refuse to go mousing, but which are treated with a kind of vicarious affection by their human fellows, in spite of uselessness or even trouble. I cannot help thinking that any traffic in love, which is platonic and not given in exchange for other commodities, must be remarkable.

The Course teaches that there are only two experiences of consciousness, Love and fear. Love reflects God and is an experience of abundance, wholeness, happiness, peace, and security. In the Course this is called Christ or Holy Spirit. Any other experience is fear, or ego, and is false because it seems to set you apart from God. For the purposes of this book, I use ego-consciousness to refer to the state of fear and ego for its manifestation in an individual mind. I use the term Spirit-consciousness for the state that occurs when ego no longer blocks one’s awareness that God is their Source and Spirit (Christ) is their Identity. Because ego is defined in different ways in different disciplines, I clarify here how I use the term as I understand it from the Course. As part of the material world, a body and personality—person in this book, but just body in the Course—are neutral expressions of consciousness, like a flower or a table or a cat; whether beautiful or ugly, strong or weak, healthy or disabled or disordered. While a person is your undeniable experience of consciousness, it is not your true identity. That is Christ (Spirit). When you identify with a person, it seems to set you apart from God, and you identify with fear (lack, limitation) and that is ego. In ego, you constantly define and defend your person to set yourself apart to make yourself special, which you think will make you feel whole—or at least lack less. You attack others for not appreciating your specialness or for demanding that you appreciate theirs over your own. And you project onto others the guilt you feel for seeming to make yourself not as God created you.

It seemed as if doggystyle was her favorite position because she couldn't see who was behind her. She kept playing Snoop Dogg's song, “What's My Name?”. It seemed as if she was referring to my signature being forged and still being on the club and she knew perfectly. As if she was referring to all the dogs eager to breed in the video running after something after someone had let them out. As Snoop Dogg is magically transforming into a Doberman dog in the music video, just like the kind of dogs the Nazis had. I just realize Martina’s dog, Chicha was all black and her cat Anouki was all black too, just like the night Sky, just like the dark, empty, cold Space. The total darkness the canvas, on which our planet is just a pinhead. This rock. This sizzling rock. Spinning. Turning. Leaning. Following the Sun. Lost in the infinite nothingness. Ain’t like a balloon which has nothing inside. All the nothing is outside, all the cold and dark and wide and empty and vile. All the dark forces all the nights, all the known universe and beyond, is located here, inside. Iron comes from Outer Space, it is not a local material on this planet. Each one of us has iron inside a “kickstart-molecule” located in our hearts. Without iron, there would be no life. Are we locals on this planet? To what degree? Since when? I noticed three members of the Camorra in our street and the street parallel to it, casually passing by. I even nodded to one or two of them, since we already knew each other from the club where I hadn't been since Adam and I had our disagreement. Later that night, while I was waiting for Martina in vain, I noticed two to three of the Camorra's soldiers living a few houses down our street. From the rooftop, and our bedroom that was higher than theirs, I could see into their living room. I couldn't help but wonder whether this was a mere coincidence, or if Adam and Martina had found our new home together, hanging out in Nico’s store, and so we moved on the Mountain of Jews, on purpose, perhaps, knowing that the Camorra’s men were living almost right in front of us. No accidents. When I told Martina about the Camorra’s guys living across the street, Martina couldn’t have cared less. It was almost as if she never considered her life being in danger in Barcelona, Europe, but only mine. I had felt before like Adam had used my skin to make money, while I was the one walking around the streets, spotting tourists usually having fun, not thinking about how I was working hard to make their “unreachable” happiness come true. This time, however, I felt both stuck in our home, feeling helpless to make Martina happy and the outside world offered her much better chances to have fun and find a rich guy or any other smoker club manager with her beauty.

He was making up for it now, even if only to himself, because he still felt impelled to put on a good face for the world, it seemed bad manners to do otherwise. 'If you can't say something nice.', his mother had tutored him, 'then don't say anything at all.' The hair was real. Crystal had no idea who it had once belonged to. She'd worried it might have come from a corpse but her hairdresser said, 'Nah, from a temple in India. The women shave their heads for some kind of religious thing and the monks sell it.' That's how Crystal referred to it - 'Got your head stuck in a book again, Harry?' It would be funny if his head did actually get stuck in a book. Her heart wasn't shattered, just cracked, although cracked was bad enough. "Are you Mrs Bragg?' Reggie asked. "Maybe," the woman said. Well, you either are or you aren't. Reggie thought. You're not Schrodinger's cat. What do you call a nest of lesbians? A dyke eyrie. "Great,' she said, so he knew she wasn't listening. An increasing number of people, Jackson had noticed lately, were not listening to him. Dogs, you know, stay by their master's side after they've died. Fido, Hachiko, Ruswrap, Old Shep, Squeak, Spot. There was a list on Wikipedia. I am the repository of useless knowledge. Jackson had never really seen the point of existential angst. if you didn't like something you changed it and if you couldn't change it you sucked it up and soldiered on, one foot after the other. ('Remind me not to come to you for therapy,' Julia said.) This was better, Jackson thought, all he had to do was utilize the lyrics from country songs, they contained better advice than anything he could conjure up himself. Best to avoid Hank, though - 'I'm so lonesome I could cry. I'll never get out of this world alive. I don't care if tomorrow never comes. Poor old Hank, not good mental fodder of a man who had just tried to jump off a cliff. 'Diaeresis - the two little dots above the "e", its not an umlaut. Reggie thought if a day would ever goes by when she is not disappointed in people. "Jesus Christ, Crystal,' he said, dropping the baseball bat and pulling off his shoes, prepare to jump in and save Tommy. So he could kill him later.

But however desirable an evolutionary framework for a history of knowledge may be, the important questions is whether it is actually possible to recognize an evolutionary logic in the historical records - without imposing it by an exaggerated analogy with biology and without ascending to a level of abstraction where all cats become gray. I believe that the historical findings examined in the preceding chapters point in such a direction, in particular the long-term, cumulative aspects of knowledge development, its dependence on contingent societal contexts, and the profound transformations of the architecture of knowledge. Examples are the emergence of new systems of knowledge from a reorganization of preceding systems; the sedimentation and plateau-building processes of knowledge economies; the transformation of contingent circumstances and challenges into internal conditions for the further development of knowledge systems, accounting for the path dependency and layered structure of this development; and the feedback mechanisms that may arise between knowledge economies and knowledge systems, giving rise to the emergence of new epistemic communities. Just like the evolution of life, knowledge development has direction but us not globally uniform. It is neither deterministic nor teleological. Chance events may have long-term effects by becoming incorporated into the developmental process. Knowledge development is self-referential insofar as it contributes to shaping its own environment by processes of sedimentation and plateau formation corresponding to niche construction in biology. It is also a layered process, in the sense that later forms of knowledge do not necessarily replace earlier ones. External representations shape the long-term transmission of knowledge, ensuring its continuity, while their exploration under different circumstances opens up possibilities for variation and change.

I’ll find somebody to marry the damned woman,” Michael spat. “Dear fellow, on general principles one should not procure a spouse for any female whom one refers to as the damned woman. Miss Danforth is not pleased to have me for a husband. I don’t think she’d allow any convenient eligible of your acquaintance to so much as kiss her cat.” The turn of phrase was unfortunately prurient, the mistake of a man who’d misplaced his native language for too many years.

bodhisattva, a Sanskrit term that in Buddhism refers to an enlightened being.

As illiterate can refer to a cat who refuses to deliver a litter of kittens and instead delivers newspapers it has no capacity to read.

Lotus plants grow in poor conditions. Their roots are in the mud, sometimes dirty swamps. But they rise above that. Their flowers are very beautiful. Sometimes when we have problems we, too, can use our difficulties to create something we may not even have considered before. We can turn our suffering into the cause of extraordinary growth.” Like so much else of what His Holiness said, his words could be understood in different ways. I knew he was making not only a general observation but offering a deeply personal message—one that referred not only to my own recent challenges but to Mrs. Trinci’s, too. And, more important, to the fresh direction in which they could propel us. Instead of believing my infestation to be a cause of nothing but biting misery, I was beginning to see that it seemed it could become fuel for personal growth.

Cats are not compelled to be affectionate, as pack animals are. Cats only reciprocate with affection when they are treated with affection. ◆ Trading favors is so important to proper cat management I call it the Law of Reciprocity. I didn’t make up this law. Human psychology did. When referring to humans, it means we do favors for people who do favors for us. When referring to cats, it means the same thing. Cats understand favor-giving, and they are absolutely compelled to return a sweet gesture. It is practical magic which works on all kinds of cats.

From the best chair in the room of ornaments, a large gray cat watched Tiffany with a half-open eye that glinted with absolute evil. Nanny had referred to him as “Greebo...don’t mind him, he’s just a big old softie,” which Tiffany knew enough to interpret as “he’ll have his claws in your leg if you go anywhere near him.

find. Henry said she lived right across the hall.” Chapter 14 “So, this is the scene of the crime,” Ida said as they pulled up in front of an old Victorian. From outward appearances, it was hard to imagine that something sinister had happened inside. It was nicely kept, with off-white siding and purple trim. “Looks like a birthday cake,” Ruth said as they walked up the steps toward the purple door. She opened the door to reveal a small entryway. A set of stairs loomed in front of them. Old-fashioned green flowered wallpaper papered the walls. The floor was hardwood, scuffed from years of wear. To the right was a solid oak door with the number Two on it. “According to the case files, Rosa and Henry lived at number two.” Nans gestured toward the door on the other side of the hall which had a number One. “So this one must be Mrs. Pettigrew.” Ruth was standing closest to the door, so she knocked. “Who is it?” A voice drifted out almost before the knock stopped echoing. Clearly, Mrs. Pettigrew kept a close eye on the place and had seen them come in. “It’s the Ladies’ Detective Agency.” Nans’s voice took on an official tone. “We have some questions on a case if you’d be so kind as to answer them.” Of course, Doris Pettigrew would be thrilled to answer questions. If she was truly the busybody that it sounded like she was, she wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of gossip and finding out exactly what case the ladies were referring to. Lexy heard a series of locks clicking and chains sliding, and then the door cracked and a rheumy blue eye appeared. “Do you have any credentials?” “Of course.” Nans shoved a business card at her. It was in a laminate case, so it resembled an official badge of some sort. Doris snatched the card and pulled it inside. It took her a few seconds, but Nans’s card must have passed muster because the door opened and Doris said, “Come in.” Ida went in first. “Oh, this is… unusual.” Lexy peered over Ida’s head. She couldn’t be sure exactly what Ida thought was unusual. There were so many things. It could have been the giant four-foot-tall dolls that stood around the edge of the room. Or it might have been the knitted afghans that covered every surface. Or maybe it was the stuffed animals that were sitting on the couch as if holding a conversation. Then again, it might have been the herd of cats that was sniffing around Ida’s ankles. Doris handed the card back to Nans. “I’m Doris Pettigrew, by the way.” They all introduced themselves, and Doris gestured toward the living room for them to sit. Ida gingerly plucked a large pink elephant off the sofa and put it on the floor then took its place. A black cat immediately jumped into her lap. The rest of the ladies followed her lead, moving dolls aside, disturbing stuffed animals, and pushing cats out of their laps. Lexy sat in the only chair not occupied by a stuffed animal. The smell of mothballs wafted up as the rough wool of the crocheted granny square pillow irritated her arm. Achoo! Helen sneezed and pushed the fluffy tail of a white Persian out of her face.

Despite the perma-shock in which many of us have lived our entire lives, with alarms in our ears made only more shrill by 24 hour news cycles, and unrelenting internet death row photos of dogs and cats at animal shelters, we inexplicably expect our shocking truths--that ours is a society built on oppression, rape and murder--to get heard the first time through. When the truths aren't heard, we end up beyond frustrated. We butt up against other people's moral hypocrisies and shut down as we hear the same stories about people who are compassionate but still eat animals. We grow weary of taking people's hands and walking them down the road to see the more than 23 million chickens killed for food every day in the U.S. And we forget that people can't see the animals hiding in their words and signifiers; we forget that we can't see them either. Beyond beef and bacon, there are other words that hide animals: deforestation, road construction, housing development, war. We must learn to be attuned to those words. And we have to learn how to speak kindly to people who are thinking about them, even if they don't recognize the absent referents in their speech. When we are thinking about how oppressors have guns, prisons, and slaughterhouses, we remember that words are weapons. When we turn them on each other and our potential allies, we forget. Out of frustration over all the things that haven't gotten better, we resort to name calling, dismiss the possibility of bridge building with other movements and within our own, and retreat back to internet cliques to discuss cupcake recipes or bash something read in the Huffington Post.

I wake up each morning to the new day, and I know it's going to be the best day that ever was. Today I danced on the lawn before breakfast, and then I went round the garden saying good morning to the flowers. There was a sweet black cat asleep on one of the flower beds. I picked it up and danced with it.' I didn't tell her so, but she couldn't have made a worse social gaffe. If there is one thing Augustus, the cat to whom she referred, hates, it's having his sleep disturbed. He must have cursed freely, though probably in a drowsy undertone. I suppose she thought he was purring.

month waiting list. And Parkview doctors weren’t much happier with the center, Sunderhaus believed, “because they’re charging hospital outpatients for everything. And their job in Bryan is to refer those patients to big services in Fort Wayne. Their job is merely as a feeder site for testing. And for their specialists. That is their only purpose for having family practice there, to feed their beast. Feed the beast of the MRI, the CAT scan machine. They keep track of those docs: how much they prescribe, how many tests they ordered. That’s how they decide who gets bonuses and who gets big bucks. Yeah! We piss everybody off!

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