Cher Quotes

The trouble with some women is that they get all excited about nothing - and then marry him.

Some guy said to me: Don't you think you're too old to sing rock n' roll? I said: You'd better check with Mick Jagger.

Until you're ready to look foolish, you'll never have the possibility of being great.

Friendship is less simple. It is long and hard to obtain but when one has it there's no getting rid of it; one simply has to cope with it. Don't think for a minute that your friends will telephone you every evening, as they ought to, in order to find out if this doesn't happen to be the evening when you are deciding to commit suicide, or simply whether you don't need company, whether you are not in the mood to go out. No, don't worry, they'll ring up the evening you are not alone, when life is beautiful. As for suicide, they would be more likely to push you to it, by virtue of what you owe to yourself, according to them. May heaven protect us, cher Monsieur, from being set upon a pedestal by our friends!

A girl can wait for the right man to come along but in the meantime that doesn't mean she can't have a wonderful time with all the wrong ones

Watch that mouth, cher. I own a ball gag. I know how to use it, he growled.

Don't you have class today? (Kyrian) Boy, I'm a backwoods Cajun, I ain't never got no class, cher. (Nick) (He cleared his throat and dropped the thick Cajun accent.) And no, today's registration. I've got to figure out what I'm taking next semester. (Nick) I have a few things I need you to do today. (Kyrian) And that is different from any other day how? (Nick) Sarcasm, thy name is Nick Gautier. (Kyrian)

That's the way man is, cher monsieur. He has two faces: he can't love without self-love.

The corners of his lips curled. “You and your secrets. Ah, peekôn, just when I think I’ve solved one mystery about you, up comes another one. I will figure you out one day. En garde, cher. Consider yourself warned.

God is not needed to create guilt or to punish. Our fellow men suffice, aided by ourselves. You were speaking of the Last Judgement. Allow me to laugh respectfully. I shall wait for it resolutely, for I have known what is worse, the judgement of men. For them, no extenuating circumstances; even the good intention is ascribed to crime. Have you at least heard of the spitting cell, which a nation recently thought up to prove itself the greatest on earth? A walled-up box in which the prisoner can stand without moving. The solid door that locks him in the cement shell stops at chin level. Hence only his face is visible, and every passing jailer spits copiously on it. The prisoner, wedged into his cell, cannot wipe his face, though he is allowed, it is true. to close his eyes. Well, that, mon cher, is a human invention. They didn't need God for that little masterpiece.

Check it out-this is a copy of a painting of a Greek High Priestess named Calliope. it says she was also the Poet Laureate after Sappho. Doesn't she look exactly like Cher?' Wow, that's insane. She does look just like young Cher,' Erin said. Yeah, before she started wearing those white wigs. What the hell's up with that?' Shaunee said. Damien gave the Twins a look. 'There is nothing wrong with Cher. Absolutely. Nothing.' Uh-oh,' Shaunee said. Stepped on a gay nerve,' Erin agreed.

Ah cher ami, how poor in invention men are! They are They always think one commits suicide for a reason. But it's quite possible to commit suicide for two reasons. No, that never occurs to them. So what's the good of dying intentionally, of sacrificing yourself to the idea you want people to have of you? Once you are dead, they will take advantage of it to attribute idiotic or vulgar motives to your action. Martyrs, cher ami, must choose between being forgotten, mocked, or made use of. As for being understood--never!

There is no need to boast of your accomplishments and what you can do. A great man is known, he needs no introduction.

I’ll tell you a big secret, mon cher. Don’t wait for the Last Judgment. It takes place every day.

Damn, cher, you still smell like a blossom. Been so long since I've seen a flower that I'd nearly forgotten what they smelled like." He took a lock of my hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. "You're dressing up and using expensive perfume? Ole Jack senses a trap. Consider me snared.

Mr. Fresh sat down on the stool behind the counter and stared into the eyes of the cardboard cutout of Cher, hoping to find answers there. But the bitch was holding out.

All of us invent ourselves. Some of us just have more imagination than others.

Pay no attention to haters, attention is what they crave.

Ah, mon cher, for anyone who is alone, without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful.

Who, cher monsieur, will sleep on the floor for us? Whether I am capable of it myself? Look, I'd like to be and I shall be. Yes, we shall all be capable of it one day, and that will be salvation.

I have to admit it humbly, mon cher compatriote, I was always bursting with vanity. I, I, I is the refrain of my whole life, which could be heard in everything I said. I could never talk without boasting, especially if I did so with that shattering discretion that was my specialty. It is quite true that I always lived free and powerful. I simply felt released in the regard to all the for the excellent reason that I recognized no equals. I always considered myself more intelligent than everyone else, as I’ve told you, but also more sensitive and more skillful, a crack shot, an incomparable driver, a better lover. Even in the fields in which it was easy for me to verify my inferiority–like tennis, for instance, in which I was but a passable partner–it was hard for me not to think that, with a little time and practice, I would surpass the best players. I admitted only superiorities in me and this explained my good will and serenity. When I was concerned with others, I was so out of pure condescension, in utter freedom, and all the credit went to me: my self-esteem would go up a degree.

French existentialist Albert Camus said it best: “Ah, mon cher, for anyone who is alone, without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful.

Ah, mon cher, we are odd, wretched creatures, and if we merely look back over our lives, there’s no lack of occasions to amaze and horrify ourselves. Just try.

Cher Marcel, Allô. I am Oskar's mom. I have thought about it a ton, and I have decided that it isn't obvious why Oskar should go to French lessons, so he will no longer be going to go see you on Sundays like he used to. I want to thank you very much for everything you have taught Oskar, particularly the conditional tense, which is weird. Obviously, there's no need to call me when Oskar doesn't come to his lessons, because I already know, because this was my decision. Also, I will keep sending you checks, because you are a nice guy. Votre ami dévouée, Mademoiselle Schell.

I will never fit in because I wasn't meant to

My Pocahontas-meets-seventies-Cher-style shirt. Oh, how I loved that shirt

What am I supposed to do, Sit around and wait for you? Well I can't do that, And there's no turning back. I need time to move on, I need love to feel strong. Cause I've got time to think it through, And maybe I'm too good for you!

If grass can grow through cement, love can find you every time.

L'homme est ainsi, cher monsieur, il a deux faces : il ne peut pas aimer sans s'aimer.

Smile, mon cher petit. You make everything that's dark fade to nothing when you smile.

Socrates became a trendsetter. Other philosophers, including Plato and Aristotle and Gus, quickly followed suit, dropping their last names too. And, for centuries after that there would be countless imitators including oltaire, Michelangelo, and, much later, Cher.

When you got a dream, you don't just climb half way up the ladder, you climb all the way to the top

If you've got a dream, there is no one out there to stop you, from achieving it.

Plus l'offenseur m'est cher, plus je ressens l'injure.

Flying, with your love, shining, with your love, riding, with your love. I feel like I'm on top of the world with your love.

Is there an us?” he asked. My breasts brushed his chest as I started breathing heavily. “Goddamn it, Cher, is there an us?” he clipped. “I want there to be.” Fuck! It came out because he was freaking me out. Fuck! “Then there’s an us,” he declared firmly. … “And there bein’ an us, Cher, that means you’re mine. Ethan’s mine. Are you followin’ me?

If you ever doan like where you are, open a book, and it'll take you somewhere else. It's a kind of magic, cher.

Mon cher je meprise les femmes pur ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un melodrame trop ridicule.

Of course cher . A proper southern woman never allows a simple misunderstanding get in the way of hospitality.

Ah ! cher ami, que les hommes sont pauvres en invention. Ils croient toujours qu'on se suicide pour une raison. Mais on peut très bien se suicider pour deux raisons. Non, ça ne leur entre pas dans la tête. Alors, à quoi bon mourir volontairement, se sacrifier à l'idée qu'on veut donner de soi ? Vous mort, ils en profiteront pour donner à votre geste des motifs idiots, ou vulgaires. Les martyrs, cher ami, doivent choisir d'être oubliés, raillés ou utilisés. Quant à être compris, jamais.

I realized I had no friends. Besides, even if I had had, I shouldn't be any better off. If I had been able to commit suicide and then see their reaction, why, then the game would have been worth the candle. But the earth is dark, cher ami, the coffin thick, and the shroud opaque, The eyes of the soul - to be sure - if there is a soul and it has eyes! But you see, we're not sure, we can't be sure. Otherwise, there would be a solution; at least one could get oneself taken seriously. Men are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death. So long as you are alive, your case is doubtful; you have a right only to their skepticism. So if there were the least certainty that one could enjoy the show, it would be worth proving to them what they are unwilling to believe and thus amazing them. But you kill yourself and what does it matter whether or not they believe you? You are not there to see their amazement and their contrition (fleeting at best), to witness, according to every man's dream, your own funeral. In order to cease being a doubtful case, one has to cease being, that is all. Besides, isn't it better thus? We would suffer too much from their indifference.

This better be shit you can handle without Merry gettin’ a pissed off look, Cher. ’Cause you pissed off gives me a quiver. Merry pissed off might mean I’m in the dark with a shovel and a flashlight, coverin’ a brother’s ass by buryin’ bodies.

En politique, mon cher, vous le savez comme moi, il n'y a pas d'hommes, mais des idées ; pas de sentiments, mais des intérêts ; en politique, on ne tue pas un homme : on supprime un obstacle, voilà tout.

So you love her still?" She found herself asking. "Who?" "The vampire. Shamiya." His hand squeezed her calf in gentle reproof."A silly question, cher. You know love cannot survive where there is no light.

Different strokes for different folks, I suppose.” I grinned and straightened. “Too true, cher.” I shrugged. “Way I see it, life is too fucking short. Live how you wanna live, have to live, and fuck everyone else.

Character, mon cher, does not stand still. It can gather strength. It can also deteriorate. What a person really is, is only apparent when the test comes—that is, the moment when you stand or fall on your own feet.

Mon cher docteur! Do you not think I know the female mentality? The village gossip, it is based always, always on the relations of the sexes. If a man poisons his wife in order to travel to the North Pole or to enjoy the peace of a bachelor existence—it would not interest his fellow-villagers for a minute!

I'm drowning and you're stealing every breath.

Mon cher, je haïs les hommes pour ne pas les mépriser car autrement la vie serait une farce trop dégoûtante.

I Believe in Bonnie and Clyde the sign read. Finn read it again, and then again, not sure what to make of it. Then he looked at Bonnie and shrugged. "So?" ... "So?" she hissed. "It's a sign!" "Yeah. It is. A cardboard sign." "Finn! It has our names on it!" "Names which happen to be the same as a very well-known pair. He could have written 'I believe in Sonny and Cher' or 'Beavis and Butthead' or Peanut Butter and Jelly." Bonnie looked a little crestfallen. He'd taken the magic out of the moment. ...

-Mon cher jeune homme, dit Aglaé en souriant, j'ai été professeur de chimie et je vous ferai remarquer qu'il peut y avoir des réactions en chaîne, qui partent très doucement et, s'alimentant elles-mêmes, peuvent se terminer de façon violente.

You can stop being perfect. I'm getting a complex.

I've been been rich I've been poor Rich is better I've been young I've been old Young is better

J'aimerais tant que tu sois encore là Cher Papa... Dans un avenir que je souhaite plein d'espoir Tu es la seule chose à laquelle je ne peux croire

I've heard of sweatin' to the oldies, but this was like drowning in the moldies." - Cher

She stared. Then she busted out laughing. And that was it. All that he needed. Cher was laughing. Garett was calm.

« Courir après un rêve, cela a un prix. Cela peut exiger que nous abandonnions nos habitudes, cela peut nous faire traverser des difficultés, cela peut nous conduire à des déceptions, etc. Mais aussi élevé que soit le prix, ce n'est jamais aussi cher que le prix payé par celui qui n'a pas vécu. Parce que cette personne va un jour regarder en arrière et elle entendra son propre cœur dire : “J'ai gaspillé ma vie.” »

If you could bottle it, everyone would have one!

Anyone who's a great kisser, I'm always interested in.

Then he moves to the rack of cocktail dresses, going through them one by one. “Crap, crap, crap…” Sabine is offended. “This is a Louis La Cher original.” “Oh.” Henry wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Expensive crap.” Then

What do you have to say for yourself, boy?" Cgerise "Sorry, Ma, I'm a sexy demon magnet?" Nick "Cherise!" Bubba "Don't you even take that tone with me, Mr. Triple-Threat-I-don't-have-to-listen-to-anyone-because-I'm-the-size-of-a-tabk. You're in the doghouse, buster. You might as well pack a bag 'cause you're going to be in there so long your name's going to be engraved on the mailbox." Cherise "Ah, what'd I do, cher?" Bubba "You dragged my baby into danger, and you-- Are you one of them?" Cherise "I'm going with whatever answer doesn't get me swatted with that bat." Savitar "Cherise, calm down. What are you doing here?" Bubba "What do you think? I'm protecting my boys. Both of you ... Because Mark values his own life and inparticular his male body parts, he called me after he got off the phone with you to tell me what the two of you were doing. You didn't honestly believe that I've been ignorant of what you and Mark do at night all these years? Did you?" Cherise "Um, yeah." Bubba "Well then you're a fool,Michael Burdette. And I'm not." Cherise

Rien n'est jamais acquis à l'homme Ni sa force Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur Et quand il croit Ouvrir ses bras son ombre est celle d'une croix Et quand il croit serrer son bonheur il le broie Sa vie est un étrange et douloureux divorce Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Sa vie Elle ressemble à ces soldats sans armes Qu'on avait habillés pour un autre destin A quoi peut leur servir de se lever matin Eux qu'on retrouve au soir désoeuvrés incertains Dites ces mots Ma vie Et retenez vos larmes Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Mon bel amour mon cher amour ma déchirure Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé Et ceux-là sans savoir nous regardent passer Répétant après moi les mots que j'ai tressés Et qui pour tes grands yeux tout aussitôt moururent Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Le temps d'apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard Que pleurent dans la nuit nos coeurs à l'unisson Ce qu'il faut de malheur pour la moindre chanson Ce qu'il faut de regrets pour payer un frisson Ce qu'il faut de sanglots pour un air de guitare Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne soit à douleur Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit meurtri Il n'y a pas d'amour dont on ne soit flétri Et pas plus que de toi l'amour de la patrie Il n'y a pas d'amour qui ne vive de pleurs Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux Mais c'est notre amour à tous les deux

What about Cher and Suzanne?" I called after him. "I don't know, but if you end up kissing them, call me. I wanna watch.

Les générosites en amour se payent cher.

Telling a story to go with the meal is de rigueur, cher, it makes the food more memorable, and both meal and story get better when you sip that ice-cold Dixie beer.

L'adversité sans doute est un grand maître, mais il fait payer cher ses leçons, et souvent le profit qu'on en retire ne vaut pas le prix qu'elles ont coûté.

D'autant que nous avons cher, estre, et estre consiste en mouvement et action.

la vie est charmante, mon cher, c'est selon le verre par lequel on la regarde. Tenez,

As I look across at the camera for the final time, I think back to Poirot’s last words to Hastings on Friday. ‘Cher ami,’ I said softly, as he was leaving Poirot to rest. That phrase meant an enormous amount to me, which is why I repeated it after he had shut the door behind him. But my second ‘cher ami’ in that scene was for someone other than Hastings. It was for my dear, dear friend Poirot. I was saying goodbye to him as well, and I felt it with all my heart.

In her last weeks, she had mo­ments of lu­cid­ity, and I cher­ished them when I was around to talk to her. One of these con­ver­sa­tions hap­pened when it was just me and her in the hos­pi­tal room. ‘I sus­pect you will never have a hus­band,’ she said, look­ing at me in­tently from her bed. ‘Would you be up­set if that hap­pened?’ I asked. ‘Your mother would be,’ she said, then low­ered her voice. ‘But I think you would be wise not to.’ This sur­prised me as I had al­ways thought that she and my grand­fa­ther had been very happy to­gether. ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked. Her hand, spot­ted in soft-brown splodges, the rails of her bones pro­trud­ing, flapped gen­tly at me to take it. I cupped it in both of mine. ‘You have a home that is yours,’ she said. ‘And your own money. Don’t you?’ ‘I have a bit of money, yes.’ ‘And you have your ed­u­ca­tion. And you have your ca­reer.’ I nod­ded. ‘Then you have ev­ery­thing,’ she said.

...à propos des intellectuels justement... C'est facile de se foutre de leur gueule... Ouais, c'est vachement facile... Souvent, ils sont pas très musclés et en plus, ils n'aiment pas ça, se battre... Ça ne les excite pas plus que ça les bruits des bottes, les médailles et les grosses limousines, alors oui, c'est pas très dur... Il suffit de leur arracher leur livre des mains, leur guitare, leur crayon ou leur appareil photo et déjà ils ne sont plus bons à rien, ces empotés... D'ailleurs, les dictateurs, c'est souvent la première chose qu'ils font: casser les lunettes, brûler les livres ou interdire les concerts, ça leur coûte pas cher et ça peut leur éviter bien des contrariétés par la suite... Mais tu vois, si être intello ça veut dire aimer s'instruire, être curieux, attentif, admirer, s'émouvoir, essayer de comprendre comment tout ça tient debout et tenter de se coucher un peu moins con que la veille, alors oui, je le revendique totalement: non seulement je suis une intello, mais en plus je suis fière de l'être... Vachement fière, même...

On ne peut pas chanter comme ça, uniquement pour faire plaisir à l'autre, aussi cher soit-il, non, le chant doit venir du cœur, voilà ce que je dis toujours, couler de source, comme des merles.

The psychoanalyst Otto Rank declared modern love a religious problem. As we grow increasingly secular and move away from the towns where we were born, we can no longer use religion or community to confirm our meaning in the world, so we seize a love partner instead, someone to distract us from the fact of our animal existence. French existentialist Albert Camus said it best: “Ah, mon cher, for anyone who is alone, without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful.

Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer You're the Doctor of my dreams With your crinkly hair and your glassy stare And your Machiavellian schemes I know they say that you are very vain And short and fat and pushy But at least you're not insane Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer And wishing you were here Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer You're so chubby and so neat With your funny clothes and your squishy nose You're like a German parakeet All right so people say that you don't care But you've got nicer legs than Hitler And bigger tits than Cher Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer And wishing you were here

But, after all, I was on the right side; that was enough to satisfy my conscience. The feeling of the law, the satisfaction of being right, the joy of self-esteem, cher monsieur, are powerful incentives for keeping us upright or keeping us moving forward. On the other hand, if you deprive men of them, you transform them into dogs frothing with rage.

De guiche. "Portez-les-lui." Cyrano, tenté et un peu charmé. "Vraiment…" De guiche. "Il est des plus experts. Il vous corrigera seulement quelques vers…" Cyrano, dont le visage s’est immédiatement rembruni. "Impossible, Monsieur ; mon sang se coagule En pensant qu’on y peut changer une virgule." De guiche. "Mais quand un vers lui plaît, en revanche, mon cher, Il le paye très cher." Cyrano. "Il le paye moins cher Que moi, lorsque j’ai fait un vers, et que je l’aime, Je me le paye, en me le chantant à moi-même !" De guiche. "Vous êtes fier." Cyrano. "Vraiment, vous l’avez remarqué ?

I'm like this yo-yo with a three-thousand-mile string." - Tai

We ate, did our homework, got good grades, kissed our parents goodnight and always had the secret door and shared experiences to go to. It was truly remarkable, and doing it as a group made us feel invulnerable. As soon as the drums and amps were set up and Jean and Kathie hit it, I tell you there was nothing more to say. Conversation stopped, and the magic carpet ride took off. I’ve never felt anything more powerful in my life.

Cher sang the song “If I Could Turn Back Time” about how she wished she could turn back time just so she could stop an argument that she’d had. If this is the sort of stupid thing people would be doing with time travel, I don’t think we should encourage it.

CYRANO à LE BRET : Regarde-moi, mon cher, et dis quelle espérance Pourrait bien me laisser cette protubérance ! Oh ! je ne me fais pas d'illusion ! - Parbleu, Oui, quelquefois, je m'attendris, dans le soir bleu ; J'entre en quelque jardin où l'heure se parfume ; Avec mon pauvre grand diable de nez je hume L'avril, - je suis des yeux, sous un rayon d'argent, Au bras d'un cavalier, quelque femme, en songeant Que pour marcher, à petits pas, dans de la lune, Aussi moi j'aimerais au bras en avoir une, Je m'exalte, j'oublie... et j'aperçois soudain L'ombre de mon profil sur le mur du jardin !

Cher Monsieur Dupierreux, La bêtise est un spectacle fort affligeant mais la colère d'un imbécile a quelque chose de réconfortant. Aussi je tiens à vous remercier pour les quelques lignes que vous avez consacrées à mon exposition. Tout le monde m'assure que vous n'êtes qu'une vieille pompe à merde et que vous ne méritez pas la moindre attention. Il va sans dire que je n'en crois rien et vous prie de croire cher monsieur Dupierreux en mes sentiments les meilleurs. 3 mai 1936 - René Magritte

Searching for a boy in high school is as useless as searching for meaning in a Pauly Shore movie.

Daniel reaches out and grabs my hand to steady me. His skin is warm and soft, and holding his hand sends an electric sensation up my right arm. He holds my hand firmly until I regain my balance, which takes me a heartbeat longer than it should have. “Thanks for keeping me from falling,” I say. He smiles warmly. “Sometimes we just can’t stop ourselves from falling, cher.

- Mais tu sais, l'alcool ne te guérira pas. Il ne faut pas que tu croies ça. Ça apaisera tes blessures, mais cela t'en donnera d'autres, peut-être pires. Tu ne pourras plus te passer de l'alcool, et même si, au début, tu éprouves une euphorie, un bonheur à boire, ça disparaîtra vite pour ne laisser place qu'à la tyrannie de la dépendance et du manque. Ta vie ne sera que brumes, états de sémi-conscience, hallucinations, paranoïa, crises de delirium tremens, violence contre ton entourage. Ta personnalité se désagrégera... - C'est ce que je veux ! martela Antoine en frappant le comptoir de son petit poing. Je n'ai plus la force d'être moi, plus le courage, plus l'envie d'avoir quelque chose comme une personnalité. Une personnalité, c'est un luxe qui me coûte cher. Je veux être un spectre banal. J'en ai assez de ma liberté de pensée, de toutes mes connaissances, de ma satanée conscience ! ("Comment je suis devenu stupide", p34)

Père, maîtresse, honneur, amour, noble et dure contrainte, aimable tyrannie, tous mes plaisirs sons morts, ou ma gloire ternie. L'un me rend malhereux, l'autre indigne du jour. Cher et cruel espoir d'une âme généreuse, mais ensemble amoureuse, digne ennemi de mon plus grand bonheur. Fer qui causes ma peine, M'es-tu donné pour venger mon honneur? M'est-tu donné pour perdre ma Chimène?

- Chers amis, s'exclama-t-il en descendant vers eux. Goûtez vous notre hospitalité ? J'ose espérer que oui. N'hésitez surtout pas à me faire appeler si vous avez le moindre désir, la moindre envie... - J'aimerais rentrer chez moi, lui lança Ellana. - Ah! L'humour alavarien ! Quelle merveilleuse chose ! À Valingaï, nous manquons cruellement d'humour, c'est peut-être notre plus gros défaut.

Look at me, mon cher.” She took my face in her hands and forced me to look at her. I felt so embarrassed. I really couldn’t look her in the eyes. Suddenly, that word that Mr. Tushman had used, that word that everyone kept trying to force on me, came to me like a shout. REMORSE! Yeah, there it was. That word in all its glory. REMORSE. I was shaking with remorse. I was crying with remorse. “Julian,” said Grandmère. “We all make mistakes, mon cher.” “No, you don’t understand!” I answered. “It wasn’t just one mistake. I was those kids who were mean to Tourteau….I was the bully, Grandmère.

Chaque fois que je pense a lui, je me souviens d'une anecdote qu'on m'a racontée : un jour, les Gardes rouges fouillèrent sa maison, et trouvèrent un livre caché sous son oreiller, écrit dans une langue étrangère, que personne ne connaissait. La scène n'était pas sans ressemblance avec celle de la bande du boiteux autour du Cousin Pons. Il fallut envoyer ce butin à l'Université de Pékin pour savoir enfin qu'il s'agissait d'une Bible en latin. Elle coûta cher au pasteur car, depuis, il était forcé de nettoyer la rue, toujours la même, du matin au soir, huit heures par jour, quel que fût le temps. Il finit ainsi par devenir une décoration mobile du paysage.

If the case isn't plea bargained, dismissed or placed on the inactive docket for an indefinite period of time, if by some perverse twist of fate it becomes a trial by jury, you will then have the opportunity of sitting on the witness stand and reciting under oath the facts of the case-a brief moment in the sun that clouds over with the appearance of the aforementioned defense attorney who, at worst, will accuse you of perjuring yourself in a gross injustice or, at best, accuse you of conducting an investigation so incredibly slipshod that the real killer has been allowed to roam free. Once both sides have argued the facts of the case, a jury of twelve men and women picked from computer lists of registered voters in one of America's most undereducated cities will go to a room and begin shouting. If these happy people manage to overcome the natural impulse to avoid any act of collective judgement, they just may find one human being guilty of murdering another. Then you can go to Cher's Pub at Lexington and Guilford, where that selfsame assistant state's attorney, if possessed of any human qualities at all, will buy you a bottle of domestic beer. And you drink it. Because in a police department of about three thousand sworn souls, you are one of thirty-six investigators entrusted with the pursuit of that most extraordinary of crimes: the theft of a human life. You speak for the dead. You avenge those lost to the world. Your paycheck may come from fiscal services but, goddammit, after six beers you can pretty much convince yourself that you work for the Lord himself. If you are not as good as you should be, you'll be gone within a year or two, transferred to fugitive, or auto theft or check and fraud at the other end of the hall. If you are good enough, you will never do anything else as a cop that matters this much. Homicide is the major leagues, the center ring, the show. It always has been. When Cain threw a cap into Abel, you don't think The Big Guy told a couple of fresh uniforms to go down and work up the prosecution report. Hell no, he sent for a fucking detective. And it will always be that way, because the homicide unit of any urban police force has for generations been the natural habitat of that rarefied species, the thinking cop.

Adieu, mon cher vieux. Relis et rebûche ton conte. Laisse-le reposer et reprends-le, les livres ne se font pas comme les enfants, mais comme les pyramides, avec un dessin prémédité, et en apportant des grands blocs l´un par-dessus l´autre, à force de reins, de temps et de sueur, et ça ne sert à rien! et ça reste dans le désert! mais en le dominant prodigieusement. Les chacals pissent au bas et les bourgeois montent dessus, etc.; continue la comparaison.

Mon cher ami, pour moi un homme amoureux est rayé du nombre des vivants. Il devient idiot, pas seulement idiot, mais dangereux. Je cesse, avec les gens qui m'aiment d'amour, ou qui le prétendent, toute relation intime, parce qu'ils m'ennuient d'abord, et puis parce qu'ils me sont suspects comme un chien enragé qui peut avoir une crise. Je les mets donc en quarantaine morale jusqu'à ce que leur maladie soit passée. Ne l'oubliez point. Je sais bien que chez vous l'amour n'est autre chose qu'une espèce d'appétit, tandis que chez moi ce serait, au contraire, une espèce de... de... de communion des âmes qui n'entre pas dans la religion des hommes. Vous en comprenez la lettre, et moi l'esprit.

I was entering. I was leaving. California streamed behind me like a long silk veil. I didn't feel like a big fat idiot anymore. And I didn't feel like a hard-ass motherfucking Amazonian queen. I felt fierce and humble and gathered up inside, like I was safe in this world too.

Hollywood High School was flipping from the storied institute of legend to the high school of the barrio. Or, as CNN put it in a series of rave reviews for the “predominantly Latino” school: “Hollywood High Now a Diverse High School.” Hollywood High alumni include Cher, Carol Burnett, Lon Chaney, James Garner, Linda Evans, John Huston, Judy Garland, Ricky Nelson, Sarah Jessica Parker, John Ritter, Mickey Rooney, Lana Turner, and Fay Wray, among many others. By the mid-2000s, Hollywood High was more than 70 percent Hispanic,5 and students were less likely to be getting publicity shots than mug shots. Today the school is mostly famous for its stabbings, shootings, child molestations, thefts, and graffiti.6 Around 1990, a California TV producer trying to enroll a German exchange student in a Los Angeles high school asked the principal at Fairfax High if a foreign exchange student would be better served by Fairfax or Hollywood High. Without looking up, the principal replied, “Well, 90% of my students can speak English, and we haven’t had a shooting here in 5 years.

Attendez!... Je choisis mes rimes... Là, j'y suis. (Il fait ce qu'il dit, à mesure.) Je jette avec grâce mon feutre, Je fais lentement l'abandon Du grand manteau qui me calfeutre, Et je tire mon espadon; Élégant comme Céladon, Agile comme Scaramouche, Je vous préviens, cher Mirmidon, Qu'à la fin de l'envoi, je touche! (Premier engagement de fer.) Vous auriez bien dû rester neutre; Où vais-je vous larder, dindon ?... Dans le flanc, sous votre maheutre ?... Au coeur, sous votre bleu cordon ?... - Les coquilles tintent, ding-don ! Ma pointe voltige: une mouche ! Décidément... c'est au bedon, Qu'à la fin de l'envoi, je touche. Il me manque une rime en eutre... Vous rompez, plus blanc qu'amidon ? C'est pour me fournir le mot pleutre ! - Tac! je pare la pointe dont Vous espériez me faire don: - J'ouvre la ligne, - je la bouche... Tiens bien ta broche, Laridon ! A la fin de l'envoi, je touche. (Il annonce solennellement:) Envoi Prince, demande à Dieu pardon ! Je quarte du pied, j'escarmouche, Je coupe, je feinte... (Se fendant.) Hé! Là donc! (Le vicomte chancelle, Cyrano salue.) A la fin de l'envoi, je touche.

Then you can go to Cher's Pub at Lexington and Guilford, where that selfsame assistant state's attorney, if possessed of any human qualities at all, will buy you a bottle of domestic beer. And you drink it. Because in a police department of about three thousand sworn souls, you are one of thirty-six investigators entrusted with the pursuit of that most extraordinary of crimes: the theft of a human life. You speak for the dead. You avenge those lost to the world. Your paycheck may come from fiscal services but, goddammit, after six beers you can pretty much convince yourself that you work for the Lord himself. If you are not as good as you should be, you'll be gone within a year or two, transferred to fugitive, or auto theft or check and fraud at the other end of the hall. If you are good enough, you will never do anything else as a cop that matters this much. Homicide is the major leagues, the center ring, the show. It always has been. When Cain threw a cap into Abel, you don't think The Big Guy told a couple of fresh uniforms to go down and work up the prosecution report. Hell no, he sent for a fucking detective.

Il n'y a que les imbéciles qui ne soient pas gourmands. On est gourmand comme on est artiste, comme on est instruit, comme on est poète. Le goût, mon cher, c'est un organe délicat, perfectible et respectable comme l’œil et l'oreille. Manquer de goût, c'est être privé d'une faculté exquise, de la faculté de discerner la qualité des aliments, comme on peut être privé de celle de discerner les qualités d'un livre ou d'une oeuvre d'art ; c'est être privé d'un sens essentiel, d'une partie de la supériorité humaine ; c'est appartenir à une des innombrables classes d'infirmes, de disgraciés et de sots dont se compose notre race ; c'est avoir la bouche bête, en un mot, comme on a l'esprit bête. Un homme qui ne distingue pas une langouste d'un homard, d'un hareng, cet admirable poisson qui porte en lui toutes les saveurs, tous les arômes de la mer, d'un maquereau ou d'un merlan, et une poire crassane d'une duchesse, est comparable à celui qui cofonderait Balzac avec Eugène Sue, une symphonie de Beethoven avec une marche militaire d'un chef de musique de régiment, et l'Apollon du Belvédère avec la statue du général Blanmont !

J'ai encore un vif souvenir de Freud me disant : "Mon cher Jung, promettez-moi de ne jamais abandonner la théorie sexuelle. C'est le plus essentiel ! Voyez-vous, nous devons en faire un dogme, un bastion inébranlable." Il me disait cela plein de passion et sur le ton d'un père disant : "Promets-moi une chose, mon cher fils : va tous les dimanches à l'église !" Quelque peu étonné, je lui demandai : "Un bastion -- contre quoi ?" Il me répondit : "Contre le flot de vase noire de…" Ici il hésita un moment pour ajouter : "… de l'occultisme !" Ce qui m'alarma d'abord, c'était le "bastion" et le "dogme" ; un dogme c'est-à-dire une profession de foi indiscutable, on ne l'impose que là où l'on veut une fois pour toutes écraser un doute. Cela n'a plus rien d'un jugement scientifique, mais relève uniquement d'une volonté personnelle de puissance. Ce choc frappa au cœur notre amitié. Je savais que je ne pourrais jamais faire mienne cette position. Freud semblait entendre par "occultisme" à peu près tout ce que la philosophie et la religion -- ainsi que la parapsychologie qui naissait vers cette époque -- pouvaient dire de l'âme. Pour moi, la théorie sexuelle était tout aussi "occulte" -- c'est-à-dire non démontrée, simple hypothèse possible, comme bien d'autres conceptions spéculatives. Une vérité scientifique était pour moi une hypothèse momentanément satisfaisante, mais non un article de foi éternellement valable. (p. 244)

Come on, Gray,” another sailor called. “Just one toast.” Miss Turner raised her eyebrows and leaned into him. “Come on, Mr. Grayson. Just one little toast,” she taunted, in the breathy, seductive voice of a harlot. It was a voice his body knew well, and vital parts of him were quickly forming a response. Siren. “Very well.” He lifted his mug and his voice, all the while staring into her wide, glassy eyes. “To the most beautiful lady in the world, and the only woman in my life.” The little minx caught her breath. Gray relished the tense silence, allowing a broad grin to spread across his face. “To my sister, Isabel.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. The men groaned. “You’re no fun anymore, Gray,” O’Shea grumbled. “No, I’m not. I’ve gone respectable.” He tugged on Miss Turner’s elbow. “And good little governesses need to be in bed.” “Not so fast, if you please.” She jerked away from him and turned to face the assembled crew. “I haven’t made my toast yet. We ladies have our sweethearts too, you know.” Bawdy murmurs chased one another until a ripple of laughter caught them up. Gray stepped back, lifting his own mug to his lips. If the girl was determined to humiliate herself, who was he to stop her? Who was he, indeed? Swaying a little in her boots, she raised her tankard. “To Gervais. My only sweetheart, mon cher petit lapin.” My dear little rabbit? Gray sputtered into his rum. What a fanciful imagination the chit had. “My French painting master,” she continued, slurring her words, “and my tutor in the art of passion.” The men whooped and whistled. Gray plunked his mug on the crate and strode to her side. “All right, Miss Turner. Very amusing. That’s enough joking for one evening.” “Who’s joking?” she asked, lowering her mug to her lips and eyeing him saucily over the rim. “He loved me. Desperately.” “The French do everything desperately,” he muttered, beginning to feel a bit desperate himself. He knew she was spinning naïve schoolgirl tales, but the others didn’t. The mood of the whole group had altered, from one of good-natured merriment to one of lust-tinged anticipation. These were sailors, after all. Lonely, rummed-up, woman-starved, desperate men. And to an innocent girl, they could prove more dangerous than sharks. “He couldn’t have loved you too much, could he?” Gray grabbed her arm again. “He seems to have let you go.” “I suppose he did.” She sniffed, then flashed a coquettish smile at the men. “I suppose that means I need a new sweetheart.” That was it. This little scene was at its end. Gray crouched, grasping his wayward governess around the thighs, and then straightened his legs, tossing her over one shoulder. She let out a shriek, and he felt the dregs of her rum spill down the back of his coat. “Put me down, you brute!” She squirmed and pounded his back with her fists. Gray bound her legs to his chest with one arm and gave her a pat on that well-padded rump with the other. “Well, then,” he announced to the group, forcing a roguish grin, “we’ll be off to bed.” Cheers and coarse laughter followed them as Gray toted his wriggling quarry down the companionway stairs and into the ladies’ cabin. With another light smack to her bum that she probably couldn’t even feel through all those skirts and petticoats, Gray slid her from his shoulder and dropped her on her feet. She wobbled backward, and he caught her arm, reversing her momentum. Now she tripped toward him, flinging her arms around his neck and sagging against his chest. Gray just stood there, arms dangling at his sides. Oh, bloody hell.

This is weird for me, too, you know. It’s like, ever since I got that letter…” He hesitates. “Forget it.” “Just say it,” I say. “Ever since I got that letter, things have been messed up between us. It’s not fair. You got to say everything you wanted to say, and I’m the one who has to rearrange the way I think about you; I have to make sense of it in my head. You totally blindsided me, and then you just shut me out. You start dating Kavinsky, you stop being my friend.” He exhales. “Ever since I got your letter…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” Whatever I was expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. It definitely wasn’t that. “Josh…” “I know you don’t want to hear it, but just let me say what I need to say, okay?” I nod. “I hate that you’re with Kavinsky. I hate it. He’s not good enough for you. I’m sorry to say it, but he’s just not. In my opinion, no guy will ever be good enough for you. Least of all me.” Josh ducks his head, and then suddenly he looks up at me and says, “There was this one time, I guess it was a couple of summers ago. We were walking home from somebody’s house--I think it was Mike’s.” It was hot, around dusk. I was mad because Mike’s older brother Jimmy had said he’d give us a ride home, and then he went somewhere and didn’t come back, so we had to walk. I was wearing espadrilles and my feet were hurting something terrible. Josh kept telling me to keep up with him. Quietly he says, “It was just me and you. You had on that tan suede shirt you used to wear, with the straps, and it showed your belly button.” “My Pocahontas-meets-seventies-Cher-style shirt.” Oh, how I loved that shirt. “I almost kissed you that day. I thought about it. It was this weird impulse I had. I just wanted to see what it would be like.” My heart stops. “And then?” “And then I don’t know. I guess I forgot about it.” I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry you got that letter. You were never supposed to see that. It wasn’t meant for you to ever read. It was just for me.” “Maybe it was fate. Maybe this was all supposed to happen just like this, because…because it was always gonna be you and me.” I say the first thing that comes to mind. “No, it wasn’t.” And I realize it’s true. This is the moment I realize I don’t love him, that I haven’t for a while. That maybe I never did. Because he’s right there for the taking: I could kiss him again; I could make him mine. But I don’t want him. I want someone else. It feels strange to have spent so much time wishing for something, for someone, and then one day, suddenly, to just stop.

« Norbert de Varenne parlait d’une voix claire, mais retenue, qui aurait sonné dans le silence de la nuit s’il l’avait laissée s’échapper. Il semblait surexcité et triste, d’une de ces tristesses qui tombent parfois sur les âmes et les rendent vibrantes comme la terre sous la gelée. Il reprit : « Qu’importe, d’ailleurs, un peu plus ou un peu moins de génie, puisque tout doit finir ! » Et il se tut. Duroy, qui se sentait le cœur gai, ce soir-là, dit, en souriant : « Vous avez du noir, aujourd’hui, cher maître. » Le poète répondit. « J’en ai toujours, mon enfant, et vous en aurez autant que moi dans quelques années. La vie est une côte. Tant qu’on monte, on regarde le sommet, et on se sent heureux ; mais, lorsqu’on arrive en haut, on aperçoit tout d’un coup la descente, et la fin qui est la mort. Ça va lentement quand on monte, mais ça va vite quand on descend. À votre âge, on est joyeux. On espère tant de choses, qui n’arrivent jamais d’ailleurs. Au mien, on n’attend plus rien... que la mort. » Duroy se mit à rire : « Bigre, vous me donnez froid dans le dos. » Norbert de Varenne reprit : « Non, vous ne me comprenez pas aujourd’hui, mais vous vous rappellerez plus tard ce que je vous dis en ce moment. » « Il arrive un jour, voyez- vous, et il arrive de bonne heure pour beaucoup, où c’est fini de rire, comme on dit, parce que derrière tout ce qu’on regarde, c’est la mort qu’on aperçoit. » « Oh ! vous ne comprenez même pas ce mot-là, vous, la mort. À votre âge, ça ne signifie rien. Au mien, il est terrible. » « Oui, on le comprend tout d’un coup, on ne sait pas pourquoi ni à propos de quoi, et alors tout change d’aspect, dans la vie. Moi, depuis quinze ans, je la sens qui me travaille comme si je portais en moi une bête rongeuse. Je l’ai sentie peu à peu, mois par mois, heure par heure, me dégrader ainsi qu’une maison qui s’écroule. Elle m’a défiguré si complètement que je ne me reconnais pas. Je n’ai plus rien de moi, de moi l’homme radieux, frais et fort que j’étais à trente ans. Je l’ai vue teindre en blanc mes cheveux noirs, et avec quelle lenteur savante et méchante ! Elle m’a pris ma peau ferme, mes muscles, mes dents, tout mon corps de jadis, ne me laissant qu’une âme désespérée qu’elle enlèvera bientôt aussi. » « Oui, elle m’a émietté, la gueuse, elle a accompli doucement et terriblement la longue destruction de mon être, seconde par seconde. Et maintenant je me sens mourir en tout ce que je fais. Chaque pas m’approche d’elle, chaque mouvement, chaque souffle hâte son odieuse besogne. Respirer, dormir, boire, manger, travailler, rêver, tout ce que nous faisons, c’est mourir. Vivre enfin, c’est mourir ! » » (de « Bel-Ami » par Guy de Maupassant)