Classic Bridge Quotes

A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare to the jeweled vision of a life started anew.

LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

The whole purpose of the construction of The Bridge of Silver Wings was to provide a path leading to The River of Winged Dreams, or to serve as a resting place until the river’s deeper and truer nature revealed itself.

A mustache sends a visual message to the mating population of Earth that says, "No thank you. I have procreated. My DNA is out in the world, and so I no longer deserve physical affection. Instead, it is time for me to turn away from sex and toward new pursuits, the classic weird dad hobbies such as puns, learning trivia about bridges and wars, and dreaming about societal collapse and global apocalypse.

There is a war between the living and the dead, and the Irish stories keep harping upon it. ("The Queen And The Fool")

They just keep trotting back and forth across the bridge thinking there is something better on the other side. If they'd hang head-down at the top of the thing and wait quietly, maybe something good would come along.

Accepted authority rests first of all on reason. If you ordered your people to go and throw themselves into the sea, they would rise up in revolution.

The laws of classical physics are statistical; the unpredictable, individual atom enjoys free will....

The search for liberty is simply part of the greater search for a world where respect for the rule of law and human rights is universal—a world free of dictators, terrorists, warmongers and fanatics, where men and women of all nationalities, races, traditions and creeds can coexist in the culture of freedom, where borders give way to bridges that people cross to reach their goals limited only by free will and respect for one another's rights. It is a search to which I've dedicated my writing, and so many have taken notice. But is it not a search to which we should all devote our very lives? The answer is clear when we see what is at stake

It was Plato who bridged the gap between poetry and philosophy; for, in his work, appearance, despised by his Eleatic and Sophist predecessors, became a reflected image of perfection. He set poets the task of writing philosophically, not only in the sense of giving instruction, but in the sense of striving, by the imitation of appearance, to arrive at its true essence and to show its insufficiency measured by the beauty of the Idea.

I wondered straightaway how he could sit at peace there, of an evening, with the row of heads staring down at him. There were no pictures, no flowers: only the heads of chamois. The concession to melody was the radiogram and the stack of records of classical music. Foolishly, I had asked, "Why only chamois?" He answered at once, "They fear Man." This might have led to an argument about animals in general, domestic, wild, and those which adapt themselves to the whims and vagaries of the human race; but instead he changed the subject abruptly, put on a Sibelius record, and presently made love to me, intently but without emotion. I was surprised but pleased. I thought, "We are suited to one another. There will be no demands. Each of us will be self-contained and not beholden to the other." All this came true, but something was amiss. There was a flaw - not only the nonappearance of children, but a division of the spirit. The communion of flesh which brought us together was in reality a chasm, and I despised the bridge we made. Perhaps he did as well. I had been endeavouring for ten years to build for my self a ledge of safety. ("The Chamois")

Literature has chosen the domain of small scale personal relationships, and no longer deals with great metaphysical themes. We no longer have writers like Balzac and Zola, geniuses of human comedy who could explore every domain. Proust also created an inexhaustible world, and Joyce’s Ulysses is still very close to Homer . . . Joyce is the bridge between the two great worlds of classicism and chaos. In the past, philosophy could also claim to be universal. The entire world was open to the thought of a philosopher like Spinoza. Today an immense part of the universe is closed to us.

In the dim kingdom there is a great abundance of all excellent things. There is more love there than upon the earth; there is more dancing there than upon the earth; and there is more treasure there than upon the earth. In the beginning the earth was perhaps made to fulfill the desire of man, but now it has got old and fallen into decay. What wonder if we try and pilfer the treasures of that other kingdom! ("The Three O'Byrnes and the Evil Faeries")

Unbelievable,” Audrey’s voice squeaked as I pushed past her. “Here we are, talking to you about your freaky little-boy encounter back in Breaux Bridge and how your caramel macchiato tasted like cardboard, and boom! You just zone out like one of the kids from Children of the Corn.” “Um, Aud, babe … I don’t think those kids zone out. They’re just freaky twenty-four-seven. It’s a year-round thing.” Gabe’s response drew a half-hearted laugh from me, but it was quickly reined in when I reached the Book of the Ancients. “Whatever, Gabriel,” Audrey said to him. “My point is, it’s freaky, okay? She gets this glazed-over look in her eyes, like she’s gonna whip out a butcher knife and go all Michael Myers on us or something.” I glanced over my shoulder to cock an eyebrow at her. “Oh, now you pay attention.” She cocked an eyebrow back. “What is it with you and the cheesy horror-movie references?” Gabe muttered. “Hey, now. Halloween is a classic,” Gavin scolded him. “Don’t go hating on the classics.

But sir, I think we might be going a bridge too far.

How the night deepens. A ribbon of the whitest frost is stretched across the bridge of magpie wings the lovers will cross.

Every profound literary work is a bridge between what we are and what we may become, not just as individuals, but as a collective conscience.

...but the air's flat and stale and the people half-hearted. There's nothing to do there. You can make love without trouble or meaning, or get mildly drunk, or extract second-hand emotions from the cinema, or put your mind to sleep on a dance-floor, or play bridge, or throw yourself in front of a train on the Underground. There are forty ways of escaping from consciousness. But I want something more exciting than that.

To some of us the humiliation of failure seems to open a wide gulf between God and us. We imagine that God turns away from us in disgust. What I discovered was that failure could be a bridge across the chasm that pride had created.

Over twenty-five hundred years into this experiment we call the West, is there any chance of reconciling the two competing worldviews that clashed so dramatically at the end of the fourth century AD? If so, then, as with any good compromise, there will be plenty of disappointment on both sides. People of reason may have to concede that modern science has its limits. Not everything of value can be weighed and measured. People of faith may have to admit that we can no longer afford legend over history, or obedience over curiosity. In a rapidly accelerating world Big Religion has failed to keep up with a younger generation that prefers fact over fiction. But Big Science and Big Technology may be going too fast, distracting us from the ancient search for meaning that defined the original religion of Western civilization. How do we bridge the gap?

I love seeing somebody act real earnest and serious, like Jackie Gleason. He makes me laugh because he reflects back to me my own serious-mindedness and how ridiculous it all is. It’s always easier to see somebody else in that position than yourself, and you laugh. It’s like the classic slipping on the banana peel, or someone getting hit by a pie in the face. Why do those things make us laugh? Is it from relief, like: Thank God it wasn’t me? Or is it something else: I’m being very serious now. I’m pontificating earnestly and solemnly about—POW! PIE IN THE FACE! The bust-up of certainty.

Oh, you're right. I'm just a human with thick skin, purple eyes, and hard bones. Which means you can go home. Tell Galen I said hi." Toraf opens and shuts his mouth twice. Both times it seems like he wants to say something, but his expression tells me his brain isn't cooperating. When his mouth snaps shut a third time, I splash water in his face. "Are you going to say something, or are you trying to catch wind and sail? A grin the size of the horizon spreads across his face. "He likes that, you know. Your temper." Yeahfreakingright. Galen's a classic type A personality-and type A's hate smartass-ism. Just ask my mom. "No offense, but you're not exactly an expert at judging people's emotions." "I'm not sure what you mean by that." "Sure you do." "If you're talking about Rayna, then you're wrong. She loves me. She just won't admit it." I roll my eyes. "Right. She's playing hard to get, is that it? Bashing your head with a rock, splitting your lip, calling you squid breath all the time." "What does that mean? Hard to get?" "It means she's trying to make you think she doesn't like you, so that you end up liking her more. So you work harder to get her attention." He nods. "Exactly. That's exactly what she's doing." Pinching the bridge of my nose, I say, "I don't think so. As we speak, she's getting your mating seal dissolved. That's not playing hard to get. That's playing impossible to get." "Even if she does get it dissolved, it's not because she doesn't care about me. She just likes to play games." The pain in Toraf's voice guts me like the catch of the day. She might like playing games, but his feelings are real. And can't I relate to that? "There's only one way to find out," I say softly. "Find out?" "If all she wants is games." "How?" "You play hard to get. You know how they say. 'If you love someone, set them free. If they return to you, it was meant to be?'" "I've never heard that." "Right. No, you wouldn't have." I sigh. "Basically, what I'm trying to say is, you need to stop giving Rayna attention. Push her away. Treat her like she treats you." He shakes his head. "I don't think I can do that." "You'll get your answer that way," I say, shrugging. "But it sounds like you don't really want to know." "I do want to know. But what if the answer isn't good?" His face scrunches as if the words taste like lemon juice. "You've got to be ready to deal with it, no matter what." Toraf nods, his jaw tight. The choices he has to consider will make this night long enough for him. I decide not to intrude on his time anymore. "I'm pretty tired, so I'm heading back. I'll meet you at Galen's in the morning. Maybe I can break thirty minutes tomorrow, huh?" I nudge his shoulder with my fist, but a weak smile is all I get in return. I'm surprised when he grabs my hand and starts pulling me through the water. At least it's better than dragging me by the ankle. I can't but think how Galen could have done the same thing. Why does he wrap his arms around me instead?

Where is the Prince who can afford so to cover his country with troops for its defense, as that 10,000 men descending from the clouds, might not, in many places, do an infinite deal of mischief before a force could be brought together to repel them?” It had been written in 1784 by Benjamin Franklin.

She saw that the people of this world moved about in an armor of egotism, drunk with self-gazing, athirst for compliments, hearing little of what was said to them, unmoved by the accidents that befell their closest friends, in dread of all appeals that might interrupt their long communion with their own desires.

Did you ever hear of the Queensborough Bridge?' 　　Wilbur shook his head. 'Is it a web?' 　　'Sort of,' replied Charlotte. 'But do you know how long it took men to build it? Eight whole years. My goodness, I would have starved to death waiting that long. I can make a web in a single evening.' 　　'What do people catch in the Queensborough Bridge—bugs?' asked Wilbur. 　　'No,' said Charlotte. 'They don’t catch anything. They just keep trotting back and forth across the bridge thinking there is something better on the other side. If they’d hang head-down at the top of the thing and wait quietly, maybe something good would come along. But no—with men it’s rush, rush, rush, every minute. I’m glad I’m a sedentary spider.

The author called us to re-examine assumptions bequeathed to us from Greece and Rome. Just as a bridge built by the Roman Empire might have held up tolerably for centuries under foot traffic but crumble under the weight of a modern truck, the author cautions that classical thinking had limits exposed by contemporary events and certainly exposed by the modern world.

In Ireland we hear but little of the darker powers, and come across any who have seen them even more rarely, for the imagination of the people dwells rather upon the fantastic and capricious, and fantasy and caprice would lose the freedom which is their breath of life, were they to unite them either with evil or with good. And yet the wise are of opinion that wherever man is, the dark powers who would feed his rapacities are there too, no less than the bright beings who store their honey in the cells of his heart, and the twilight beings who flit hither and thither, and that they encompass him with a passionate and melancholy multitude. They hold, too, that he who by long desire or through accident of birth possesses the power of piercing into their hidden abode can see them there, those who were once men or women full of a terrible vehemence, and those who have never lived upon the earth, moving slowly and with a subtler malice. The dark powers cling about us, it is said, day and night, like bats upon an old tree; and that we do not hear more of them is merely because the darker kinds of magic have been but little practised. I have indeed come across very few persons in Ireland who try to communicate with evil powers, and the few I have met keep their purpose and practice wholly hidden from those among whom they live.

Diversity” in the academy purported to be about bridge-building and broadening people’s experiences. It has had the opposite effect: dividing society, reducing learning, and creating an oppositional mind-set that prevents individuals from seizing the opportunities available to them. It is humanistic learning, by contrast, that involves an actual encounter with diversity and difference, as students enter worlds radically different from their own. Humanistic study involves imaginative empathy and curiosity, which are being squelched in today’s university in favor of self-engrossed complaint. Teaching the classics is the duty we owe these great works for giving us an experience of the sublime. Once we stop lovingly transmitting them to the next generation, they die. For decades, universities have drifted further and further away from their true purpose. Now they are taking the rest of the world with them.

And I grew my second mustache for the same reason all your weird dads grew theirs: it is an evolutionary signal that says, “I’m all done.” A mustache sends a visual message to the mating population of Earth that says, “No thank you. I have procreated. My DNA is out in the world, and so I no longer deserve physical affection. Instead, it is time for me to turn away from sex and toward new pursuits, the classic weird dad hobbies such as puns, learning trivia about bridges and wars, and dreaming about societal collapse and global apocalypse.

The 40th anniversary edition of the classic Newbery Medal-winning title by beloved author Katherine Paterson, with brand-new bonus materials including an author's note by Katherine herself and a foreword by New York Times bestselling author Kate DiCamillo. Jess Aarons has been practicing all summer so he can be the fastest runner in the fifth grade. And he almost is, until the new girl in school, Leslie Burke, outpaces him. The two become fast friends and spend most days in the woods behind Leslie's house, where they invent an enchanted land called Terabithia. One morning, Leslie goes to Terabithia without Jess and a tragedy occurs. It will take the love of his family and the strength that Leslie has given him for Jess to be able to deal with his grief. Bridge to Terabithia was also named an ALA Notable Children’s Book and has become a touchstone of children’s literature, as have many of Katherine Paterson’s other novels, including The Great Gilly Hopkins and Jacob Have I Loved. Full Read Online Open Here >> telegra[.]ph/Free-PDF-Bridge-to-Terabithia-Free-Download-09-17

Why are you walking so fast, if I may ask? Do you want to make it all the way to Holland today?” “Can you get to Holland from here?” “Well, first you have to go to Mombach where they grow asparagus. Do your relatives live there?” “Farther on.” “In Budenheim? In Heidesheim? Are they farmers?” “In a way.” “In a way,” Pikestail repeated. George wondered, Should I try to shake him off? But how the devil am I going to do that? No, it’s always better when there are two of you. Then you’re more a part of the landscape. They passed the little swing bridge across Flosshafen.

Our two Tigers checked ammunition and fuel: we had thirty rounds between us, and enough fuel for ten minutes driving, and then to reverse across the bridge. Our four surviving Panthers had similar reserves, we learned over the radio, and the PAK officers ran down from the bunkers for a brief consultation beside our hull. They still had substantial reserves of armour-piercing, and the mortar battery behind the bunker line had not yet fired a shot. The Flak guns had reasonable reserves, but the infantry in their slit trenches were low on everything – ammunition, spirit and strength.

Comparing marriage to football is no insult. I come from the South where football is sacred. I would never belittle marriage by saying it is like soccer, bowling, or playing bridge, never. Those images would never work, only football is passionate enough to be compared to marriage. In other sports, players walk onto the field, in football they run onto the field, in high school ripping through some paper, in college (for those who are fortunate enough) they touch the rock and run down the hill onto the field in the middle of the band. In other sports, fans cheer, in football they scream. In other sports, players ‘high five’, in football they chest, smash shoulder pads, and pat your rear. Football is a passionate sport, and marriage is about passion. In football, two teams send players onto the field to determine which athletes will win and which will lose, in marriage two families send their representatives forward to see which family will survive and which family will be lost into oblivion with their traditions, patterns, and values lost and forgotten. Preparing for this struggle for survival, the bride and groom are each set up. Each has been led to believe that their family’s patterns are all ‘normal,’ and anyone who differs is dense, naïve, or stupid because, no matter what the issue, the way their family has always done it is the ‘right’ way. For the premarital bride and groom in their twenties, as soon as they say, “I do,” these ‘right’ ways of doing things are about to collide like two three hundred and fifty pound linemen at the hiking of the ball. From “I do” forward, if not before, every decision, every action, every goal will be like the line of scrimmage. Where will the family patterns collide? In the kitchen. Here the new couple will be faced with the difficult decision of “Where do the cereal bowls go?” Likely, one family’s is high, and the others is low. Where will they go now? In the bathroom. The bathroom is a battleground unmatched in the potential conflicts. Will the toilet paper roll over the top or underneath? Will the acceptable residing position for the lid be up or down? And, of course, what about the toothpaste? Squeeze it from the middle or the end? But the skirmishes don’t stop in the rooms of the house, they are not only locational they are seasonal. The classic battles come home for the holidays. Thanksgiving. Which family will they spend the noon meal with and which family, if close enough, will have to wait until the nighttime meal, or just dessert if at all? Christmas. Whose home will they visit first, if at all? How much money will they spend on gifts for his family? for hers? Then comes for many couples an even bigger challenge – children of their own! At the wedding, many couples take two candles and light just one often extinguishing their candle as a sign of devotion. The image is Biblical. The Bible is quoted a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one. What few prepare them for is the upcoming struggle, the conflict over the unanswered question: the two shall become one, but which one? Two families, two patterns, two ways of doing things, which family’s patterns will survive to play another day, in another generation, and which will be lost forever? Let the games begin.

The man seemed not to have heard him. ‘At this life-giving time of the year, Professor Scrooge,’ said the pastor, clicking his pen, ‘it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight contribution to babes and adults, who lie languishing in hospitals and care facilities, standing on street corners and under bridges, or living alone at home during this time. Many are in need of blood transfusions or food or pregnancy care every day in our large community; many others – especially the elderly – are in want of comfort and cheer.’ ‘Are there no abortion clinics?’ asked Scrooge. ‘Plenty of clinics,’ said the pastor, clicking the pen tip in again. ‘And Euthanasia facilities?’ demanded Scrooge. ‘Are they still in operation?’ ‘They are. Still,’ returned the gentleman, ‘I wish I could say they were not.’ ‘Welfare and Food Stamps are in full swing, then?’ said Scrooge. ‘Both very busy.’ ‘Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,’ said Scrooge. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ ‘Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,’ returned the gentleman, ‘a few churches are endeavoring to raise a fund to provide those in need with medical care and food as well as the comfort of a human presence and the message of eternal life through Jesus. We choose this time to sow into others’ lives because it is a time, of all others, when we rejoice in the life God gave to us through His Son. What shall I put down – in time, money, or blood – for you?’ ‘Nothing!’ Scrooge replied. ‘You wish to give anonymously, then?’ ‘I wish to be left alone,’ said Scrooge.

My family is a classic American-dream story. My great-grandparents fled Russia to avoid being murdered for their religion. Just two generations later, my parents fled New York City weekends for their country house. I never felt guilty about this. I was raised to believe America rewards hard work. But I was also raised to understand that luck plays a role in even the bootstrappiest success story. The cost of living the dream, I was taught, is the responsibility to expand it for others. It’s a more than fair price. Yet the people running the country didn’t see it that way. With George W. Bush in the White House, millionaires and billionaires were showered with tax cuts. Meanwhile, schools went underfunded. Roads and bridges deteriorated. Household incomes languished. Deficits ballooned. And America went to war. President Bush invaded Iraq to destroy weapons of mass destruction, a campaign which hit a snag when it turned out those weapons didn’t exist. But by then it was too late. We had broken a country and owned the resulting mess. Colin Powell called this “the Pottery Barn rule,” which, admittedly, was cute. Still, it’s hard to imagine a visit to Pottery Barn that costs trillions of dollars and thousands of American lives. Our leaders, in other words, had made bad choices. They would therefore be replaced with better ones. That’s how AP Government told me the system worked. In the real world, however, the invasion of Iraq became an excuse for a dark and antidemocratic turn. Those who questioned the war, the torture of prisoners—or even just the tax cuts—found themselves accused of something barely short of treason. No longer was a distinction made between supporting the president’s policies and America’s troops. As an electoral strategy, this was dangerous and cynical. Also, it worked. So no, I didn’t grow up with a high opinion of politicians. But I did grow up in the kind of environment where people constantly told me I could change the world. In 2004, eager to prove them right, I volunteered for John Kerry’s presidential campaign.

Nixon bridged the gap because his politics were never about ideology: They were the politics of self. Never popular with either wing, he managed to negotiate a delicate position acceptable to both. He did not bring warmth or friendship to the task; when he made attempts at these, he was, more often than not, stilted and artificial. Instead, he offered a stark choice: If you don’t like me, find someone who is closer to your position and who is also likely to win. If he tilted to either side, it was because that side seemed a little stronger at the moment or seemed to present a more formidable candidate with whom he had to deal. A classic example of this came early in 1960, when he told Barry Goldwater, the conservative Republican leader, that he would advocate a right-to-work plank at the convention; a few weeks later in a secret meeting with Nelson Rockefeller, the liberal Republican leader—then a more formidable national figure than Goldwater—Nixon not only reversed himself but agreed to call for its repeal under the Taft-Hartley act. “The man,” Goldwater noted of Nixon in his personal journal at the time, “is a two-fisted four-square liar.

INTRODUCTION TO GENDER AND SOCIETY The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir A classic analysis of the Western conception of the woman. Feminism Is for Everybody by bell hooks A primer about the power and potential of feminist action. We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Feminism redefined for the twenty-first century. QUEER THEORY AND INTERSECTIONAL FEMINISM Gender Trouble by Judith Butler A classic, and groundbreaking, text about gender and the boundaries of identity. Gender Outlaw by Kate Bornstein A 1990s-era memoir of transition and nonbinary identity. This Bridge Called My Back ed. Cherríe Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa A collection of essays about the intersections between gender, class, sexuality, and race. Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde A landmark collection of essays and speeches by a lauded black lesbian feminist. The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston A memoir of growing up as a Chinese American woman. MODERN HISTORY How We Get Free: Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective ed. Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor A history of the Combahee River Collective, a group of radical black feminists operating in the 1960s and 1970s. And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts Investigative reportage about the beginning of the AIDS crisis. A Queer History of the United States by Michael Bronski An LGBT history of the United States, from 1492 to the present. CONTEMPORARY QUESTIONS Blurred Lines: Rethinking Sex, Power, and Consent on Campus by Vanessa Grigoriadis An exploration of the effects of the sexual revolution in American colleges. The End of Men: And the Rise of Women by Hanna Rosin A book about the shifting power dynamics between men and women. Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay Essays about the author’s experiences as a woman and our cultural understanding of womanhood. All the Single Ladies by Rebecca Traister An investigation into the lives of twenty-first-century unmarried women. GENDER AND SEXUALITY IN FICTION Rubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae Brown A groundbreaking lesbian coming-of-age novel, originally published in 1973. Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin A classic of morality and desire, set in 1950s Paris, about an American man and his relationship with an Italian bartender. Angels in America by Tony Kushner A Pulitzer Prize–winning play about the Reagan-era AIDS epidemic. Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson A coming-of-age and coming-out novel about a woman growing up in an evangelical household.

Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '99: Wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now. Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh never mind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine. Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4:00 pm on some idle Tuesday. Do one thing everyday that scares you. Sing. Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts; don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Floss. Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead; sometimes you’re behind; the race is long, and in the end it’s only with yourself. Remember compliments you receive; forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters; throw away your old bank statements. Stretch. Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you wanna do with your life; the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives; some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t. Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees; you’ll miss them when they’re gone. Maybe you’ll marry -- maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children -- maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40 -- maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either -- your choices are half chance; so are everybody else’s. Enjoy your body; use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own. Dance. even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. Do not read beauty magazines; they will only make you feel ugly. Get to know your parents; you never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings; they're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography, in lifestyle, because the older you get the more you need the people you knew when you were young. Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel. Accept certain inalienable truths: prices will rise; politicians will philander; you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders. Respect your elders. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund; maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out. Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you're 40, it will look 85. Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia: dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it’s worth. But trust me on the sunscreen. Baz Luhrmannk, William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet (1996)

If there was any politician in America who reflected the Cold War and what it did to the country, it was Richard Nixon—the man and the era were made for each other. The anger and resentment that were a critical part of his temperament were not unlike the tensions running through the nation as its new anxieties grew. He himself seized on the anti-Communist issue earlier and more tenaciously than any other centrist politician in the country. In fact that was why he had been put on the ticket in the first place. His first congressional race in 1946, against a pleasant liberal incumbent named Jerry Voorhis, was marked by red-baiting so savage that it took Voorhis completely by surprise. Upon getting elected, Nixon wasted no time in asking for membership in the House Un-American Activities Committee. He was the committee member who first spotted the contradictions in Hiss’s seemingly impeccable case; in later years he was inclined to think of the case as one of his greatest victories, in which he had challenged and defeated a man who was not what he seemed, and represented the hated Eastern establishment. His career, though, was riddled with contradictions. Like many of his conservative colleagues, he had few reservations about implying that some fellow Americans, including perhaps the highest officials in the opposition party, were loyal to a hostile foreign power and willing to betray their fellow citizens. Yet by the end of his career, he became the man who opened the door to normalized relations with China (perhaps, thought some critics, he was the only politician in America who could do that without being attacked by Richard Nixon), and he was a pal of both the Soviet and Chinese Communist leadership. If he later surprised many long-standing critics with his trips to Moscow and Peking, he had shown his genuine diplomatic skills much earlier in the way he balanced the demands of the warring factions within his own party. He never asked to be well liked or popular; he asked only to be accepted. There were many Republicans who hated him, particularly in California. Earl Warren feuded with him for years. Even Bill Knowland, the state’s senior senator and an old-fashioned reactionary, despised him. At the 1952 convention, Knowland had remained loyal to Warren despite Nixon’s attempts to help Eisenhower in the California delegation. When Knowland was asked to give a nominating speech for Nixon, he was not pleased: “I have to nominate the dirty son of a bitch,” he told friends. Nixon bridged the gap because his politics were never about ideology: They were the politics of self. Never popular with either wing, he managed to negotiate a delicate position acceptable to both. He did not bring warmth or friendship to the task; when he made attempts at these, he was, more often than not, stilted and artificial. Instead, he offered a stark choice: If you don’t like me, find someone who is closer to your position and who is also likely to win. If he tilted to either side, it was because that side seemed a little stronger at the moment or seemed to present a more formidable candidate with whom he had to deal. A classic example of this came early in 1960, when he told Barry Goldwater, the conservative Republican leader, that he would advocate a right-to-work plank at the convention; a few weeks later in a secret meeting with Nelson Rockefeller, the liberal Republican leader—then a more formidable national figure than Goldwater—Nixon not only reversed himself but agreed to call for its repeal under the Taft-Hartley act. “The man,” Goldwater noted of Nixon in his personal journal at the time, “is a two-fisted four-square liar.

The law was a dispensation of terror that drove men before it as with a scourge; the Gospel draws with cords of love. Jesus is the Good Shepherd going before His sheep, bidding them follow Him, and leading them forward with the sweet word, “Come.” The law repels; the Gospel attracts. The law shows the distance that exists between God and man; the Gospel bridges that awful chasm and brings the sinner across it.

74. I’m no hero They say that Rama, parted from Sita, held back the mighty ocean to build a bridge. And here I am, parted from her – can’t even hold back a few tears. Vidyakara Mishra’s Thousand, 1800 CE

Leonhard Euler (pronounced “oiler”, 1707–1783) is judged by all to have been the most productive, and by many to have been the best, mathematician of modern times. He was Swiss, but spent much of his life in Russia because he had a big family and Catherine the Great offered him a lot of money. His paper “The Seven Bridges of Königsberg” (1736), which we will discuss in Chapter 8, is the earliest known work on the theory of graphs. The theorem now known as Euler’s Formula was proved by Euler in 1752. It is one of the classic theorems of elementary mathematics and plays a central role in the next three chapters of this book.

A man who makes his golf or his motor-bicycle the centre of his life, or a woman who devotes all her thoughts to clothes or bridge or her dog, is being just as ‘intemperate’ as someone who gets drunk every evening. Of course, it does not show on the outside so easily: bridge-mania or golf-mania do not make you fall down in the middle of the road. But God is not deceived by externals.

We strolled into one of the rooms in which the play was on. The game was at its height, with huge stacks of chips upon the tables and the players chatting gayly. There was no large crowd there, however. Indeed, as we found afterward, it was really in the afternoon that it was most crowded, for it was rather a poolroom than a gambling joint, although we gathered from the gossip that some stiff games of bridge were played there. Both men and women were seated at the poker game that was in progress before the little green table. The women were richly attired and looked as if they had come from good families.

There were very few things to do in Toms River, New Jersey, however it was the closest thing resembling civilization near the school. When I wasn’t being restricted to the campus, for one infraction or another, that’s where I would go. Toms River was two and a half miles west of the school. Making the round trip was a five-mile walk, but it was worth it, just to get away. To get there I walked down Prospect Avenue, and then cut corners to Bayside Avenue. In the winter, the frozen snow and ice made the walk cold and miserable. There was always a wind blowing off the river, but I would trudge on relentlessly. The wet slush soaked through my shoes, ruining a shine I had worked on for hours. My feet became wet and frozen, but I pressed on regardless. Eventually I would reach Route 166, which was narrow and only had two lanes; still it was the only north-south highway along the coast at the time. I then crossed the concrete bridge that had a year engraved on it, indicating that it was built as a WPA project during the Great Depression. On the west side of the road was the Toms River Diner. It was classic in appearance and was a warm haven, where I could thaw out. Thelma, the waitress, was always friendly and one of the nicest women I ever knew….

The bridge between the electron and the other elementary particles is provided by the fine structure constant, a ~ 1/137, as manifested in the factor-of-137 spacings between the classical electron radius, electron Compton radius, and Bohr orbit radius. ... An a-quantized mass-generation grid extends accurately from the electron all the way to the top quark t, and leads to a corresponding a-quantized particle lifetime grid.

What a good editor brings to a piece of writing is an objective eye that the writer has long since lost, and there is no end of ways in which an editor can improve a manuscript: pruning, shaping, clarifying, tidying a hundred inconsistencies of tense and pronoun and location and tone, noticing all the sentences that could be read in two different ways, dividing awkward long sentences into short ones, putting the writer back on the main road if he has strayed down a side path, building bridges where the writer has lost the reader by not paying attention to his transitions, questioning matters of judgment and taste. An editor’s hand must also be invisible. Whatever he adds in his own words shouldn’t sound like his own words; they should sound like the writer’s words.

Thus, all Indian Mādhyamikas (except for Nāgārjuna in his Dharmadhātustava) and virtually all classical Yogācāra masters up to the tenth century were not willing to openly embrace the tathāgatagarbha teachings as anything other than emptiness, obviously being very concerned about not getting anywhere near the non-Buddhist notion of an ātman. Interestingly, the exceptions in this regard among early Indian Yogācāras all “went into exile,” teaching and translating in China, with their works being preserved only in Chinese. The most prominent among them are Guṇabhadra (394–468), Ratnamati, Bodhiruci (both fifth–sixth century), and especially Paramārtha (499–569), all of whom extensively translated and taught Yogācāra and tathāgatagarbha materials. In India, it was only later Yogācāras, such as Jñānaśrīmitra and Ratnākaraśānti, who interpreted the tathāgata heart along the lines of mind’s luminous nature (see right below).

There were very few things to do in Toms River, New Jersey, however it was the closest thing resembling civilization near the school. When I wasn’t being restricted to the campus, for one infraction or another, that’s where I would go. Toms River was two and a half miles west of the school. Making the round trip was a five-mile walk, but it was worth it, just to get away. To get there I walked down Prospect Avenue, and then cut corners to Bayside Avenue. In the winter, the frozen snow and ice made the walk cold and miserable. There was always a wind blowing off the river, but I would trudge on relentlessly. The wet slush soaked through my shoes, ruining a shine I had worked on for hours. My feet became wet and frozen, but I pressed on regardless. Eventually I would reach Route 166, which was narrow and only had two lanes; still it was the only north-south highway along the coast at the time. I then crossed the concrete bridge that had a year engraved on it, indicating that it was built as a WPA project during the Great Depression. On the west side of the road was the Toms River Diner. It was classic in appearance and was a warm haven, where I could thaw out. Thelma, the waitress, was always friendly and one of the sexiest women I ever knew. She laughed at my silliness, knew just how much cleavage to show, and moved and turned like a fashion model. There was always “Country Music” playing, especially that of Hank Williams who was Thelma’s favorite. Hey, Good Lookin’, Your Cheatin’ Heart, and I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry were all songs he had written and that she sang along with. Thelma knew that I could not keep my eyes off of her, and she enjoyed playing the part, letting me look far down the unbuttoned section of her waitress uniform, while pouring me another cup of coffee. The way she looked over her shoulder, throwing aside her hair while asking what else I wanted, would send shivers down my back and feelings into my loins that set me on fire. Just this alone was worth the five-mile round trip. During warmer weather, the walk was more pleasant, but the constant wind off the Atlantic Ocean and the river, never let up.

...by the late 2000s, it seemed like a sucker's bet to try to make a living as an inventor in the classic sense, by creating useful and original things... the country's most famous inventors were inventing things of dubious merit, generating enormous wealth for a few by hawking gadgets to the many. In the San Francisco Bay Area, as America's coal-fired power plants continued to soak the atmosphere with gunk, as dysfunction snarled Congress and the roads and bridges chipped and cracked, as twelve million searched in vain for jobs and the economies of entire towns ran on food stamps, the best and brightest trilled about the awesomeness of their smartphone apps. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Angry Birds, Summly, Wavii: software to entertain, encapsulate, package, distract. Silicon Valley: a place that has made many useful things and created enormous wealth and transformed the way we live and where many are now working to build a virtual social layer atop the real corroding world.

We sat down on a rude bench, under a group of magnificent lime trees. The sun was setting with all its melancholy splendour behind the sylvan horizon, and the stream that flows beside our home, and passes under the steep old bridge I have mentioned, wound through many a group of noble trees, almost at our feet, reflecting in its current the fading crimson of the sky.

Curiously relative to the world inside our organisms, perspective is provided by feelings that unequivocally reveal the natural link between mind and body. Feelings let the mind know, automatically, without any questions being asked, that mind and body are together, each belonging to the other. The classic void that has separated physical bodies from mental phenomena is naturally bridged thanks to feelings.

The Green Hornet was one of radio’s bestknown and most distinctive juvenile adventure shows. With its companion shows, The Lone Ranger and Challenge of the Yukon, it was fed to the network by its originating station, WXYZ, and was distinguished by its use of classical music for themes and bridges between dramatic acts. It was not by chance that Britt Reid, the hero, had all the earmarks of a modern-day Lone Ranger. Faithful listeners would remember that the Ranger’s family name had been Reid: that the lone Texas Ranger who survived the ambush of the treacherous Butch Cavendish gang, long ago in the West, was in reality John Reid, who would don his mask and ride the plains astride his great white horse, Silver, and accompanied by his faithful Indian friend, Tonto, punishing rustlers and restoring the reputations, freedom, ranches, and livelihoods of the God-fearing, the oppressed and the wrongly accused.

Newell and Simon predicted that by 1970 computers would be capable of composing classical music, discovering important new mathematical theorems, and understanding and translating spoken language.

Cornelius Ryan, whose A Bridge Too Far remains the classic narrative of the battle, put total Allied losses at 17,000 in nine days.

Vernet received his commission for this project in 1838, a year in which concessions for the construction of railroads were a subject of passionate debate, and many of the deputies were carried away by visions of the glorious future this new invention would usher in, typical of which was the speech of the director of bridges and railroads in which he proclaimed that, after the invention of the printing press, railroads represented the greatest advance in the history of civilization. In response to this enthusiasm Vernet broke traditional rules of decorum in his enormous mural, combining classical figures and traditional allegorical emblems with products of the industrial revolution. In one section of his mural composition, usually entitled Le Génie de la Science (The genius of Science), a nude allegorical figure is seated in the foreground, one hand on an air pump, the other on an anvil, while a modern steam locomotive is driven toward a railroad tunnel in the background (see Figure 2-2). If Vernet had been limited to one symbol to characterize the social and economic reality of the July Monarchy, it is doubtful that he could have found a better one.

Britain had become a kind of cargo cult, a jumble of disassociated local customs, rituals and superstitions: uncanny relics of the distant, unknowable Britain of ancient days. Why, for instance, do sword dancers lock weapons in magical shapes such as the pentagram or the six-pointed star, led by a man wearing a fox’s head? What is the straw bear plodding round the village of Whittlesey in Cambridgeshire every January? Why do a bunch of Nutters black up their faces and perform a coconut dance in several Lancashire villages? What possesses people to engage in the crazed ‘furry dance’, singing the ‘Hal-An-Tow’ song, on 6 May at Helston in Cornwall? Why do beribboned hobby horses canter round the streets of Padstow and Minehead every May Day, with attendant ‘Gullivers’ lunging at onlookers with a giant pair of pincers? The persistence of such rites, and the apparent presence of codes, occult symbolism and nature magic in the dances, mummers’ plays and balladry of yore, have provided a rich compost for some of the outgrowths of folk in the 1960s and afterwards. Even to dip a toe into the world of folklore is to unearth an Other Britain, one composed of mysterious fragments and survivals – a rickety bridge to the sweet grass of Albion. As Bert Lloyd mentioned, ‘To our toiling ancestors [these customs] meant everything, and in a queer irrational way they can still mean much to us.’1

Please do not throw Plato at me. I am a complete skeptic about Plato, and I have never been able to join in the customary scholarly admiration for Plato the artist. The subtlest judges of taste among the ancients themselves are here on my side. Plato, it seems to me, throws all stylistic forms together and is thus a first-rate decadent in style: his responsibility is thus comparable to that of the Cynics, who invented the satura Menippea. To be attracted to the Platonic dialogue, this horribly self-satisfied and childish kind of dialectic, one must never have read good French writers — Fontenelle, for example. Plato is boring. In the end, my mistrust of Plato goes deep: he represents such an aberration from all the basic Greek instincts, is so moralistic, so pseudo-Christian (he already takes the concept of "the good" as the highest concept) that I would prefer the harsh phrase "higher swindle" or, if it sounds better, "idealism" for the whole phenomenon of Plato. We have paid dearly for the fact that this Athenian got his schooling from the Egyptians (or from the Jews in Egypt?). In that great calamity called Christianity, Plato represents that ambiguity and fascination, called an "ideal," which made it possible for the nobler spirits of antiquity to misunderstand themselves and to set foot on the bridge leading to the Cross. And how much Plato there still is in the concept "church," in the construction, system, and practice of the church! My recreation, my preference, my cure from all Platonism has always been Thucydides. Thucydides and, perhaps, Machiavelli's Il Principe are most closely related to me by the unconditional will not to delude oneself, but to see reason in reality — not in "reason," still less in "morality." For that wretched distortion of the Greeks into a cultural ideal, which the "classically educated" youth carries into life as a reward for all his classroom lessons, there is no more complete cure than Thucydides. One must follow him line by line and read no less clearly between the lines: there are few thinkers who say so much between the lines. With him the culture of the Sophists, by which I mean the culture of the realists, reaches its perfect expression — this inestimable movement amid the moralistic and idealistic swindle set loose on all sides by the Socratic schools. Greek philosophy: the decadence of the Greek instinct. Thucydides: the great sum, the last revelation of that strong, severe, hard factuality which was instinctive with the older Greeks. In the end, it is courage in the face of reality that distinguishes a man like Thucydides from a man like Plato: Plato is a coward before reality, consequently he flees into the ideal; Thucydides has control of himself, consequently he also maintains control of things.

Like the whole classical sphere, of which it had become an integral part, Arcady became an object of that nostalgia which distinguishes the real Renaissance from all those pseudo- or proto-Renaissances that had taken place during the Middle Ages: it developed into a haven, not only from a faulty reality but also, and even more so, from a questionable present. At the height of the Quattrocento an attempt was made to bridge the gap between the present and the past by means of an allegorical fiction.

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He did not choose any back street to-day, but rode slowly, with uplifted head and free glances, along the principal street all the way to the bridge.

The law repels; the Gospel attracts. The law shows the distance that exists between God and man; the Gospel bridges that awful chasm and brings the sinner across it.

Non-ancient books which made this book possible include: Emma Bridges & Djibril al-Ayad, Making Monsters; Lillian E. Doherty, Gender and the Interpretation of Classical Myth; Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth; Edith Hall, Greek Tragedy (as well as her terrific essays and blog posts about everything from Phaedra to Jocasta); Mary R. Lefkowitz, Women in Greek Myth; Adrienne Mayor, The Amazons; Matthew Wright, The Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy; Froma I. Zeitlin, Playing the Other.

And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to look at — perhaps the chill, damp season adds a charm to the trimly kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above.

Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr. and Mrs. Tulliver were talking about, as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlor, on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of.

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【V信83113305】：Kogakkan University, rooted in the ancient tradition of Japanese spiritual and cultural studies, was established to preserve and promote Shinto and classical learning. Located in Ise, home to Japan’s most sacred Shinto shrine, Ise Jingu, the university offers a unique academic environment deeply connected to Japan’s indigenous heritage. It provides specialized programs in Shinto studies, Japanese history, and culture, alongside modern disciplines. The institution emphasizes moral and character education, reflecting its founding principles. With a serene campus and a strong sense of tradition, Kogakkan University serves as a bridge between Japan’s historical legacy and contemporary society, attracting students dedicated to cultural and spiritual pursuits.，最佳办理皇學館大学毕业证方式, 做今年新版皇學館大学皇学馆大学毕业证, Kogakkan University皇学馆大学挂科了怎么办？, 快速办理皇學館大学毕业证-皇学馆大学毕业证书-百分百放心, 皇学馆大学毕业证和学位证办理流程, 办理日本皇学馆大学毕业证Kogakkan University文凭版本, 皇學館大学毕业证在线制作皇学馆大学文凭证书, 皇学馆大学毕业证最安全办理办法, 一比一制作-皇學館大学文凭证书皇学馆大学毕业证

【V信83113305】：The New York Academy of Art stands as a premier institution dedicated to the advancement of figurative and representational art. Rooted in the belief that rigorous training in traditional techniques is essential for contemporary artistic practice, its curriculum emphasizes anatomy, drawing, painting, and sculpture. Located in the heart of Tribeca, the Academy provides an immersive environment where students engage with master artists and a vibrant faculty. It serves as a critical bridge between the rich legacy of classical art and the dynamic expressions of the modern world, fostering a new generation of artists equipped with both exceptional skill and profound conceptual depth.，【V信83113305】做今年新版纽约美术学院毕业证,制作美国文凭纽约美术学院毕业证,高端定制纽约美术学院毕业证留信认证,高端原版纽约美术学院毕业证办理流程,在线办理纽约美术学院毕业证offer外壳皮,在线办理纽约美术学院毕业证本科硕士成绩单方法,如何办理纽约美术学院毕业证一比一定制,快速办理纽约美术学院毕业证如何放心,硕士博士学历NYAOA毕业证-纽约美术学院毕业证书-真实copy原件,办理美国-NYAOA毕业证书纽约美术学院毕业证

【V信83113305】：The Won Institute of Graduate Studies stands as a unique institution in the United States, dedicated to the advancement of health and wellness through classical healing arts. Located in Pennsylvania, it is notably the first accredited graduate school in North America to offer a Master’s degree in Acupuncture Studies. Beyond this flagship program, the institute provides specialized education in Chinese Herbal Medicine, Studies in Mindfulness, and Applied Meditation. Its curriculum seamlessly blends ancient wisdom with modern scientific inquiry, preparing practitioners to operate at the highest professional standards. The Won Institute fosters a transformative learning environment that emphasizes not only clinical excellence but also personal growth and community well-being, serving as a vital bridge between traditional practices and contemporary healthcare.，美国Won研究学院毕业证成绩单在线制作办理, Won研究学院毕业证办理流程, 美国留学成绩单毕业证, TWIOGS-diploma安全可靠购买Won研究学院毕业证, 学历证书!学历证书Won研究学院学历证书假文凭, 硕士-TWIOGS毕业证Won研究学院毕业证办理, TWIOGS留学本科毕业证, The Won Institute of Graduate Studies毕业证成绩单专业服务, 网络办理TWIOGS毕业证-Won研究学院毕业证书-学位证书

【V信83113305】：The Graduate School of Eastern Culture in South Korea stands as a unique institution dedicated to the profound study and preservation of Asia's rich intellectual and artistic heritage. It offers specialized programs that delve into traditional philosophy, classical arts, history, and languages, serving as a vital academic bridge between the past and the present. By fostering a deep, scholarly understanding of Eastern cultural traditions, the university cultivates experts who contribute significantly to cultural continuity and global intercultural dialogue. Its rigorous curriculum and research initiatives make it an essential center for those seeking to master and promote the diverse spiritual and aesthetic legacy of the East within the modern world.，极速办东方文化大学院大学毕业证동방문화대학원대학교文凭学历制作, 동방문화대학원대학교东方文化大学院大学颁发典礼学术荣誉颁奖感受博士生的光荣时刻, 硕士博士学历동방문화대학원대학교毕业证-东方文化大学院大学毕业证书-真实copy原件, 高端烫金工艺东方文化大学院大学毕业证成绩单制作, 办理동방문화대학원대학교毕业证成绩单学历认证, 办东方文化大学院大学毕业证Graduate School of Eastern Cultureuniversity, 동방문화대학원대학교东方文化大学院大学毕业证书, 加急多少钱办理동방문화대학원대학교毕业证-东方文化大学院大学毕业证书, 购买东方文化大学院大学毕业证

【V信83113305】：Huamei College of Traditional Chinese Medicine in the United States stands as a prominent institution dedicated to preserving and advancing the ancient practice of TCM in the West. It offers comprehensive educational programs that blend classical Chinese medical theory with modern clinical practice, training a new generation of skilled practitioners. Students delve into acupuncture, herbal medicine, and tuina massage, gaining deep theoretical knowledge and practical expertise. The college serves as a vital cultural and educational bridge, fostering a greater understanding and integration of holistic Eastern healing methods within the American healthcare landscape. Through its rigorous curriculum and commitment to excellence, Huamei College empowers graduates to enhance community wellness with time-honored natural therapies.，百分百放心原版复刻华美中医学院ACOAOM毕业证书, ACOAOM毕业证成绩单制作, 原版定制华美中医学院毕业证ACOAOM毕业证书一比一制作, 1分钟获取华美中医学院毕业证最佳办理渠道, 华美中医学院颁发典礼学术荣誉颁奖感受博士生的光荣时刻, 极速办ACOAOM华美中医学院毕业证ACOAOM文凭学历制作, 最新华美中医学院毕业证成功案例, ACOAOM文凭办理, 华美中医学院毕业证制作

【V信83113305】：Kokugakuin University, established in 1882, is a prestigious private institution in Tokyo, Japan, dedicated to the study and promotion of traditional Japanese culture, Shinto, and the humanities. Rooted in the Kokugaku ("National Learning") movement, the university emphasizes the exploration of Japan’s classical literature, history, and spiritual traditions. It serves as a leading center for Shinto research and training, attracting students interested in becoming Shinto priests or scholars. With a strong academic foundation and a commitment to preserving cultural heritage, Kokugakuin University offers a unique educational experience that bridges Japan’s ancient traditions with modern scholarly inquiry.，办理国学院大学毕业证國學院大學毕业证书毕业证, fake-國學院大學-diploma-transcript, 制作日本文凭國學院大學毕业证, 國學院大學国学院大学毕业证成绩单学历认证最快多久, 学历证书!國學院大學学历证书国学院大学学历证书國學院大學假文凭, 国学院大学毕业证和学位证办理流程, 高仿原版国学院大学毕业证國學院大學毕业证书外壳offer制作, 办理真实毕业证成绩单留信网认证, 国学院大学留学成绩单毕业证

【V信83113305】：Huamei College of Traditional Chinese Medicine in the United States stands as a prominent institution dedicated to educating future practitioners in the holistic arts of acupuncture, herbal medicine, and TCM therapies. By blending rigorous academic training with extensive clinical practice, the college provides students with a deep understanding of both classical principles and modern integrative approaches. It serves as a vital cultural and educational bridge, fostering greater awareness and acceptance of TCM within the American healthcare landscape. Graduates are well-prepared to offer effective, natural treatment options, contributing to the diversity and comprehensiveness of health and wellness services available in the U.S.，【V信83113305】定制-华美中医学院毕业证ACOAOM毕业证书,华美中医学院毕业证ACOAOM毕业证学校原版100%一样,ACOAOM华美中医学院毕业证书加急制作,ACOAOM华美中医学院毕业证学校原版一样吗,加急定制-ACOAOM学位证华美中医学院毕业证书,一比一制作-ACOAOM文凭证书华美中医学院毕业证,百分比满意度-ACOAOM华美中医学院毕业证,100%满意-ACOAOM毕业证华美中医学院学位证,100%收到-ACOAOM毕业证书华美中医学院毕业证,100%加急制作-ACOAOM毕业证学校原版一样

【V信83113305】：Founded in the United States, Yousan University of Traditional Chinese Medicine stands as a prominent institution dedicated to advancing the study and practice of TCM. It offers comprehensive academic programs that integrate classical Chinese medical theories with modern healthcare practices. The university is committed to fostering a deep understanding of holistic healing methods, including acupuncture, herbal medicine, and therapeutic massage. Through rigorous curriculum and clinical training, students gain the expertise needed to become skilled practitioners. Yousan University also promotes cross-cultural medical exchange, contributing to the global integration of traditional and contemporary wellness approaches. It serves as a vital bridge between Eastern medical wisdom and Western scientific inquiry.，【V信83113305】定制-友三中医大学毕业证YSUOTCM毕业证书,友三中医大学毕业证YSUOTCM毕业证学校原版100%一样,YSUOTCM友三中医大学毕业证书加急制作,YSUOTCM友三中医大学毕业证学校原版一样吗,加急定制-YSUOTCM学位证友三中医大学毕业证书,一比一制作-YSUOTCM文凭证书友三中医大学毕业证,百分比满意度-YSUOTCM友三中医大学毕业证,100%满意-YSUOTCM毕业证友三中医大学学位证,100%收到-YSUOTCM毕业证书友三中医大学毕业证,100%加急制作-YSUOTCM毕业证学校原版一样

【V信83113305】：The American College of Taoist Traditional Chinese Medicine represents a unique fusion of ancient Eastern wisdom and Western holistic education. Nestled within the American wellness landscape, this institution is dedicated to preserving and teaching the profound medical and philosophical systems rooted in Daoism. Its curriculum seamlessly integrates classical TCM modalities—such as acupuncture, herbal medicine, and qigong—with the core Daoist principles of balance, natural harmony, and Wu Wei (effortless action). Students are trained not only as skilled practitioners but also as mindful individuals who understand health as a dynamic equilibrium between body, mind, and spirit. By bridging cultural divides, the college serves as a vital conduit for authentic traditional healing, empowering a new generation to bring this timeless, natural approach to healthcare into modern Western society.，【V信83113305】100%安全办理道家传统中医学院毕业证,办理DTCOCMA毕业证成绩单学历认证,原版定制DTCOCMA毕业证,原版DTCOCMA毕业证办理流程,终于找到哪里办DTCOCMA毕业证书,DTCOCMA毕业证书,DTCOCMA毕业证书办理需要多久,DTCOCMA毕业证办理流程,DTCOCMA毕业证成绩单学历认证最安全办理方式,DTCOCMA毕业证最新版本推荐最快办理道家传统中医学院文凭成绩单

【V信83113305】：The American Huangdi Oriental Han Medical University represents a unique fusion of Eastern medical traditions and Western scientific inquiry. This institution is dedicated to the advanced study and practice of classical Chinese medicine, integrating ancient wisdom like the Huangdi Neijing with modern medical research. Its curriculum emphasizes a holistic approach to health, focusing on herbal pharmacology, acupuncture, and preventative care. By bridging two distinct medical paradigms, the university cultivates practitioners who are not only skilled in traditional diagnostics and treatments but are also fluent in the language of contemporary biomedical science. It stands as a beacon for integrative medicine, striving to advance global health by honoring the profound legacy of its namesake, the Yellow Emperor.，【V信83113305】做今年新版黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证,制作美国文凭黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证,高端定制黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证留信认证,高端原版黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证办理流程,在线办理黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证offer外壳皮,在线办理黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证本科硕士成绩单方法,如何办理黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证一比一定制,快速办理黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证如何放心,硕士博士学历ECOTOM毕业证-黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证书-真实copy原件,办理美国-ECOTOM毕业证书黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证

【V信83113305】：Huamei College of Traditional Chinese Medicine in the United States stands as a prominent institution dedicated to preserving and advancing the ancient practice of TCM. By integrating classical Chinese medical philosophies with modern healthcare approaches, the college offers comprehensive educational programs for aspiring practitioners. Its curriculum covers essential disciplines such as acupuncture, herbal medicine, and Tuina massage, providing students with both theoretical knowledge and practical clinical experience. Through rigorous training and cross-cultural medical education, Huamei College not only fosters a deep understanding of holistic healing but also serves as a vital bridge connecting Eastern and Western medical traditions. It plays a crucial role in promoting natural wellness and expanding the global reach of TCM.，华美中医学院学位证毕业证, ACOAOM毕业证最简单办理流程, 专业办理ACOAOM华美中医学院成绩单高质学位证书服务, 加急定制-ACOAOM学位证华美中医学院毕业证书, 哪里买华美中医学院毕业证|ACOAOM成绩单, 网上购买假学历华美中医学院毕业证书, 华美中医学院文凭ACOAOM毕业证学历认证方法, 一流华美中医学院学历精仿高质, 办华美中医学院毕业证-Diploma

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【V信83113305】：The American Huangdi Dongyang Han Medical University represents a pioneering institution blending traditional Chinese medical wisdom with contemporary healthcare education. Located in the United States, it honors the legacy of Huangdi, the Yellow Emperor, and the profound influence of classical Chinese medical texts. The university offers an integrative curriculum that combines acupuncture, herbal medicine, and holistic diagnostics with modern biomedical science. Emphasizing cultural exchange and innovation, it trains practitioners to bridge Eastern and Western medical traditions, fostering a global perspective on health and healing. This unique approach not only preserves ancient practices but also adapts them to address contemporary medical challenges in a diverse, international context.，黄帝东洋汉医科大学文凭ECOTOM毕业证学历认证方法, 哪里买ECOTOM黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证|ECOTOM成绩单, 修改Emperor's College of Traditional Oriental Medicine黄帝东洋汉医科大学成绩单电子版gpa让学历更出色, 黄帝东洋汉医科大学文凭ECOTOM毕业证学历认证方法, 挂科办理黄帝东洋汉医科大学毕业证本科学位证书, 100%学历ECOTOM毕业证成绩单制作, 办理黄帝东洋汉医科大学成绩单高质量保密的个性化服务, 一流ECOTOM黄帝东洋汉医科大学学历精仿高质, 美国学位证毕业证

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