Cod Death Quotes

(While interviewing The University Student:) 'Oh, poor Xinran. You haven't even got the various categories of women straight. How can you possibly hope to understand men? Let me tell you. When men have been drinking, they come out with a set of definitions for women. Lovers are "swordfish", tasty but with sharp bones. "Personal secretaries" are "carp", the longer you "stew" them, the more flavour they have. Other men's wives are "Japanese puffer fish", trying a mouthful could be the end of you, but risking death is a source of pride.' 'And what about their own wives?' 'Salt cod, because it keeps for a long time. When there is no other food, salt cod is cheap and convenient.

Time and space float and dissolve like sugar in wine. You are already dead, even though you haven’t yet been born. You’re nothing but a drop on the tip of your father’s crooked cod, a sigh in your mother’s sore throat. And yet the worms are standing in line, waiting for their feast to fester. Why should you dread your death?

So it is with blackberries. If you pull too hard, you may get the berry but you will lose the sweetness of it. On the other hand, if you leave it, it may be gone the next time you come by. Each person must find this point of equilibrium for himself.

There are a few clear themes that emerge when we synthesize all the findings we’ve looked at so far, and those are jewels you should pluck out of this book, place in your pocket, and carry with you for as long as they serve you. Here are the biggies. Eliminate or drastically reduce your intake of refined grains, refined sugar, and high-omega-6 vegetable oils. No healthy human population has thrived on these items, and the bulk of the evidence points toward their harm. Secure a source of those precious fat-soluble vitamins—whether from shellfish, fish eggs, high-quality dairy, bone marrow, organ meats like liver, or cod liver oil.

Just a few years before Puritan settlement, the Great Pandemic of 1616–19 fractured the region. This catastrophe originated from French contact zones to the north and Dutch settlements to the south. Over two-thirds of the coastal population of Massachusetts perished during this outbreak. Their deaths enabled English colonization. When the Mayflower anchored at Plymouth in 1620, fewer than two thousand of Cape Cod’s twenty thousand inhabitants remained.48

Writing here this cloudy morning, with a great confused roaring of breakers in my ears, I call to mind the Wilson’s warbler, the female, I saw a fortnight ago, and I wonder where it was that she forsook her familiar earth for the grey ocean, an ocean she perhaps had never seen. What a gesture of ancient faith and present courage such a flight is, what a defiance of circumstance and death—land wing and hostile sea, the fading land behind, the unknown and the distant articulate and imperious in the bright, aërial blood.

Unspoken Truths (The Sonnet) Democracy is people-approved dictatorship, Military is people-approved genocide. Atom bombs are people-approved armageddon, In conscience-court all guilty of homicide. There is no time left, for there never was time, Time begins with the beginning of civilization. And civilization is something we are yet to find, Hence, there is no question of clock progression. Nationalist chimps sell war in the name of security, Stoneage civilians rush to bulk-buy graveyard plots. Merchant of murder, you, yell about peacekeeping, While you feast on nationalism like wet little cods! When cavemen take pride in their national glory of death, Sanctuary becomes asylum for the lunatic walking dead!

Death was part of life, and when God summoned, you answered up and moved on. It was like a door that everyone eventually went through, an acceptable and predictable part of some eternal plan.

Huddled in swamps and on remote islands, fearful that to venture back to their villages meant certain death, Indians throughout the region were unable to plant the crops on which their lives depended. By summer, they had begun to die at a startling rate. “[ C] ertainly it is strange to hear how many of late have, and still daily die amongst them,” Winslow wrote. Just about every notable sachem on the Cape died in the months ahead, including Canacum at Manomet, Aspinet at Nauset, and the “personable, courteous, and fair conditioned” Iyanough at Cummaquid. Word reached Plymouth that before he died, the handsome young sachem had “in the midst of these distractions, said the God of the English was offended with them, and would destroy them in his anger.” One village decided to send some gifts to the Pilgrims in hopes of establishing peace, but the Indians’ canoe capsized almost within sight of the plantation, and three of them drowned. Since that incident, not a single Indian from Cape Cod had dared to approach the settlement. Among the Massachusetts, the Pilgrims had earned a new name: wotawquenange—cutthroats. Standish’s raid had irreparably damaged the human ecology of the region.

I. Oranges There was one orange on the tree And you walked by. How could you know that Death lived inside, Sleeping in membranes. How could you know He would unfold, Wearing pointed slippers, Velvet doubet, And a gold cod-piece The moment you opened the orange. How could you have known He would step out and kill you? Remember the orange Shining on the tree Alone- And remember not to touch If there is only one My hand holds the orange. Your hand holds mine. Remember, we hold death In our hands and It is because we hold What is not our own That death is inside And we hold him.

Unsurprisingly, a retired dentist who starts a restaurant for the sex, or to be told he's marvelous, is totally unprepared for the realities of the business. He's completely blindsided when the place doesn't start making money immediately. Under-capitalized, uneducated about the arcane requirements of new grease traps, frequent refrigeration repairs, unforeseen equipment replacement, when business drops, or fails to improve, he panics, starts looking for the quick fix. He thrashes around in an escalating state of agitation, tinkering with concept, menu, various marketing schemes. As the end draws near, these ideas are replaced by more immediately practical ones: closed on Sundays. . . cut back staff . . . shut down lunch. Naturally, as the operation becomes more schizophrenic — one week French, one week Italian — as the poor schmuck tries one thing after another like a rat trying to escape a burning building, the already elusive dining public begins to detect the unmistakable odor of uncertainty, fear and approaching death. And once that distinctive reek begins to waft into the dining room, he may as well lay out petri-dishes of anthrax spores as bar snacks, because there is no way the joint is gonna bounce back. It's remarkable how long some of these neophytes hang on after the clouds of doom gather around the place, paying for deliveries COD as if magic will happen — one good weekend, a good review, something will somehow save them. Like some unseen incubus, this evil cloud of failure can hang over a restaurant long after the operation has gone under, killing any who follow. The cumulative vibe of a history of failed restaurants can infect an address year after year, even in an otherwise bustling neighborhood. You can see it when passersby peer into the front window of the next operator; there's a scowl, a look of suspicion, as if they are afraid of contamination.

They don't consider courage a virtue. A grim necessity, perhaps. When I first met Harry, he compared courage to taking a laxative. If you must then you must, but you didn't want people patting you on the back for it, and you'd be crazy to swallow a whole bottle of cod liver oil if a little sip will do the job.