Con Woman Quotes

I experienced that sinking feeling you get when you know you have conned yourself into doing something difficult and there's no going back.

Now, con said grimly, "I go to kill a werewolf and claim my woman." ~Con

At the end of the day I have many answers for it. It has to do with my mom, who was an extraordinary woman, and a great feminist. It has to do with the people in my life. It has to do with a lot of different things, but -- I don't know! Because I'm not just writing from the female characters for other people. I have a desire to see them in our culture -- that was not met for most of my childhood. Except occasionally by James Cameron. [From the 2011 San Diego Comic Con, in response to being asked why he writes strong female characters.]

Likability is a con, and we're falling for it[...] Is there such a thing as a likable woman? Can you think of one? And if she exists, could she be anything but the ultimate manifestation of everything we hate about the water we swim in, everything we're forced to be? Likability in a sexist, racist culture is not objective - it's compulsory femininity, the gender binary, invisible labor, whiteness, smallness, sweetness. It's letting them do it. If someone is universally likable, I don't trust that person.

-Es curioso que uno no pueda estar sin encariñarse con algo. Es como si la mente segregara sentimiento sin parar... -¿Vos creés? -... lo mismo que el estómago segrega jugo para digerir.

A true poet is more than just a man who can write a poem with a pen. A true poet writes poetry with his very life. A true poet doesn't use poetic devices to con the heart of a woman but uses the beauty of all that is poetic to serve, cherish, and express love to the heart of a woman. Just as a true warrior is not a conqueror of femininity but a protector of femininity, a true poet is not just a wooer of a woman's heart but one who knows how to nurture and plant love in a woman's heart. Simply put, a true poet is a man who knows how to be intimate with a lover - first and foremost with Christ.

Ustedes, las mujeres, escuchan más al corazón y menos a la tontería —concluyó el sombrerero con tristeza—. Por eso viven más.

Har­ri­son had start­ed out wor­ried that Cor­rie would shoot Mary Rose be­cause the wom­an was as crazy as ev­ery­one said she was, but by the time the one-​sid­ed con­ver­sa­tion was fin­ished, his con­cern had changed. Now he couldn't fig­ure out why Cor­rie didn't shoot her just to shut her up.

I think I am an impostor. Twenty-seven years ago I was a baby. Before that I was a clump of cells. Before that I didn’t exist. How could I be a bookstore clerk, or a Catholic, or a woman, or a person at all? I’m a life force contained in the deformed body of a baby. Of course I’m a fraud. The fact that I’m able to carry myself through life without being crushed beneath the psychological weight of being alive proves that I’m a con artist. Aren’t we all con artists?

You know what would really help? If men started looking at it like a bank. The more you deposit the more you can withdraw later. Make a woman come as a rule, she’s going to be more receptive to regular sex and much more open-minded about what’s on the table as far as experimenting. Common sense.

It was con; my mind was blank; I only wanted a halfpint of Grandad and six or seven tall cool beers . . .

E anche se aveva problemi di lavoro e una storia infelice con una donna dalla lingua lunga, almeno aveva imparato a ridere meglio di chiunque altro al mondo.

I thought, My name is Matt and I'm an alcoholic. A woman I know got killed last night. She hired me to keep her from getting killed and I wound up assuring her that she was safe and she believed me. And her killer conned me and I believed him, and she's dead now, and there's nothing I can do about it. And it eats at me and I don't know what to do about that, and there's a bar on every corner and a liquor store on every block, and drinking won't bring her back to life but neither will staying sober, and why the hell do I have to go through this? Why?

Così è il Mondo, così sono gli Uomini, così è l'Amore. Cos'altro siamo se non fantocci in un teatrino da fiera? Oh, Destino onnipotente tira con gentilezza i nostri fili! Abbi pietà di noi, e dalla nostra scena angusta concedici di uscire a passo di danza.

A woman’s sexuality is not at all like a man’s. A man can literally f**k a watermelon and come. If you put enough friction on his c**k, in some semblance of a rhythm, he will orgasm. It’s a no brainer.

Not satisfied with what he's got? Is that it? That's husbands all over. Ungrateful pigs. You do everything for them, you bring up their kids, you cook their food, you wash their clothes, you warm their beds, you fuss over your face day after day so they'll fancy you, you wear yourself out to keep them happy and at the end of it all, what happens? They find someone else they fancy more. Someone young some man hasn't had the chance to wear out yet. Marriage is a con trick. A girl should marry a rich man, then at least she'd have a fur coat to keep her warm in her old age.

this morning I go to pay for breakfast and there, right there at the Kroger check-out, staring me in the face is a national magazine with your picture on the cover. Counterfeit Countess, it said. In great big, bold type: Counterfeit! Countess! Counterfeit,” he reiterated, “a word interchangeable with forgery and often associated with arrest.” Ah, yes. Patrice had called from Austin and warned me she had sold the story to Woman’s World magazine. “Last sentence?” Mittwede asked. “You know what it is?’ “No, I’ve not seen it.” “Tanya says, ‘I’m going to grow up and be a con artist.’” It had struck me as pretty funny when I said it, but Mittwede had better delivery. I think it was the hysteria. He was saying, “I remember that story. That was like a year and a half ago. You didn’t tell me you were that girl, the Dallas Countess. I already knew the story but I read it again, and I know all the cops have read it again, too. And now your picture is with Passport Services and at the check-out counter. You think federal agents don’t buy groceries? You’re fucking crazy. We’re going to be arrested.” “You maybe need to take a Valium.” “I threw them all in the fire!”   ~~~~~~

I don’t know if I ever liked you,” I say, and bathroom acoustics being what they are, the declaration is magnified and that much more unkind, which makes me feel bad until I see that he is missing a shoe, and I feel it anew, this terrible disappointment in myself that I am happy to take out on him. He is the most obvious thing that has ever happened to me, and all around the city it is happening to other silly, half-formed women excited by men who’ve simply met the prerequisite of living a little more life, a terribly unspecial thing that is just what happens when you keep on getting up and brushing your teeth and going to work and ignoring the whisper that comes to you at night and tells you it would be easier to be dead. So, sure, an older man is a wonder because he has paid thirty-eight years of Con Ed bills and suffered food poisoning and seen the climate reports and still not killed himself, but somehow, after being a woman for twenty-three years, after the ovarian torsion and student loans and newfangled Nazis in button-downs, I too am still alive, and actually this is the more remarkable feat. Instead I let myself be awed by his middling command of the wine list.

Convivamos con nuestros ovarios. Hagamos de cuenta que son dos cerebros más.

Ser feliz tiene que ver con (des) encontrarse una misma. Suena cursi, lo sé. Pero pensándolo bien, todas las verdades suenan cursis.

A good lawyer is part con man, part priest -- promising riches, threatening hell. My ethical rules are simple. I won't lie to the court or let a client do it. But I've never been in this position. How far would I go for a woman who mattered? Is there anything I wouldn't do to win?

and I feel it anew, this terrible disappointment in myself that I am happy to take out on him. He is the most obvious thing that has ever happened to me, and all around the city it is happening to other silly, half-formed women excited by men who’ve simply met the prerequisite of living a little more life, a terribly unspecial thing that is just what happens when you keep on getting up and brushing your teeth and going to work and ignoring the whisper that comes to you at night and tells you it would be easier to be dead. So, sure, an older man is a wonder because he has paid thirty-eight years of Con Ed bills and suffered food poisoning and seen the climate reports and still not killed himself, but somehow, after being a woman for twenty-three years, after the ovarian torsion and student loans and newfangled Nazis in button-downs, I too am still alive, and actually this is the more remarkable feat. Instead I let myself be awed by his middling command of the wine list.

Người ta nói rằng khi phụ nữ khóc thì đừng ngăn cản. Vì như thế chỉ thêm dầu vào lửa. Khi phụ nữ khóc cũng đừng hỏi lí do vì sao. Vì nhiều khi ngay cả bản thân phụ nữ cũng không hiểu vì sao mình khóc. (p179)

She had fucking flowers in her hair. The woman was a romantic. Another strike against her in my book. Romantics were the hardest women to shake loose. The sticky ones. The ones who pretended they could handle the whole “no strings” deal. Meanwhile, they plotted to become “the one,” trying to con men into meeting their parents and secretly looking at wedding dresses.

James tenía muy claro que debía acostumbrarse a ciertas actividades habituales de las que Kelsey disfrutaba, pero esperaba a cambio que ella también intentara valorar su modo de vida. Así pues, el siguiente deseo de James consistía en acudir al centro comercial y hacerle sombra a la película Pretty Woman con Kelsey de protagonista principal. —James, de verdad, no necesito comprarme ropa. —Te aseguro que lo que acabas de decir es una mentira como una catedral. —La miró de arriba abajo descaradamente—. ¡Algún día tendrás que venir a Londres y visitar mi hogar! —¿Y…? —Pues que no podrás ir vestida como una liberal cualquiera. —Suspiró—. No te estoy pidiendo que cambies tu forma de vestir, te pido que amplíes tu armario y no te cierres ante nuevos horizontes —matizó, haciendo un gran esfuerzo por contenerse y no gritarle de golpe que sencillamente cuando fuese a Londres debería seguir un protocolo y tirar todos los trapos que solía llevar.

The unluckiest of the Caribbean’s sick came, in search of cures: a poor woman who, since childhood, had been counting the beats of her heart so long that she had run out of numbers to count; a Jamaican who, because of the tormenting sound the stars made, never slept; a sleepwalker who rose from bed at night, and in sleep undid all the things he had done in waking; and many other ailments too, less serious in nature.

Y yo sabía que a pesar de todas las rosas y besos y cenas en restaurantes que un hombre hacía llover sobre una mujer antes de casarse con ella, lo que secretamente deseaba para cuando la ceremonia de boda terminase era aplastarla bajo sus pies como la alfombra de la señora Willard.

Ahora pienso con nostalgia en lo extrañas que son las reglas del amor. Varios hombres apuestos se enamoraron de mí. No obstante, ninguno de mis amigos logró conmover mis sentimientos. Y en cambio, un mocoso de baja condición, que pertenecía a la casa de cierto noble y que debería haberme disgustado, empleaba un estilo que, desde su primera carta, me habría empujado a sacrificar mi vida por él. Me escribía a menudo y quedé completamente seducida. Un buen día empecé a amarle y se acabó mi tranquilidad".

Dù sao thời gian cũng có một uy lực rất lớn và tuổi tác đã làm lắng dịu một cách kỳ lạ tất cả mọi tình cảm. Người ta cảm thấy gần với cái chết hơn, bóng của nó làm đường đi tối lại, mọi việc có vẻ không còn tươi sáng nữa, chúng không tác động bao nhiêu đến những nơi thầm kín của con người như trước kia và chúng cũng mất đi nhiều uy lực hiểm nghèo.

Good threat,” the woman chuckled. “Here’s mine: you’ve got about twenty minutes to hightail it over to Venetian before your brother becomes a memory wrote in pink mist. Toodles.

Stop playing with women you are not qualified for

Y yo os digo que cualquiera que repudia a su mujer, salvo por causa de fornicación, y se casa con otra, adultera; y el que se casa con la repudiada, adultera.

Queste donne micidiali, non si può vivere nè con loro nè senza di loro.

Ah the Eternal Stupid Woman! How we enjoy hearing about her: as she listens to the con-artist yarns of the plausible snake, and ends up eating the free sample of the apple from the Tree of Knowledge: thus giving birth to Theology; or as she opens the tricky gift box containing all human evils, but is stupid enough to believe that Hope will be some kind of a solace.

El día en que a la mujer le sea posible amar con su fuerza, no con su debilidad, no para huirse, sino para hallarse, no para destituirse, sino para afirmarse, entonces el amor será para ella, como para el hombre, fuente de vida y no de mortal peligro. Mientras tanto, resume en su figura más patética la maldición que pesa sobre la mujer encerrada en el universo femenino, la mujer mutilada, incapaz de bastarse a sí misma. Las innumerables mártires del amor son un testimonio contra la injusticia de un destino que les propone como última salvación un estéril infierno

As long as a woman is forced into believing she is powerless and/or is trained to not consciously register what she knows to be true, the feminine impulses and gifts of her psyche con­ tinue to be killed off.

Esta imagen de la arena que fluye constituyó un indescriptible y excitante impacto en el hombre. La aridez de la arena no se debe, como generalmente se piensa, a la simple sequedad, sino que parece producirse como consecuencia de un incesante movimiento que la convierte en inhóspita para todo ser viviente. ¡Qué diferencia con la monótona y pesada manera de vivir de los humanos, que exige estar constantemente aferrado a algo!

He is the most obvious thing that has ever happened to me, and all around the city it is happening to other silly, half-formed women excited by men who’ve simply met the prerequisite of living a little more life, a terribly unspecial thing that is just what happens when you keep getting up and brushing your teeth and going to work and ignoring the whisper that comes to you at night and tells you it would be easier to be dead. So sure, an older man is a wonder because he has paid thirty-eight years of Con Ed bills and suffered food poisoning and seen the climate reports and still not killed himself, but somehow, after being a woman for twenty-three years, after the ovarian torsion and student loans and newfangled Nazis in button-downs, I too am still alive, and actually this is the more remarkable feat. Instead I let myself be awed by his middling command of the wine list.

Educated black women are too high maintenance, high strung, and independent—they don’t need men. There is a widening gap between the education of black women and men, which doesn’t leave very many “suitable” suitors. Unfortunately, the higher one’s degree, as a black woman, the lower your chances are of getting married. Add to the con pile the stereotypes of being loud, complicated, and difficult. Black women, your reputation sucks. Asian

Pero ¿qué hay del amor?, preguntaréis. ¿Dónde está el amor en esta ecuación? Sé que él me amaba apasionadamente. Me amaba como el cuchillo ama a la herida que hace, como la tarántula hembra ama al macho cuya cabeza engulle, como el lactante ama el pezón que toma entre los dientes y mordisquea hasta que chorrea sangre con la leche. No tenía intención de ser cruel. Era sencillamente su naturaleza, como la del escorpión que pica al caballo sobre el que cruza el riachuelo.

[...] i fantasmi dell'immaginazione si trasformano in personaggi definiti, unici, con la loro voce, disposti a raccontarmi le loro vite se concedo loro tempo a sufficienza. Sono così sicura della loro presenza da stupirmi che nessun altro riesca a percepirli

Cuando los campesinos compran más tierra con el fruto de su trabajo, eso significa que tienen que trabajar más que antes. A fin de cuentas, las preocupaciones y el trabajo no tienen fin, y lo único que obtienen es la posibilidad de tener más quehacer que antes…

He saw her legs first. Ankle boots met her bare calves, and the tops of her knees were hidden under a maroon, long-sleeved body-con dress. His gaze momentarily flitted to her breasts, which were pushed up and toward him. He was only human, after all, and they were really amazing breasts. He was used to seeing her in conservative wardrobe choices for the show, or the casual-date look she'd had at the pumpkin patch and ice-cream shop. In this fitted, sleek dress that showed off every one of her curves, though, she looked...

Por eso uno se roe las uñas en la imposibilidad de hallar la paz en el simple latido del corazón; consume cigarrillos porque no está satisfecho con el ritmo de su propio cerebro; uno tiene que hacer temblar su cuerpo al no encontrar la satisfacción tan sólo en el sexo.

Escribo sobre lo que me importa, a mi propio ritmo. Y en esas horas ociosas, que mi abuelo llamaba horas malgastadas, los fantasmas de la imaginación se convierten en personajes definidos, únicos, con su propia voz y dispuestos a contarme sus vidas si les doy suficiente tiempo.

Jamás creerían que esto es solo una mujer natural, un estado de la naturaleza, eso se lo parece un cuerpo moreno en la playa, con pelo ondeando como pañuelos al viento; no esto, cara con barro seco y manchada, piel sucia y costrosa, pelo como una alfombrilla deshilachada llena de hojas y ramas.

Una vita tranquilla e sicura non è materiale adatto alla scrittura.[...] Ho vissuto in un mare in tempesta, con onde che mi portavano sulla cresta e poi mi facevano precipitare nel vuoto [...] Ora navigo alla deriva, giorno dopo giorno, contenta del semplice fatto di galleggiare finché è possibile.

Las mujeres tienen derecho a decidir qué les parece gracioso y qué no, sin que por ello las acusen de ser lesbianas recalcitrantes. O frígidas. O alemanas. Esto incluye el derecho a ir por la calle sola con gesto neutro sin temor a que algún desconocido te suelte un «¡alegra esa cara!» a voz en grito.

Dù sao thời gian cũng có một uy lực rất lớn và tuổi tác đã làm lắng dịu một cách kỳ lạ tất cả mọi tình cảm. Người ta cảm thấy gần với cái chết hơn, bóng của nó làm đườn đi tối lại, mọi việc có vẻ không còn tươi sáng nữa, chúng không tác động bao nhiêu đến những nơi thầm kín của con người như trước kia và chúng cũng mất đi nhiều uy lực hiểm nghèo.

This reminds me that from woman I received my life. I make my acknowledgements to her con amore. It is a sufficient explanation for my subsequent devotion. It leads me to reflect that for nine happy months I was inside and part of her; under her petticoats in a sense different from that in which I have many years been under them while outside her.

Busco la perfección. Por eso es tan difícil. –¿Un amor perfecto? –¡No! No pido tanto. Lo que quiero es simple egoísmo. Un egoísmo perfecto. Por ejemplo: te digo que quiero un pastel de fresa, y entonces tú lo dejas todo y vas a comprármelo. Vuelves jadeando y me lo ofreces. «Toma, Midori. Tu pastel de fresa», me dices. Y te suelto: «¡Ya se me han quitado las ganas de comérmelo!». Y lo arrojo por la ventana. Eso es lo que yo quiero. –No creo que eso sea el amor -le dije con semblante atónito. –Sí tiene que ver. Pero tú no lo sabes -replicó Midori-. Para las chicas, a veces esto tiene una gran importancia. –¿Arrojar pasteles de fresa por la ventana? –Sí. Y yo quiero que mi novio me diga lo siguiente: «Ha sido culpa mía. Tendría que haber supuesto que se te quitarían las ganas de comer pastel de fresa. Soy un estúpido, un insensible. Iré a comprarte otra cosa para que me perdones. ¿Qué te apetece? ¿Mousse de chocolate? ¿Tarta de queso?». –¿Y qué sucedería a continuación? –Pues que yo a una persona que hiciera esto por mí la querría mucho.

[On Vivienne Westwood] Vivienne’s scary, for the reason any truthful, plain-talking person is scary – she exposes you. If you haven’t been honest with yourself, this makes you feel extremely uncomfortable, and if you are a con merchant the game is up. She's uncompromising in every way: what she says, what she stands for, what she expects from you and how she dresses. She's direct and judgmental with a strong northern accent that accentuates her sincerity. She has a confidence I haven't seen in any other woman. She’s strong, opinionated and smart. She can’t beat complacency. She’s the most inspiring person I’ve ever met. Sid told me, ‘Vivienne says you’re talented but last.’ I’ve worked at everything twice as hard since he said that.

Beauty is a woman’s curse. Men will hurt you just because you’re beautiful. Just because they’re self-conscious and need to validate themselves, they build their esteem by tearing yours down. They will try to con you out of your virginity, misuse your body, make you grieve so much you lose your beauty, and rob you of your sanity, but they can never take away your knowledge.

Lo mismo que ella en él, en la más extrema soledad, también él piensa en ella en el mismo momento. Apartada por leguas y muros, invisibles e inalcanzables una para otra, respiran sus dos almas con idéntico deseo en el mismo segundo del tiempo: en espacios inalcanzables, por encima del tiempo, se unen sus pensamientos, al difundirse en vibraciones circulares, lo mismo que labio y labio en el beso.

Concerning the narcissist- after having been so seemingly incredibly loving and gentle, compassionate and caring- it would be like a light switch had suddenly been turned off and “all of a sudden” they simply did not care. They turned into a cold person, someone without love, compassion, empathy or regard for the subject’s feelings what so ever. It’s like they suddenly and literally stopped being human.

Sólo un recelo chiquito y fastidioso, como el grano de tierra que en un ojo se nos mete y nos hace sufrir tanto, me estorba para la felicidad absoluta. Y es la sospecha de que todavía no me quieres bastante, que no has llegado al supremo límite del querer, ¿qué digo límite, si no lo hay?, al principio del último cielo, pues yo no puedo hartarme de pedir más, más, siempre más; y no quiero, no quiero sino cosas infinitas, entérate... todo infinito, infinitísimo, o nada... ¿Cuántos abrazos crees que te voy a dar cuando llegues? Ve contando. Pues tantos como segundos tarde una hormiga en dar la vuelta al globo terráqueo. No; más, muchos más. Tantos como segundos tarde la hormiga en partir en dos, con sus patas, la esferita terrestre, dándole vueltas siempre por una misma línea... Con que saca esa cuenta, tonto.

Bien, escúchame con calma. Los que sufren vértigo, los drogadictos, los histéricos, los asesinos maniáticos, los sifilíticos, los deficientes mentales…, suponiendo que haya el uno por ciento de cada uno de ellos, sobre el total representarían un veinte por ciento… De ser posible enumerar otras ochenta anormalidades, y por supuesto se puede, se constituiría una prueba estadística de que la humanidad es cien por cien anormal.

Me dare con que soy simplemente una mujer, una de carne y hueso. Que soy, como (casi) todas las de mi genero, una diosa metida en el cuerpo de un mamífero hembra. Hembra, hembron, embrague, acelerador, freno. Animal, estrella fugaz, ama de casa profesional, geisha matriarca, lideresa de comedor popular, activista, consumista voraz. Una bestia de la profesión n. Toda una (neo)(anti)(post) feminista. Un solo de contradicciones.

The hit-woman opened the door. No dead body on the floor. Thank God. I heard an unearthly roar and then Jordan charged Liz from where she’d been hiding beside the door. She tackled her to the floor and stabbed her through the wrist with a small switchblade. The hit-woman shrieked and let go of the gun, allowing Jordan precious seconds to bat it across the room. She landed a couple hard punches to the assassin’s nose, bloodying it, before the other woman got the upper hand. She grabbed a handful of Jordan’s ponytail and slammed her head into the edge of the coffee table. Jordan cried out, but didn’t let go of the knife. She withdrew it and held it against the assassin’s throat, shouting, “Move again and I’ll kill you, puta!” Liz panted madly, but stayed put. Jordan glanced up at me. “You okay?” “Alive,” I said through a grimace. “Not okay.” “Good enough.” She returned her gaze to the woman pinned beneath her and glared. “The police are on their way. And not the nice, human police. Angels. Get any ideas about trying to kill me again and you won’t even get to deal with them.” “I’ve been in jail before,” Liz said, attempting to recapture her former arrogance. “I’ll get over it.” Jordan leaned down a few inches, lowering her voice. “Really? How’d you like to return without your tongue?” Liz’s eyes went wide, as did mine. “You wouldn’t dare.” “You shot my best friend. Multiple times. Lex talionis.” “You can’t kill me. You’re not a policewoman. You’re just a girl.” “No. I’m a Seer. You and the rest of your friends had better learn the difference between a sheep and a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Until then…” She lifted her fist and punched Liz hard in the temple. The assassin went out like a light. “Vaya con dios, bitch.

[...] era un viso indimenticabile, un viso tragico. Sgorgava dolore con la stessa purezza, naturalezza e inarrestabilità con cui sgorga l'acqua da una sorgente nei boschi. Non c'era artificio in esso, né ipocrisia, né isterismo, né maschera; soprattutto non c'era la minima traccia di pazzia. La pazzia era nel mare vuoto, nel vuoto orizzonte, [...]; come se la sorgente fosse stata naturale in sé ma innaturale in quanto sgorgava da un deserto.

They fell into con­tem­pla­tive si­lence until Jack asked, “Do you think un­mar­ried women fan­ta­size?” Luke looked up. “About what?” “About bed­ding.” “No. They wouldn’t know where to begin.” “Why?” “Why what?” “Why wouldn’t they know where to begin?” “Be­cause they don’t know the first thing about what goes on be­tween a man and a woman.” “Once they’ve learned they could fan­ta­size.” “Pos­si­bly.” “So Lady Cather­ine isn’t a vir­gin.

Sé por experiencia que, en la vida, sólo en contadísimas ocasiones encontramos a alguien a quien podamos transmitir nuestro estado de ánimo con exactitud, alguien con quien podamos comunicarnos a la perfección. Es casi un milagro, o una suerte inesperada, hallar a esa persona. Seguro que muchos mueren sin haberla encontrado jamás. Y, probablemente, no tenga relación alguna con lo que se suele entender por amor. Yo diría que se trata, más bien, de un estado de entendimiento mutuo cercano a la empatía.

Why hadn't she just said yes? Then she could have driven alone back to the city [...] and picked up some guy and brought him back home and screwed him and kicked him out and then picked up her daughter at the train the next day like a spy or a con artist, as if the two sides of herself didn't even care to know each other. But it was too late for that. Not just in terms of her ever becoming the kind of woman who knew how to do that kind of thing, without exposing herself as deluded or pathetic or ridiculous.

Hace mucho tiempo que ha sufrido lo más duro: nada puede ser peor que su vida en estos últimos meses. Ahora viene lo más fácil: la muerte. Casi se precipita a su encuentro. Con tal rapidez sale de esta torre de espantosos recuerdos que -acaso empañados sus ojos por el llanto- se olvida de inclinarse en la baja puertecilla de salida y se golpea violentamente la frente contra la dura viga. Los acompañantes corren solícitos junto a ella y le preguntan si se ha hecho daño. «No -responde serenamente-, ya no hay ahora cosa alguna que pueda hacérmelo.»

If a guy has a thing for black women - jungle fever. If a guy has a thing for asian women - yellow fever. If a guy has a thing for indian women - curry craving. Is there a term for having a thing for white women? What about latina woman? For white women: Calcium deficiency? White delight? Snowburn? Mayo madness? Reverse-colonialism? Racism? The other white meat? Empanada ecstacy? Guacamole grip? Tostones temptation? Arepa amor? Cafe con leche? A taste for churros? Sofrito satisfaction? Cortez' revenge? Catholocism? Arroz con pussy? Chile con culo?

Si las mujeres no son una manada de seres frívolos y efímeros, ¿por qué se las debería mantener en la ignorancia bajo el nombre engañoso de la inocencia? Los hombres se quejan, y con razón, de la insensatez y los caprichos de nuestro sexo, cuando no se burlan con agudeza de nuestras impulsivas pasiones y nuestros vicios serviles. He aquí lo que debería responder: ¡el efecto natural de la ignorancia! La mente que sólo descansa en prejuicios siempre será inestable y la corriente marchará con furia destructiva cuando no existan barreras que rompan su fuerza.

In effetti a questo stadio della sua esistenza, Maria non era contraria per principio al bacio o allo strofinamento occasionale, o all'occasionale orgasmo. Ma più il tempo passava e più Maria cominciava a vedere le brame sessuali della razza umana, incluse le proprie, come il sintomo di una bramosia ben più grande, di una solitudine terribile, di un'urgenza di dimenticare se stessi che, così almeno si diceva in giro, poteva essere attenuata soltanto durante quell'atto tanto privato e particolare che tende ad aver luogo al piano di sopra, tra adulti consenzienti e con le tende tirate.

Per secoli le donne hanno avuto la funzione di specchi dal potere magico e delizioso di riflettere raddoppiata la figura dell’uomo. (…) Qualunque possa essere il loro uso nelle civiltà civilizzate, gli specchi sono indispensabili per ogni azione violenta ed eroica. Ecco perché Napoleone e Mussolini sostengono con tanta veemenza l’inferiorità delle donne, perché se queste non fossero inferiori, gli uomini cesserebbero di ingrandirsi. Questo serve a spiegare in parte, il bisogno che tanto spesso gli uomini sentono delle donne. E serve a spiegare la misura del loro disagio se colpiti dalla critica femminile; l’impossibilità per la donna di dire questo libro è brutto, questo dipinto manca di personalità, o qualunque altra cosa, senza suscitare molto più dolore e molta più rabbia di un uomo che esprimesse le stesse critiche. Perchè se lei comincia a dire la verità, la figura nello specchio si rimpicciolisce; viene eliminata la sua idoneità alla vita. Come potrà continuare a giudicare, civilizzare gli indigeni, emanare leggi, scrivere libri,vestirsi a festa e sproloquiare ai banchetti, se non riesce a vedersi a colazione e a cena almeno il doppio di quanto è realmente?

Necesitamos recuperar urgentemente la palabra "feminismo". Cuando las estadísticas señalan que sólo el 29% de las mujeres norteamericanas se describirían a si mismas como feministas, y sólo un 42% de las británicas, yo solía pensar: ¿Qué creéis que ES el feminismo, señoras? ¿Qué aspecto de la " liberación de la mujer" no va con vosotras? ¿Es el derecho al voto? ¿El derecho a no ser una propiedad del hombre con el que te casas? ¿La campaña por la igualdad de salarios? ¿El Vogue de Madonna? ¿Los vaqueros? ¿Todo esto tan cojonudo TE PONE DE LOS NERVIOS? ¿O sólo ESTABAS BORRACHA EL DÍA QUE HICIERON LA ENCUESTA?

Me cuesta imaginar cómo esta mujer ha podido sobreponerse al trauma del pasado y entenderse con la institución que no solo instauró un régimen de terror durante diecisiete años en su país, sino que también asesinó a su padre, la torturó a ella y su madre y la envió al exilio. Uno de sus torturadores vivía en su mismo edificio y solían encontrarse en el ascensor. Cuando le preguntaban a Michelle Bachelet sobre la necesidad de reconciliación nacional, ella respondía que esa es una decisión personal; nadie puede exigirles perdón a quienes han sufrido la represión. El país debe avanzar hacia el futuro con la pesada carga del pasado.

Ya me va bien —me dije, haciéndole mimos a Hamid—, al final, lo que cuenta son estas muchachas tan competentes que no se han encontrado ni una de las dificultades con las que yo he tenido que vérmelas. Tienen unos modales, unas voces, unas exigencias, unas pretensiones, una conciencia de sí mismas que yo ni siquiera hoy me atrevo a permitirme. Otros, otras no tienen esa suerte. En los países con cierto bienestar ha predominado una medianía que oculta los horrores del resto del mundo. Cuando de esos horrores se desprende una violencia que llega hasta el interior de nuestras ciudades y nuestras costumbres nos sobresaltamos, nos alarmamos

He never developed the walk that men get when the day is over and they are going back to their cells for another endless night—that flat-footed, hump-shouldered walk. Andy walked with his shoulders squared, and his step was always light, as if he were heading home to a good home-cooked meal and a good woman instead of to a tasteless mess of soggy vegetables, lumpy mashed potato, and a slice or two of that fatty, gristly stuff most of the cons called mystery meat . . . that, and a picture of Raquel Welch on the wall. But for those four years, although he never became exactly like the others, he did become silent, introspective, and brooding.

Los jóvenes suelen preguntarme cómo es amar a mi edad. Parecen atónitos de que yo todavía pueda hablar de corrido, más aún enamorarme. Bueno, es lo mismo que enamorarse a los diecisiete, como asegura Violeta Parra, pero con una sensación de urgencia. Roger y yo tenemos pocos años por delante. Los años pasan sigilosamente, de puntillas, burlándose, y de repente nos asustan en el espejo, nos golpean por la espalda. Cada minuto es precioso y no podemos perderlo en malentendidos, impaciencia, celos, mezquindades y tantas otras tonterías que ensucian las relaciones. En realidad, esta fórmula se puede aplicar en cualquier edad, porque siempre los días están contados. Si lo hubiera hecho antes, no tendría dos divorcios en mi haber.

La luna, la mujer y las aguas poseen un fuerte simbolismo arquetípico que las relaciona y las enlaza con una naturaleza transformadora, creadora y destructora. (...) Tenían (las mujeres) la capacidad de formar y materializar la vida en su vientre, tomando un alma del otro mundo y dándole cuerpo y existencia en esta realidad, así como de decidir sobre el bienestar o la muerte de la familia al estar al cargo de la nutrición y el cuidado. Sin embargo, esta capacidad de transitar entre mundos, de surcar las aguas oscuras viajando entre la vida y la muerte, sueño y realidad, lo consciente y lo inconsciente, les daría un enorme poder en también otros aspectos, como el conocimiento de aquello oculto o no expreso del mundo tangible.

Ernestina aveva esattamente il viso che andava bene per quell'epoca, cioè ovale, col mento piccolo, delicato come una violetta. Potete ancora vederlo nei disegni dei grandi illustratori di allora, nell'opera di Phiz o di John Leech. Il grigio degli occhi e il pallore della pelle non facevano che accentuare la delicatezza del resto. A un primo incontro sapeva abbassare gli occhi con molta grazia, quasi avesse temuto di svenire se un uomo le avesse rivolto la parola. Ma c'era una minuscola inclinazione all'angolo delle palpebre, cui ne corrispondeva un'altra all'angolo delle labbra - per conservare la stessa similitudine. lieve come la fragranza delle violette di febbraio - che smentiva, sottilissimamente ma inconfondibilmente, la sua apparente obbedienza totale al grande dio Maschio.

It is now time to face the fact that English is a crazy language — the most loopy and wiggy of all tongues. In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway? In what other language do people play at a recital and recite at a play? Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall? Why is it that when we transport something by car, it’s called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it’s called cargo? Why does a man get a hernia and a woman a hysterectomy? Why do we pack suits in a garment bag and garments in a suitcase? Why do privates eat in the general mess and generals eat in the private mess? Why do we call it newsprint when it contains no printing but when we put print on it, we call it a newspaper? Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists? Why — in our crazy language — can your nose run and your feet smell?Language is like the air we breathe. It’s invisible, inescapable, indispensable, and we take it for granted. But, when we take the time to step back and listen to the sounds that escape from the holes in people’s faces and to explore the paradoxes and vagaries of English, we find that hot dogs can be cold, darkrooms can be lit, homework can be done in school, nightmares can take place in broad daylight while morning sickness and daydreaming can take place at night, tomboys are girls and midwives can be men, hours — especially happy hours and rush hours — often last longer than sixty minutes, quicksand works very slowly, boxing rings are square, silverware and glasses can be made of plastic and tablecloths of paper, most telephones are dialed by being punched (or pushed?), and most bathrooms don’t have any baths in them. In fact, a dog can go to the bathroom under a tree —no bath, no room; it’s still going to the bathroom. And doesn’t it seem a little bizarre that we go to the bathroom in order to go to the bathroom? Why is it that a woman can man a station but a man can’t woman one, that a man can father a movement but a woman can’t mother one, and that a king rules a kingdom but a queen doesn’t rule a queendom? How did all those Renaissance men reproduce when there don’t seem to have been any Renaissance women? Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane: In what other language do they call the third hand on the clock the second hand? Why do they call them apartments when they’re all together? Why do we call them buildings, when they’re already built? Why it is called a TV set when you get only one? Why is phonetic not spelled phonetically? Why is it so hard to remember how to spell mnemonic? Why doesn’t onomatopoeia sound like what it is? Why is the word abbreviation so long? Why is diminutive so undiminutive? Why does the word monosyllabic consist of five syllables? Why is there no synonym for synonym or thesaurus? And why, pray tell, does lisp have an s in it? If adults commit adultery, do infants commit infantry? If olive oil is made from olives, what do they make baby oil from? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume? If pro and con are opposites, is congress the opposite of progress? ...

feel it anew, this terrible disappointment in myself that I am happy to take out on him. He is the most obvious thing that has ever happened to me, and all around the city it is happening to other silly, half-formed women excited by men who’ve simply met the prerequisite of living a little more life, a terribly unspecial thing that is just what happens when you keep on getting up and brushing your teeth and going to work and ignoring the whisper that comes to you at night and tells you it would be easier to be dead. So, sure, an older man is a wonder because he has paid thirty-eight years of Con Ed bills and suffered food poisoning and seen the climate reports and still not killed himself, but somehow, after being a woman for twenty-three years, after the ovarian torsion and student loans and newfangled Nazis in button-downs, I too am still alive, and actually this is the more remarkable feat.

Se quedó pasmado. Parecía que la mujer se hubiera quitado una máscara. La cara de la aldea se le presentaba al descubierto a través de la mujer. Hasta ese momento se suponía que la aldea, unilateralmente, era el verdugo; o tal vez una planta carnívora sin voluntad propia, o una voraz anémona de mar, y se suponía que él era una pobre víctima que casualmente había caído en la trampa. Pero desde el punto de vista de los aldeanos, eran ellos los abandonados, y naturalmente no veían razón para sentir ninguna obligación hacia el mundo exterior. De manera que, si él era uno de los causantes del perjuicio, lógicamente los colmillos de los aldeanos estaban dirigidos a él. Nunca se le había ocurrido pensar de esta manera acerca de su relación con ellos. No era raro que se sintiera confundido y molesto. Pero aunque ése fuera el caso, y así lo admitía, batirse en retirada en ese punto sería como abandonar su propia justificación.

As a young man I started searching for my own identity by looking into family, friends and inside Myself. My mother always taught us to live free even when confined, meaning “never let anyone break you down physically or mentally.” Since my living environment was so heavily impacted with violence and illegal activity I found myself adapting to social norms that later in my adult life would negatively affect me. For example, certain physical reactions that were acceptable, as a child would give you a reputation on the street as tough guy, don’t mess with him. The same mentality later in life, as a man would label you as a predator of some sort and a woman abuser. It was hard to understand the true value of a man and all his worth and everything he is capable of achieving, when you’re surrounded by pimps, hustlers and con men that all may make more money than the men with trade jobs and have more of an appealing lifestyle for the short- term progress.

What is a novel, anyway? Only a very foolish person would attempt to give a definitive answer to that, beyond stating the more or less obvious facts that it is a literary narrative of some length which purports, on the reverse of the title page, not to be true, but seeks nevertheless to convince its readers that it is. It's typical of the cynicism of our age that, if you write a novel, everyone assumes it's about real people, thinly disguised; but if you write an autobiography everyone assumes you're lying your head off. Part of this is right, because every artist is, among other things, a con-artist. We con-artists do tell the truth, in a way; but, as Emily Dickenson said, we tell it slant. By indirection we find direction out -- so here, for easy reference, is an elimination-dance list of what novels are not. -- Novels are not sociological textbooks, although they may contain social comment and criticism. -- Novels are not political tracts, although "politics" -- in the sense of human power structures -- is inevitably one of their subjects. But if the author's main design on us is to convert us to something -- - whether that something be Christianity, capitalism, a belief in marriage as the only answer to a maiden's prayer, or feminism, we are likely to sniff it out, and to rebel. As Andre Gide once remarked, "It is with noble sentiments that bad literature gets written." -- Novels are not how-to books; they will not show you how to conduct a successful life, although some of them may be read this way. Is Pride and Prejudice about how a sensible middle-class nineteenth-century woman can snare an appropriate man with a good income, which is the best she can hope for out of life, given the limitations of her situation? Partly. But not completely. -- Novels are not, primarily, moral tracts. Their characters are not all models of good behaviour -- or, if they are, we probably won't read them. But they are linked with notions of morality, because they are about human beings and human beings divide behaviour into good and bad. The characters judge each other, and the reader judges the characters. However, the success of a novel does not depend on a Not Guilty verdict from the reader. As Keats said, Shakespeare took as much delight in creating Iago -- that arch-villain -- as he did in creating the virtuous Imogen. I would say probably more, and the proof of it is that I'd bet you're more likely to know which play Iago is in. -- But although a novel is not a political tract, a how-to-book, a sociology textbook or a pattern of correct morality, it is also not merely a piece of Art for Art's Sake, divorced from real life. It cannot do without a conception of form and a structure, true, but its roots are in the mud; its flowers, if any, come out of the rawness of its raw materials. -- In short, novels are ambiguous and multi-faceted, not because they're perverse, but because they attempt to grapple with what was once referred to as the human condition, and they do so using a medium which is notoriously slippery -- namely, language itself.

How long does it last?" Said the other customer, a man wearing a tan shirt with little straps that buttoned on top of the shoulders. He looked as if he were comparing all the pros and cons before shelling out $.99. You could see he thought he was pretty shrewd. "It lasts for as long as you live," the manager said slowly. There was a second of silence while we all thought about that. The man in the tan shirt drew his head back, tucking his chin into his neck. His mind was working like a house on fire "What about other people?" He asked. "The wife? The kids?" "They can use your membership as long as you're alive," the manager said, making the distinction clear. "Then what?" The man asked, louder. He was the type who said things like "you get what you pay for" and "there's one born every minute" and was considering every angle. He didn't want to get taken for a ride by his own death. "That's all," the manager said, waving his hands, palms down, like a football referee ruling an extra point no good. "Then they'd have to join for themselves or forfeit the privileges." "Well then, it makes sense," the man said, on top of the situation now, "for the youngest one to join. The one that's likely to live the longest." "I can't argue with that," said the manager. The man chewed his lip while he mentally reviewed his family. Who would go first. Who would survive the longest. He cast his eyes around to all the cassettes as if he'd see one that would answer his question. The woman had not gone away. She had brought along her signed agreement, the one that she paid $25 for. "What is this accident waiver clause?" She asked the manager. "Look," he said, now exhibiting his hands to show they were empty, nothing up his sleeve, "I live in the real world. I'm a small businessman, right? I have to protect my investment, don't I? What would happen if, and I'm not suggesting you'd do this, all right, but some people might, what would happen if you decided to watch one of my movies in the bathtub and a VCR you rented from me fell into the water?" The woman retreated a step. This thought had clearly not occurred to her before.

Cuando un joven que se declaraba incel (un «célibe involuntario»), después de que una chica lo rechazara y de llevar «más de dos años» sin tener relaciones sexuales, mató a treinta y dos personas en Canadá (porque que no conseguía «hacer» que ninguna mujer se acostara con él, pobrecillo), les pregunté a las mujeres de Twitter qué hacían ellas cuando llevaban más de dos años sin tener relaciones sexuales. «Hacía calceta», «Leía poesía», «Aprendí capoeira y me apunté a clases de baile», «Me compré todos los libros de Alfred Wainwright y me aficioné a hacer senderismo por el Distrito de los Lagos», «Adopté un gato», «Escribí un libro», «Aprendí cerámica», «Aprendí a cocinar», «Me masturbaba». Hay cientos de miles de mujeres faltas de afecto y rechazadas sexualmente, y ni una sola ha protagonizado una matanza en un colegio, una discoteca ni un centro comercial. Ninguna mujer ha matado a un montón de gente porque se sintiera rechazada por la sociedad, pese a que me atrevería a afirmar que las mujeres sufren desengaños amorosos como mínimo con la misma frecuencia que los hombres.

Maybe I've put too much high hopes and expectations on you, or started holding you to an unreachable standard." "That isn't fair," he says, his own breath coming quicker. He's starting to look less confused and more straight-up angry. Join the club, bud. "I probably should have told you before Geoffrey and Aiden, but I was excited, and you've been ignoring all my attempts to talk since UltiCon. And I really didn't think you would take the news this way. I thought it was a good thing and truthfully? I think you're overreacting." The little porcupine quills that I imagine live just beneath my skin, primed to shoot up and protect me at a moment's notice, are at the ready now. Except they feel more like Wolverine claws in this case, and Norberto Beneventi's about to feel their wrath. "Overreacting, huh? Love to hear that. Sorry I'm not over the moon, shooting rainbows out my eyeballs because I'm so delighted for you. Sorry I'm not a selfless little woman whose only goal in life is to see her man shine, that I have real feelings and ambitions for myself." "Reese, for the love of---" he shouts, throwing his hands up in the air and walking in a tight circle before returning to stand in front of me. He adjusts his cap with a long-suffering sigh. "You know what? I think you've been waiting for this. I think you figured out that there was more to say after our last conversation, and you know this is not that big of a deal, but you've been scared for so long, and angry, and the world's been unfair to you. And I bet whether you realize it or not, you've been waiting for the first excuse to get rid of me for good. You're used to being alone and it's easier than letting another person in, so all you needed was the smallest hint that something may not be perfect and boom---no more Benny. Am I right?" I scoff, moving to pass him for real this time and not stopping when his hand brushes my shoulder. "You just know me so well, don't you? Please, tell me more about how I'm feeling, why I do the things I do. But you'll have to send it in another message, because I don't have to stay here and listen to it." I hoist my bag farther onto my shoulder and stomp away from him, my own fury nearly blocking out his parting words. "Go on, then. Maybe you can move back across the country. See if running from your problems works the second time around.

The curate called everything Helen's. He had a great contempt for the spirit of men who marry rich wives and then lord it over their money, as if they had done a fine thing in get- ting hold of it, and the wife had been but keeping it from its rightful owner. They do not know what a confession their whole bear- ing is, that but for their wives' money, they would be the merest, poorest nobodies. So small are they that even that suffices to make them feel big ! But Helen did not like it, especially when he would ask her if he might have this or that, or do so and so. Any com- mon man who heard him would have thought him afraid of his wife; but a large-hearted woman would at once have understood, as did Helen, that it came all of his fine sense of truth, and reality, and obligation. Still Helen would have had him forget all such matters in con- nection with her. They were one beyond obligation. She had given him herself, and what were bank-notes after that ? But he thought of her always as an angel who had taken him in, to comfort, and bless, and cherish him with love, that he might the better do the work of his God and hers ; therefore his obligation to her was his glory.

La gente no acepta que se le diga sus verdades. Quieren que se crea sus lindas palabras o por lo menos que uno haga como si. Yo soy lúcida soy franca arranco las caretas. La tipeja que susurra: '¿Así que quiere mucho a su hermanito?' y yo con mi vocecita serena 'Lo detesto'. He seguido siendo esa adolescente que dice lo que piensa no hace trampas. Se me partía el corazón escucharlo pontificar y todos esos infelices de rodillas delante de él. Yo aparecía con mis grandes zuecos sus palabras solemnes quedaban desinfladas: el progreso la prosperidad el porvenir del hombre la felicidad de la humanidad la ayuda a los países subdesarrollados la paz del mundo. No soy racista pero me importan un pito los árabes los judíos los negros exactamente como me importan un pito los chinos los rusos los yanquis los franchutes. Me importa un pito la humanidad qué es lo que ella ha hecho por mí me gustaría saberlo. Si son lo bastante estúpidos como para degollarse bombardearse tirarse napalm exterminarse no gastaré mis ojos llorando. Un millón de niños degollados ¿y qué? Los niños nunca son otra cosa que semilla de canallas y así se descongestiona un poco el planeta reconocen que está superpoblado ¿y entonces qué? Si yo fuera la tierra me daría asco toda esa gusanada en mi espalda me la sacudiría. Si todos revientan yo quiero reventar. Los niños no son nada para mí no voy a enternecer por ellos. Mi hija está muerta y me han robado a mi hijo.

... And I said: 'What kind of trouble with your drama teacher?' She said: 'Well I'm having difficulty with the feelings.' I said: 'The... the f-feelings?' She said: 'You know...' ...she said: 'You know the, the feelings.' Like I would know. I said 'You saw me in a play?' She said. 'Yeah' 'And you thought it was good?' And she said 'Yeah, thought it was absolutely marv- ... ' I said 'Well, I can absolutely guarantee you that I'm not feeling anything. I'm at work. D'you know what I mean? I'm a bit busy. I'm a bit pushed. I have to do - I have to achieve about... 1500 things over a period of two and half hours or whatever the play length might be. I have to make love to a woman, smoke cigarettes, reach the door handle, hit the door handle when that verbal cue comes coz otherwise the lights will go funny, I have to, you know, get semi-naked and eat chilli con carne. You know. I'm occupied. I can't be feeling stuff. You know, that I do on my own time.' And you can't phone up on a wet Wednesday and say: 'D'you know what? [shakes head sadly]... I'm not feeling it. So I don't think I'll come in today.' People who teach acting they have to talk for a very long time. Sometimes two years of talk. Or sometimes three. And there isn't that much to say. And they start making it up, sometimes. Or they'll concentrate on things that are undeniable. Like you can't say: 'I am feeling it.' 'No you're not. No, I can't... you know, you're not feel-... I can't... you know, I'm sorry but I just - you're not feeling it, you gotta feel it.' 'Yeah I am. I think I'm feeling it...' You know, it's all completely unnecessary. The audience have no interest in what you might be feeling. You're supposed to give the appearance of feeling something. Like you did when you were a kid. It is an extension of what you did in the back yard when you played the bank robber and the other guy played... the policeman.

Sometimes Marlboro Man and I would venture out into the world--go to the city, see a movie, eat a good meal, be among other humans. But what we did best was stay in together, cooking dinner and washing dishes and retiring to the chairs on his front porch or the couch in his living room, watching action movies and finding new and inventive ways to wrap ourselves in each other’s arms so not a centimeter of space existed between us. It was our hobby. And we were good at it. It was getting more serious. We were getting closer. Each passing day brought deeper feelings, more intense passion, love like I’d never known it before. To be with a man who, despite his obvious masculinity, wasn’t at all afraid to reveal his soft, affectionate side, who had no fears or hang-ups about declaring his feelings plainly and often, who, it seemed, had never played a head game in his life…this was the romance I was meant to have. Occasionally, though, after returning to my house at night, I’d lie awake in my own bed, wrestling with the turn my life had taken. Though my feelings for Marlboro Man were never in question, I sometimes wondered where “all this” would lead. We weren’t engaged--it was way too soon for that--but how would that even work, anyway? It’s not like I could ever live out here. I tried to squint and see through all the blinding passion I felt and envision what such a life would mean. Gravel? Manure? Overalls? Isolation? Then, almost without fail, just about the time my mind reached full capacity and my what-ifs threatened to disrupt my sleep, my phone would ring again. And it would be Marlboro Man, whose mind was anything but scattered. Who had a thought and acted on it without wasting even a moment calculating the pros and cons and risks and rewards. Who’d whisper words that might as well never have existed before he spoke them: “I miss you already…” “I’m thinking about you…” “I love you…” And then I’d smell his scent in the air and drift right off to Dreamland. This was the pattern that defined my early days with Marlboro Man. I was so happy, so utterly content--as far as I was concerned, it could have gone on like that forever. But inevitably, the day would come when reality would appear and shake me violently by the shoulders. And, as usual, I wasn’t the least bit ready for it.

Solía decir que algunas personas no eran capaces de distinguir y encontrar las perlas entre la arena, o únicamente tenían la fuerza de carácter para quitar la arena de unas cuantas perlas y terminaban sólo con una gargantilla.

Rhi stood in the doorway and watched Henry. He was a fighter. Maybe that’s why she saved him. There was also a slim chance it was because he helped the Kings. “It’s a good thing you called me,” Usaeil, Queen of the Light, said as she came to stand beside Rhi. Rhi could’ve brought Henry to Usaeil’s manor on the west coast of Ireland, but then it would reveal to one and all power she’s managed to keep hidden from them. That was something she wanted to keep to herself. So she got Henry out of the prison and to the outskirts of Dublin. From there, it was simply a matter of asking Usaeil for help. Now all Rhi had to worry about was finding out how much Henry remembered. If he recalled seeing her teleport him out, then she would need to convince him to lie for her. Although Usaeil would want to know how Henry got out of his prison and how Rhi found him. Usaeil hadn’t begun those questions yet. But they were coming. “I’m glad you agreed to help,” Rhi said. Usaeil shoved her black hair over her shoulders and adjusted the coral sheath dress she wore. “He’s aiding the Kings. Why wouldn’t I help him?” Rhi wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t. “We might be Light, but we also use humans as the Dark do.” “We don’t kill them.” “No, we sleep with them once and ruin them for any other mortal. We don’t hurt them at all,” she said sarcastically, giving Usaeil a cutting look. Usaeil slid her silver eyes to Rhi. “I can easily toss Henry North out on his ass.” “Do it. What do I care?” “I think you care more than you’re ready to admit. Why else would you want to help him?” Usaeil sighed. “Rhi, we all know you went through hell at Balladyn’s hands. We know it’s going to take time for you to heal, but you will heal.” Rhi wasn’t so sure. She could feel the darkness within her, coiling and shifting. She had to fight to remember what she should do, instead of what the darkness wanted her to do. “Henry is healing nicely,” Rhi said, changing the subject. Usaeil nodded slowly. “His injuries were extensive. Had you not found him when you did, the internal bleeding would’ve killed him in a few hours. By the way, how did you find him again?” This was what Rhi had been waiting for. Everyone knew she couldn’t lie without feeling tremendous pain. She sank her nails into her palms, held Usaeil’s gaze and lied. “I found him in Dublin. As I said, I don’t know how he got there.” “So very odd.” The pain was gut wrenching. It twisted her insides and squeezed her lungs so that she couldn’t breath. Pain exploded inside her head. She began to shake. It was time for Rhi to change the subject again. “You should tell Con we have him.” The queen twisted her lips. “If I do, Con will want to come here and finish healing Henry himself, or want us to bring Henry to him. I’m not in the mood for either.” “Henry will be finished healing soon. What then? You want him to remain? In a place full of Light Fae?” Thankfully, the pain began to dull enough that Rhi could breath easier. “No,” Usaeil said with a frown. “Already his appearance has sparked interest. They’re trying to get in to see him. He’s a mortal, so he’ll succumb to any Fae he encounters.” Rhi took exception to that. “He’s stronger than that.” “He’s human, Rhi. Not a single one can resist us. It’s a fact. Henry is no different.” Rhi didn’t argue, but she knew she was right. Henry was different. She’d seen it the first time she met him in Con’s office months ago. He took in the fact his friends at Dreagan were actually dragon shifters with a nod, his solemn hazel eyes seeing things anew. She bit back a grin as she recalled how he’d become a little flustered when he saw her and learned who she was. Henry’s smile was charming, sweet . . . honest. He looked at her as if she were the only woman on the realm. Even though Rhi understood that it was the fact she was Fae that intrigued him, enthralled him, she took an instant liking to the human who never backed down.

It is time to consider the seriousness of our situation. America has been governed by a highly skilled con artist for the past seven years. Another con artist, perhaps even more adept, is waiting to take his place. This is truly historic. We think we made history by electing the first African American president, and we’re going to hear a lot about making history by electing the first woman. Despite all the hoopla, those are relative trivialities. What really matters is that never before in history has America had a con artist as its chief executive and commander in chief. And we may be getting ready to anoint another in immediate succession. One is bad enough; two con artists in a row may be our undoing.

After Zeidy’s heavy footfalls fade down the stairs, and I watch from my second-floor bedroom window as my grandparents get into the taxi, I slide the book out from under the mattress and place it reverently on my desk. The pages are made of waxy, translucent paper, and they are each packed with text: the original words of the Talmud as well as the English translation, and the rabbinical discourse that fills up the bottom half of each page. I like the discussions best, records of the conversations the ancient rabbis held about each holy phrase in the Talmud. On the sixty-fifth page the rabbis are arguing about King David and his ill-gotten wife Bathsheba, a mysterious biblical tale about which I’ve always been curious. From the fragments mentioned, it appears that Bathsheba was already married when David laid his eyes upon her, but he was so attracted to her that he deliberately sent her husband, Uriah, to the front lines so that he would be killed in war, leaving Bathsheba free to remarry. Afterward, when David had finally taken poor Bathsheba as his lawful wife, he looked into her eyes and saw in the mirror of her pupils the face of his own sin and was repulsed. After that, David refused to see Bathsheba again, and she lived the rest of her life in the king’s harem, ignored and forgotten. I now see why I’m not allowed to read the Talmud. My teachers have always told me, “David had no sins. David was a saint. It is forbidden to cast aspersions on God’s beloved son and anointed leader.” Is this the same illustrious ancestor the Talmud is referring to? Not only did David cavort with his many wives, but he had unmarried female companions as well, I discover. They are called concubines. I whisper aloud this new word, con-cu-bine, and it doesn’t sound illicit, the way it should, it only makes me think of a tall, stately tree. The concubine tree. I picture beautiful women dangling from its branches. Con-cu-bine. Bathsheba wasn’t a concubine because David honored her by taking her as his wife, but the Talmud says she was the only woman David chose who wasn’t a virgin. I think of the beautiful woman on the olive oil bottle, the extra-virgin. The rabbis say that God only intended virgins for David and that his holiness would have been defiled had he stayed with Bathsheba, who had already been married. King David is the yardstick, they say, against whom we are all measured in heaven. Really, how bad can my small stash of English books be, next to concubines? I am not aware at this moment that I have lost my innocence. I will realize it many years later. One day I will look back and understand that just as there was a moment in my life when I realized where my power lay, there was also a specific moment when I stopped believing in authority just for its own sake and started coming to my own conclusions about the world I lived in.

San Jose. Heart of Silicon Valley. Ryan could picture Camilla there, working at some high- tech company. He wondered again about Dennis Hutchins, about how he'd fooled this obviously intelligent woman into letting him have access to her computer—and to her. He felt his own jaw clench in imitation of Camilla's, and wondered if he could control it as well as she did. He hated the thought of her with that con man. Her ex- fiancé she had called him, sounding disgusted. He had given her a ring—probably bought with her own money. They had been engaged. Ryan wasn't naive enough to think they had waited for marriage to get together. How could she have allowed a con man to touch her? Whoa. There he went again. It was totally irrelevant to the case how much physical contact she'd had with the jerk. Dennis was out of her life.

Non innamorarti di una donna che legge, di una donna che sente troppo, di una donna che scrive… Non innamorarti di una donna colta, maga, delirante, pazza. Non innamorarti di una donna che pensa, che sa di sapere e che inoltre è capace di volare, di una donna che ha fede in se stessa. Non innamorarti di una donna che ride o piange mentre fa l’amore, che sa trasformare il suo spirito in carne e, ancor di più, di una donna che ama la poesia (sono loro le più pericolose), o di una donna capace di restare mezz'ora davanti a un quadro o che non sa vivere senza la musica. Non innamorarti di una donna intensa, ludica, lucida, ribelle, irriverente. Che non ti capiti mai di innamorarti di una donna così. Perché quando ti innamori di una donna del genere, che rimanga con te oppure no, che ti ami o no, da una donna così, non si torna indietro. Mai.

while some people have intolerances to certain products, as a society we are becoming needlessly fearful of many foods. This, he believes, is in a large part because you can build a case for just about anything being bad, by selectively quoting scientific research and blowing it out of context.

Diet hypotheses are essentially about what will improve or impair our prospects of good health and longevity, so, in randomised controlled trials, this can mean having to convince thousands of people to change what they eat for 20 or even 30 years. ‘It’s almost impossible,’ Tim says. ‘Humans change their diets all the time … So what we end up with is needing to look at lower-quality evidence to get an idea of how food can affect our health.

Observational studies, at best, can only help demonstrate association, not causation. They cannot prove a clear, causal link.

For the most part, this new breed of wellness gurus is white and female, young and attractive, engaging, and media-savvy. Some are yoga teachers, or personal trainers, or martial-arts instructors, but scant few have any qualifications that equip them to give health advice. What they do have is an Instagram account.

with most of these bloggers the inference is very clear: a byproduct of all of this wellness is weight loss. But striving for wellness is far more attractive than dieting.

And the entire concept of a detox diet or a cleanse to help achieve long-term health is plain nonsense. (The liver and kidneys already perform this function, and the best way to help filter toxins is to not overload the body with processed foods and excess kilojoules in the first place.)

How did you get the badges?” Parker asked. “You didn’t steal a badge from a pro, did you?” “Of course not,” Hardison said. “Geek solidarity to the end.” “Then whose name is this on my badge? Who’s Diana Prince?” Hardison laughed. “That’s Wonder Woman’s secret identity.” Parker giggled at that. “And who are you? Carl Lucas?” “That’s Luke Cage’s original name.” “Who?” Eliot didn’t bother to conceal his irritation. “Luke Cage? You know, Power Man? Of Power Man and Iron Fist?” Hardison waited for a response that never came. “Sweet Christmas, what’s wrong with you people?” “We have lives. And just who am I supposed to be, huh? Batman’s secret sidekick?” “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sophie said. Nate gave her a nudge with his elbow, and she fixed him with a mischievous smile. “Naw, man,” said Hardison. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I know how you feel about ‘fictional’ people.” “So who the hell is Warren Ellis?” “He’s a comic-book writer. Good one.” Eliot groaned. “For God’s sake, do I look like a comic-book writer?” “Hey, don’t knock Warren Ellis. He wrote all sorts of great stuff. Global Frequency, The Authority, Transmetropolitan. Good stuff.