Conservatory Quotes

It's Major Ketchup in the bathroom with the laser scalpel." "Hmm." He sliced a delicately herbed spear of asparagus. "Obviously we were meant for each other as I can interpret that as you meaning something more like Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick.

...but that is how the clues God leaves sometimes work. Sometimes nothing comes of them. Sometimes, as in a great novel, you cannot see until you get to the end that God was leaving clues for you all along. Sometimes you wonder, how did I miss it? Surely any idiot should have been able to see from the second chapter that it was Miss Scarlet in the conservatory with the rope.

Tutti i rivoluzionari, una volta vinto il vecchio, diventano conservatori e custodi delle tradizioni.

I told them I’d been poor, I told them I’d been ignorant, and in telling them this I felt not the slightest prick of shame. Only then did I understand where the shame had come from: it wasn’t that I hadn’t studied in a marble conservatory, or that my father wasn’t a diplomat. It wasn’t that Dad was half out of his mind, or that Mother followed him. It had come from having a father who shoved me toward the chomping blades of the Shear, instead of pulling me away from them. It had come from those moments on the floor, from knowing that Mother was in the next room, closing her eyes and ears to me, and choosing, for that moment, not to be my mother at all.

Lucy swayed in shock. A gust of wind moaned through the conservatory and blew out all but one of her candles. Simon must have done this. He’d destroyed his fairyland conservatory. Why? She sank to her knees, huddled on the cold floor, her one remaining flame cradled in her numb palms. She’d seen how tenderly Simon had cared for his plants. Remembered the look of pride when she’d first discovered the dome and fountain. For him to have smashed all this . . . He must have lost hope. All hope.

The white cat Sal-al was lying on the straw matting in the empty conservatory. She looked at us with a wicked, conceited expression as if all her appetites had just been satisfied. She was beautiful. Vesta and I both said, "I wish I were a cat!" Before we got to the last word we smiled at each other in annoyance, not liking the idea that most human beings think very much alike.

No one promised life would be easy or that the game wouldn't change without warning. There you are, all ready to pass Go and collect two hundred dollars, and suddenly Colonel Mustard is trapped in the conservatory, ranting and raving and waving a wrench, and no one knows what exactly a conservatory is or why anyone thought a wrench - of all things - would be a good murder weapon, or what branch of the military Colonel Mustard even served in! Has anyone seen his credentials?

If Clue was played like D&D, you could grab the lead pipe, beat a confession out of Colonel Mustard, and have sex with Miss scarlet on the desk in the conservatory.

All the buildings lining rue de Conservatoire are constructed of cream marble or limestone. When I went outside today, the sky was pale and fierce, on the very cusp of rain. From the top of the church and the conservatory, the contrast was almost imperceptible, as if marble and air danced cheek to cheek.

I feel a stab of resentment before reason kicks in. I work to rid myself of the envy I so often felt in grade school and at the Conservatory for those who are half Asian, reminding myself that it doesn’t necessarily guarantee more assimilation.

I have had countless reasons to be proud of you; and certainly one of the greatest was the night of the Conservatory competition. But the moment I felt that pride was not when you and Anna brought home news of your victory. It was earlier in the evening, when I watched you heading out the hotel's doors on your way to the hall. For what matters in life is not whether we receive a round of applause; what matters is whether we have the courage to venture forth despite the uncertainty of the acclaim.

Then the house had been boldly planned with a ball-room, so that, instead of squeezing through a narrow passage to get to it (as at the Chiverses') one marched solemnly down a vista of enfiladed drawing-rooms (the sea-green, the crimson and the bouton d'or), seeing from afar the many-candled lustres reflected in the polished parquetry, and beyond that the depths of a conservatory where camellias and tree-ferns arched their costly foliage over seats of black and gold bamboo.

It is one thing to get all the notes right; any number of unsocialized conservatory prodigies can do that. It is another thing to play the thoughts within the notes, the light around them, the darkness behind them, the silence at the end of the phrase. That is what inspires awe.

The following year the house was substantially remodeled, and the conservatory removed. As the walls of the now crumbling wall were being torn down, one of the workmen chanced upon a small leatherbound book that had apparently been concealed behind a loose brick or in a crevice in the wall. By this time Emily Dickinson was a household name in Amherst. It happened that this carpenter was a lover of poetry- and hers in particular- and when he opened the little book and realized that that he had found her diary, he was “seized with a violent trembling,” as he later told his grandson. Both electrified and terrified by the discovery, he hid the book in his lunch bucket until the workday ended and then took it home. He told himself that after he had read and savored every page, he would turn the diary over to someone who would know how to best share it with the public. But as he read, he fell more and more deeply under the poet’s spell and began to imagine that he was her confidant. He convinced himself that in his new role he was no longer obliged to give up the diary. Finally, having brushed away the light taps of conscience, he hid the book at the back of an oak chest in his bedroom, from which he would draw it out periodically over the course of the next sixty-four years until he had virtually memorized its contents. Even his family never knew of its existence. Shortly before his death in 1980 at the age of eighty-nine, the old man finally showed his most prized possession to his grandson (his only son having preceded him in death), confessing that his delight in it had always been tempered by a nagging guilt and asking that the young man now attempt to atone for his grandfather’s sin. The grandson, however, having inherited both the old man’s passion for poetry and his tendency towards paralysis of conscience, and he readily succumbed to the temptation to hold onto the diary indefinitely while trying to decide what ought to be done with it.

OSWALD: Is it very late, mother? MRS. ALVING: It is early morning. [She looks out through the conservatory.] The day is dawning over the mountains. And the weather is clearing, Oswald. In a little while you shall see the sun. OSWALD: I'm glad of that. Oh, I may still have much to rejoice in and live for--

Everybody we know surrounds himself with a fine house, fine books, conservatory, gardens, equipage, and all manner of toys, as screens to interpose between himself and his guest. Does it not seem as if man was of a very sly, elusive nature, and dreaded nothing so much as a full rencontre front to front with his fellow?

I’m being rather a brute to you, aren’t I?” he said; “this isn’t your idea of a proposal. We ought to be in a conservatory, you in a white frock with a rose in your hand, and a violin playing a waltz in the distance. And I should make violent love to you behind a palm tree. You would feel then you were getting your money’s worth. Poor darling,

You see, I don’t write the way I was trained to write at the conservatory. I write dysfunctional music.

Again, we go back to the power of words and how they can make you feel. They bring liberation or stagnation, they're chains. I began to see the structure of Tori—there's conservatory, and victory: you see that word in so many different other words—also anti-inflammatory but my favorite has to be Yakatori chicken. And I began to feel that the sound of this name was a window.

And, Barry and Lup's professor is searching for them in the crowd, just, hoping to congratulate them. But, they're already gone. Running back up the valley to the conservatory, hand in hand.

If you’re in a conservatory, I’d advise you not to get involved musically with people you have even the remotest sense you might be in love with, which can be filed under Advice No One Will Ever Take.

He was telling us that Thoroughbred racing horses have these companion ponies that always stay by their sides, and I remember thinking, That’s me. I’m a companion pony, and companion ponies don’t solo. They don’t play first chair or audition for All-State or compete nationally or seriously consider a certain performing arts conservatory in New York City like Marguerite had begun insisting. They just don’t.

Monsieur Lerebour was short, round and jovial, with the joviality of a shopkeeper who liked to do himself well. His wife, who was thin, self-willed and perpetually discontented, had still not succeeded in overcoming her husband's good humour.

I am immensely respectable. All the young ladies in the office acknowledge my entrance. I can dine where I like now, and without vanity may suppose that I shall soon acquire a house in Surrey, two cars, a conservatory and some rare species of melon.

This has been an exhilarating night,” said the Erlking, whisking her down a long stairway that spilled out into a wide conservatory. “In addition to your diligent work, our hunt achieved a most glorious prize, with some thanks owed to you.” “Me?” “Indeed. I hope you aren’t the sensitive sort.” “Sensitive?” she asked, more bewildered by the moment and unable to fathom why he was being so nice to her. In fact, the Erlking, who usually struck her as ominous and more than a little morose, now was bordering on… chipper. It made her nervous.

In teoria il vecchio era di fede progressista, ma Florence non aveva mai conosciuto gente danarosa che fosse priva di istinti conservatori. Uno di questi era far apparire terribilmente complesso tutto ciò che era moralmente ovvio (benché svantaggioso a livello finanziario).

I’m being rather a brute to you, aren’t I?” he said; “this isn’t your idea of a proposal. We ought to be in a conservatory, you in a white frock with a rose in your hand, and a violin playing a waltz in the distance. And I should make violent love to you behind a palm tree. You would feel then you were getting your money’s worth. Poor darling, what a shame.

Everything is all the same all the time forever.

Daca ma gandesc bine, reprosul esential pe care il am de facut tarii si vremurilor este ca ma impiedica sa ma bucur de frumusetea vietii. Din cand in cand, imi dau seama ca traiesc intr-o lume fara cer, fara copaci si gradini, fara extaze bucolice, fara ape, pajisti si nori. Am uitat misterul adanc al noptii, radicalitatea amiezii, racorile cosmice ale amurgului. Nu mai vad pasarile, nu mai adulmec mirosul prafos si umed al furtunii, nu mai percep, asfixiat de emotie, miracolul ploii si al stelelor. Nu mai privesc in sus, nu mai am organ pentru parfumuri si adieri. Fosnetul frunzelor uscate, transluciditatea nocturna a lacurilor, sunetul indescifrabil al serii, iarba, padurea, vitele, orizontul tulbure al campiei, colina cordiala si muntele ascetic nu mai fac de mult parte din peisajul meu cotidian, din echilibrul igienic al vietii mele launtrice. Nu mai am timp pentru prietenie, pentru taclaua voioasa, pentru cheful asezat. Sunt ocupat. Sunt grabit. Sunt iritat, hartuit, coplesit de lehamite. Am o existenta de ghiseu: mi se cer servicii, mi se fac comenzi, mi se solicita interventii, sfaturi si complicitati. Am devenit mizantrop. Doua treimi din metabolismul meu mental se epuizeaza in nervi de conjunctura, agenda mea zilnica e un inventar de urgente minore. Gandesc pe sponci, stimulat de provocari meschine. Imi incep ziua apoplectic, injurand "situatiunea": gropile din drum, moravurile soferilor autohtoni, caldura (sau frigul), praful (sau noroiul), morala politicienilor, gramatica gazetarilor, modele ideologice, cacofoniile noii arhitecturi, demagogia, coruptia, bezmeticia tranzitiei. Abia daca mai inregistrez desenul ametitor al cate unei siluete feminine, inocenta vreunui suras, farmecul tacut al cate unui colt de strada. Colectionez antipatii si prilejuri de insatisfactie. Scriu despre mizerii si maruntisuri. Bomban toata ziua, mi-am pierdut increderea in virtutile natiei, in soarta tarii, in rostul lumii. Am un portret tot mai greu digerabil. Patriotii de parada m-au trecut la tradatori, neoliberalii la conservatori, postmodernistii la elitisti. Batranilor le apar frivol, tinerilor reactionar. Una peste alta, mi-am pierdut buna dispozitie, elanul, jubilatia. Nu mai am ragazuri fertile, reverii, autenticitati. Ma misc, de dimineata pana seara, intr-un univers artificial, agitat, infectat de trivialitate. Apetitul vital a devenit anemic, placerea de a fi si-a pierdut amplitudinea si suculenta. Respir crispat si pripit, ca intr-o etuva. Cand cineva trece printr-o asemenea criza de vina e, in primul rand, umoarea proprie. Te poti acuza ca ai consimtit in prea mare masura imediatului, ca nu stii sa-ti dozezi timpul si afectele, ca nu mai deosebesti intre esential si accesoriu, ca, in sfarsit, ai scos din calculul zilnic valorile zenitale. Dar nu se poate trece cu vederea nici ambianta toxica a momentului si a veacului. Suntem napaditi de probleme secunde. Avem preocupari de mana a doua, avem conducatori de mana a doua, traim sub presiunea multipla a necesitatii. Ni se ofera texte mediocre, show-uri de prost-gust, conditii de viata umilitoare. Am ajuns sa nu mai avem simturi, idei, imaginatie. Ne-am uratit, ne-am instrainat cu totul de simplitatea polifonica a lumii, de pasiunea vietii depline. Nu! mai avem puterea de a admira si de a lauda, cu o genuina evlavie, splendoarea Creatiei, vazduhul, marile, pamantul si oamenii. Suntem turmentati si sumbri. Abia daca ne mai putem suporta. Exista, pentru acest derapaj primejdios, o terapie plauzibila? Da, cu conditia sa ne dam seama de gravitatea primejdiei. Cu conditia sa impunem atentiei noastre zilnice alte prioritati si alte orizonturi.

The North London suburbs were a vacuum for identity. It was as beige as the plush carpets that adorned its every home. There was no art, no culture, no old buildings, no parks, no independent shops or restaurants...The only form of expression was through the spending of money on homogenized assets -- conservatories, kitchen extensions, cars with built in satnav, all-inclusive holidays to Majorca.

As for the other experiences, the solitary ones, which people go through alone, in their bedrooms, in their offices, walking the fields and the streets of London, he had them; had left home, a mere boy, because of his mother; she lied; because he came down to tea for the fiftieth time with his hands unwashed; because he could see no future for a poet in Stroud; and so, making a confidant of his little sister, had gone to London leaving an absurd note behind him, such as great men have written, and the world has read later when the story of their struggles has become famous. London has swallowed up many millions of young men called Smith; thought nothing of fantastic Christian names like Septimus with which their parents have thought to distinguish them. Lodging off the Euston Road, there were experiences, again experiences, such as change a face in two years from a pink innocent oval to a face lean, contracted, hostile. But of all this what could the most observant of friends have said except what a gardener says when he opens the conservatory door in the morning and finds a new blossom on his plant: — It has flowered; flowered from vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all muddled up (in a room off the Euston Road), made him shy, and stammering, made him anxious to improve himself, made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon Shakespeare. Was he not like Keats? she asked; and reflected how she might give him a taste of Antony and Cleopatra and the rest; lent him books; wrote him scraps of letters; and lit in him

Three hours later, Cassandra limped into the quiet, empty conservatory. Soft ripples of light reflected from the indoor stream and jostled against shadows cast by ferns and palm fronds. It looked like the room of some underwater palace. Painfully she made her way to the steps of a small stone bridge and sat in a billow of blue silk organza skirts. Tiny crystal beads had been scattered among the multiple layers of delicate fabric, casting glints across the floor.

Lucinda might sneak from her own house at midnight to place a wager somewhere else, but she dared not touch the pack that lay in her own sideboard. She knew how passionate he had become about his 'weakness.' She dared not even ask him how it was he had reversed his opinions on the matter. But, oh, how she yearned to discuss it with him, how much she wished to deal a hand on a grey wool blanket. There would be no headaches then, only this sweet consummation of their comradeship. But she said not a word. And although she might have her 'dainty' shoes tossed to the floor, have her bare toes quite visible through her stockings, have a draught of sherry in her hand, in short appear quite radical, she was too timid, she thought, too much a mouse, to reveal her gambler's heart to him. She did not like this mouselike quality. As usual, she found herself too careful, too held in. Once she said: 'I wish I had ten sisters and a big kitchen to laugh in.' Her lodger frowned and dusted his knees. She thought: He is as near to a sister as I am likely to get, but he does not understand. She would have had a woman friend so they could brush each other's hair, and just, please God, put aside this great clanking suit of ugly armor. She kept her glass dreams from him, even whilst she appeared to talk about them. He was an admiring listener, but she only showed him the opaque skin of her dreams--window glass, the price of transporting it, the difficulties with builders who would not pay their bills inside six months. He imagined this was her business, and of course it was, but all the things she spoke of were a fog across its landscape which was filled with such soaring mountains she would be embarrassed to lay claim to them. Her true ambition, the one she would not confess to him, was to build something Extraordinary and Fine from glass and cast iron. A conservatory, but not a conservatory. Glass laced with steel, spun like a spider web--the idea danced around the periphery of her vision, never long enough to be clear. When she attempted to make a sketch, it became diminished, wooden, inelegant. Sometimes, in her dreams, she felt she had discovered its form, but if she had, it was like an improperly fixed photograph which fades when exposed to daylight. She was wise enough, or foolish enough, to believe this did not matter, that the form would present itself to her in the end.

Don't take a bath" Jana said, and they cracked up. It was an inside joke. They'd been coached once by Jacob Liedel, the aging emeritus director of the conservatory, who sat with his saggy skin and liver spots in a chair inexplicably on the other side of the room, and shouted at them the whole time. He barely let them get through a phrase before waving his hands, interrupting them, correcting them. Brit admired his old-school edge, but she knew Jana found it upsetting, and the louder he yelled, the more strained her bow arm became, until Jacob finally yelled, "Don't take a bath!" and Jana stopped playing and said, "What?" Jacob repeated "Don't take a bath there. With that phrase." None of them asked him what he meant, but he said it two, three more times during the coaching session; afterward, at dinner, the four of them sitting in a tired silence, Henry said, "What's taking a bath mean?" and Jana and Brit laughed so hard they cried into their cheese fries and slid under the booth. Now and again they still said it to each other with no consistency of context.

What if upon entering the classroom, children find teachers listening attentively for their questions and stories, demonstrating a willingness to engage them in "playing out" their ideas using classroom materials while their propensity to ask questions is at its peak? What if well-educated teachers are guiding children to observe, discuss, imagine, and debate possibilities in the company of their equally eager peers? Our youngest children could,be in such conservatories of educational excellence in our public stools, preparing for their future in school and beyond.

Oh, Zachary, you're such a beautiful man.” She gathered herself against the wonderful wealth of hair on his chest, playing with the dark curls, brushing her mouth and fingers through them. A faint groan came from over her head. “You're the beautiful one.” His hands moved gently over her back and hips, savoring the texture of her skin. “I never recovered from my first glance at you, at the Bellemont ball.” “You saw me then? But it was dark outside.” “I followed you after I kissed you in the conservatory.” He pushed her to her back, his gaze sweeping over her naked body. “I watched as you went to your carriage, and I thought you were the loveliest thing I had ever seen.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his tongue touching the fragile curve, and Holly trembled. “And you began to scheme,” she said breathlessly. “That's right. I thought of a hundred ways to get under your skirts, and I decided the best plan was to hire you. But somewhere in the middle of my efforts to seduce you, I fell in love with you.” “And your intentions became honorable,” she said, pleased. “No, I still wanted to get under your skirts.” “Zachary Bronson,” she exclaimed, and he grinned, bracing his forearms on either side of her head.

I took a cautious step inside, marveling at the sight before me. A vast conservatory awaited, or what 'once' was a conservatory. Sunlight beamed through the enormous glass roof. I realized that its position at the center of the house precluded its visibility from below. In awe, my heart beating wildly, I lingered in an arbor covered with bright pink bougainvillea, with a trunk so thick, it was larger than my waist. Most of it had died off, but a single healthy vine remained, and it burst with magenta blossoms. I could smell citrus warming in the sunlight, and I immediately noticed the source: an old potted lemon tree in the far corner. 'This must have been Lady Anna's.' I walked along the leaf-strewn pathway to a table that had clearly once showcased dozens of orchids. Now it was an orchid graveyard. Only their brown, shriveled stems remained, but I could imagine how they'd looked in their prime. I smiled when I picked up a tag from one of the pots. 'Lady Fiona Bixby. She must have given them her own names.' Perhaps there hadn't been anything sinister going on in the orchard, after all. Lady Anna was clearly a creative spirit, and maybe that played out in her gardens and the names she gave to her flowers and trees.

Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper (he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals. But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?

The age was the Elizabethan; their morals were not ours; nor their poets; nor their climate; nor their vegetables even. Everything was different. The weather itself, the heat and cold of summer and winter, was, we may believe, of another temper altogether. The brilliant amorous day was divided as sheerly from the night as land from water. Sunsets were redder and more intense; dawns were whiter and more auroral. Of our crepuscular half-lights and lingering twilights they knew nothing. The rain fell vehemently, or not at all. The sun blazed or there was darkness. Translating this to the spiritual regions as their wont is, the poets sang beautifully how roses fade and petals fall. The moment is brief they sang; the moment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all. As for using the artifices of the greenhouse or conservatory to prolong or preserve these fresh pinks and roses, that was not their way. The withered intricacies and ambiguities of our more gradual and doubtful age were unknown to them. Violence was all. The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice. Girls were roses, and their seasons were short as the flowers. Plucked they must be before nightfall; for the day was brief and the day was all.

Now Flush knew what men can never know—love pure, love simple, love entire; love that brings no train of care in its wake; that has no shame; no remorse; that is here, that is gone, as the bee on the flower is here and is gone. Today the flower is a rose, tomorrow a lily; now it is the wild thistle on the moor, now the pouched and portentous orchid of the conservatory. So variously, so carelessly Flush embraced the spotted spaniel down the alley, and the brindled dog and the yellow dog—it did not matter which. To Flush it was all the same. He followed the horn wherever the horn blew and the wind wafted it. Love was all; love was enough. No one blamed him for his escapades.

Hey, what happened to the vase that’s usually here on the hall table?” Ryder calls out. I wince, remembering its fate. I’d saved the broken bits in a bag, but there’s no hope for it. It’s destroyed. It figures he’d notice. What is he, Colonel Mustard? In the conservatory, I want to say. With the candlestick. “Patrick happened to it,” I answer instead, joining him there in the hall. “You know, the other night. On his way back from the bathroom.” I have no idea why I’m offering so many details. It’s not like it’s any of his business. I should have told him that we were having wild sex here in the hall and accidentally knocked it over. Would have served him right for being so nosy.

Emily’s own conservatory was like fairyland at all seasons, especially in comparison with the dreary white winter cold outside. It opened from the dining-room, a tiny glass room, with white shelves running around it on which were grouped the loveliest ferns, rich purple heliotrope, the yellow jasmine, and one giant Daphne odora with its orange-bloom scent astray from the Riviera, and two majestic cape jasmines, exotics kin to her alien soul. She tolerated none of the usual variety of mongrel houseplants. A rare scarlet lily, a resurrection calla, perhaps—and here it was always summer with the oxalis dripping from hanging baskets like humble incense upon the heads of the household and its frequenters.

He laughs and launches into a tale about the first time he ever can across one of my mother’s paintings. It was an alumni display at the Lalverton Conservatory, and it was the most gorgeous, haunting thing he’d ever seen. “I had nightmares about it for weeks,” he concludes, shaking his head. I snort. “Oh, me too.” “You did?” “The shadowy, possessed ballerinas in the branches? I couldn’t walk anywhere near a tree for at least a month.” He looked at me, his eyebrows raised almost like he’s surprised, and then he lets out a laugh, deep and low. “Let’s get one thing straight about this portrait you’re doing for me,” he says, holding up a warning finger. “No ballerinas.” “Oh come on. Not even a little one?” I just put my lower lip in a mock plea.

CATHERINE: Readers who are not familiar with the tale of Beatrice and Giovanni can find it in the first of these adventures of the Athena Club, in an attractive green cloth binding that will appear to advantage in a lady’s or gentleman’s library. Two shillings, as I mentioned before. BEATRICE: You would use the story of my grief to sell copies of your book? CATHERINE: Our book. I may be writing it, but you are all as responsible for its contents as I am. What is the point if we don’t reach readers? And honestly, Bea, you’re not the only one whose sorrows are being recorded here. I mean . . . Bea? MARY: She’s gone back to the conservatory. I think you offended her—seriously offended her. The way you offended Zora. CATHERINE: Why do you humans have to be so emotional?

I had come to love the space, and I could see why Lady Anna had too. The orchids were positively glorious. She'd tagged each flower with its proper botanical name, but I favored the pet names she'd given each bloom. For instance, a stunning pink 'Cattleya' was named "Lady Catalina." And a yellow 'Oncidium,' which to me looked like a flock of ladies in fluffy party dresses, was called "Lady Aralia of the Bayou.

Mae?” Mom’s voice rises over the noise. “Mm?” I look up, realizing again that everyone is watching me. Apparently, I’ve missed a direct question. Her brows furrow. “Are you okay, honey?” With horror, I realize my entire face and neck are flushed. “Yeah, sorry, was just chowing on my dinner.” Theo leans on his elbows. “I called Professor Plum, and you didn’t even blink.” “Oh.” I wave my fork. “I’ll be whoever’s left.” I can feel the ripples of shock make their way around the table. I am laid-back about few things, it’s true, and none of those things are Professor Plum. Like any self-respecting woman of twenty-six, I take my Clue very seriously. And yet. “What’s the big deal, guys?” I ask. “Sometimes a little change is good.” • • • I’ll have you know that Colonel Mustard won Clue tonight, and Professor Plum is already off to bed, pouting that not only did I take the good luck juju with me to a new character, but Professor Plum himself was the murderer, in the conservatory, with the rope. I don’t think Theo enjoys my victory dance, but Andrew sure seems to.

I was too awestruck to speak. Vines of bright pink flowers danced over a wrought-iron arbor. I recognized them immediately as the very same variety, bougainvillea, that grew in Greenhouse No. 4 at the New York Botanical Garden. Just beyond, two potted trees stood at attention- a lemon, its shiny yellow globes glistening in the sunlight, and what looked like an orange, studded with the tiniest fruit I'd ever seen. "What is this?" I asked, fascinated. "A kumquat," she said. "Lady Anna used to pick them for the children." She reached out to pluck one of the tiny oranges from the tree. "Here, try for yourself." I held it in my hand, admiring its smooth, shiny skin. I sank my teeth into the flesh of the fruit. Its thin skin disintegrated in my mouth, releasing a burst of sweet and sour that made my eyes shoot open and a smile spread across my face. "Oh, my," I said. "I've never had anything like it." Mrs. Dilloway nodded. "You should try the clementines, then. They're Persian." I walked a few paces further, admiring the potted orchids- at least a hundred specimens, so exquisite they looked like Southern belles in hoop skirts. On the far wall were variegated ferns, bleeding hearts, and a lilac tree I could smell from the other end of the room.

I looked up at the moon and stars through the glass roof above and gasped at the stunning sight, like a mural painted by a great artist. No wonder Lady Anna had loved this place. I walked to the orchids and plucked a weed from a small terra-cotta pot that held a speckled pink and white flower. "There you are, beautiful," I whispered, releasing a patch of clover roots from the bark near the orchid's stem. "Is that better?" In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear the flower sigh. I walked to the water spigot and filled a green watering can to the brim, then sprinkled the flower and her comrades. I marveled at how the droplets sparkled in the moonlight.

A woman's demand for emancipation and her qualification for it are in direct proportion to the amount of maleness in her. The idea of emancipation, however, is many-sided, and its indefiniteness is increased by its association with many practical customs which have nothing to do with the theory of emancipation. By the term emancipation of a woman, I imply neither her mastery at home nor her subjection of her husband. I have not in mind the courage which enables her to go freely by night or by day unaccompanied in public places, or the disregard of social rules which prohibit bachelor women from receiving visits from men, or discussing or listening to discussions of sexual matters. I exclude from my view the desire for economic independence, the becoming fit for positions in technical schools, universities and conservatories or teachers' institutes. And there may be many other similar movements associated with the word emancipation which I do not intend to deal with. Emancipation, as I mean to discuss it, is not the wish for an outward equality with man, but what is of real importance in the woman question, the deep-seated craving to acquire man's character, to attain his mental and moral freedom, to reach his real interests and his creative power. I maintain that the real female element has neither the desire nor the capacity for emancipation in this sense. All those who are striving for this real emancipation, all women who are truly famous and are of conspicuous mental ability, to the first glance of an expert reveal some of the anatomical characters of the male, some external bodily resemblance to a man.

In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon," says an old writer—of whose works I possess the only copy extant—"it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier." True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind—old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper (he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals. But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?

London has swallowed up many millions of young men called Smith... Lodging off the Euston Road, there were experiences, again experiences, such as change a face in two years from a pink innocent oval to a face lean, contracted, hostile. But of all this what could the most observant of friends have said except what a gardener says when he opens the conservatory door in the morning and finds a new blossom on his plant: — It has flowered; flowered from vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all muddled up (in a room off the Euston Road), made him shy, and stammering, made him anxious to improve himself, made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon Shakespeare. Was he not like Keats? she asked; and reflected how she might give him a taste of Antony and Cleopatra and the rest; lent him books; wrote him scraps of letters; and lit in him such a fire as burns only once in a lifetime, without heat, flickering a red gold flame infinitely ethereal and insubstantial over Miss Pole; Antony and Cleopatra; and the Waterloo Road. He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink; he saw her, one summer evening, walking in a green dress in a in a green dress in a square. ‘It has flowered,’ the gardener might have said, had he opened the door; had he come in, that is to say, any night about this time, and found him writing; found him tearing up his writing; found him finishing a masterpiece at three o'clock in the morning and running out to pace the streets, and visiting churches, and fasting one day, drinking another, devouring Shakespeare, Darwin, The History of Civilisation, and Bernard Shaw.

You are driving me mad!” she exclaimed. “I want you to stop this, Kev! Do you have any idea how ridiculous you’re being? How badly you’ve behaved tonight?” “I’ve behaved badly?” he thundered. “You were about to let yourself be compromised.” “Perhaps I want to be compromised.” “That’s too bad,” he said, reaching out to grip her upper arm, preparing to haul her from the conservatory. “Because I’m going to make certain you stay safe.” “Don’t touch me!” Win wrenched free of him, incensed. “I’ve been safe for years. Tucked safely in bed, watching everyone around me enjoying their lives. I’ve had enough safety to last a lifetime, Kev. And if that’s what you want, for me to continue to be alone and unloved, then you can go to the devil.” “You were never alone,” he said harshly. “You’ve never been unloved.” “I want to be loved as a woman. Not as a child, or a sister, or an invalid—” “That’s not how I—” “Perhaps you’re not even capable of such love.” In her blazing frustration, Win experienced something she had never felt before. The desire to hurt someone. “You don’t have it in you.” Merripen moved through a shaft of moonlight that had slipped through the conservatory glass, and Win felt a little shock as she saw his murderous expression. In just a few words she had managed to cut him deeply, enough to open a vein of dark and furious feeling. She fell back a step, alarmed as he seized her in a brutal grip. He jerked her upward. “All the fires of hell could burn for a thousand years and it wouldn’t equal what I feel for you in one minute of the day. I love you so much there is no pleasure in it. Nothing but torment. Because if I could dilute what I feel for you to the millionth part, it would still be enough to kill you. And even if it drives me mad, I would rather see you live in the arms of that cold, soulless bastard than die in mine.

As for the other experiences, the solitary ones, which people go through alone, in their bedrooms, in their offices, walking the fields and the streets of London, he had them; had left home, a mere boy, because of his mother; she lied; because he came down to tea for the fiftieth time with his hands unwashed; because he could see no future for a poet in Stroud; and so, making a confidant of his little sister, had gone to London leaving an absurd note behind him, such as great men have written, and the world has read later when the story of their struggles has become famous. London has swallowed up many millions of young men called Smith; thought nothing of fantastic Christian names like Septimus with which their parents have thought to distinguish them. Lodging off the Euston Road, there were experiences, again experiences, such as change a face in two years from a pink innocent oval to a face lean, contracted, hostile. But of all this what could the most observant of friends have said except what a gardener says when he opens the conservatory door in the morning and finds a new blossom on his plant: — It has flowered; flowered from vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all muddled up (in a room off the Euston Road), made him shy, and stammering, made him anxious to improve himself, made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon Shakespeare. Was he not like Keats? she asked; and reflected how she might give him a taste of Antony and Cleopatra and the rest; lent him books; wrote him scraps of letters; and lit in him such a fire as burns only once in a lifetime, without heat, flickering a red gold flame infinitely ethereal and insubstantial over Miss Pole; Antony and Cleopatra; and the Waterloo Road. He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink; he saw her, one summer evening, walking in a green dress in a square. “It has flowered,” the gardener might have said, had he opened the door; had he come in, that is to say, any night about this time, and found him writing; found him tearing up his writing; found him finishing a masterpiece at three o’clock in the morning and running out to pace the streets, and visiting churches, and fasting one day, drinking another, devouring Shakespeare, Darwin, The History of Civilisation, and Bernard Shaw.

In 1853, Haussmann began the incredible transformation of Paris, reconfiguring the city into 20 manageable arrondissements, all linked with grand, gas-lit boulevards and new arteries of running water to feed large public parks and beautiful gardens influenced greatly by London’s Kew Gardens. In every quarter, the indefatigable prefect, in concert with engineer Jean-Charles Alphand, refurbished neglected estates such as Parc Monceau and the Jardin du Luxembourg, and transformed royal hunting enclaves into new parks such as enormous Bois de Boulogne and Bois de Vincennes. They added romantic Parc des Buttes Chaumont and Parc Montsouris in areas that were formerly inhospitable quarries, as well as dozens of smaller neighborhood gardens that Alphand described as "green and flowering salons." Thanks to hothouses that sprang up in Paris, inspired by England’s prefabricated cast iron and glass factory buildings and huge exhibition halls such as the Crystal Palace, exotic blooms became readily available for small Parisian gardens. For example, nineteenth-century metal and glass conservatories added by Charles Rohault de Fleury to the Jardin des Plantes, Louis XIII’s 1626 royal botanical garden for medicinal plants, provided ideal conditions for orchids, tulips, and other plant species from around the globe. Other steel structures, such as Victor Baltard’s 12 metal and glass market stalls at Les Halles in the 1850s, also heralded the coming of Paris’s most enduring symbol, Gustave Eiffel’s 1889 Universal Exposition tower, and the installation of steel viaducts for trains to all parts of France. Word of this new Paris brought about emulative City Beautiful movements in most European capitals, and in the United States, Bois de Boulogne and Parc des Buttes Chaumont became models for Frederick Law Olmsted’s Central Park in New York. Meanwhile, for Parisians fascinated by the lakes, cascades, grottoes, lawns, flowerbeds, and trees that transformed their city from just another ancient capital into a lyrical, magical garden city, the new Paris became a textbook for cross-pollinating garden ideas at any scale. Royal gardens and exotic public pleasure grounds of the Second Empire became springboards for gardens such as Bernard Tschumi’s vast, conceptual Parc de La Villette, with its modern follies, and “wild” jardins en mouvement at the Fondation Cartier and the Musée du Quai Branly. In turn, allées of trees in some classic formal gardens were allowed to grow freely or were interleaved with wildflower meadows and wild grasses for their unsung beauty. Private gardens hidden behind hôtel particulier walls, gardens in spacious suburbs, city courtyards, and minuscule rooftop terraces, became expressions of old and very new gardens that synthesized nature, art, and outdoors living.

Frustrato, Doug tentò un’altra strada. “Ascolta, supponiamo che la maggioranza voti per la Brexit e noi...” “Scusami se ti interrompo,” disse Nigel. “Supponiamo che la maggioranza voti per cosa?” “Brexit.” Nigel lo guardò sbalordito. “Come mai salti fuori con questa parola?” “Non è così che la chiamano tutti?” “Credevo che si dicesse Brixit.” “Cosa? Brixit?” “Noi diciamo così.” “Noi... chi?” “Dave e tutto il gruppo.” “Tutti dicono Brexit. Da dove viene Brixit?” “Non lo so. Pensavo che si dicesse così.” Di nuovo prese un appunto sul taccuino. “Brexit? Sei sicuro?” “Sicurissimo. È una parola composta. British exit.” “British exit... Allora dovrebbe essere Brixit?” “Be’, i greci l’hanno chiamata Grexit.” “I greci? Non sono usciti dall’Unione europea.” “No, ma hanno valutato la possibilità di farlo.” “Noi non siamo i greci. Dovremmo avere una parola che sia unicamente nostra?” “Ce l’abbiamo. Brexit.” “Ma noi continuiamo a dire Brixit.” Scuotendo la testa, Nigel continuò a scrivere. “Sarà una notizia bomba nel prossimo consiglio dei ministri. Spero che non tocchi a me comunicarlo.” “A che ti serve avere una definizione se sei sicuro che la cosa non succederà?” gli domandò Doug. Nigel sorrise felice. “Naturale... hai ragione da vendere. Non succederà e quindi non ci serve definirla.” “Ecco, vedi.” “Dopotutto, tra un anno, nessuno si ricorderà più di questa stupida faccenda.” “Esattamente.” “Nessuno si ricorderà che qualcuno voleva la Brixit.” “Proprio così. Però, sai, alcuni di loro...” Si chiese come dovesse metterla. “Sono personaggi da prendere sul serio, no? Boris Johnson, per esempio. Un vero peso massimo.” “Non infierire sul suo aspetto fisico,” disse Nigel. “Anche se Dave è molto arrabbiato con lui.” “Non si aspettava che si pronunciasse a favore dell’uscita?” “No, non se l’aspettava.” “Gira voce che la sera prima che il ‘Telegraph’ andasse in stampa, Boris avesse preparato due articoli – uno in cui sosteneva l’uscita e l’altro in cui si dichiarava favorevole a restare nell’Unione europea.” “Non ci credo per niente,” disse Nigel. “Boris avrebbe preparato tre articoli: uno per uscire, l’altro per restare e il terzo perché non riusciva a decidere. Gli piace essere sempre pronto.”“E poi c’è Michael Gove. Un altro attaccante che si è pronunciato a favore dell’uscita.” “Lo so. Dave è arrabbiatissimo con Michael. Per fortuna rimangono molti conservatori leali e di buon senso che apprezzano i benefici di restare membri della UE. Credo che tu vada a letto con una di loro. Ma prova a immaginare cosa pensa Dave di Michael e di alcuni altri. Insomma, è andato a Bruxelles, è tornato con un accordo assai vantaggioso, e questi non sono ancora contenti.” “Semplice: a molti non va giù la UE,” disse Doug. “Pensano che non sia democratica.” “Sì, ma uscirne sarebbe un male per l’economia.” “Pensano che la Germania comandi a bacchetta su tutti.” “Sì, ma uscirne sarebbe un male per l’economia.” “Pensano che dalla Polonia e dalla Romania siano arrivati troppi immigrati che spingono i salari al ribasso.” “Sì, ma uscirne sarebbe un male per l’economia.” “D’accordo,” disse Doug. “Credo di avere appena capito quali saranno i tre punti strategici della campagna di Dave.” Adesso era il suo turno di prendere appunti. “E come la mettiamo con Jeremy Corbyn?” Nigel inspirò con un lungo sibilo e sobbalzò visibilmente. “Jeremy Corbyn?” “Se il quadro è questo, lui dove si colloca?” “Preferisco non parlarne.” “Perché no?” “Perché no? Perché è un marxista. Marxista, leninista, trotzkista, comunista. Maoista, bolscevico, anarchico, di sinistra. Un socialista fondamentalista, anticapitalista, antimonarchico, pro-terrorismo.” “Ma è anche uno che vuole rimanere nella UE.” “Davvero?” “Così dice.” “Allora, naturalmente, saremo felici di averlo a bordo. Ma non credo che Dave sarebbe pronto a condividere alcunché sul piano politico.” “Non sarà necessario. È Jeremy il primo a respingere un accordo di questo tipo.” “Bene.

In Conservatory of Death we see modern culture tired and kicking at the end of a rope. It is perhaps the first "deathpunk" novel.

Eu cred doar în ideea mea de căpătâi. Ea rezidă în aserțiunea că oamenii pot fi, în general, împărțiți, în virtutea unei legi a firii, în două categorii: una inferioară (oamenii obișnuiți), o turmă de indivizi a căror unică menire constă în a reproduce făpturi aidoma lor, și cealaltă, superioară, constând din oameni veritabili, dotați cu darul de a spune, în mediul lor, cuvântul cel nou. Subdiviziunile sunt, firește, infinite, dar trăsăturile distinctive ale celor două categorii mi se par destul de nete: prima, turma adică, e compusă din oamenii conservatori, cuminți, care trăiesc în supunere, o supunere ce nici nu le displace, de altfel. Și eu cred că sunt chiar datori să fie supuși, pentru că acesta e rolul lor în viață, rol ce nu implică nimic umilitor pentru ei. Cât despre exponenții celeilalte categorii - toți încalcă legea sau sunt înclinați, prin firea lor, s-o încalce. Crimele comise de ei, sunt, desigur, relative și de o gravitate variabilă. În majoritatea cazurilor, acești indivizi reclamă, în formule diverse, distrugerea a ceea ce este în numele a ceea ce ar trebui să fie. Dacă e cazul, pentru a face să triumfe ideile lor, aceștia calcă peste cadavre, pe mări de sânge; și, după mine, pot să o facă fără mustrări de conștiință: totul depinde de ideea ai cărei purtători sunt, de anvergura ei.

Derek Rottweiler can’t go to the Natural History Museum at all anymore,” Matthew said, “because he took a slingshot into the butterfly conservatory

Finally Thora went to her room, but Mogens remained sitting in the conservatory, miserable that she had gone. He drew black imaginings for himself, that she was dead and gone, and that he was sitting here all alone in the world and weeping over her, and then he really wept. At length he became angry at himself and stalked up and down the floor, and wanted to be sensible. There was a love, pure and noble, without any coarse, earthly passion; yes, there was, and if there was not, there was going to be one. Passion spoiled everything, and it was very ugly and unhuman. How he hated everything in human nature that was not tender and pure, fine and gentle! He had been subjugated, weighed down, tormented, by this ugly and powerful force; it had lain in his eyes and ears, it had poisoned all his thoughts.

Forget it, then,” he said, going back into the conservatory. “After Merripen’s done, there won’t be anything left of him.” Pausing beside his sisters, he spoke quietly to Win out of the side of his mouth. “You’d better do something.” “Why?” “Because Cam only wants to knock a bit of sense into him. But Merripen actually intends to kill him, which I don’t think Poppy would appreciate.” “Why don’t you do something to stop him, Leo?” Amelia suggested acidly. “Because I’m a peer. We aristocrats always try to get someone else to do something before we have to do it ourselves.” He gave her a superior look. “It’s called noblesse oblige.” Miss Marks’s brows lowered. “That’s not the definition of noblesse oblige.” “It’s my definition,” Leo said, seeming to enjoy her annoyance.

A dozen or so guests gathered in the conservatory for breakfast. The sweet scent of jasmine perfumed the air and an aviary of lemon yellow canaries sang for them. They drank fresh-squeezed juice that smelled like orange blossoms and spooned perfect bites of soft-boiled eggs from fragile shells. White sunlight poured through the glass dome above their heads like an affirmation from heaven, and a constant breeze blew over them as though fanned by invisible servants. Beyond the open doors stretched emerald lawn. Beyond the lawn, the ocean, blue as a robin's egg.

They passed through the billiard-room, where the Colonel was making a sensational break, and into the small conservatory which led from it. Lord

Mr. Evans beamed. "Could I get you a drink?" he said. The words were ordinary; the phrase was one that Maureen had heard and often welcomed at endless dozens of parties. But Mr. Evans managed to invest it with such a delightful Edwardian gallantry that you almost thought he had said, "May I bring an ice to you in the conservatory?

They’ll say, “Come forward, sir, smile, sir, oh sorry, wrong camera, sir,’ AR says with a laugh. ‘We’re like digital food for them . . . Gotta get the likes on Instagram and Facebook . . .’ He adds, ‘But I put it up in KM [Conservatory] that you’ll be fined if you take selfies. You can’t drink, you can’t smoke and you can’t take selfies with the principal.’ He grins. ‘No selfies is the last rule. I didn’t want to be rude and put it up front. It had to build up to that.

Mountains are for me, a conservatory. It's there, that I am able to exist in the presence of transcendent sentient and symbiotic beings. From the mountains to the flora and fauna that lives on the mountains, I am both an awed witness to, and a humble beneficiary of their sprits. Sprits which are filled with life enriching light.

The system, as far as she was concerned, was not about the applicant at all. It was about the institution. It was about delivering to the trustees, and to a lesser extent the faculty, a United Nations of scholars, an Olympiad of athletes, a conservatory of artists and musicians, a Great Society of strivers, and a treasury of riches so idiosyncratic and ill defined that the Office of Admission would not know how to go about looking for them and could not hope to find them if they suddenly stopped turning up of their own accord. So get over yourself, Portia thought through her tight, achingly tight, smile, because Diana had now moved on to last year’s scholarship girl, the daughter of the school janitor, who had gone off to Harvard and was a lovely, lovely girl, of course, and certainly a wonderful little flute player, but had scored over one hundred points lower on the math SAT than the class salutatorian, who had been rejected not only by Harvard, but by Yale, Princeton, Brown, Dartmouth, Williams, Amherst, and—can you believe this?—NYU. And come on, everyone knew what that meant. And how—how?—could it be fair?

No one supposes, when he sees a forester pruning a copse to help the trees to grow, or a gardener hunting for snails, tending young plants under glass frames, or exposing them to the health-giving heat of a conservatory, that these things are done from a feeling of affection for the vegetable kingdom. And yet care for it he does, much more so than cold reason would suppose. This affection, however, is not the motivating reason for his pains; it is rather their necessary accompaniment.

I have had countless reasons to be proud of you; and certainly one of the greatest was the night of the Conservatory competition. But the moment I felt that pride was not when you and Anna brought home news of your victory. It was earlier in the evening, when I watched you heading out the hotel’s doors on your way to the hall. For what matters in life is not whether we receive a round of applause; what matters is whether we have the courage to venture forth despite the uncertainty of acclaim.

My life in Cambridge was transformed—or rather, I was transformed into someone who believed she belonged in Cambridge. The shame I’d long felt about my family leaked out of me almost overnight. For the first time in my life I talked openly about where I’d come from. I admitted to my friends that I’d never been to school. I described Buck’s Peak, with its many junkyards, barns, corrals. I even told them about the root cellar full of supplies in the wheat field, and the gasoline buried near the old barn. I told them I’d been poor, I told them I’d been ignorant, and in telling them this I felt not the slightest prick of shame. Only then did I understand where the shame had come from: it wasn’t that I hadn’t studied in a marble conservatory, or that my father wasn’t a diplomat. It wasn’t that Dad was half out of his mind, or that Mother followed him. It had come from having a father who shoved me toward the chomping blades of the Shear, instead of pulling me away from them. It had come from those moments on the floor, from knowing that Mother was in the next room, closing her eyes and ears to me, and choosing, for that moment, not to be my mother at all.

In 1951, when I was four years old, my grandfather gave me an official Arthur Godfrey ukulele, complete with an authentic chord-maker attachment so I could sing and play along with my records. The attachment was hooked to the fret board, and by pressing one button or another I could make a particular chord. Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I started peeking under the chord maker to see how the strings were being manipulated. As soon as I realized how the chords were made, I got rid of the attachment and made my own chords. It was my first big career move. The radio, my ukulele, record player, and record collection were my cohorts and confidants. Music was already the center of my life. Later that year, my mother enrolled me for piano lessons at the local conservatory.

When I got to her house, Ballard, her butler opened the door. Ballard was the worst kind of butler, although I really only had fictional characters to compare him with. He was the kind of butler who went running to Grandmother with tales if he caught you sliding down the banister of the staircase or smoking cigarettes in the conservatory on those tiresome weekends at Grandmother’s. Ballard hated me and I hated him.

Even though the morning started out crisp, by the afternoon the day had turned muggy and humid. Ruby and I sat in the conservatory working on her puzzle while the fans buzzed above our heads. She sighed and flicked another abandoned piece into the lid. “This

Senza conservatori e senza rivoluzionari, l'Italia è diventata la patria naturale del costume demagogico.

She turned and rested her forehead on his meaty shoulder, the full import of the situation landing on her like a cold, reeking mudslide. Her breath caught in her chest, and the back of her head started to pound. “I am ruined, aren’t I? One stupid turn in the conservatory with that cretin, and years of behaving myself count for nothing. At least if I had committed some sin, I might have the memory of it to entertain me in years to come. But no, none of that. Doubtless I lured Grattingly in here, just as I have lured many a man to his doom in gardens and parlors. For my unending wickedness, I got Grattingly’s fetid breath, bruises, and—” Sir Joseph’s arms came around her. By the time her sisters found them, Louisa had almost convinced herself nobody would know she’d been crying her heart out. Nobody but Sir Joseph. ***

Mr. Grattingly, while we might tarry in the conservatory in plain sight of the open door, the location you’ve chosen—ooph!” “The location I’ve chosen is perfect,” Grattingly said as he mashed his body against Louisa’s. He’d shoved her back against a tree, off the path, into the shadows. “Mr. Grattingly! How dare—” Wet lips landed on Louisa’s jaw, and the scent of wine-soured breath filled her head. “Of course, I dare. You all but begged me to drag you in here. With your tits nigh falling from your bodice, how do you expect a man to act?” He thrust his hand into the neckline of Louisa’s gown and closed his fingers around her breast. Louisa was too stunned for a moment to think, then something more powerful than fear came roaring forward. “You slimy, presuming, stinking, drunken, witless varlet!” She shoved against him hard, but he wasn’t budging, and those thick, wet lips were puckering up abominably. Louisa heard her brother Devlin’s voice in her head, instructing her to use her knee, when Grattingly abruptly shifted off her and landed on his bottom in the dirt. “Excuse me.” Sir Joseph stood not two feet away, casually unbuttoning his evening coat. His expression was as composed as his tone of voice, though even when he dropped his coat around Louisa’s shoulders, he kept his gaze on Grattingly. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.” “You’re not.” Louisa clutched his jacket to her shoulders, finding as much comfort in its cedary scent as she did in the body heat it carried. “Mr. Grattingly was just leaving.” “Who the hell are you,” Grattingly spat as he scrambled to his feet, “to come around and disturb a lady at her pleasures?” Somewhere down the path, a door swung closed. Louisa registered the sound distantly, the way she’d notice when rain had started outside though she was in the middle of a good book. Though this was not a good book. Instinctively Louisa knew she was, without warning or volition, in the middle of something not good at all. “I was not at my pleasures, you oaf.” She’d meant to fire the words off with a load of scathing indignation, but to Louisa’s horror, her voice shook. Her knees were turning unreliable on her, as well, so she sank onto the hard bench. “What’s going on here?” Lionel Honiton stood on the path, three or four other people gathered behind him. “Nothing,” Sir Joseph said. “The lady has developed a megrim and will be departing shortly.” “A megrim!” Grattingly was on his feet, though to Louisa it seemed as if he weaved a bit. “That bitch was about to get something a hell of a lot more—” Sir Joseph, like every other guest, was wearing evening gloves. They should not have made such a loud, distinct sound when thwacked across Grattingly’s jowls. Lionel stepped forth. “Let’s not be hasty. Grattingly, apologize. We can all see you’re a trifle foxed. Nobody takes offense at what’s said when a man’s in his cups, right?” “I’m not drunk, you ass. You—” “That’s not an apology.” Sir Joseph pulled on his gloves. “My seconds will be calling on yours. If some one of the assembled multitude would stop gawping long enough to fetch the lady’s sisters to her, I would appreciate it.” He said nothing more, just treated each member of the small crowd to a gimlet stare, until Lionel ushered them away. Nobody had a word for Grattingly, who stomped off in dirty breeches, muttering Louisa knew not what. Sir

He respected Ellen’s choice as one she felt compelled to make, not easy for her, but necessary. He also hoped when he heard her reasons, he could argue her past them, and the hoping was… awful. Hope and Val Windham were old enemies. Best enemies. He’d hoped his brother Victor would recover, but consumption seldom eased its grip once its victims had been chosen. He’d hoped his hand wasn’t truly getting worse, until he couldn’t deny that reality without losing use of the hand entirely. He’d hoped his brother Bart would come home from war safe and sound, not in a damned coffin. He’d hoped St. Just might escape military service without substantial wound to body or soul, but found even St. Just had left part of his sanity and his spirit at Waterloo. He’d hoped he might someday do something with his music, but what that silly hope was about, he’d never been quite sure. And now, he was hoping he and Ellen had a future. The hope sustained him and tortured him and made each second pass too quickly when he was with her. But he couldn’t always be with her, because Ellen insisted she have time to tend her gardens and set up her little conservatory. Val

Eve was beside herself. Whatever this is, Deene had best appreciate—why are you staring at me like that?” He closed the door and stepped closer. The room was unusual, built with a small balcony overlooking a conservatory that might have been added as an afterthought, hence its relative warmth and humidity, and the lush scent of foliage blending with all the other fragrances wafting through the house. “Looking at you like what?” “Like… you just lost your best friend? Won’t it be wonderful to go home to Flint Hall, Elijah?” Elijah was better than my lord, and because she seemed to need it, he lied for her. “Wonderful, indeed. Have you told your parents yet that you’re going to Paris?” He had the sense she was waiting for him to leave Morelands first, unwilling to have his support even tacitly. “Not… not yet.” She set the perfect little gift down. “Louisa says I must, and she grasps tactics with an intuition I can only admire. I wish…” Her gaze went to the elegant little parcel. “I wish…” While Elijah watched, Jenny lost some of that distant, preoccupied quality that had characterized her since they’d finished their paintings. She gazed on that parcel as if it held secrets and treats and even a happy ending or two. Once they completed the twenty-minute walk back to Morelands, they’d have no more private moments ever. He’d leave for London at first light; she’d sail for Paris, probably before the New Year. “What do you wish, Genevieve?” Because whatever it was, he’d give it to her. His heart, his soul, his hands, passage to Paris—passage home from Paris. How he wished she’d ask him for that, but passage home was something she could only give herself. “Will you make love with me, Elijah? You’re leaving tomorrow, I know that, and I shouldn’t ask it. I shouldn’t want it, but I do. I want you, so much. Please?

Sparrow, she slowly pieced together, had been one of Shanghai’s most renowned composers. But after the Conservatory was shut down in 1966 and all five hundred of its pianos destroyed, Sparrow worked in a factory making wooden crates, then wire, and then radios, for two decades. Ai-ming heard him humming fragments of music when he thought no one was listening. Eventually

We’ll fix it,” he said, tipping her chin up so he could see her eyes. “Your conservatory was going in on that side, and this will just speed up construction. Dare, get my crews over here to clear this mess. Nick, we’ll be needing the team for sure. Day and Phil can go through the outbuildings and find a suite of bedroom furniture, then pick out a room in the house that’s close enough to done we can move Ellen into it.” He braced a hand on either side of Ellen’s neck. “You are going to let me take care of this and no argument, please. God”—he hugged her to him—“if you’d been home, puttering at your embroidering, putting up jam…” She nodded, eyes teary, and let him hold her. “Ah, look there.” Val pointed to the base of the fallen tree. “Your greatest treasure is unscathed.” Marmalade sat on his fluffy orange backside, washing a front paw as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I want…” Ellen stretched out a hand toward the cat, who pretended not to notice. “I’ll fetch him for you.” Val kissed her nose and made for the cat, who strolled back a few paces closer to what had been the bottom of the tree. Val reached for the beast then froze and looked more closely at the tree. He tucked the cat against his middle and stole another glance around at the surrounding trees before taking Marmalade back to Ellen. Val handed her the cat. “He says you have abandoned him shamelessly, and for your sins, you must allow him to accompany you up to the manor, where all his friends, the mice, are waiting to welcome him.” “Oh, Val.” Ellen managed a watery smile but leaned against him as she clutched her purring cat. “I’m so glad he’s unharmed. You’re a good kitty, Marmie. A very good, brave kitty.” “He’s also a very heavy kitty.” Val said, taking him from her grasp. “Let’s move him up to the manor, where I’m sure we can find him a dish of cream and you a cup of tea.

Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff was born on April 1, 1873. It was his good fortune to be born into a rich aristocratic family and could take up the piano at age four. The Rachmaninoff family although a part of the elite Russian military had a strong tie to music which allowed Sergei to attend the Moscow Conservatory of Music where he followed his talents to become one of the finest pianists of his day. At the time of his graduation in 1892 he had already composed several piano and orchestral pieces some of whose works are among his most popular pieces. In 1897 when he was 24 years of age he became depressed over a critical review of his Symphony No. 1. Voluntarily entering therapy he overcame his debilitation and four years later wrote the enthusiastically received Piano Concerto No. 2. After the Russian Revolution the elite families of Russia fled with the Rachmaninoff’s moving to New York City. Sergei’s talents and popularity as a pianist grew as he went on a demanding international tour. During this time his productivity slowed to where he only completed six copositions. In 1942 he moved to Beverly Hills and became an American citizen. The following month he died of advanced cancer.

What rumors?” Edgar asked slowly. “Ones that center on the idea that you and Wilhelmina were discovered alone together in Mrs. Travers’ conservatory.” Nora caught Edgar’s eye. “The only reason the poor girl’s reputation isn’t in complete tatters is because rumors are also flying about that the two of you are the most romantic couple of the season—childhood sweethearts who were kept apart in your youth but who have finally been reunited.” Edgar set aside his teacup. “How, pray tell, is it even possible that rumors are swirling around the city? As I mentioned before, everyone left the ball before Mrs. Travers would have had an opportunity to do more than bid everyone a good evening. Add in the notion that the conditions outside on the streets today are less than ideal, and I would have thought that any and all rumors would have been put on hold for the foreseeable future.” Nora’s forehead took to furrowing. “Surely you haven’t been away from society so long that you’ve forgotten that there is little, even a blizzard, that can stop a good story from making the rounds.

Conservatori ma non troppo. Rigidi, ma non troppo. Capaci di scherzare anche con battute bieche - ma non troppo. Formalmente simpatici. Ottimi genitori. Tendenzialmente di destra, ma non berlusconiani. Qualche ex sessantottino appena tollerato. Mogli graziose ed eleganti, mariti un po' passati ma con il fisico sano di chi non ha avuto grandi battaglie da affrontare. Seconde e terze case in luoghi scelti, per vacanze ben studiate: le Dolomiti fuori stagione o lo Ionio lontano dai grandi centri del turismo. Poche sigarette, a volte pipe. Pantaloni chiari e mocassini d'estate. Raccontare di un bicchiere di porto bevuto a Lisbona, di fronte all'oceano, citando Tabucchi. Non era difficile. Bastava avere dei soldi

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had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others. William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire. When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.

Tradizionalmente, i Prescrittivisti tendono a essere conservatori politici e i Descrittivisti tendono a essere liberali. Ma in realtà ad avere più influenza sulle norme dell’inglese pubblico è una forma austera e rigorosa di Prescrittivismo liberale. Mi riferisco all’Inglese politicamente corretto (Ipc), secondo le cui convenzioni i poveri diventano “economicamente svantaggiati” e le persone in sedia a rotelle “diversamente abili”. Sebbene sia comune fare battute sull’Ipc, sappiate che le varie pre- e proscrizioni dell’Inglese politicamente corretto sono prese molto sul serio dai college e dalle aziende […] L’opinione personale di questo recensore è che l’Ipc prescrittivista non è solo sciocco ma è ideologicamente confuso e dannoso alla sua stessa causa. Ed ecco la mia argomentazione. L’uso di una lingua è sempre politico, ma lo è in modo complesso. Rispetto, per esempio, al cambiamento politico, le convenzioni dell’uso possono funzionare in due modi: da un lato possono essere un riflesso del cambiamento politico e dall’altro possono essere uno strumento del cambiamento politico. La cosa importante è che queste due funzioni sono ben distinte e tali devono restare. Confonderle dà luogo alla bizzarra convinzione che l’America smetta di essere élitaria o ingiusta per il semplice fatto che gli americani smettono di usare un certo vocabolario che è storicamente associato all’élitarismo e all’ingiustizia. Questa è la pecca fondamentale dell’Ipc – che la modalità espressiva di una società produca i suoi atteggiamenti piuttosto che essere un prodotto di tali atteggiamenti – e naturalmente non è altro che l’inverso dell’illusione dello Snob conservatore secondo cui il cambiamento sociale può essere ritardato limitando il mutamento nell’uso standard della lingua. L’Inglese politicamente corretto ha in sé un’ironia ancora più macroscopica. E cioè sebbene l’Ipc abbia la pretesa di essere il dialetto della riforma progressista, di fatto è – nella sua sostituzione orwelliana degli eufemismi dell’eguaglianza sociale al posto dell’effettiva uguaglianza sociale – molto più di aiuto ai conservatori e allo status quo di quanto non siano mai state le tradizionali prescrizioni Snob […] in altre parole, l’Ipc agisce come una forma di censura, e la censura è sempre al servizio dello status quo. Nella pratica, dubito fortemente che un uomo con quattro figli piccoli e uno stipendio di dodicimila dollari l’anno si senta più forte o meno bistrattato da una società che ha la premura di chiamarlo “economicamente svantaggiato” invece che “povero”. Anzi, se fossi in lui, probabilmente mi sentirei offeso dal termine Ipc – non solo perché è paternalista (cosa che comunque è) ma perché è ipocrita e teso al vantaggio di chi lo pronuncia in un modo che di solito la gente trattata con paternalismo capta al volo. L’ipocrisia di base riguardo a espressioni come “economicamente svantaggiato” e “diversamente abile” è che i sostenitori dell’Ipc credono che i beneficiari della compassione e della generosità di questi termini siano i poveri e la gente in sedia a rotelle, e trascurano di nuovo una cosa che tutti sanno ma che nessuno cita mai – e cioè che parte del motivo per cui qualsiasi parlate usa un certo vocabolario è sempre il desiderio di comunicare qualcosa su se stesso. L’Ipc ha la funzione primaria di segnalare e congratulare certe virtù nel parlante – scrupoloso egualitarismo, preoccupazione per la dignità di tutti, sofisticatezza riguardo alle implicazioni politiche della lingua – e di conseguenza serve gli interessi egoistici del Pc molto più di quanto serva qualsiasi persona o gruppo da esso ribattezzato.

In the early '90s a beautiful young Russian soprano who loved music was studying opera at the St. Petersburg Conservatory. She told us how despite her single-minded focus on developing her voice, her teachers thought that perhaps, at best, one day she could sing in a chorus somewhere. But the soprano wasn't going to let her teachers' low opinion of her stop her from achieving her goal. While becoming a part-time janitor may not seem like a brilliant career move for an aspiring opera star, she took a job mopping floors at St. Petersburg's Kirov Opera, the greatest opera company in Russia. Still working hard in the conservatory, she earned the chance to audition for the Kirov and was accepted into the ensemble. During rehearsals, when the lead singer became ill, the stage director asked the soprano if she knew the part. "Of course I knew it", she told us. "I knew all the parts. I was ready." She had worked hard; she had worked smart by putting herself in the right place at the right time. And she performed well. Her once-skeptical teachers never could have imagined the career that the soprano, Anna Netrebko, would go on to have, becoming an operatic superstar and the reigning diva of the twenty-first century.

Many nights, Ai-ming said, ignoring my question, her father’s music pulled her from sleep. Sparrow, she slowly pieced together, had been one of Shanghai’s most renowned composers. But after the Conservatory was shut down in 1966 and all five hundred of its pianos destroyed, Sparrow worked in a factory making wooden crates, then wire, and then radios, for two decades. Ai-ming heard him humming fragments of music when he thought no one was listening. Eventually she came to understand that these fragments were all that remained of his own symphonies, quartets and other musical works. The written copies had been destroyed.

After finding Corpp’s devoid of Juniors later that evening, it didn’t take Lex and Driggs long to guess that their crew had decided to hole up in the Crypt’s common room for the night. Together they headed down Dead End and made their way through a darkened, narrow tunnel, eventually emerging into a small green courtyard surrounded by a block of rooms. As they approached the largest one, a heated argument between Sofi and Ayjay wafted through the window. “I’ve got ten hotels on the Conservatory. Seriously, you owe me, like, eighty gatrillion dollars.” “Not until I get my triple-letter score for passing Go.” “No way! You couldn’t remove the Charley Horse, remember?” “So? I still found the Lead Pipe in Park Place!” “Which you had to mortgage after Queen Frostine totally sank your battleship!” Lex attempted to follow this conversation as she walked through the door, but she failed somewhere around the time Elysia almost toppled over on the Twister mat. “Jump in,” Elysia said from the floor, wobbling way too close to the jellyfish tank. “There are a couple of tokens left in the box.” Driggs sat down on one of the many battered couches and dug through the box, removing a wrench, a top hat, a rook, a green gingerbread man, and a decapitated Rock’Em Sock’Em Robot. Lex looked at the game board on the table, a mangled conglomeration of Monopoly, Clue, Candy Land, Scrabble, and chess. “What the crap?” she asked the room. “Don’t touch the Candlestick or you’ll automatically lose,” Elysia warned from the mat, flicking the spinner with her free hand

What the hell happened, then? Where’s the body?’ Daniels was annoyed. ‘Out back in the conservatory, it’s all kinds of fucked up,’ Grey offered.

FLETCHER: The truth is I don’t think people understand what it is I did at Shaffer. I wasn’t there to conduct. Any idiot can move his hands and keep people in tempo. No, it’s about pushing people beyond what’s expected of them. And I believe that is a necessity. Because without it you’re depriving the world of its next Armstrong. Its next Parker. Why did Charlie Parker become Charlie Parker, Andrew? ANDREW: Because Jo Jones threw a cymbal at him. FLETCHER: Exactly. Young kid, pretty good on the sax, goes up to play his solo in a cutting session, fucks up -- and Jones comes this close to slicing his head off for it. He’s laughed off-stage. Cries himself to sleep that night. But the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And practices and practices. With one goal in mind: that he never ever be laughed off-stage again. A year later he goes back to the Reno, and he plays the best motherfucking solo the world had ever heard. Now imagine if Jones had just patted young Charlie on the head and said “Good job.” Charlie would’ve said to himself, “Well, shit, I did do a good job,” and that’d be that. No Bird. Tragedy, right? Except that’s just what people today want. The Shaffer Conservatories of the world, they want sugar. You don’t even say “cutting session” anymore, do you? No, you say “jam session”. What the fuck kind of word is that? Jam session? It’s a cutting session, Andrew, this isn’t fucking Smucker’s. It’s about weeding out the best from the worst so that the worst become better than the best. I mean look around you. $25 drinks, mood lighting, a little shrimp cocktail to go with your Coltrane. And people wonder why jazz is dying. Take it from me, and every Starbucks jazz album only proves my point. There are no two words more harmful in the entire English language than “good job”.

Dazed, she glanced around; the dark shapes of huge leaves reared above the denser dark of heavy pots, grouped upon a tiled floor. Moonlight streamed through walls of long windows and panes in the ceiling, silvering paths wending between sends of palms and exotic blooms. The rich scents of earth and the warm humidity of growing things hung on the heavy air.

These look rather exotic." Behind her, Vane studied the way her gown had pulled tight over the curves of her bottom- and didn't argue. Lips lifting in anticipation, he moved in- to spring his trap. Her heart racing, tripping in double time, Patience straightened, and went to slide around the fountain, to place it between herself and the wolf she was trapped in the conservatory with. Instead, she ran into an arm. She blinked at it. One faultless grey sleeve enclosing solid bone well covered with steely muscle, large fist locked over the scrolled rim of the basin, it stated very clearly that she wasn't going anywhere. Patience whirled- and found her retreat similarly blocked. Swinging farther, she met Vane's gaze; standing on the tiled floor, one step below her, arms braced on the rim, his eyes were nearly level with hers. She studied them, read his intent in the silvered grey, in the hardening lines of his face, the brutally sensual line of those uncompromising lips. She couldn't believe her eyes. "Here?" The word, weak though it was, accurately reflected her disbelief. "Right here. Right now.

In the wake of Columbine, many people have come forward to share their own stories of hidden pain with me. I find it striking how many of those stories come from so-called perfect kids: the science-fair winner, the track star, the young musician offered full scholarship to the conservatory of her choice.... In many cases, though, these kids were able to fly under their parents radar precisely because they were the shiny pennies, hiding the terrible pain they were in from their parents as capably as they did everything else.

his call when his manners were, as ever, gentlemanly in every particular. I have a sense, rightly or wrongly, that he was verifying an impression. Perhaps he is unused to conducting conversation in a conservatory stuffed to the gills with flora and parrots. Perhaps he disapproved of Bessy’s bringing him to me instead of asking him to wait in the drawing room. I saw the gleam in her eye when she announced him; I will hear about this come next bath day. But I am uneasy, I cannot deny it. I shoot up again, restless, and go to the mirror in the hall to check that it is not I who am surprising in some way. My hair is surprisingly tidy beneath a white cap and I am wearing an apple-green gown. The sleeves are not over full and the skirt is not excessively wide; I am a little reassured. Perhaps I am merely unused to being treated civilly by fine folk. Or perhaps it is just that he is so gleamingly handsome. Chapter Thirty-Three The much-anticipated ball is upon us at last. Priscilla

Lincoln quickly looked up from the floor. His mother was already looking down at him like she’d just confronted him with damning criminal evidence. Like it was clear he’d done it with the candlestick in the conservatory, and she had the candlestick to prove it.

I saw you two in the conservatory the other night. When you thought no one was watching.

Chicago's Isabelle Innocenti is an accomplished violinist from Oberlin Conservatory, adept in modern and baroque violin. As a trained hypnotherapist and Suzuki Association member, she teaches at her North Shore studio. Isabelle has 500 hours of yoga training, loves baking, tennis, and yoga, and is passionate about environmental conservation.

You think I’m hot stuff, don’t you? You, lying there every day, dreaming about rainbows. Well, I’m not. I’m just a Glendale Wunderkind. I know all there is to know about music, and there’s one like me in every Glendale on earth, every one-horse conservatory, every tank-town university, every park band. We can read anything, play anything, arrange anything, and we’re just no good. Punks. Like you. God, now I know where I get it from. Isn’t that funny? You start out a Wunderkind, then find out you’re just a goddam punk.

It was Nicholas' pride to have one example of every tree which could be grown in that locality, and many of these he had imported by schooner from Europe and the Orient straight to the Dragonwyck dock- the Incense Cedar, the Weeping Cypress, the Judas Tree, the Gingko with its fan-shaped leaves, and the delicate bronze Japanese Maple- these were hardly enough to live outside; but the palms and aloes, the oleanders and the orchids, grew in the elaborate greenhouses or in the conservatory off the dinging-room.

An aged lady in Inverness has often narrated to the writer the delight with which, in her youth, she used to visit the Blue House, when it was the abode of a gentleman known as 'Mr. Munro, Grenada'... There were beautiful gardens and a delightful conservatory attached to the house, but the real delight of the young people, who sometimes went there on a Saturday... was a room filled with foreign birds of brilliant plumage, having among them a parrot of such remarkable powers as had never been equalled by any parrot in Inverness.