Couple Y Quotes

PS, I want a stripper for my birthday,” GQ announces. “Just decided now. Get on it.” “I’ll make a couple calls,” Garrett promises, but the second his friend wanders off, he confides, “He’s not getting a stripper. We all chipped in to get him a new iPod. He dropped his in the koi pond behind Hartford House.” When I snicker, Garrett pounces like a mountain lion. “Holy shit. Was that a laugh? I didn’t think you were capable of showing amusement. Can you do it again and let me film it?” “I laugh all the time.” I pause. “Mostly at you, though.” He grabs his chest in mock pain as if I’ve shot him. “You’re terrible for a guy’s ego, y’know that?

How funny you are today New York like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days (I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still accepts me foolish and free all I want is a room up there and you in it and even the traffic halt so thick is a way for people to rub up against each other and when their surgical appliances lock they stay together for the rest of the day (what a day) I go by to check a slide and I say that painting’s not so blue where’s Lana Turner she’s out eating and Garbo’s backstage at the Met everyone’s taking their coat off so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes in little bags who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y why not the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won and in a sense we’re all winning we’re alive the apartment was vacated by a gay couple who moved to the country for fun they moved a day too soon even the stabbings are helping the population explosion though in the wrong country and all those liars have left the UN the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest not that we need liquor (we just like it) and the little box is out on the sidewalk next to the delicatessen so the old man can sit on it and drink beer and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day while the sun is still shining oh god it’s wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much

Y That perfect letter. The wishbone, fork in the road, empty wineglass. The question we ask over and over. Why? Me with my arms outstretched, feet in first position. The chromosome half of us don't have. Second to last in the alphabet: almost there. Coupled with an L, let's make an adverb. A modest X, legs closed. Y or N? Yes, of course. Upside-down peace sign. Little bird tracks in the sand. Y, a Greet letter, joined the Latin alphabet after the Romans conquered Greece in the first century -- a double agent: consonant and vowel. No one used adverbs before then, and no one was happy.

—¡Deja de ser tan infantil! —¡¿Yo, infantil?! ¡¿Y tú qué?! —¿Quieres que me ponga infantil? ¡¡¡Pues te llamaré Jack hasta que me la devuelvas!!! —Es Ross! —Es lack! —¡Ross! —¡JACK! —¡ROSS! —¡JACK, JACK, JACK, JACK! —repetí y le saqué la lengua.

A qui écris-tu? -A toi. En fait, je ne t'écris pas vraiment, j'écris ce que j'ai envie de faire avec toi... Il y avait des feuilles partout. Autour d'elle, à ses pieds, sur le lit. J'en ai pris une au hasard: "...Pique-niquer, faire la sieste au bord d'une rivière, manger des pêches, des crevettes, des croissants, du riz gluant, nager, danser, m'acheter des chaussures, de la lingerie, du parfum, lire le journal, lécher les vitrines, prendre le métro, surveiller l'heure, te pousser quand tu prends toute la place, étendre le linge, aller à l'Opéra, faire des barbecues, râler parce que tu as oublié le charbon, me laver les dents en même temps que toi, t'acheter des caleçons, tondre la pelouse, lire le journal par-dessus ton épaule, t'empêcher de manger trop de cacahuètes, visiter les caves de la Loire, et celles de la Hunter Valley, faire l'idiote, jacasser, cueillir des mûres, cuisiner, jardiner, te réveiller encore parce que tu ronfles, aller au zoo, aux puces, à Paris, à Londres, te chanter des chansons, arrêter de fumer, te demander de me couper les ongles, acheter de la vaisselle, des bêtises, des choses qui ne servent à rien, manger des glaces, regarder les gens, te battre aux échecs, écouter du jazz, du reggae, danser le mambo et le cha-cha-cha, m'ennuyer, faire des caprices, bouder, rire, t'entortiller autour de mon petit doigt, chercher une maison avec vue sur les vaches, remplir d'indécents Caddie, repeindre un plafond, coudre des rideaux, rester des heures à table à discuter avec des gens intéressants, te tenir par la barbichette, te couper les cheveux, enlever les mauvaises herbes, laver la voiture, voir la mer, t'appeler encore, te dire des mots crus, apprendre à tricoter, te tricoter une écharpe, défaire cette horreur, recueillir des chats, des chiens, des perroquets, des éléphants, louer des bicyclettes, ne pas s'en servir, rester dans un hamac, boire des margaritas à l'ombre, tricher, apprendre à me servir d'un fer à repasser, jeter le fer à repasser par la fenêtre, chanter sous la pluie, fuire les touristes, m'enivrer, te dire toute la vérité, me souvenir que toute vérité n'est pas bonne à dire, t'écouter, te donner la main, récupérer mon fer à repasser, écouter les paroles des chansons, mettre le réveil, oublier nos valises, m'arrêter de courir, descendre les poubelles, te demander si tu m'aimes toujours, discuter avec la voisine, te raconter mon enfance, faire des mouillettes, des étiquettes pour les pots de confiture..." Et ça continuais comme ça pendant des pages et des pages...

If y'all find a couple of my toes on ya plate, jess let me know, 'cause I'm missin' a few. I put my foot in this heah meal.” ~Big Momma

Truth be told, many couples spend more time planning the wedding and the honeymoon than they do preparing for the marriage.

Il y a des couples heureux, des moitiés qui se respectent mutuellement. D'ailleurs, j'ai eu beau ne pas me séparer de ma femme et souffrir de ses empiétements, sur divers plans je me suis toujours conduit comme un célibataire.

As a divorced man, I can say from experience that there may come a time when a couple decides it is best to live separate lives: where you have different dreams and are no longer willing to make sacrifices to achieve the other’s goal.

Il y a dans la vie des gens que l'on rencontre et avec lesquels on ne formera jamais un couple, avec lesquels on ne sera jamais amis non plus - mais avec lesquels on peut former un excellent tandem, dans certains cas, sous certaines conditions. Des partenaires.

La vie est un voyage solitaire et, être mariée n'y change rien. D'ailleurs je pense que le fait de ressentir cette solitude avec la même intensité alors qu'en théorie on est deux est une souffrance encore plus cruelle. Il y a un facteur chance à l'origine de chaque rencontre, après on gère comme on peut ce que la vie nous donne. Or, c'est bien connu, la vie est injuste et, en plus elle a un goût douteux.

The manager thunks down a couple of steps, glares at her, glares at her for rather a long time. The manager, clearly, is tempted. That momentary glimpse of flesh has been ricocheting around in his brain for half an hour. He is wracking his mind with vast cosmological dilemmas. Y.T., hopes that he does not try anything, because the dentata's effects can be unpredictable. "Make up your fucking mind," she says. It works. This fresh burst of culture shock rattles the jeek out of his ethical conundrum. He gives Y.T. a disapproving glower -- she, after all, forced him to be attracted to her, forced him to get horny, made his head swim -- she didn't have to get arrested, did she? -- and so on top of everything else he's angry with her. As if he has a right to be. This is the gender that invented the polio vaccine?

On est tous seuls, ici, à Paris, ou ailleurs. On peut essayer de fuir la solitude, déménagé, faire tout pour rencontrer des gens, cela ne change rien. A la fin de la journée, chacun rentre chez soi. Ceux qui vivent en couple ne se rendent pas compte de leur chance. Ils ont oublié les soirées devant un plateau-repas, l’angoisse du week-end qui arrive, le dimanche à espérer que le téléphone sonne. Nous sommes des millions comme ça dans toutes les capitales du monde. La seule bonne nouvelle c’est qu’il n’y a pas de quoi se sentir si différents des autres.

E-Liz-A-Beth, you'll take me to Noctem Falls won't you?" Meryn begged giving her puppy dog eyes. "Of course I will. We can go there after DragonCon next year," she promised. "Oh no. She talked you into that convention thing." Aiden glared at his mate. "It's perfectly safe. Think of it this way. It's an event where thousands of people just like Meryn get together for a couple days and live it up," Elizabeth explained. All five men paled. "Thousands of people," Colton whispered. "Just like Meryn?" Keelan asked. Elizabeth looked around. The men had that deer in the headlights looks. "Maybe not just like her." "Thank goodness. One Meryn in the world is enough," Colton teased, looking relieved. "It's because I'm a 'Limited Edition'. Y'all should be grateful for even knowing me," Meryn huffed. "We are, my love. We are." Aiden scowled at his men over Meryn's head. "We wouldn't trade you for a sane version any day," Colton reassured her. Meryn smiled then frowned. "What do you mean 'sane version'?

Mais quelle étrange leçon de géographie je reçus là! Guillaumet ne m'enseignait pas l'Espagne; il me faisait de l'Espagne une amie. Il ne me parlait ni d'hydrographie, nie de populations, ni de cheptel. Il ne me parlait pas de Guadix, mais des trois orangers qui, près de Guadix, bordent un champ : " Méfie-toi d'eux, marque-les sur ta carte... " Et les trois orangers y tenaient désormais plus de place que la Sierra Nevada. Il ne me parlait pas de Lorca, mais d'une simple ferme près de Lorca. D'une ferme vivante. Et de son fermier. Et de sa fermière. Et ce couple prenait, perdu dans l'espace, à quinze cents kilomètres de nous, une importance démesurée. Bien installés sur le versant de leur montagne, pareils à des gardiens de phare, ils étaient prêts, sous leur étoiles, à porter secours à des hommes. (Terre des Hommes, ch. I)

Ahora me doy cuenta de lo cruel que has sido conmigo, de lo falsa y cruel que has sido. ¿Por qué me despreciaste? ¿Por qué traicionaste, Cathy, a tu propio corazón? No puedo tener una sola palabra de consuelo para tí; te mereces lo que te pasa. Eres tú quien se ha matado a sí misma. Sí, puedes abrazarme y llorar cuanto quieras, puedes provocar mis lágrimas y mis besos, pero ellos serán tu ruina y tu perdición. Si me amabas, ¿en nombre de qué ley me abandonaste? ¿En nombre de la mezquina ilusión que despertó en ti Linton? Dímelo. Porque tú misma, por voluntad propia, hiciste lo que ni la desgracia, ni el envilecimiento, no la muerte, ni nada de lo que Dios o el Diablo nos pudieran infligir habría logrado en su empeño de separarnos. No he sido yo quien ha roto tu corazón, te lo has roto tú misma, y al hacerlo has destrozado, de paso, el mío. Y la peor parte me toca a mí, porque aún tengo fortaleza. ¿Crees que me apetece vivir? ¿Qué clase de vida podrá ser la mía cuando tú...? ¡Oh, Dios Mío! ¿Acaso te gustaría a ti vivir si te encerraran el alma en una tumba?»

It’s like, we graduate from college, get married, we’re this wonderful married couple everybody’s happy about, we have the typical two kids, put ’em in the good old Denenchofu elementary school, go out to the Tama River banks on Sundays, ‘Ob-la-di, ob-la-da’…I’m not saying that kinda life’s bad. But I wonder, y’know, if life should really be that easy, that comfortable. It might be better to go our separate ways for a while, and if we find out that we really can’t get along without each other, then we get back together.

¿Y el perro?” he asked the chauffeur. “Since a long time I haven’t seen him.” They had passed these people now for several years. At one time the girl, whose letters he had read last night, had exclaimed about the shame of it each time they passed the lean-to. “Why don’t you do something about it, then?” he had asked her. “Why do you always say things are so terrible and write so well about how terrible they are and never do anything about it?” This made the girl angry and she had stopped the car, gotten out, gone over to the lean-to and given the old woman twenty dollars and told her this was to help her find a better place to live and to buy something to eat. “Si, señorita,” the old woman said. “You are very amiable.” The next time they came by the couple were living in the same place and they waved happily. They had bought a dog. It was a white dog too, small and curly, probably not bred originally, Thomas Hudson thought, for the coal dust trade. “What do you think has become of the dog?” Thomas Hudson asked the chauffeur. “It probably died. They have nothing to eat.” “We must get them another dog,” Thomas Hudson said.

I love my country. Holy shit, do I love America. In many ways, it is the glorious result of some very open-minded thinking on the parts of our forefathers (and the ladies advising them) a couple of centuries ago. But that right there’s the rub, y’all. We’re a group of human beings, which means we can never be done trying to improve ourselves, and by default, our systems, including our government. Now, here’s the deal: Invoking the Bible in any public school or at any government function? Un-American. Making a witness in a court of law place his or her hand on the Bible? Un-American. Disputing legislation based upon what it says in your holy book? NOT PATRIOTIC.

My intention all along had been to get my wakeboarding legs back this first day. Maybe I'd do tricks when we went out the next day. I didn't want to get too cocky and bust ass in front of Sean. But as I got more comfortable and forgot to care, I tried a few standbys-a front flip, a scarecrow. There was no busting of ass. So I tried a backroll. And landed it solidly. Now I got cocky. I did a heelside backroll with a nosegrab. This meant that in the middle of the flip, I let go of the rope handle with one hand, reached down, and grabbed the front of the board. It served no purpose in the trick except to look impressive, like, This only appears to be a difficult trick. I have all the time in the world. I will grab the board. Yawn. And I landed it. This was getting too good to be true. My brother swung the boat around just before we reached the graffiti-covered highway bridge that spanned the lake. Cameron had spray-painted his name and his girlfriend’s name on the bridge, alongside all the other couples’ names and over the faded ones. My genius brother had tried to paint his own name but ran out of room on that section of bridge. McGULLICUDD Y Sean wisely never painted his girlfriends’ names. He would have had to change them too often. For my part, I was very thankful that when most of this spray-painting action was going on last summer, I was still too short to reach over from the pile and haul myself up on the main part of the bridge. I probably had the height and the upper body strength now, and I prayed none of the boys pointed this out. Then I’d have to spray-paint LORI LOVES SEAN on the bridge. And move to Canada.

I also became familiar with an entirely new category of people: the unhappily married person. They are everywhere, and they are ten thousand times more depressing than a divorced person. My friend Tim, whose name I've changed, obviously, has gotten more and more depressing since he married his girlfriend of seven years. Tim is the kind of guy who corners you at a party to tell you, vehemently, that marriage is work And that you have to work on it constantly. And that going to couples' therapy is not only normal but something that everyone needs to do. Tim has a kind of manic, cult-y look in his eye from paying thousands of dollars to a marriage counselor. He is convinced that his daily work on his marriage, and his acknowledgement that it is basically a living hell, is modern. The result is that he has helped to relieve me of any romantic notions I had about marriage.

That’s what it was supposed to be, but then we started meeting up for morning workouts, which led to a joint trip to the GNC, and then we discovered we both play chess, which led to inviting him over for a game night, and then I quoted Mallrats but he didn’t get it, which led to a movie enlightenment mission and several movie-at-home nights…” I trail off, leaving the “etcetera etcetera” unspoken. Huffing out an exasperated sigh, I explain, “The more we hung out together, the more couple-y we got, and before I knew it we were buying extra toothbrushes to keep at our apartments and doing silly shit like giving each other keys. Add in the most amazing porn star sex ever, and it’s apparently enough for me to want to have his puppy.” “You mean baby.” “God, no. You know better than that. I’m not the nurturing type.” “Yeah, well, you also used to say you weren’t the falling in love type, either.” I narrow my eyes at her. “No one likes a wise-ass, Janey.” “Maybe not, but sometimes a hard-ass like you needs a wise-ass like me.

Observe," said the Director triumphantly, "observe." Books and loud noises, fiowers and electric shocks-already in the infant mind these couples were compromisingly linked; and after two hundred repetitions of the same or a similar lesson would be wedded indissolubly. What man has joined, nature is powerless to put asunder. "They'll grow up with what the psychologists used to call an 'instinctive' hatred of books and flowers. Reflexes unalterably conditioned. They'll be safe from books and botany all their lives." The Director turned to his nurses. "Take them away again." / —Observen —dijo el director, en tono triunfal—. Observen. Los libros y ruidos fuertes, flores y descargas eléctricas; en la mente de aquellos niños ambas cosas se hallaban ya fuertemente relacionadas entre sí; y al cabo de doscientas repeticiones de la misma o parecida lección formarían ya una unión indisoluble. Lo que el hombre ha unido, la Naturaleza no puede separarlo. —Crecerán con lo que los psicólogos solían llamar un odio instintivo hacia los libros y las flores. Reflejos condicionados definitivamente. Estarán a salvo de los libros y de la botánica para toda su vida. —El director se volvió hacia las enfermeras—. Llévenselos.

Heuristics for testing your goals Assess your goals using these guidelines: Does your goal start with a verb (“launch,” “build,” “refactor,” etc.)? Then you probably have an action, so reframe it to describe the outcome you want. Often, this takes the form of translating “X so that Y” into “Y via X” (and consider if you need X in there at all). A helpful trick to figure out the proper framing is to read the goal out, ask yourself why, answer that question, then do that a couple of times until the true goal comes into focus. (See Table 2 for an example.) Do you have “engineering goals” and “business goals,” or something similar? Stop it. Are your goals more than one page, more than three to five objectives, or more than three to five KRs per objective? No one will read them—let alone remember them. When you (or your team) look at your goals, do you wince and think, “What about X? I was really hoping to get to that this quarter”? If not, you probably haven’t focused enough, and your goals are not adding value. Could one team member think a goal is achieved and another one completely disagree? Then your goal isn’t specific enough. (By contrast, if everyone feels it’s mostly successful but the assessments range from 60–80 percent done, who cares?) Can you imagine a scenario where the goal is achieved but you’re still dissatisfied with where you ended up? Then your goal isn’t specific enough, or an aspect is missing. Could you be successful without achieving the goal? Then your goal is overly specific, and you should rethink how to define success.

In the abolitionist movement I see particularly young men who have a very rich feminist perspective, and so how does one guarantee that that will happen? It will not happen without work. Both men and women—and trans persons—have to do that work, but I don’t think it’s a question of women inviting men to struggle. I think it’s about a certain kind of consciousness that has to be encouraged so that progressive men are aware that they have a certain responsibility to bring in more men. Men can often talk to men in a different way. It’s important for those who we might want to bring into the struggle to look at models. What does it mean to model feminism as a man? I tour the campuses regularly, and I was speaking at the University of Southern Illinois during a Black History Month celebration and I came into contact with this group of young men who are members of a group they call “Alternative Masculinities” and I was totally impressed by them. They work with the women’s center. They have been trained in how to do rape crisis calls. They were really seriously engaging in all of that kind of activism that you assume that only women do. And then I remembered that many years ago in the 1970s there were a couple of men’s formations like Men against Rape, Black Men against Rape, Against Domestic Violence, and I remember thinking then that it’s just a matter of time before this gets taken up by men all over. But it never really happened. So I was reminded by these young men in “Alternative Masculinities” that after all of these decades they should today represent a far more popular trend. But this is the kind of thing that needs to be happening.

What do you think, Jemma” It takes a second to realize that she’s talking to me. I’m too focused on the fact that Ryder’s sitting beside me--just inches away--holding my hand beneath the table. “What?” I ask, glancing around at the expected faces. “Oh, the train. Yeah, maybe.” “They should go up a week early,” Laura Grace declares. “Take some time to see the city. Maybe catch a couple of Broadway shows or ball games or something. We could go with them!” “No,” Ryder says, a little too loudly. “I just meant…we should probably do it on our own, me and Jemma. Learn our way around and all that. Y’all can come up for Thanksgiving break, once we get settled and everything.” Laura Grace nods. “That’s a great idea. We could get rooms at the Plaza, watch the Macy’s Parade. And the two of you can show us around.” Ryder nods. “Exactly.” Beneath the table, I give his hand a squeeze. Laura Grace eyes my plate suspiciously. “You’re just pushing your food around, aren’t you? You’ve barely taken two bites. I thought you loved Lou’s Cornish hens.” “I do. I’m sorry. All I can think about is that English project due this week.” I look over at Ryder with a faux scowl. “We’re already way behind--you’ve always got some excuse. We should probably work on it tonight.” “Probably so,” Ryder says with an exasperated-sounding sigh. “That’s the third project the two of you have been paired up on,” Mama says, shaking her head. “I hope you two can behave well enough to get your work done properly. No more arguing like the last time.” We’d pretended to fight over a calculus project. Yes, a calculus project. Is there really any such thing? “We’re trying really hard to behave,” I say, shooting Ryder a sidelong glance. “Right?” His cheeks pinken deliciously at the innuendo. I love it when Ryder blushes. Totally adorable. “Right,” he mumbles, his gaze fixed on his lap.

—¿Te imaginas? —murmuró en algún momento de la madrugada—. ¿Sabes lo duro que es estar así con alguien y no encontrar jamás su secreto? —Sí —respondí pensando en Frank—. Lo sé. —Lo suponía. —Me tocó el pelo—. Y de pronto... recuperar la seguridad. Decir y hacer lo que quieras, sabiendo que es lo correcto. —Decir «te amo» y decirlo con todo el corazón —añadí suavemente. Sin saber cómo, me descubrí acurrucada contra él, con la cabeza en el hueco de su hombro. —Durante tantos años he sido tantas cosas, tantos hombres diferentes... —Tragó saliva y cambió de posición—. Era tío para los hijos de Jenny, hermano para ella y su marido, «milord» para Fergus, «señor» para mis arrendatarios. «Mac Dubh» para los hombres de Ardsmuir y «MacKenzie» para los otros sirvientes de Helwater. Después, Malcolm en la imprenta y Jamie Roy en los muelles. Me acarició lentamente la cabellera. —Pero aquí —concluyó en voz tan baja que apenas pude oírle—, aquí, contigo en la oscuridad... no tengo nombre. —Te quiero— le dije.

HE DO THE POLICE IN DIFFERENT VOICES: Part I THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD First we had a couple of feelers down at Tom's place, There was old Tom, boiled to the eyes, blind, (Don't you remember that time after a dance, Top hats and all, we and Silk Hat Harry, And old Tom took us behind, brought out a bottle of fizz, With old Jane, Tom's wife; and we got Joe to sing 'I'm proud of all the Irish blood that's in me, 'There's not a man can say a word agin me'). Then we had dinner in good form, and a couple of Bengal lights. When we got into the show, up in Row A, I tried to put my foot in the drum, and didn't the girl squeal, She never did take to me, a nice guy - but rough; The next thing we were out in the street, Oh it was cold! When will you be good? Blew in to the Opera Exchange, Sopped up some gin, sat in to the cork game, Mr. Fay was there, singing 'The Maid of the Mill'; Then we thought we'd breeze along and take a walk. Then we lost Steve. ('I turned up an hour later down at Myrtle's place. What d'y' mean, she says, at two o'clock in the morning, I'm not in business here for guys like you; We've only had a raid last week, I've been warned twice. Sergeant, I said, I've kept a decent house for twenty years, she says, There's three gents from the Buckingham Club upstairs now, I'm going to retire and live on a farm, she says, There's no money in it now, what with the damage don, And the reputation the place gets, on account off of a few bar-flies, I've kept a clean house for twenty years, she says, And the gents from the Buckingham Club know they're safe here; You was well introduced, but this is the last of you. Get me a woman, I said; you're too drunk, she said, But she gave me a bed, and a bath, and ham and eggs, And now you go get a shave, she said; I had a good laugh, couple of laughs (?) Myrtle was always a good sport'). treated me white. We'd just gone up the alley, a fly cop came along, Looking for trouble; committing a nuisance, he said, You come on to the station. I'm sorry, I said, It's no use being sorry, he said; let me get my hat, I said. Well by a stroke of luck who came by but Mr. Donovan. What's this, officer. You're new on this beat, aint you? I thought so. You know who I am? Yes, I do, Said the fresh cop, very peevish. Then let it alone, These gents are particular friends of mine. - Wasn't it luck? Then we went to the German Club, Us We and Mr. Donovan and his friend Joe Leahy, Heinie Gus Krutzsch Found it shut. I want to get home, said the cabman, We all go the same way home, said Mr. Donovan, Cheer up, Trixie and Stella; and put his foot through the window. The next I know the old cab was hauled up on the avenue, And the cabman and little Ben Levin the tailor, The one who read George Meredith, Were running a hundred yards on a bet, And Mr. Donovan holding the watch. So I got out to see the sunrise, and walked home. * * * * April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land....

Wilhelm, on deviendrait furieux de voir qu’il y ait des hommes incapables de goûter et de sentir le peu de biens qui ont encore quelque valeur sur la terre. Tu connais les noyers sous lesquels je me .suis assis avec Charlotte, à St…, chez le bon pasteur, ces magnifiques noyers, qui, Dieu le sait, me remplissaient toujours d’une joie calme et profonde. Quelle paix, quelle fraîcheur ils répandaient sur le presbytère ! Que les rameaux étaient majestueux ! Et le souvenir enfin des vénérables pasteurs qui les avaient plantés, tant d’années auparavant !… Le maître d’école nous a dit souvent le nom de l’un d’eux, qu’il avait appris de son grand-père. Ce fut sans doute un homme vertueux, et, sous ces arbres, sa mémoire me fut toujours sacrée. Eh bien, le maître d’école avait hier les larmes aux yeux, comme nous parlions ensemble de ce qu’on les avait abattus. Abattus ! j’en suis furieux, je pourrais tuer le chien qui a porté le premier coup de hache. Moi, qui serais capable de prendre le deuil, si, d’une couple d’arbres tels que ceux-là, qui auraient existé dans ma cour, l’un venait à mourir de vieillesse, il faut que je voie une chose pareille !… Cher Wilhelm, il y a cependant une compensation. Chose admirable que l’humanité ! Tout le village murmure, et j’espère que la femme du pasteur s’apercevra au beurre, aux œufs et autres marques d’amitié, de la blessure qu’elle a faite à sa paroisse. Car c’est elle, la femme du nouveau pasteur (notre vieux est mort), une personne sèche, maladive, qui fait bien de ne prendre au monde aucun intérêt, attendu que personne n’en prend à elle. Une folle, qui se pique d’être savante ; qui se mêle de l’étude du canon ; qui travaille énormément à la nouvelle réformation morale et critique du christianisme ; à qui les rêveries de Lavater font lever les épaules ; dont la santé est tout à fait délabrée, et qui ne goûte, par conséquent, aucune joie sur la terre de Dieu ! Une pareille créature était seule capable de faire abattre mes noyers. Vois-tu, je n’en reviens pas. Figure-toi que les feuilles tombées lui rendent la cour humide et malpropre ; les arbres interceptent le jour à madame, et, quand les noix sont mûres, les enfants y jettent des pierres, et cela lui donne sur les nerfs, la trouble dans ses profondes méditations, lorsqu’elle pèse et met en parallèle Kennikot, Semler et Michaëlis. Quand j’ai vu les gens du village, surtout les vieux, si mécontents, je leur ai dit : « Pourquoi l’avez-vous souffert ?— A la campagne, m’ontils répondu, quand le maire veut quelque chose, que peut-on /aire ? * Mais voici une bonne aventure. : le- pasteur espérait aussi tirer quelque avantage des caprices de sa femme, qui d’ordinaire ne rendent pas sa soupe plus grasse, et il croyait partager le produit avec le maire ; la chambre des domaines en fut avertie et dit : « A moi, s’il vous plaît ! » car elle avait d’anciennes prétentions sur la partie du presbytère où les arbres étaient plantés, et elle les a vendus aux enchères. Ils sont à bas ! Oh ! si j’étais prince, la femme du pasteur, le maire, la chambre des domaines, apprendraient…. Prince !… Eh ! si j’étais prince, que m’importeraient les arbres de mon pays ?

I headed to the bathroom, deciding to wait in there until Jenna arrived. Just as I entered a stall, a couple of girls came in panting loudly.

No Black Robe, no marriage for your God. I am sure enough happy with a marriage my way.” With a determined glint in his eyes, he turned toward the crowd, raising his arms, and shouted something. Then he shrugged. “There. Suvate, it is finished. I have said my words. We are married.” Seizing her by the arm, he growled, “Keemah, come, wife.” Loretta dug in with her heels. “No! Wait!” He looked down at her, his vexation evident. “You will say the God words?” Loretta didn’t see as how she had any choice. At least this way her marriage would be blessed by a priest, and she wouldn’t be living with Hunter in sin. “Y-yes, I’ll say the words.” Casting him a sideways glance, she said, “Can I have just a moment with the priest?” “For why?” “Just to ask him something.” Hunter’s grip on her arm relaxed. “Namiso, hurry.” Loretta cupped a hand over the priest’s ear and quickly whispered her request, then stepped back to Hunter’s side. The priest considered what she had said, then nodded. A moment later he blessed the young couple before him, and the ceremony began. The words bounced off the walls of Loretta’s mind, making no sense. Numbly she made her responses when she was instructed to. Then it came Hunter’s turn. The priest asked the usual question, adding at the end, “Forsaking all others, taking one wife and only one wife, forever with no horizon?” Hunter, eyes narrowed suspiciously, shot Loretta a knowing look. For several long seconds he made no response, and she held her breath, her gaze locked with his. Then, with solemn sincerity, he inclined his head and replied, “I have spoken it.” The priest, momentarily confused by the unusual response when he had expected an “I do,” sputtered a moment, seemed to consider, then nodded his assent and finished the ceremony. Loretta and Hunter were married, according to his beliefs and hers.

A couple of weeks before, while going over a Variety list of the most popular songs of 1935 and earlier, to use for the picture’s sound track – which was going to consist only of vintage recording played not as score but as source music – my eye stopped on a .933 standard, words by E.Y. (“Yip”) Harburg (with producer Billy Rose), music by Harold Arlen, the team responsible for “Over the Rainbow”, among many notable others, together and separately. Legend had it that the fabulous Ms. Dorothy Parker contributed a couple of lines. There were just two words that popped out at me from the title of the Arlen-Harburg song, “It’s Only a Paper Moon”. Not only did the sentiment of the song encapsulate metaphorically the main relationship in our story – Say, it’s only a paper moon Sailing over a cardboard sea But it wouldn’t be make-believe If you believed in me – the last two words of the title also seemed to me a damn good movie title. Alvin and Polly agreed, but when I tried to take it to Frank Yablans, he wasn’t at all impressed and asked me what it meant. I tried to explain. He said that he didn’t “want us to have our first argument,” so why didn’t we table this conversation until the movie was finished? Peter Bart called after a while to remind me that, after all, the title Addie Pray was associated with a bestselling novel. I asked how many copies it had sold in hardcover. Peter said over a hundred thousand. That was a lot of books but not a lot of moviegoers. I made that point a bit sarcastically and Peter laughed dryly. The next day I called Orson Welles in Rome, where he was editing a film. It was a bad connection so we had to speak slowly and yell: “Orson! What do you think of this title?!” I paused a beat or two, then said very clearly, slowly and with no particular emphasis or inflection: “Paper …Moon!” There was a silence for several moments, and then Orson said, loudly, “That title is so good, you don’t even need to make the picture! Just release the title! Armed with that reaction, I called Alvin and said, “You remember those cardboard crescent moons they have at amusement parks – you sit in the moon and have a picture taken?” (Polly had an antique photo of her parents in one of them.) We already had an amusement park sequence in the script so, I continued to Alvin, “Let’s add a scene with one of those moons, then we can call the damn picture Paper Moon!” And this led eventually to a part of the ending, in which we used the photo Addie had taken of herself as a parting gift to Moze – alone in the moon because he was too busy with Trixie to sit with his daughter – that she leaves on the truck seat when he drops her off at her aunt’s house. … After the huge popular success of the picture – four Oscar nominations (for Tatum, Madeline Kahn, the script, the sound) and Tatum won Best Supporting Actress (though she was the lead) – the studio proposed that we do a sequel, using the second half of the novel, keeping Tatum and casting Mae West as the old lady; they suggested we call the new film Harvest Moon. I declined. Later, a television series was proposed, and although I didn’t want to be involved (Alvin Sargent became story editor), I agreed to approve the final casting, which ended up being Jodie Foster and Chris Connolly, both also blondes. When Frank Yablans double-checked about my involvement, I passed again, saying I didn’t think the show would work in color – too cute – and suggested they title the series The Adventures of Addie Pray. But Frank said, “Are you kidding!? We’re calling it Paper Moon - that’s a million-dollar title!” The series ran thirteen episodes.

He’s come out of the old store while we’ve been talking, and now he steps over and puts a hand on my shoulder. It feels significant. Possessive. Like he’s staking his claim. I feel that tight curl of heat below my belly I remember from a couple of days ago by the creek. “I’m her man,” Travis says, rough and intimidating. He’s got his shotgun propped up against his shoulder. Not aimed or in position, but clearly visible. “So y’all just back off.

Al usar el pronombre «nosotros» ponemos a dos personas detrás de una acción común, casi como si se tratara de un solo ser compuesto. En muchas lenguas se emplea un pronombre específico cuando se trata de dos —y sólo dos— personas. Ese pronombre se denomina dualis, o dual, que significa «lo que es compartido por dos». Me parece un pronombre muy útil, porque a veces no se es ni uno ni muchos. Se es «nosotros dos», como si ese nosotros no pudiera partirse.

11 heures. Il y eut tout. La jalousie, l'exclusion, la fin de l'histoire durant quelques secondes. Une jeune femme, grande, blonde et plate (entre vingt-cinq et trente ans, à côté d'elle la femme de S. paraissait fripée), qu'il voulait visiblement séduire. Elle était accompagnée de son mari, éditeur minuscule, du PC sans doute. Entre les deux couples formés, j'étais de trop. En plus, ma présence paraissait bizarre (à la femme de S. et à cette femme, qui a tout de suite repéré une connivence entre S. et moi). Puis je pars. Seule. Je revois ce tapis de l'ambassade, ces marches que je descends en pensant, « ça y est ».

On aimerait y voir l'occasion d'une vie neuve, d'une page blanche, de donner une valeur rétrospective à un échec en le transformant en savoir, en richesse, en expérience. Il y aurait des vertus de l'échec. Vraiment ? Mais la rupture n'est parfois qu'un gâchis, un manque de courage, une lâcheté. Le constat d'échec d'un couple, d'une famille, d'une amitié, d'une politique, d'un projet. Et l'échec n'est souvent rien d'autre que lui-même, pauvre, décevant, un pur raté. La plupart des échecs ne nous apprennent rien.

L’espace d’un instant, Hen eut une frayeur et crut s’évanouir. Sa vision se troubla, ses jambes semblèrent emportées par un torrent. Elle se ressaisit. Ce n’est sûrement qu’une coïncidence, se dit-elle en s’avançant pour lire l’inscription sur la base du trophée : TROISIÈME PLACE ÉPÉE, puis en plus petites lettres, quelque chose comme OLYMPIADES JUNIOR, suivi d’une date qu’elle n’arrivait pas à déchiffrer. Hen n’osait pas s’approcher. Se retournant, elle demanda à Matthew, d’une voix qu’elle espérait normale : — Vous faites de l’escrime ? — Grands dieux, non, répondit-il. Le trophée m’a plu, tout simplement. Je l’ai acheté dans un vide-grenier. — Ça va, Hen ? demanda Lloyd en lui lançant un regard inquiet. Tu es un peu pâle. — Oui, oui, ça va. Je crois que je suis simplement fatiguée. Les deux couples se retrouvèrent de nouveau dans le vestibule pour se dire au revoir. Hen sentit le sang refluer à son visage. C’était juste un trophée d’escrime… comme il doit y en avoir des milliers, songeait-elle tout en les félicitant pour le dîner et en les remerciant pour la visite. Lloyd, la main sur la poignée de la porte, attendait de pouvoir s’échapper. Mira se glissa entre eux et embrassa Hen sur la joue pendant que, derrière elle, Matthew les saluait en souriant. Hen s’imaginait peut-être des choses, mais il lui sembla qu’il ne la quittait pas des yeux.

Are you sure?” she asked. Soon thereafter she was clambering into the ever-intimidating sidesaddle and whispering, “Easy, there, donkey friend,” when Captain East appeared. “Going for a ride, Miss Erstwhile.” “Yes, and I wish you would come.” He had agreed before Amelia walked her horse into view. Captain East flinched but couldn’t back out now. Jane was determined to keep distant from the couple and have a little alone time with prince charming. Captain East didn’t make her heart patter, but he was beyond high school quarterback cute, and being fake-courted by him would make for an interesting vacation at the very least. Then, like a bumbling fool, Mr. Nobley kept letting his horse trot forward, separating Jane and Captain East, and leaving Amelia riding alone. Jane would correct it, and Mr. Nobley would mess it all up again. She glared. And still he didn’t get it. Then he was glaring, and she glared back the why-are-you-glaring-at-me glare, and his eyes were exasperated, and she was about to call him ridiculous, when he said, “Miss Erstwhile, you look flushed. Will you not rest for a moment? Do not trouble yourself, Captain East, you go on with Miss Heartwight and we will follow straightaway.” When the other two were out of hearing range, Jane turned her glare into words. “What are you doing? I’m just fine.” “Pardon, Miss Erstwhile, but I was trying to allow Captain East and Miss Heartwright a few moments alone. She confided in me about their troubled past, and I hoped time to talk would help ease the strain between them.” “Okay,” Jane laughed, “so I’m a little slow.” She knew she didn’t sound the least bit Austen-y, but for some reason she just couldn’t make herself try to approximate the dead dialect around Mr. Nobley.

Elle a oublié de décommander ce dîner prévu d'ici deux heures chez sa fille et son gendre, elle n'aime pas aller chez eux, se le formule clairement à l'instant, je n'aime pas y aller, fait froid là-bas - ne saurait dire pourtant si ce sont les murs de l'appartement talochés d'une belle peinture blanche à la caséine qui la font frissonner, ou bien l'absence de cendrier et de balcon, de viande, de désordre, de tension, ou encore les tabourets maliens et la méridienne design, les soupes végétariennes servies dans des coupelles mauresques, les bougies parfumées Foin coupé, Feu de bois, Menthe sauvage, la satiété stylée de ceux qui se couchent avec les poules sous des édredons de velours indien, la tendre atonie distillée partout dans leur royaume, ou peut-être est-ce ce couple qui l'effraye, ce couple qui avait avalé en moins de deux ans sa fille unique, l'avait désintégrée dans une conjugalité sûre, émolliente, un baume après des années de nomadisme solitaire: sa fille fougueuse et polyglotte désormais méconnaissable.

Going to the office wasn't as pleasant lately, Sam thought, as he made his way through the back entry to the detectives' division. There weren't so many people there that day, and it seemed like a lot of them were avoiding the place, just staying away as much as they could. He could understand that. After almost ten years as a Denver cop, Sam was sick of seeing what humanity was really capable of. He had grown up reading cop stories, always seeing how the cops would save the day, watching them rescue the innocent and punish the guilty every week on TV, until he finally knew that he had to be one himself. After a short stint in the Army that never even got him out of the country, he'd come home and applied for the academy. He'd been accepted, and that was the start of an illustrious career. Now, it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed in the mornings, make himself come in and see what new horrors he'd have to deal with. The past four months he'd been on loan to the DEA, and they'd made some big drug busts, shut down some of the most evil purveyors of sin and death that ever lived, but they were like the mythical hydra—as soon as you cut off one of its heads, three more grew back to take its place. Sam wanted to stop cutting off heads and find the creature's heart, but there was almost no evidence as to where that heart might be. They knew there was something big behind the drug operations in the city, but it was so well organized and so carefully designed that no one seemed to have any idea where or how to find it. His cell rang as he sat down at his desk, and he saw his partner's number. Dan Jacobs was already out on his station, watching one of the dealers they'd identified the day before. “Yo,” Sam answered. “Sam, it's Dan. I been thinkin', and it seems to me that we might be lookin' in the wrong direction, y'know?” Sam blinked a couple of times. “Danny, I've been awake for about fifteen minutes, and haven't even opened my Starbuck's yet. What the heck are you talkin' about?” “I'm sayin', maybe we're goin' about this all the wrong way, tryin' to find dealers and trail 'em, follow the tracks up the ladder. There's something about this whole setup that smacks of serious organization, something big enough to hide in plain sight, know what I mean? If it's that well laid out, we can follow minions all day long, we're never gonna find the top guy, because they don’t ever see the top guys.” Sam nodded. “Yeah, you're probably right,” he said, “but unless you got a crystal ball lead on where else to go, I don’t know what good it's doin' us. Where else we gonna find any leads at all? Got a clue, there?” “Maybe,” Dan said. “We've been tailing a lot of these clowns the past few weeks, right? Have you noticed one thing they all do the same?” Sam thought about it, but nothing jumped out at him. He looked at it from a couple of different angles, then shook his head. Into the phone, he said, “Nope. So, what is it?” “Facebook. No matter what else they're doin', these bastards never miss checking in on Facebook every day, several times a day. They go on, look at what people are sayin' on their pages, sometimes they answer and sometimes they don't, and then they go back to their drug dealin' ways.” Sam rubbed his temple. “Dan, everyone does that. Everyone on freakin' earth is on Facebook, and always checkin' it out. That's just part

While reading some old articles to jog my memory for this book, I came across an article in the Chicago Sun-Times by Rick Kogan, a reporter who traveled with Styx for a few concert dates in 1979. I remember him. When we played the Long Beach Civic Center’s 12,000-seat sports arena in California, he rode in the car with JY and me as we approached the stadium. His recounting of the scene made me smile. It’s also a great snapshot of what life was like for us back in the day. The article from 1980 was called, “The Band That Styx It To ‘Em.” Here’s what he wrote: “At once, a sleek, gray Cadillac limousine glides toward the back stage area. Small groups of girls rush from under trees and other hiding places like a pack of lions attacking an antelope. They bang on the windows, try to halt the driver’s progress by standing in front of the car. They are a desperate bunch. Rain soaks their makeup and ruins their clothes. Some are crying. “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you!” one girl yells as she bangs against the limousine’s window. Inside the gray limousine, James Young, the tall, blond guitarist for Styx who likes to be called J.Y. looks out the window. “It sure is raining,” he says. Next to him, bass player Chuck Panozzo, finishing the last part of a cover story on Styx in a recent issue of Record World magazine, nods his head in agreement. Then he chuckles, and says, “They think you’re Tommy.” “I’m not Tommy Shaw,” J.Y. screams. “I’m Rod Stewart.” “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you! I love you!” the girl persists, now trying desperately to jump on the hood of the slippery auto. “Oh brother,” sighs J.Y. And the limousine rolls through the now fully raised backstage door and he hurries to get out and head for the dressing room. This scene is repeated twice, as two more limousines make their way into the stadium, five and ten minutes later. The second car carries young guitarist Tommy Shaw, drummer John Panozzo and his wife Debbie. The groupies muster their greatest energy for this car. As the youngest member of Styx and because of his good looks and flowing blond hair, Tommy Shaw is extremely popular with young girls. Some of his fans are now demonstrating their affection by covering his car with their bodies. John and Debbie Panozzo pay no attention to the frenzy. Tommy Shaw merely smiles, and shortly all of them are inside the sports arena dressing room. By the time the last and final car appears, spectacularly black in the California rain, the groupies’ enthusiasm has waned. Most of them have started tiptoeing through the puddles back to their hiding places to regroup for the band’s departure in a couple of hours.” Tommy

Salimos, cenamos, nos reímos un rato y al dejarla en su casa me dijo «Creo que me gustás mucho. Es algo de ese misterio que tenés, o algo de lo extraño y raro que sos, lo que me tiene constantemente pensando en vos». No sabía qué decir, nunca supe cómo reaccionar a las emociones de otras personas. Me reí y le di una palmadita en la cabeza. Hasta ahora me pregunto qué fue lo que pensé para hacer eso; no era mi mascota, no era un perro ni nada por el estilo pero no se me ocurría otra forma de demostrarle una especie de afecto.

When a couple announces they are getting married, far too often the first response is “let me see the ring.” Really? Your first concern after two people have decided to spend the rest of their lives together as husband and wife is how fancy the ring is?

Turbulence during a relationship does not mean its core, foundation and essence changes. Couples will run into obstacles. The challenge may knock the wind out of them, but it does not have to cripple their resolve. Both people must trust that on the other side of crisis still exist the qualities you appreciate.

She spotted Captain Winston in the barn, hitching the mares to the wagon, and walked out to join him. When he turned around, she was taken aback. “Good morning, Mrs. Prescott.” She stared at the freshly shaven man smiling down at her, a hint of stubble shadowing the jawline that only yesterday had sported a full and unruly beard. “Captain Winston?” His smile deepened, along with the gray of his eyes, which, without the distraction of the beard, proved to be a rather disarming combination. He rubbed a hand over his jaw as though privy to her thoughts. “Yes, ma’am. At your service. Mrs. McGavock says you need to go into town.” “Y-yes, I do. Thank you, Captain, for taking me.” “My pleasure. Just give me a couple more minutes and we’ll be set.” He circled the wagon and checked the harness straps on the other side. She tried not to stare, but had to acknowledge . . . He was a handsome man with strong, angular features. And younger than she would’ve guessed upon their first meeting. He possessed a quiet confidence about him as though he had nothing left to prove. Either that, or he simply didn’t put much stock in others’ opinions. Seeing him clean shaven brought back memories of Warren’s last trip home in April. He’d been sporting a similar soldier’s beard, as she’d called it. All wild and woolly. She’d shaved it off for him that first night, cherishing the chance to look fully into the face of the man she’d married. And loved. Loved still.

Aujourd'hui, en France, on considère comme métis les enfants des couples composés d'une personne blanche et d'un autre non-blanche, ces couples étant couramment désignés comme "mixtes", étrange terminologie supposant une essence différente. Cette mixité, qui ne repose en réalité que sur une appréciation visuelle, sous-tend l'idée qu'il y a entre les "Blancs" et le reste de l'humanité une différence génétique si indépassable que le fruit de leur union est un être à part, un "métis" et ce, indépendamment de la nationalité des deux parents.

Relationships only last as long as infidelities are hidden, forgiven, or allowed. Anyone who says otherwise is lying, or is simply a naive person.

You were right,” Reacher said. “Most of the things you’ve said are correct. A couple of inaccuracies, but we spread a little disinformation here and there.” “What are you talking about?” Ray asked. Reacher lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m World Army,” he said. “Commander of the advance party. I’ve got five thousand UN troops in the forest. Russians, mostly, a few Chinese. We’ve been watching you on the satellite surveillance. Right now, we’ve got an X-ray camera on this hut. There’s a laser beam pointed at your head. Part of the SDI technology.” “You’re kidding,” Ray said. Reacher shook his head. Deadly serious. “You were right about the microchips,” he said. “Look at this.” He stood up slowly and pulled his shirt up to his chest. Turned slightly so Ray could see the huge scar on his stomach. “Bigger than the modern ones,” he said. “The latest ones go in with no mess at all. The ones we put in the babies? But these old ones work just the same. The satellites know where I am at all times, like you said. You start to pull that trigger, the laser blows your head off.” Ray’s eyes were burning. He looked away from Reacher’s scar and glanced nervously up at the roof. “Suis pas américain,” Reacher said. “Suis soldat français, agent du gouvernement mondial depuis plusieurs années, parti en mission clandestine il y a deux mois. Il faut évaluer l’élément de risque que votre bande représente par ici.” He spoke as fast as he could and ended up sounding exactly like an educated Parisian woman. Exactly like he recalled his dead mother sounding. Ray nodded slowly.

The Nydia you left behind. She’s gone. This person in front of you likes predictable things, she doesn’t like to travel, and she prefers to have dinner in a quiet place. Not some fancy restaurant where people can see you.” He leans closer and curls his index finger as if telling me to come-closer-I-have-a-secret-for-you. I do, and he whispers, “Oh, she’s there. I’ve seen her. We just need to peel back a couple of layers.” He shrugs. “Maybe more. I’m willing to do the work.

—Tu ne te souviens pas, maman? Il n'y a pas si longtemps, tu dansais encore très bien. —Ah, c'est possible. —Je t'assure. Tu as toujours aimé danser. Autre mère, autre fille. Je vois dans ce couple mère-fille le reflet l'une de l'autre: la fille, belle femme dans un tailleur élégant, telle que j'imagine la mère il y a vingt-cinq ans; la mère, telle que pourrait être la fille dans vingt-cinq ans.

–Tu ne te souviens pas, maman? Il n'y a pas si longtemps, tu dansais encore très bien. —Ah, c'est possible. Je t'assure. Tu as toujours aimé danser. Autre mère, autre fille. Je vois dans ce couple mère-fille le reflet l'une de l'autre: la fille, belle femme dans un tailleur élégant, telle que j'imagine la mère il y a vingt-cinq ans; la mère, telle que pourrait être la fille dans vingt-cinq ans. Je les trouve belles dans leur tendresse, mais elle me font mal. La fille a mon âge, elle pourrait être moi. C'est ma soeur dans la douleur. Comme moi, elle sait que nous avons peur de l'image que nous renvoie notre mère. Comme moi, elle a peur de vieillir. Pas peur de devenir grand-mère et d'avoir des cheveux blancs et un visage flétri! Non. Peur de perdre son autonomie et sa dignité. Comme moi, elle accepte que cela puisse être, mais comme moi, elle angoisse. Car j'angoisse.

La violence au sein du couple profite de la fragilité de la position des femmes dans al société. Se référant aux travaux de sa consœur américaine Sandra Lee Bartky, la philosophe Camille Froidevaux-Metterie parle de la honte comme « structurellement féminine ». Elle la définit comment un « sentiment permanent d'inadéquation par lequel les femmes se sentent imparfaites, inférieures ou diminuées, ce qui permet aux mécanismes de la domination masculine de perdurer ». Ainsi, « la honte devient un véritable mode d'être-au-monde féminin qui fait le lit de la violence conjugale et des féminicides ». Il ne s'agit surtout pas de prétendre que, par leur manque de confiance en elles, les femmes susciteraient les mauvais traitements qu'elles subissent : nous reprocher un conditionnement qui nous dessert reviendrait à nous infliger une double peine. Les seuls responsables des violences sont ceux qui les commettent et la culture qui les y autorise - culture que nous allons tenter d'étudier ici. Mais de même qu'on peut rappeler haut et fort que la seule cause du viol, c'est le violeur, tout en enseignant l'autodéfense physique, on peut chercher à développe une forme d'autodéfense psychologique. (p. 102)

There is a scene in The Black Power Mixtape, a documentary film about the Black Panther/Black Power movement that came out a couple years ago, in which the journalist asks you if you approve of violence. You answer, “Ask me—if I approve of violence!? This does not make any sense.” Could you elaborate? I was attempting to point out that questions about the validity of violence should have been directed to those institutions that held and continue to hold a monopoly on violence: the police, the prisons, the military.

Seeing as you’ve got such a bob on y’self, big tyma, let’s me and you hop on a buzz and find somewhere we can chobble some bostin fettle and a couple or three tots. What d’ya say?

​Woot-woot! I almost got this book out on time. I’m aiming for 30 days a book, and once I have that handled, I’ll try to shave a couple of days from that. I was reading the reviews for book 8, and I agreed with y’all. Steve was spending way too much time over there in the Chaos Soldiers’ base. It was about time he got out of there.

passé et futur. Le principe de la réciprocité : Une personne qui a reçu une aide ou une faveur d'une autre personne se sentira redevable envers elle, et sera donc plus susceptible de lui rendre service à l'avenir. Ces principes sont applicables à toutes les relations sociales, y compris les relations amoureuses. Par exemple, si une personne aide son partenaire à résoudre un problème difficile, cette dernière sera plus susceptible

Querer saber lo que hace tu pareja, querer que sea organizada y responsable en las cosas, no es querer controlarla o meterse en todo; es simplemente preocuparse y estar al tanto en las cosas relacionadas con quien se supone es tu otro yo. Si hacerlo, es hacer un mal, entonces no debiesen denominarse "parejas de vida".

Il était là, dix kilos envolés, à jeun, déplumé et noueux. Les crocs limés. Que restait-il de lui ? La cendre, une force qui irait en s'amenuisant. Et des regrets pour finir. La maison avait été liquidée en un rien de temps. Les efforts du couple, vingt ans de sacrifices et de fins de mois acrobatiques, envolés. Le mobilier, les bibelots, les vêtements qu'il avait fallu jeter. En plus, il avait fallu vendre vite, pour trois fois rien, et c'est la banque qui avait finalement emporté le blé pour finir d'éponger les dettes. Au moment du partage, le père en était presque venu aux mains. Au fond, il n'avait pas tellement d'amis, pas vraiment de boulot et il découvrait sur le tard que la maison n'était même pas à lui et que toutes ces idées qu'il s'était faites étaient plus ou moins de la connerie. Il avait cru qu'il ramenait la paie, que c'était chez lui, que c'était sa femme, sa baraque, son gosse. Le notaire avait nettoyé ces idées préconçues au bulldozer. Et deux ans plus tard, le père raquait encore pour les honoraires de cet avocat qui n'avait rien branlé, à part lui expliquer qu'il avait tort, que c'était la loi qui décidait. Dans ce monde de paperasse et de juristes, il n'y avait plus d'hommes. Que des arrangements.

TRAILHEAD/ACCESS POINTS FS Rd 560/Rolling Creek Trailhead: Drive west from Denver on US Hwy 285 for about 39 miles to Bailey. Turn left and head southeast on Park County Rd 68 (the main intersection in town) that eventually turns into FS Rd 560 (Wellington Lake Road). After about 5 miles, you come to a Y in the road. Take the right branch, which continues as FS Rd 560. Two miles farther on, take the right fork again (still FS Rd 560). Continue another mile to Rolling Creek Trailhead, a small parking area on the right. Drive slowly; it is easy to miss. A small road goes a short distance southwest to another small parking area. North Fork Trailhead: This trailhead is remote and the last 4 miles of the road are seldom used (except during hunting season). It is suitable only for four-wheel-drive vehicles with high clearance. Drive southwest from Denver on US Hwy 285 for 58 miles to Kenosha Pass. Continue another 3.2 miles to a gravel side road on the left marked Lost Park Road (Jefferson County Rd 56 and later FS Rd 56). Proceed a little more than 16 miles to a side road (FS Rd 134) that branches to the left and starts to climb. Follow it about 4 miles to its end. The CT is just a short walk across the valley on the other side of the stream. The Brookside-McCurdy Trail comes into the trailhead from the southeast and joins the CT, going northwest along it for a couple of miles, then exiting to the north.

Mais mon opinion aujourd'hui est qu'il est vain de nous affirmer l'un à l'autre notre malheur mutuel. Il n'y a qu'une façon de mettre tout cela au clair, c'est toi devant moi.

Il y a aussi ce couple qui trouve « scandaleux » que « vous » (c'est évidemment toujours vous la responsable quand quelque chose ne va pas) ne vendiez pas de porno. Vous ne devriez plus trop souvent avoir à vous excuser de cette lacune.

Deux voies s'ouvrent à l'homme et à la femme : la férocité ou l'indifférence. Tout nous indique qu'ils prendront la seconde voie, qu'il n'y aura entre eux ni explication ni rupture, mais qu'ils continueront à s'éloigner l'un de l'autre, que la pédérastie et l'onanisme, proposés par les écoles et les temples, gagneront les foules, qu'un tas de vices abolis seront remis en vigueur, et que des procédés scientifiques suppléeront au rendement du spasme et à la malédiction du couple.

the unhappily married person. They are everywhere, and they are ten thousand times more depressing than a divorced person. My friend Tim, whose name I’ve changed, obviously, has gotten more and more depressing since he married his girlfriend of seven years. Tim is the kind of guy who corners you at a party to tell you, vehemently, that marriage is work. And that you have to work on it constantly. And that going to couples’ therapy is not only normal but something that everyone needs to do. Tim has a kind of manic, cult-y look in his eye from paying thousands of dollars to a marriage counselor. He is convinced that his daily work on his marriage, and his acknowledgment that it is basically a living hell, is modern.

Ou, plutôt, elle voulait cela aussi, d'une certaine façon. Elle aussi voulait s'étendre près de lui tous les soirs et serrer son corps entre ses bras chaque fois qu'elle en aurait envie, sentir ses mains intelligentes sur elle quand elle se réveillerait le matin et donner naissance à un petit enfant qui lui ressemblerait trait pour trait et qu'elle pourrait aimer et dorloter. Mais elle ne voulait pas des contraintes dont s'accompagnait le mariage : elle ne voulait pas d'un seigneur et maître, elle voulait un amant ; elle ne voulait pas consacrer sa vie à un homme, mais vivre à ses côtés. C'était un dilemme qu'elle ne voulait pas résoudre et elle tenait rigueur à Merthin de l'y obliger.

Seed: 64951768 This is an incredibly cool seed for a couple of reasones. First, you spawn on an jungle island with a temple on it. Furthermore, on the ocean floor, there’s a portal room. To find it check the co-ordinates below. Co-ordinates: - Portal room: x: -400 | y: 600 |  (at the bottom of the ocean)