Cursive Quotes

How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!" to a margin note written in her loop-heavy cursive: Straight & Fast.

Slurring is the cursive of speech...

I am not drunk. I’m just talking in cursive

The handwriting was a girl’s. I mean, you can tell. That enchanted cursive.

Clouds are poems, and the most moving poems linger on the blackboard so long, written in cursive so lovely, they also exist inside our fingertips. We never really erase them at the end of the lesson.

Sending love letters to first-graders will teach them lessons in cursive. But writing back will test their commitment.

Bouquets lay next to unread cards wishing recovery in messy cursive. I haven't always understood irony but I like this particular piece. For someone you wish to live, give them something that is dying.

The whole passage was underlined in bleeding, water-soaked black ink. But there was another ink, this one a crisp blue, post-flood, and an arrow led from “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!" to a margin note written in her loop-heavy cursive: Straight & Fast.

I’d heard that they were going to stop teaching cursive in schools, which was fine with me, because then all us old people would have a secret code.

I keep reading your looping, cursive script, until the words are indelible inside me: “I never knew real happiness until you.

Imagine future generations unable to read basic historical documents that were written in cursive—or even not to be able to read old letters written by your grandparents—or their journals.

Both girls had their names stitched in cursive on their uniforms, but with my dyslexia, the words looked like meaningless spaghetti.

Even though I know my own name (barely), I still sometimes write my name wrong. Usually it only happens when I write in cursive and am endorsing checks for money I can’t recall earning.

The shirt was a screen print of a famous Surrealist artwork by René Magritte in which he drew a pipe and then beneath it wrote in cursive Ceci n’est pas une pipe. (“This is not a pipe.”) “I just don’t get that shirt,” Mom said. “Peter Van Houten will get it, trust me. There are like seven thousand Magritte references in An Imperial Affliction.” “But it is a pipe.” “No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s a drawing of a pipe. Get it? All representations of a thing are inherently abstract. It’s very clever.” “How did you get so grown up that you understand things that confuse your ancient mother?” Mom asked. “It seems like just yes-terday that I was telling seven-year-old Hazel why the sky was blue. You thought I was a genius back then.” “Why is the sky blue?” I asked. “Cuz,” she answered. I laughed.

Ancient Egypt, like that of the Olmecs (Bolivia), emerged all at once and fully formed. Indeed, the period of transition from primitive to advanced society appears to have been so short that it makes no kind of historical sense. Technological skills that should have taken hundreds or even thousands of years to evolve were brought into use almost overnight-- and with no apparent antecedents whatever. For example, remains from the pre-dynastic period around 3500 BC show no trace of writing. Soon after that date, quite suddenly and inexplicably, the hieroglyphs familiar from so many of the ruins of Ancient Egypt begin to appear in a complete and perfect state. Far from being mere pictures of objects or actions, this written language was complex and structured at the outset, with signs that represented sounds only and a detailed system of numerical symbols. Even the very earliest hieroglyphs were stylized and conventionalized; and it is clear that an advanced cursive script was it common usage by the dawn of the First Dynasty.

There is something remarkable about just the thought of someone sitting down for you. Taking out a piece of paper for you. Focusing their mind on the words they write for you. And through sloppy cursive and a cramped hand, they manage to tell you all the things that have ever mattered, in between the lines: “I care. I’m here. I see you. You’re more than just words on a screen to me.

Nothing like love to put blood back in the language, the difference between the beach and its discrete rocks and shards, a hard cuneiform, and the tender cursive of waves; bone and liquid fishegg, desert and saltmarsh, a green push out of death. The vowels plump again like lips or soaked fingers, and the fingers themselves move around these softening pebbles as around skin. The sky's not vacant and over there but close against your eyes, molten, so near you can taste it. It tastes of salt. What touches you is what you touch.

The ink line drawing flowed the cursive journey, created on paper canvas that brought the story to life.

I buried myself in the woods today. Covered myself in flowers and pretended to be dead." She raised her pen for a moment and thought, then went back to writing in cursive that could rival Sister's. "You should always wait for late spring to die, Juno," she says then. "The flowers are better".

He kissed her without urgency, without haste, but with all the love he felt for her.

Your love is my turning page Only the sweetest words remain Every kiss is a cursive line Every touch is a redefining phrase I surrender who I've been for who you are Nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart If I had only felt how it feels to be yours I would have known what I've been living for all along What I've been living for

THE DASH SADDENS ME. THE SIMPLICITY MISSES SO much. It doesn’t allow for all the downs that bring a person low or the joys that lift them up. All the bends and turns that make up a lifetime are flattened and erased. The dash on a tombstone is wholly inadequate. Everything around it is more remarkable. The name, etched in cursive or dignified fonts. Sometimes a photo is carved into the grey granite, giving life to the dead. Yet the dash, that line that carries the entire sum of a life within it, is unremarkable.

I’m not slurring. I’m talking in cursive.

In a child’s cursive, beneath the crossed-out lines, Aethon’s new line is handwritten in the margin, “The world as it is is enough.

I am not drunk. I’m just talking in cursive.

And it was then that I noticed the dark black cursive script etched on the pink skin, the outline of the letters an angry red color that bordered a new tattoo. “What?” I murmured, leaning forward so I could read it. MONROE. His cock was tattooed with my name.

He has lost his daughters, but he has also lost the memory of losing them. But he has not lost the loss. Pain is as present in his body as his signature is in his hand. He can sign his name perfectly, but he can't print it. W, he tries. But the a is impossible without the cursive tilt, the remembered motion of the letter before. He knows his name but can't see, can't feel, the separate parts, which are only possible from the inertia of his hand. He knows his grief, too, but its source is also lost without its movement. It is a static thing, unrecognizable, disconnected.

Last year, Terry threw a little “baby shower” for the entire staff, all eight of them, when the seahorses spawned. Mackenzie had stayed after her admissions shift to blow up balloons and paint a banner that read GIDDY-UP, LITTLE COWBOYS! Dr. Santiago, the veterinarian, had dropped by with a cake that read, in cursive icing: HIP-HIP-HOORAY FOR HIPPOCAMPUS BABIES!

Then took the quilt out of its linen wrapper for the pleasure of the brilliant colors and the feel of the velvet. The needlework was very fine and regular. Adair hated needlework and she could not imagine sitting and stitching the fine crow’s-foot seams. Writing was the same, the pinching of thoughts into marks on paper and trying to keep your cursive legible, trying to think of the next thing to say and then behind you on several sheets of paper you find you have left permanent tracks, a trail, upon which anybody could follow you. Stalking you through your deep woods of private thought.

"Get it you will. Worry you don't," he said in a weird voice. "Are you possessed?" Aislynn asked, making Jace throw back his head in laughter. "Did you just develop a speech impediment? Oh my God! Are you having a stroke? Is that why you can't talk right?" "Yoda is going to be so pissed. May the force protect you, because he sure won't.

My handwriting is all over these woods. No, my handwriting is these woods, each tree a half-print, half-cursive scrawl, each loop a limb. My house is somewhere here, & I have scribbled myself inside it. What is home but a book we write, then read again & again, each time dog-earing different pages...

—Bucky dear, his wife warned, you’re slurring your words. —Slurring is the cursive of speech, I observed.

And on the plantations, the overseers preserved the names of workers in rows of tight cursive, every name an asset, breathing capital, profit made flesh.

Papa wasn't like them, with lines like cursive writing up and down their faces.

Project: Potential was a separate class that the gifted students went to for an hour each day. The name was supposed to make it exciting, like Code Name: Cursive or Mission: State Capitals.

Choice betrays character,” I said. “That’s not true.” Loring moved his finger along the sheet as if writing his name in cursive. “Eliza, you can’t judge a man solely on his actions. Sometimes actions are nothing more than reactions.

Any academic skill is quickly achievable if charged with clear purpose and an appeal to enthusiastic self-interest. Tarzan of the Apes only needed about twenty minutes to figure out how to read the beautiful Jane Porter’s cursive writing.

You like meadows. It’s the first thing you ever drew on me.” “I spend a lot of time daydreaming about lying in them. Feels like it would be peaceful. I’ve developed a fondness for daises, too.” There’s an H on the lower left corner of my stomach in thick, black cursive. It’s the only bold color on my stomach. “You signed me.” His fingers dance across the skin beneath his initial. “How does it make you feel when you look at it?” “Pretty,” I respond, answering honestly and feeling more vulnerable than I have before. “You always make me feel pretty.” “You feel like that because you are pretty, Halle.

I think these movements and become them, here, In this room's stillness, none of them about, And relish them all-until I think of where Thrashed by a crook, the cursive adder writes Quick V's and Q's in the dust and rubs them out. from "Movements

He saw a tattoo on her throat and he read it with some amusement. Foxhole prayers in a stylized cursive. Strange girl. The 'X' crossed the artery pulsing under her velvet skin. Skin he knew would be warm butter beneath his fangs. X marks the spot, my dear.

By AD 800, so redeemed was Arabic from the contempt in which it had once been held that its sound had come to rank as the very music of power, and its cursives as things of pure beauty, refined to a rare and exquisite perfection by the art of its calligraphers. Among the Arabs, the written word was on the verge of becoming a mania. One scholar, when he died in 822, left behind him a library that filled a whole six hundred trunks.

Absentmindedly, I started doodling in the margins of my paper. Renee, I wrote in cursive, and then again in bubble letters and then in the loopy handwriting of the mystery note. I drew a tiny picture of the moon above the lake. And then stick figures of people swimming in it. And then for some reason, I wrote Dante. First in print, and then in large, wavy letters, and then in all caps. Dante. Dante. DANTE. I had just finished writing, when I heard someone say my name. “Renee.” I shook myself out of my daze to discover that Mr. B. and the entire class were staring at me. “Earth to Renee. The most primitive tombs. What were they called?” he repeated. I glanced at my notes for the answer, but they were covered in doodles. “Dante,” I blurted out, reading the first word I saw. Immediately my face went red. “No, sorry, I meant . . . I meant dolmen.” I winced, hoping I was right so that I would be saved from further embarrassment. Thankfully, Dante wasn’t in my class. Mr. B. smiled. “Correct,” he said, returning to the board. He drew a diagram of a stonelike lean-to, which I recognized from the reading. I took notes and kept my head down for the rest of class.

He loved that she eschewed cursive for print, as he did. Cursive, more than anything, betrayed a person's age.

The handwriting was a girl's. I mean, you can tell. That enchanted cursive.

When I slide onto the seat, there’s a line of text in a simple cursive script, branded into the surface of the wood. ‘Blackbird’s Booth,’ it says.

Shirt was a screen print of a famous Surrealist artwork by Rene Magritte in which he drew a pipe and then beneath it wrote in cursive Ceci n’est pas une pipe, (“This is not a pipe.”)

*One clue that there’s something not quite real about sequential time the way you experience it is the various paradoxes of time supposedly passing and of a so-called ‘present’ that’s always unrolling into the future and creating more and more past behind it. As if the present were this car—nice car by the way—and the past is the road we’ve just gone over, and the future is the headlit road up ahead we haven’t yet gotten to, and time is the car’s forward movement, and the precise present is the car’s front bumper as it cuts through the fog of the future, so that it’s now and then a tiny bit later a whole different now, etc. Except if time is really passing, how fast does it go? At what rate does the present change? See? Meaning if we use time to measure motion or rate—which we do, it’s the only way you can—95 miles per hour, 70 heartbeats a minute, etc.—how are you supposed to measure the rate at which time moves? One second per second? It makes no sense. You can’t even talk about time flowing or moving without hitting up against paradox right away. So think for a second: What if there’s really no movement at all? What if this is all unfolding in the one flash you call the present, this first, infinitely tiny split-second of impact when the speeding car’s front bumper’s just starting to touch the abutment, just before the bumper crumples and displaces the front end and you go violently forward and the steering column comes back at your chest as if shot out of something enormous? Meaning that what if in fact this now is infinite and never really passes in the way your mind is supposedly wired to understand pass, so that not only your whole life but every single humanly conceivable way to describe and account for that life has time to flash like neon shaped into those connected cursive letters that businesses’ signs and windows love so much to use through your mind all at once in the literally immeasurable instant between impact and death, just as you start forward to meet the wheel at a rate no belt ever made could restrain—THE END." footnote ("Good Old Neon")

Alice's eyes sparkled, but not with mirth; there was a sinister candescence to them, lined in more black kohl than usual. 'A knife,' she replied calmly. 'A what?' I practically yelped. 'A knife,' she repeated, unwrapping the brown paper to reveal a smooth, olive wood penknife with the intials A.K.W. engraved in a cursive font. 'I had it customised, because I am nothing if not pretentious.

He painted until his cursive brushes were only whispers of rawness on the thin ivory. Only the walls and the ravens that watched knew the boy with the paint-stained palms weaved his art onto his sketchpad on the park bench at lunchtimes, and only the trees whispered it like a prayer.

Watching as Ryanne slides her pencil across the page. it looks like she is drawing a bird cage. inside the cage is a small detailed bird. the door of the bird cage is hanging open. Cursive writing wraps around the exterior of the cage. i lean closer a little to see what she wrote: if you love something, set it free..

Someone's past was happy in their shadow.

By age seventeen he’d convinced himself that every human he saw was a parasite, captive to the dictates of consumption. But as he reconstructs Zeno’s translation, he realizes that the truth is infinitely more complicated, that we are all beautiful even as we are all part of the problem, and that to be a part of the problem is to be human. He cries at the end. Aethon steals into the garden in the center of the cloud city, talks to the gigantic goddess, and opens the Super Magical Extra Powerful Book of Everything. The academic articles among Zeno’s papers suggest that translators arrange the folios in such a way that leaves Aethon in the garden, inducted into the secrets of the gods, finally freed of his mortal desires. But evidently the children have decided at the last moment that the old shepherd will look away and not read to the end of the book. He eats the rose proffered by the goddess and returns home, to the mud and grass of the Arkadian hills. In a child’s cursive, beneath the crossed-out lines, Aethon’s new line is handwritten in the margin, “The world as it is is enough.

But evidently the children have decided at the last moment that the old shepherd will look away and not read to the end of the book. He eats the rose proffered by the goddess and returns home, to the mud and grass of the Arkadian hills. In a child’s cursive, beneath the crossed-out lines, Aethon’s new line is handwritten in the margin, “The world as it is is enough.

Henry’s cursive. Dear Thisbe, I wish there weren’t a wall. Love, Pyramus He fumbles his phone out so fast he almost drops it on the floor and smashes it again. The search tells him Pyramus and Thisbe were lovers in a Greek myth, children of rival families, forbidden to be together. Their only way to speak to each other was through a thin crack in the wall built between them.

Okay," she said as he lit the candle and hummed the birthday song. "You know,this is all very Jake Ryan of you." "Who's Jake Ryan?" "The hottie from Sixteen Candles—the best teenage movie ever made. The last scene looks just like this," she said, looking around the room. "All right, well, don't you go wishing for him when you blow out the candle." "I love you,Jace. You're the only thing I want.

Her eyes fell on the names of the cute boys in 'Round Here, written in the pudgy cursive she and Emma affected ("Writing looks more romantic that way," Emma had decreed), and all at once they looked stupid and babyish and all wrong. They cut him up and licked his blood and then they did something even worse to him. In a world where something like that could happen, mooning over a boy band seemed worse than wrong

Craig inscribed something in the journal and Bob walked over to study the entry. "Does the name Bob Ford mean anything to you? Craig dipped his quill in the ink bottle and scripted cursively on a brown blotter. "Is that your actual name or your alias?" "Actual," said Bob, and he grinned with delight when he saw the name recorded in Craig's elegant calligraphy. "Pretty soon all of America will know who Bob Ford is.

Embrace Cursive Schools are downplaying—and even eliminating—the need to learn to write cursive, despite its necessity to engage highly complex cognitive processes and achieve mastery of a precise motor coordination. (It takes children years to master handwriting and some stroke victims relearn language by tracing letters with their fingers.) Writing in cursive also increases a sense of harmony and balance, and writing on paper provides creative options: to manipulate the medium in multidimensional, innovative, or expressive ways (such as cutting, folding, pasting, ripping, or coloring the paper). Also, when you write in longhand on paper and then edit, there’ll be a visual and tactile record of your creative process for you and others to study. Learning to write (and writing) in cursive, on paper, fosters creativity and should not be surrendered.

Everyone's here except for St. Clair." Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late." "Always," Josh corrects. "Always running late." I clear my throat. "I think I met him last night. In the hallway." "Good hair and an English accent?" Meredith asks. "Um.Yeah.I guess." I try to keep my voice casual. Josh smirks. "Everyone's in luuurve with St. Clair." "Oh,shut up," Meredith says. "I'm not." Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend. He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well,I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it." "This school has a prom?" I ask. "God no," Rashmi says. "Yeah,Josh. You and St. Clair would look really cute in matching tuxes." "Tails." The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead." "St. Clair!" Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug. "No kiss? I'm crushed,mate." "Thought it might miff the ol' ball and chain. She doesn't know about us yet." "Whatever," Rashi says,but she's smiling now. It's a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often. Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. "Anna." He's surprised to see me,and I'm startled,too. He remembers me. "Nice umbrella.Could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble,and I'm alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race. Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him. "Sounds terrible.You ought to feed that thing. Unless..." He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. "Unless you're one of those girls who never eats. Can't tolerate that, I'm afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban." I'm determined to speak rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want.Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe." "I meant the menu,thank you very much." I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white.In French. "Not exactly my first language." "You don't speak French?" Meredith asks. "I've taken Spanish for three years. It's not like I ever thought I'd be moving to Paris." "It's okay," Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't speak French." "But most of them do," Josh adds. "But most of them not very well." Rashmi looks pointedly at him. "You'll learn the lanaguage of food first. The language of love." Josh rubs his belly like a shiny Buddha. "Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit." "Not funny." Rashmi punches him in the arm. "No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk." I glance at the chalkboard again. It's still in French. "And, um, until then?" "Right." Beautiful Hallway Boy pushes back his chair. "Come along, then. I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd.

He trains hard, I can tell. That is not a body that you get from just diet and good genes. That’s a body you lift heavy iron for. Dark sweatpants hang off his slim waist, a perfectly dipped V dancing down his pelvis. There’s a tattoo going over that area too though, in big Old English font. My eyes dart to his left rib cage where a paragraph is inked in cursive. He also has two full sleeves of tattoos—no color, just grey and white—and what looks

On my plate, I had found a large cream-colored card describing the entire four-course menu in cursive script. Salad, shrimp scampi, chicken parmesan with pasta, and vanilla ice cream. The president began by admiring his own menu card, which he held up. “They write these things out one at a time, by hand,” he marveled, referring to the White House staff. “A calligrapher,” I replied, nodding. He looked quizzical. “They write them by hand,” he repeated.

Mrs. Miller in her smock dresses, and round wire glasses, was done battling with me. Already we’d had it out over my sneezing too loud, talking too much, reading ahead, and disputing her assertion that we must all write every paper in cursive because it would be required of us in high school and college. I didn’t mind rules, but I didn’t appreciate being lied to by adults, and when I saw or heard it happening, I couldn’t shut up. Mrs. Miller desperately wanted me to shut up. And if I’m honest, I enjoyed making her feel that way.

And I think of Emily Dickinson, and my favorite poem about death, and the line that reads "I could not see to see." This is the line Ms. Sylvia copied onto the board in her beautiful cursive, which spirals away like blindweed tendrils, and then she asked the class what it might mean. I didn't even have to think about it. I just knew. To see to see, which is not exactly what Dickinson wrote, means knowing how to look. How to look to understand. How to look without your eyes. And to die, is not to see at all. Of course, I didn't actually say this out loud.

Tea Rose (Perfumer's Workshop) **** green rose $ Composed in 1972, Tea Rose was the first fragrance signed by the great Annie Buzantian (Pleasures), and was in many ways the first niche fragrance: the Perfumer's Workshop did nothing but fragrances, had a small range, was fairly hard to find, and had a devoted following. Tea Rose was and is a rose soliflore that illustrates how complex a composition must be before it can actually claim to smell of rose. The rose it depicts is huge, painted in watercolor, and has the species name written below it in cursive. LT

In relation to “Killing Me Softly,” I was surely a poseur, the kind of coward to whom crossover albums were marketed or, worse yet, someone co-opting someone else’s bad experience. And yet, now, in the Tower Records, I understood that there was a sense in which “Killing Me Softly” was just a song—it itself wasn’t the cursive font in which the titles were printed, which made me think of a tattoo, and caused me to feel sheltered and useless. I ended up buying the cassette single, because it was only two dollars, and because it seemed more honest about just being into the most popular song on the album.

On your left you can see the Stationary Circus in all its splendor! Not far nor wide will you find dancing bears more nimble than ours, ringmasters more masterful, Lunaphants more buoyant!” September looked down and leftward as best she could. She could see the dancing bears, the ringmaster blowing peonies out of her mouth like fire, an elephant floating in the air, her trunk raised, her feet in mid-foxtrot—and all of them paper. The skin of the bears was all folded envelopes; they stared out of sealing-wax eyes. The ringmaster wore a suit of birthday invitations dazzling with balloons and cakes and purple-foil presents; her face was a telegram. Even the elephant seemed to be made up of cast-off letterheads from some far-off office, thick and creamy and stamped with sure, bold letters. A long, sweeping trapeze swung out before them. Two acrobats held on, one made of grocery lists, the other of legal opinions. September could see Latin on the one and lemons, ice, bread (not rye!), and lamb chops on the other in a cursive hand. When they let go of the trapeze-bar, they turned identical flips in the air and folded out into paper airplanes, gliding in circles all the way back down to the peony-littered ring. September gasped and clapped her hands—but the acrobats were already long behind them, bowing and catching paper roses in their paper teeth.

My hand lingers in spite of itself; a hovering dragonfly above a cluster of dainties. A Plexiglas tray with a lid protects them; the name of each piece is lettered on the lid in fine, cursive script. The names are entrancing: Bitter orange cracknell. Apricot marzipan roll. Cerisette russe. White rum truffle. Manon blanc. Nipples of Venus. I feel myself flushing beneath the mask. How could anyone order something with a name like that? And yet they look wonderful, plumply white in the light of my torch, tipped with darker chocolate. I take one from the top of the tray. I hold it beneath my nose; it smells of cream and vanilla. No one will know. I realize that I have not eaten chocolate since I was a boy, more years ago than I can remember, and even then it was a cheap grade of chocolat à croquer, fifteen percent cocoa solids- twenty for the dark- with a sticky aftertaste of fat and sugar. Once or twice I bought Süchard from the supermarket, but at five times the price of the other, it was a luxury I could seldom afford. This is different altogether; the brief resistance of the chocolate shell as it meets the lips, the soft truffle inside.... There are layers of flavor like the bouquet of a fine wine, a slight bitterness, a richness like ground coffee; warmth brings the flavor to life, and it fills my nostrils, a taste succubus that has me moaning.

COOKBOOK FOR THE MODERN HOUSEWIFE The cover was red with a subtle crosshatch pattern and distressed, the book's title stamped in black ink- all of it faded with age. Bordering the cookbook's cover were hints of what could be found inside. Alice tilted her head as she read across, down, across, and up the cover's edges. Rolls. Pies. Luncheon. Drinks. Jams. Jellies. Poultry. Soup. Pickles. 725 Tested Recipes. Resting the spine on her bent knees, the cookbook dense yet fragile in her hands, Alice opened it carefully. There was an inscription on the inside cover. Elsie Swann, 1940. Going through the first few, age-yellowed pages, Alice glanced at charts for what constituted a balanced diet in those days: milk products, citrus fruits, green and yellow vegetables, breads and cereals, meat and eggs, the addition of a fish liver oil, particularly for children. Across from it, a page of tips for housewives to avoid being overwhelmed and advice for hosting successful dinner parties. Opening to a page near the back, Alice found another chart, this one titled Standard Retail Beef Cutting Chart, a picture of a cow divided by type of meat, mini drawings of everything from a porterhouse-steak cut to the disgusting-sounding "rolled neck." Through the middle were recipes for Pork Pie, Jellied Tongue, Meat Loaf with Oatmeal, and something called Porcupines- ground beef and rice balls, simmered for an hour in tomato soup and definitely something Alice never wanted to try- and plenty of notes written in faded cursive beside some of the recipes. Comments like Eleanor's 13th birthday-delicious! and Good for digestion and Add extra butter. Whoever this Elsie Swann was, she had clearly used the cookbook regularly. The pages were polka-dotted in brown splatters and drips, evidence it had not sat forgotten on a shelf the way cookbooks would in Alice's kitchen.

She remembers standing at her locker, hearing the whispers. Whispers about her. And about Luke. She remembers turning and seeing Dani and Lynn with a group of girls they knew from Yearbook. She remembers not understanding right away. And then Dani stared her down, eyes narrowed to slits. When Hallelujah dropped her gaze, she heard Lynn’s peal of laughter. “So anyway,” Lynn went on, “Luke said . . .” She remembers the note, in English class. “You knew I liked him.” Dani’s clean cursive. Hallelujah stared at her friend’s back. Dani didn’t turn around. And she didn’t respond to calls or emails in the weeks that followed. By winter break, Dani was dating Luke. The rumors about Hallelujah had circulated and changed and circulated again. Still, on the first day of the new semester, she mustered up the courage to say something. To warn her former friend about who Luke really was. Dani laughed in her face. Called her jealous. Luke dumped Dani in February. Dani and Lynn still refused to speak to Hallelujah. It was like they’d never been friends at all.

Hanging around them made Charlie feel like maybe there wasn’t anything wrong with her. It didn’t matter if she didn’t fit in at school, or that her body kept changing on her. It was okay when her best friend’s parents took one look at Charlie and clocked her for trouble. When even Laura herself, who’d known her since she was eight, started acting weird. It was fine that she’d given up hoping her mother would notice there was something strange about Rand taking her on trips all the time. All those people who judged her or couldn’t be bothered with her were marks. She’d have the last laugh. “You gotta be like a shark in this business,” Benny told her with his soft voice and slicked-back hair. “Sniff around for blood in the water. Greet life teeth first. And no matter what, never stop swimming.” Charlie took that advice and the money from her last job with Rand and got a tattoo. She’d wanted one, and she’d also wanting to know if she could con a shop into giving her ink, even though she was three years away from eighteen. It involved some fast talking and swiping a notary sigil, but she got it done. Her first tattoo. It was still a little bit sore when she moved. Along her inner arm was the word “fearless” in looping cursive letters, except the tattooist had spaced them oddly so that it looked as though it said “fear less.” It reminded her of what she wanted to be, and that her body belonged to her. She could write all over it if she wanted.

BEST FRIENDS SHOULD BE TOGETHER We’ll get a pair of those half-heart necklaces so every ask n’ point reminds us we are one glued duo. We’ll send real letters like our grandparents did, handwritten in smart cursive curls. We’ll extend cell plans and chat through favorite shows like a commentary track just for each other. We’ll get our braces off on the same day, chew whole packs of gum. We’ll nab some serious studs but tell each other everything. Double-date at a roadside diner exactly halfway between our homes. Cry on shoulders when our boys fail us. We’ll room together at State, cover the walls floor-to-ceiling with incense posters of pop dweebs gone wry. See how beer feels. Be those funny cute girls everybody’s got an eye on. We’ll have a secret code for hot boys in passing. A secret dog named Freshman Fifteen we’ll have to hide in the rafters during inspection. Follow some jam band one summer, grooving on lawns, refusing drugs usually. Get tattoos that only spell something when we stand together. I’ll be maid of honor in your wedding and you’ll be co-maid with my sister but only cause she’d disown me if I didn’t let her. We’ll start a store selling just what we like. We’ll name our firstborn daughters after one another, and if our husbands don’t like it, tough. Lifespans being what they are, we’ll be there for each other when our men have passed, and all the friends who come to visit our assisted living condo will be dazzled by what fun we still have together. We’ll be the kind of besties who make outsiders wonder if they’ve ever known true friendship, but we won’t even notice how sad it makes them and they won’t bring it up because you and I will be so caught up in the fun, us marveling at how not-good it never was.

Would the pair of you like to turn your backs so you exclude us more effectively?” Jode asks. “We’re just adding to the list.” I hold up my journal. “Daryn.” Gideon shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed. “It’s our list.” “A list?” Jode leans back, resting his head against his bag. “What’s this list about?” Rather than explain it, I just lean over and give it to him. Gideon puts his hand over his heart and winces. “I hate sharing, Martin.” I lean up, whispering in his ear. “Some things are only for you.” He gives me a long unblinking look that makes my face burn and my body feel light and hot. “This is an outrage,” Jode says dryly. “I’m in here once and Gideon is here … two, three, four times?” “Three,” I say. “The last one doesn’t really count.” “Oh, it counts,” Gideon says. “How many times am I in it?” Marcus asks. “Are you guys making this a competition?” “Of course.” “Yeah.” “Definitely. And I’m dominating.” “For real,” Marcus says. “How many times am I on there?” “Once, like me. For your winning smile.” Jode closes the notebook and tosses it to Marcus. “But don’t let it go to your head. Gideon’s arse has a spot on the list as well.” Gideon looks at me and winks. “Like I said, dominating.” “Dare, you got a pen?” Marcus asks. This catches me by surprise for a moment. “Yes.” I toss it to him, smiling. This is perfect. Whatever he adds, it’s already perfect. As Marcus writes, Jode leans back and gazes up at the trees. “You’re thinking it’ll be five for you after this. Aren’t you, Gideon?” “You know me well, Ellis.” Marcus finishes writing. He sets the pen in the fold and hands the journal to Gideon. I lean in and read. Marcus’s handwriting is elegant cursive—almost astonishingly elegant. And what he wrote is, as expected, perfection. Even better is that Gideon reads it aloud. “‘Twenty-eight. The family you make.’” He looks at Marcus. “Damn right, bro. This is the best one here.” He looks at me. “Tied with fourteen.” “Ah, yes,” Jode says. “Gideon’s Super Lips.” Marcus shakes his head at me. “Why?” “It was a mistake. I wrote it before the list went public. What’s your addition, Jode? It can be anything. Anything that has significance to you.” “Full English breakfast,” he says, without missing a beat. “Bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato, mushrooms, toast, marmalade. With tea, of course. One of life’s undeniable pleasures.” My mouth instantly waters. “Well, it’s no trail mix, but all right.” I add “English Breakfast” to the list.

Thomas (his middle name) is a fifth-grader at the highly competitive P.S. 334, the Anderson School on West 84th in New York City. Slim as they get, Thomas recently had his long sandy-blond hair cut short to look like the new James Bond (he took a photo of Daniel Craig to the barber). Unlike Bond, he prefers a uniform of cargo pants and a T-shirt emblazoned with a photo of one of his heroes: Frank Zappa. Thomas hangs out with five friends from the Anderson School. They are “the smart kids.” Thomas is one of them, and he likes belonging. Since Thomas could walk, he has constantly heard that he’s smart. Not just from his parents but from any adult who has come in contact with this precocious child. When he applied to Anderson for kindergarten, his intelligence was statistically confirmed. The school is reserved for the top 1 percent of all applicants, and an IQ test is required. Thomas didn’t just score in the top 1 percent. He scored in the top 1 percent of the top 1 percent. But as Thomas has progressed through school, this self-awareness that he’s smart hasn’t always translated into fearless confidence when attacking his schoolwork. In fact, Thomas’s father noticed just the opposite. “Thomas didn’t want to try things he wouldn’t be successful at,” his father says. “Some things came very quickly to him, but when they didn’t, he gave up almost immediately, concluding, ‘I’m not good at this.’ ” With no more than a glance, Thomas was dividing the world into two—things he was naturally good at and things he wasn’t. For instance, in the early grades, Thomas wasn’t very good at spelling, so he simply demurred from spelling out loud. When Thomas took his first look at fractions, he balked. The biggest hurdle came in third grade. He was supposed to learn cursive penmanship, but he wouldn’t even try for weeks. By then, his teacher was demanding homework be completed in cursive. Rather than play catch-up on his penmanship, Thomas refused outright. Thomas’s father tried to reason with him. “Look, just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you don’t have to put out some effort.” (Eventually, Thomas mastered cursive, but not without a lot of cajoling from his father.) Why does this child, who is measurably at the very top of the charts, lack confidence about his ability to tackle routine school challenges? Thomas is not alone. For a few decades, it’s been noted that a large percentage of all gifted students (those who score in the top 10 percent on aptitude tests) severely underestimate their own abilities. Those afflicted with this lack of perceived competence adopt lower standards for success and expect less of themselves. They underrate the importance of effort, and they overrate how much help they need from a parent.

experience, and to our consequent estrangement from the earthly world around us. So the ancient Hebrews, on the one hand, and the ancient Greeks on the other, are variously taken to task for providing the mental context that would foster civilization’s mistreatment of nonhuman nature. Each of these two ancient cultures seems to have sown the seeds of our contemporary estrangement—one seeming to establish the spiritual or religious ascendancy of humankind over nature, the other effecting a more philosophical or rational dissociation of the human intellect from the organic world. Long before the historical amalgamation of Hebraic religion and Hellenistic philosophy in the Christian New Testament, these two bodies of belief already shared—or seem to have shared—a similar intellectual distance from the nonhuman environment. In every other respect these two traditions, each one originating out of its own specific antecedents, and in its own terrain and time, were vastly different. In every other respect, that is, but one: they were both, from the start, profoundly informed by writing. Indeed, they both made use of the strange and potent technology which we have come to call “the alphabet.” — WRITING, LIKE HUMAN LANGUAGE, IS ENGENDERED NOT ONLY within the human community but between the human community and the animate landscape, born of the interplay and contact between the human and the more-than-human world. The earthly terrain in which we find ourselves, and upon which we depend for all our nourishment, is shot through with suggestive scrawls and traces, from the sinuous calligraphy of rivers winding across the land, inscribing arroyos and canyons into the parched earth of the desert, to the black slash burned by lightning into the trunk of an old elm. The swooping flight of birds is a kind of cursive script written on the wind; it is this script that was studied by the ancient “augurs,” who could read therein the course of the future. Leaf-miner insects make strange hieroglyphic tabloids of the leaves they consume. Wolves urinate on specific stumps and stones to mark off their territory. And today you read these printed words as tribal hunters once read the tracks of deer, moose, and bear printed in the soil of the forest floor. Archaeological evidence suggests that for more than a million years the subsistence of humankind has depended upon the acuity of such hunters, upon their ability to read the traces—a bit of scat here, a broken twig there—of these animal Others. These letters I print across the page, the scratches and scrawls you now focus upon, trailing off across the white surface, are hardly different from the footprints of prey left in the snow. We read these traces with organs honed over millennia by our tribal ancestors, moving instinctively from one track to the next, picking up the trail afresh whenever it leaves off, hunting the meaning, which would be the meeting with the Other.2

The 'square' character (of the Hebrew language) indeed seems to have arisen out of the Palmyrene script .. No doubt Aramaic was written in Babylonia before it was written in Canaan, and it was Aramaic influence which gradually changed the Phoenician cursive script into the uncial character.

Dissociation stopped any capacity for her to learn from experience, to foresee, to protect. Abby walked the path of her life unable to recognize or anticipate the quicksand of her abuse, but once there, instinct born of experience took over. Like new babies in a pool of water knowing how to kick and reach for the surface, Abby's impulses helped her swim through the trauma. In the summer after third grade, she knew phonics, cursive, and the multiplication tables as well as silence and compliance in the secret room.

We never belonged to a country we could sell out.' By the time Jeong-il made that declaration, he had achieved perfect grades and attendance for eight years running, could correctly pronounce 'certainly' in English, explain the present perfect tense, and read and write cursive letters. Not to mention he had never shoplifted, shaken anyone down for money, or gotten in a fistfight. He avoided people altogether. Jeong-il was always alone. Even the teachers didn't know how to relate to him. None of my other friends tried to get to know him either.

Someone—Tony or Warner Bros.?—had decided that the grueling schedule and the added tension in the band might be alleviated somewhat by the relative comfort of bus touring versus Old Blue. It was a nice idea. It might have even been a gambit to see if the camaraderie of sharing a luxurious living situation might heal the band’s broken bonds. So we loaded all of our gear into the parking lot behind our apartment and waited for our new accommodations to arrive. Everyone, I think even Jay, was excited about the prospect of spending at least some small part of our lives seeing what it was like to tour in style. That was until he laid eyes on the Ghost Rider. What we were picturing was sleek and non-ostentatious like the buses we had seen parked in front of theaters at sold-out shows by the likes of R.E.M. or the Replacements. Instead, what we got was one of Kiss’s old touring coaches—a seventies-era Silver Eagle decked out with an airbrushed mural in a style I can only describe as “black-light poster–esque,” depicting a pirate ship buffeted by a stormy sea with a screaming skeleton standing in the crow’s nest holding a Gibson Les Paul aloft and being struck by lightning. The look on Jay’s face was tragic. I felt bad for him. This was not a serious vehicle. I’m not sure how we talked him into climbing aboard, and once we did, I have no idea how we got him to stay, because the interior was even worse. White leather, mirrored ceilings, and a purple neon sign in the back lounge informing everyone, in cursive, that they were aboard the “Ghost Rider” lest they forget. So we embarked upon Uncle Tupelo’s last tour learning how to sleep while being shot at eighty miles per hour down the highway inside a metal box that looked like the VIP room at a strip club and made us all feel like we were living inside a cocaine straw. Ghost Rider indeed.

She wrote a note on her clipboard, her cursive like soap bubbles blown from a pen.

He listens to her stories, really listens. Later he tucks her in, traces a cursive message on her bare back when she can't sleep: I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.

It was almost as if she had VIRGIN written in cursive across her forehead. Demi possessed an innocence so sweet that most people thought she was fragile, but she really wasn’t.

Nu există teme nebolnave, dacă e să trăiești cursiv.

Writing was the same, the pinching of thoughts into marks on paper and trying to keep your cursive legible, trying to think of the next thing to say and then behind you on several sheets of paper you find you have left permanent tracks, a trail, upon which anybody could follow you. Stalking you through your deep woods of private thought. Adair

On the kitchen counter, she'd set out the ingredients: Flour bag, sugar box, two brown eggs nestled in the grooves between tiles. A yellow block of butter blurring at the edges. A shallow glass bowl of lemon peel. I toured the row. This was the week of my ninth birthday, and it had been a long day at school of cursive lessons, which I hated, and playground yelling about point scoring, and the sunlit kitchen and my warm-eyed mother were welcome arms, open. I dipped a finger into the wax baggie of brown-sugar crystals, murmured yes, please, yes.

Mrs. Kelly wore her glasses on a chain around her neck and had a piece of tissue tucked in her sleeve. And the only decorations on the classroom walls were a poster that said READ and a chart showing how all the letters of the alphabet looked in cursive. “Now,

Taking it in my hands, I flipped the cover, heart stalling at the title page. At my name scrawled over and over again in a teenaged cursive, dotted with little pink hearts. I ran my thumb over those tiny annotations like I could draw the ink directly into my veins. I looked at her face again, and made a decision. Screw it. I was going for it.

Slurring is the cursive of speech, I observed.

cursive.

It’s only the second week of school, and Mrs. Fisher has already noticed that my handwriting is not neat. By not neat, I mean it looks like a dying chicken dragged a pencil across the page because it was stapled to his leg. And that’s when I print. You should see my cursive.

My family had written stories about places in ranch history. We used the slanting penmanship of fence lines scribbling their way across dunes, the sweeping cursive of cut hay in the meadow below the barn, and the well-placed punctuation of windmills and water holes over the range.

Beth’s body was written in cursive. Elegant, flowing lines that curved and dipped as they went from commonality to art. She was abstract poetry; prose that I’d never forget. Structured, yet fluid. The meandering form that created life was a lyric I wanted to be stuck in my head all day.

The stars in the sky Unhidden by night Souls of our loved ones Guide us by sight But when dawn breaks Bringing day’s light Remain in our hearts And all wrongs become right. Below it, written in silver cursive against a black splotch, it read: I’ll see you in the night …

Bennie knew her mother had loved her long after she was well enough to say so, though she barely remembered her mother’s caring for her as a child. Bennie guessed her mother had performed the routine functions that mothers do every day, for there had been evidence of it. Bennie had won awards in elementary school, tiny pins like tie tacks that lay ignored in her jewelry box, for getting good grades and having good penmanship. She had stumbled across one of the tacks this morning, dressing for her mother’s funeral, and it jarred loose a single memory: her mother teaching her cursive writing at the kitchen table, a fleeting picture of the rounded circles and elongated loops of

And the posture of the older oak trees reaching toward this sky had a jut, a wildness and entitlement, predating permanent settlement; memories of an unfenced world were written in the cursive of their branches.

Edith did her writing in bed, “after bath and before breakfast,” as she once told a friend. On a typical morning she’d wake with the sun, prop herself up against her pillows—she liked goose down, and a delicate linen sheeting—lean her writing board across her knees, and work steadily until noon, filling sheaves of foolscap with her neatly looped cursive, letting each page drop to the floor as soon as she’d finished. Afterward, while she lunched with houseguests outside on the terrace, her secretary would gather the mess of fallen papers and type them into order.

Incline, Cursive or Kursiv. Therefore it is not a simple problem

The first slips of snow white unlined paper, six inches by four, and covered with William Minor’s neat, elaborately cursive, and so distinctively American handwriting in greenish black ink, began to drift out from the Broadmoor post room in the spring of 1885.

Beware of the hound He’s never been tamed Like cursive writing With a long last name Always hungry Scratchin’ at fleas Beware of the dog Wont’cha please   Beware of the cat He’s a little neurotic Like a moonshine high On antibiotics Always climbing In an old oak tree Beware of the cat Wont’cha please   Beware of the snake He’s a little greasy Like Delta Blues Or the Ole Big Easy Always crawlin’ Ain’t got no knees Beware of the snake Wont’cha please   Beware of the rabbit He’s always listenin’ Like a nosey neighbor Or a normal Christian Always eager Ill at ease Beware of the rabbit Wont’cha please   Beware of the man Born too rich Like the Bubonic plague He’s a son of a bitch Always selling Filled with greed Beware of the man Wont’cha please    

There was the jewelled boy with the voice of a nightingale, after all; some sort of modern Bagoas who’d been enchanted to life for an Emperor with alchemy, a blood pact and a bird’s fresh heart, small and slippery as a newly-plucked cherry. When our hero had been a prince, nightingale hearts had been a local delicacy; he remembers the crunch of them between his teeth and gags. The boy was called Artemis and he spoke in cursive, ink and hands, paper and air; the first time he signed shyly in our hero’s direction it was as though his name had been rewritten anew in artificial bone and muscle.

Molly holds the coat up, inspecting it. It’s interesting, actually, sort of a military style with bold black buttons. The gray silk lining is disintegrating. Going through the pockets, she fishes out a folded piece of lined paper, almost worn away at the creases. She unfolds it to reveal a child’s careful cursive in faint pencil, practicing the same sentence over and over again: Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right . . . Vivian takes it from her and spreads the paper open on her knee. “I remember this. Miss Larsen had the most beautiful penmanship.” “Your teacher?” Vivian nods. “Try as I might, I could never form my letters like hers.