Da Baby Quotes

I've tried to get the angel to watch MTV so I can learn the vocabulary of your music, but even with the gift of tongues, I'm having trouble learning to speak hip-hop. Why is it that one can busta rhyme or busta move anywhere but you must busta cap in someone's ass? Is "ho" always feminine, and "muthafucka" always masculine, while "bitch" can be either? How many peeps in a posse, how much booty before baby got back, do you have to be all that to get all up in that, and do I need to be dope and phat to be da bomb or can I just be "stupid"? I'll not be singing over any dead mothers until I understand.

I worked very hard after that. I took as much of Da's work as I could. I didn't want to make a row of dead babies and die.

The trouble with a baby, for writists, is that they take away your useful melancholy, even the energy to invent some.

Rouz je bila na mojoj strani onako kako niko nikada nije bio na mojoj strani. Rouz je bila dobrovoljac. Bilo joj je stalo do mene. Voleci me, ona me je oslobodila. Bio sam slobodan da budem ono sto jesam. Nije u meni videla samo coveka kakav jesam, nego i coveka kakav bi mogao da budem. Voleci me, ucinila je da poverujem da bi moji snovi mogli da postanu stvarnost.

Why is it that one can busta rhyme or busta move anywhere but you must busta cap in someone's ass? Is "ho" always feminine and "muthafucka" always masculine, while "bitch" can be either? How many peeps in a posse, how much booty before baby got back, do you have to be all that to get all up in that, and do I need to be dope and phat to be da bomb or can I just be "stupid"?

Weißt du, Jimmy, ich glaube, es wird ganz lustig sein, ein Weilchen in einer Redaktion zu sitzen." "Ich fände es schon sehr lustig, wenn ich _irgendwo_ sitzen dürfte... Na ja, da bleibe ich eben zu Haus und passe auf das Baby auf." "Sei nicht so verbittert, Jimmy, es ist ja nur vorübergehend." "Das ganze Leben ist nur vorübergehend." (S. 250)

Liegst du niemals nachts wach, vom Angstschweiß ganz nass, und fragst dich, was du da eigentlich machst? Und wofür überhaupt? Warum gibst du nicht auf?

Todo seguía igual que cuando dio el primer grito dentro de aquel casillero. Quizás ahora el casillero era más grande; esta tenía piscina y jardín, había un grupo de gente paseándose media desnuda y se permitía tener mascotas… Sí, tenía todo tipo de tonterías: museos, cines, clínicas psiquiátricas, pero seguía siendo un enorme casillero de monedas, y por muchas capas de camuflaje que te pongas a traspasar, si es que te da por traspasarlas, al final vuelves a estamparte contra una pared.

Thinking about anything interesting?” I shrug and force my brain to stay with safer topics. “I didn’t know you could feed a baby Thai food.” Babydoll shovels a handful of shredded food into her mouth and swings her legs happily. She talks with her mouth full and half falls out. “Ah-da-da-da-da-da.” There’s a noodle in her hair, and Kristin reaches out to pull it free. Geoff scoops some coconut rice onto his plate and tops it with a third serving of beef. “What do you think they feed babies in Thailand?” I aim a chopstick in his direction. “Point.” Rev smiles. “Some kid in Bangkok is probably watching his mom tear up a hamburger, saying ‘I didn’t know you could feed a baby American food.’” “Well,” says Geoff. “Culturally—” “It was a joke

Transmogrification,” Langdon said. “The vestiges of pagan religion in Christian symbology are undeniable. Egyptian sun disks became the halos of Catholic saints. Pictograms of Isis nursing her miraculously conceived son Horus became the blueprint for our modern images of the Virgin Mary nursing Baby Jesus. And virtually all the elements of the Catholic ritual—the miter, the altar, the doxology, and communion, the act of “God-eating”—were taken directly from earlier pagan mystery religions.

It's worth remembering that [having a baby] is not of vital use to you as a woman. Yes, you could learn thousands of interesting things about love, strength, faith, fear, human relationships, genetic loyalty, and the effect of apricots on an immune digestive system. But I don't think there's a single lesson that motherhood has to offer that couldn't be learned elsewhere. If you want to know what's in motherhood for you, as a woman, then-in truth-it's nothing you couldn't get from, say, reading the 100 greatest books in human history; learning a foreign language well enough to argue in it; climbing hills; loving recklessly; sitting quietly, alone, in the dawn; drinking whiskey with revolutionaries; learning to do close-hand magic; swimming in a river in the winter; growing foxgloves, peas, and roses; calling your mum; singing while you walk; being polite; and always, always helping strangers. No one has ever claimed for a minute that childless men have missed out on a vital aspect of their existence, and were the poorer and crippled by it. Da Vinci, Van Gogh, Newton, Faraday, Plato, Aquinas, Beethoven, Handel, Kant, Hume, Jesus. They all seem to have managed quite well.

RIDE A WHITE SWAN" "Ride it on out like a bird in the skyway, Ride it on out like you were a bird, Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam, Ride it all out like you were a bird. Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, Wear your hair long,babe,you can't go wrong. Catch a bright star and place it on your forehead, Say a few spells and baby,there you go, Take a black cat and sit it on your shoulder, And in the morning you'll know all you know. Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane, Wear your hair long, babe ,you can't go wrong. Da di di da, da di di da

Dusk era felice di avere gli occhiali da sole, perché sentì il rossore imporporargli il viso, al pensiero che quei ragazzini lo avessero visto inginocchiato davanti a Lolly in un vicolo. Ad ogni modo, era successo, e non poteva di certo tornare indietro. Dusk sollevò la mano di Lolly per baciarla alla ricerca di un po’ di coraggio. «’Fanculo a quello che dicono, Baby Blue. Solo noi abbiamo il potere di definire chi siamo.»

You’ll win her with ya Irish charm and green eyes, so ya will. Now drink up ya coffee and stop whining like a baby. This girl’s gonna have a fantastic night tomorrow. She’s gonna worship da ground ya c**k drags on.

The first music I ever heard was only one hundred and sixty days after I was conceived. Da dum Da dum Da dum Have you ever heard the sound a blessing makes? This is it. The first thing I ever saw was only one hundred and eighty days after I was conceived. It was a bright light soft like clouds warm like candles. Have you ever seen the colour of a blessing? This is it. The first time I ever suffered was in the three thousand and sixty seconds after I was born. I listened for her heartbeat. I searched for her light. I cried for the first time until she was born. Have you ever known a blessing? A twin is it.

Alessandro watched as Luke burrowed his nose in the snow and then shook his small body. “Well, that depends on whether you want a male or a female horse.” “Mmm. I tink I want a boy horsie. Girl horsies have babies and dat’s too much trouble.” Alessandro bit back a laugh. “Male horse it is then. Let’s see. My favourite horse’s name is Abbott.” “A But?” Will asked laughing. “Abbott,” Alessandro corrected. “Chimney,” Will suddenly decided, stopping. Alessandro blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Chimney’?” “It make sense,” Will assured him. “Santa come down da chimney and he is my pesent, right? So his name be Chimney.” “I agree. Quite logical,” Alessandro nodded. “Well, dat one ting on my list. Der be more.” “Duly noted,” he said.

The hardest part is keeping track of all the characters. We change almost a dozen names to reduce confusion. Two different characters have the last name Zhang, and four have the last name Li. Athena differentiates them by giving them different first names, which she only occasionally uses, and other names that I assume are nicknames (A Geng, A Zhu; unless A is a last name and I’m missing something), or Da Liu and Xiao Liu, which throws me for a loop because I thought Liu was a last name, so what are Da and Xiao doing there? Why are so many of the female characters named Xiao as well? And if they’re family names, does that mean everyone is related? Is this a novel about incest? But the easy fix is to give them all distinct monikers, and I spend hours scrolling through pages on Chinese history and baby name sites to find names that will be culturally appropriate.

Mel arrived, carrying Emma and holding David’s pudgy little hand as he toddled in the door. He spied Jack and said, “Da!” When Jack saw her, his eyes grew warm. It hadn’t changed for him since the first day she’d walked into his bar. She was so damn beautiful, so sexy, even with a baby on her shoulder and a toddler in hand. And though she was still complaining about her figure since Emma was born, the jeans she was wearing sure didn’t look any larger to him—those jeans just set him on fire. He was pretty sure that when she was old and gray, he still wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her. He walked around the bar and crouched for David. He put out his hands. “Come on, cowboy. Come to Dad.” Mel let go of the hand and watched as Davie literally flew into his father’s arms. She laughed at his eagerness, his clumsiness, and her eyes glowed as he fell into his father’s arms.

Mona Lisa and her husband lost a baby. Sometime later, her husband commissioned this painting from da Vinci to celebrate the birth of another baby. Mona Lisa sat for Leonardo to paint her, but she wouldn’t smile during the sitting. Not all the way. The story goes that da Vinci wanted her to smile wider, but she refused. She did not want the joy she felt for her new baby to erase the pain she felt from losing the first. There in her half smile is her half joy. Or maybe it’s her full joy and her full grief all at the same time. She has the look of a woman who has just realized a dream but still carries the lost dream inside her. She wanted her whole life to be present on her face. She wanted everyone to remember, so she wouldn’t pretend.

Non ho scritto questo libro per raccontare storie di ieri. È un discorso che faccio OGGI basandomi sul materiale dell’occupazione di Kiev, di cui casualmente sono stato testimone. Ma fenomeni analoghi accadono sulla Terra anche oggi, e non c’è nessunissima garanzia che non si ripresentino in forme ancor più sinistre domani. Non c’è la minima garanzia. Vogliamo contare quanta parte della popolazione della Terra vive oggi sotto sistemi basati sulla violenza? Il mondo non ha imparato niente. Il mondo è diventato più cupo. Si sta riempiendo di marionette ingannate, di automi programmati che con occhi estatici sono pronti a sparare contro qualsiasi bersaglio indichino i loro leader, a calpestare qualsiasi paese dove li mandino, ed è terrificante pensare alle armi che hanno in mano oggi. Se si grida loro in faccia: “Vi hanno ingannati, siete solo carne da macello e strumenti nelle mani di farabutti”, non sentono. Dicono: “Malevole calunnie”. Se si portano loro i fatti, semplicemente non ci credono. Dicono: “Non c’è mai stato nulla del genere”.

Continuo a pensare, a pensare, e comincia a sembrarmi che le persone sensibili e intelligenti che vivranno dopo di noi, se poi ce ne saranno, faticheranno a capire come tutto ciò sia potuto accadere, stenteranno a capire la nascita dell’idea stessa dell’omicidio, e a maggior ragione dell’omicidio di massa. Uccidere. In che senso? Perché? Come può annidarsi, questa idea, negli oscuri anfratti delle circonvoluzioni cerebrali di un comune essere umano, nato da una madre, un essere che è stato un bambino che succhiava al seno, che andava a scuola?… Comune come milioni di altri, con mani e piedi sui quali crescono le unghie, mentre sulle guance - se per esempio si tratta di un uomo - cresce la barba, un essere che si affligge, sorride, si guarda allo specchio, ama teneramente una donna, si brucia con un fiammifero, e per quel che lo riguarda non ha nessuna voglia di morire - insomma, comune in tutto, tranne che per una patologica mancanza di immaginazione. Un essere umano normale capisce che non solo lui, ma anche gli altri vogliono vivere. Alla vista, o anche solo al pensiero delle altrui sofferenze, s’immedesima, in ogni caso prova almeno un dolore morale. E alla fine non riuscirà ad alzare la mano per colpire”.

So he's right?" Sophia said. "From what I've read, yes. That was known back when you were...Never mind...Just...Technically he is right. Over." "Ick," Sophia said. "I just...Maybe calling you wasn't the best choice, Da. Over." "I'm glad you did. We never get to talk. But, I've got to get this straight. This Walker guy thinks she got pregnant from involuntary emissions on the damp bottom of a lifeboat? Over." "Yes," Sophia said. "She's...virgo intacta. And they're both...Like Olga said, only virgins could be that incoherent about it. Over." "You're not particularly incoherent about it, over." "You've been talking to us about it since we were kids in one way or another," Sophia said. "And let's just say this cruise has been a real eye-opener." "I'd say sorry but I didn't start the Plague. Okay, Walker. What's his medical background, over?" "I'm not sure," Sophia said. "He said he took a course once that included advanced midwifery. I'm not even sure what that means except it has to do with delivering babies." "God knows we're going to need it. Okay, I'm going to get the CDC to call you and see if they can confirm what you've said. I'm also going to pass this around in the official news bulletin. Over." "Uh, isn't this a little private, Da?" Sophia asked. "Well, it's that or every little old lady on the Boadicea will be beating him with their canes. Squadron, out.

Yesterday, after he had gone, they emerged into the verandah fresh from Moses and bursting with eagerness to tell me all about it. "Herr Schenk told us to-day about Moses," began the April baby, making a rush at me. "Oh?" "Yes, and a boser, boser Konig who said every boy must be deaded, and Moses was the allerliebster." "Talk English, my dear baby, and not such a dreadful mixture," I besought. "He wasn't a cat." "A cat?" "Yes, he wasn't a cat, that Moses—a boy was he." "But of course he wasn't a cat," I said with some severity; "no one ever supposed he was." "Yes, but mummy," she explained eagerly, with much appropriate hand- action, "the cook's Moses is a cat." "Oh, I see. Well?" "And he was put in a basket in the water, and that did swim. And then one time they comed, and she said—" "Who came? And who said?" "Why, the ladies; and the Konigstochter said, 'Ach hormal, da schreit so etwas.'" "In German?" "Yes, and then they went near, and one must take off her shoes and stockings and go in the water and fetch that tiny basket, and then they made it open, and that Kind did cry and cry and strampel so"—here both the babies gave such a vivid illustration of the strampeln that the verandah shook—"and see! it is a tiny baby. And they fetched somebody to give it to eat, and the Konigstochter can keep that boy, and further it doesn't go." "Do you love Moses, mummy?" asked the May baby, jumping into my lap, and taking my face in both her hands—one of the many pretty, caressing little ways of a very pretty, caressing little creature. "Yes," I replied bravely, "I love him." "Then I too!" they cried with simultaneous gladness, the seal having thus been affixed to the legitimacy of their regard for him.

He loves you,’ I said, and smoothed the tumbled hair off her flushed face. ‘He won’t stop.’ I got up, brushing yellow leaves from my skirt. ‘We’ll have a bit of time, then, but none to waste. Jamie can send word downriver, to keep an eye out for Roger. Speaking of Roger …’ I hesitated, picking a bit of dried fern from my sleeve. ‘I don’t suppose he knows about this, does he?’ Brianna took a deep breath, and her fist closed tight on the leaf in her hand, crushing it. ‘Well, see, there’s a problem about that,’ she said. She looked up at me, and suddenly she was my little girl again. ‘It isn’t Roger’s.’ ‘What?’ I said stupidly. ‘It. Isn’t. Roger’s. Baby,’ she said, between clenched teeth. I sank down beside her once more. Her worry over Roger suddenly took on new dimensions. ‘Who?’ I said. ‘Here, or there?’ Even as I spoke, I was calculating – it had to be someone here, in the past. If it had been a man in her own time, she’d be farther along than two months. Not only in the past, then, but here, in the Colonies. I wasn’t planning to have sex, she’d said. No, of course not. She hadn’t told Roger, for fear he would follow her – he was her anchor, her key to the future. But in that case – ‘Here,’ she said, confirming my calculations. She dug in the pocket of her skirt, and came out with something. She reached toward me, and I held out my hand automatically. ‘Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.’ The worn gold wedding band sparked in the sun, and my hand closed reflexively over it. It was warm from being carried next to her skin, but I felt a deep coldness seep into my fingers. ‘Bonnet?’ I said. ‘Stephen Bonnet?’ Her throat moved convulsively, and she swallowed, head jerking in a brief nod. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you – I couldn’t; not after Ian told me about what happened on the river. At first I didn’t know what Da would do; I was afraid he’d blame me. And then when I knew him a little better – I knew he’d try to find Bonnet – that’s what Daddy would have done. I couldn’t let him do that. You met that man, you know what he’s like.’ She was sitting in the sun, but a shudder passed over her, and she rubbed her arms as though she was cold. ‘I do,’ I said. My lips were stiff. Her words were ringing in my ears. I wasn’t planning to have sex. I couldn’t tell … I was afraid he’d blame me. ‘What did he do to you?’ I asked, and was surprised that my voice sounded calm. ‘Did he hurt you, baby?’ She grimaced, and pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them against herself. ‘Don’t call me that, okay? Not right now.’ I reached to touch her, but she huddled closer into herself, and I dropped my hand. ‘Do you want to tell me?’ I didn’t want to know; I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, too. She looked up at me, lips tightened to a straight white line. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I don’t want to. But I think I’d better.’ She had stepped aboard the Gloriana in broad daylight, cautious, but feeling safe by reason of the number of people around; loaders, seamen, merchants, servants – the docks bustled with life. She had told a seaman on the deck what she wanted; he had vanished into the recesses of the ship, and a moment later, Stephen Bonnet had appeared. He had on the same clothes as the night before; in the daylight, she could see that they were of fine quality, but stained and badly crumpled. Greasy candle wax had dripped on the silk cuff of his coat, and his jabot had crumbs in it. Bonnet himself showed fewer marks of wear than did his clothes; he was fresh-shaven, and his green eyes were pale and alert. They passed over her quickly, lighting with interest. ‘I did think ye comely last night by candlelight,’ he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘But a-many seem so when the drink is flowin’. It’s a good deal more rare to find a woman fairer in the sun than she is by the moon.

Altre città regalavano al primo venuto splendori e incantamenti, esaltanti proiezioni verso il passato o l'avvenire, febbrili pulsazioni, squisiti stimoli e diversivi; altre ancora offrivano riparo, consolazione, convivialità immediate. Ma per chi, come lui, preferiva vivere senza montarsi la testa, Torino, doveva riconoscerlo, era tagliata e squadrata su misura. A nessuno, qui, era consentito farsi illusioni: ci si ritrovava sempre, secondo la feroce immagine dei nativi, 'al pian dii babi', al livello di rospi. Si ripeté più volte la frase, con una specie di acre compiacimento: sapere, e mai dimenticare, di essere 'al pian di babii'; nient'altro, in fondo, pretendeva da te la città, che poi, una volta fatta la burbera tara del creato, stabilito il peso netto tuo e dell'universo, ti spalancava, se volevi profittarne, i suoi infiniti, deliranti spacchi prospettici.

Maracaibo, sei del mattino Un cappuccino e tuffo sul lettino Hola papito, no ablo español Andale andale Altro festino, cervello nel frigo Quanto sei figo capisci che dico Sarai il tattoo di cui mi pentirò Andale andale A casa in un posto straniero Dal cielo cade un desiderio A cento partiti da zero Andale andale

father was ashamed of the baby and left him with his mother.

Ich bin kein kleiner, pulsierender Punkt inmitten einer Kraterlandschaft, ich bin keine Wölbung, trete nicht von innen beherzt gegen eine Bauchdecke oder spiele in Ermangelung anderer Beschäftigungen mit der Nabelschnur herum, um schon einmal die Langeweile zu üben. Ich sorge ja noch nicht einmal für morgendliche Übelkeit. Dabei würde ich nichts lieber wollen, als so wunderbar wahllos und ausgeliefert vor mich hinzuwachsen. Dann hätte ich neun Monate Zeit, um mich auf alles vorzubereiten. Ich könnte mir zum Beispiel in Ruhe überlegen, was wohl mein erstes Wort sein soll, damit mir nicht im entscheidenden Moment doch nur wieder "Mama" oder "Ball" herausrutscht, das wäre mir unangenehm, da habe ich höhere Ansprüche.

but even with the gift of tongues, I’m having trouble learning to speak hip-hop. Why is it that one can busta rhyme or busta move anywhere but you must busta cap in someone’s ass? Is “ho” always feminine, and “muthafucka” always masculine, while “bitch” can be either? How many peeps in a posse, how much booty before baby got back, do you have to be all that to get all up in that, and do I need to be dope and phat to be da bomb or can I just be “stupid”? I’ll not be singing over any dead mothers until I understand. The

lil' baby man on da bbq

Atlantic City" Well, they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night And they blew up his house, too Down on the boardwalk, they're getting ready for a fight Gonna see what them racket boys can do Now there's trouble busing in from out of state And the D.A. can't get no relief Gonna be a rumble out on the promenade And the gambling commission's hanging on by the skin of its teeth Well, now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Well, I got a job and tried to put my money away But I got debts that no honest man can pay So I drew what I had from the Central Trust And I bought us two tickets on that Coast City bus Well, now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Now, our luck may have died, and our love may be cold But with you, forever, I'll stay We're going out where the sand's turning to gold So put on your stockings, baby, 'cause the night's getting cold And everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Now I been looking for a job, but it's hard to find Down here, it's just winners and losers and "Don't get caught on the wrong side of that line" Well, I'm tired of coming out on the losing end So, honey, last night, I met this guy, and I'm gonna do a little favor for him Well, now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City Bruce Springsteen, Nebraska (1982)

Ditte had sent me Back of the Front by Phyllis Campbell. I kept it in my desk and would read it when everyone else had left for the day. Her war was so different from the war in the papers. It is context, Da had always said, that gives meaning. German soldiers had skewered the babies of Belgian women, she wrote, then raped the women and cut off their breasts. I thought about all the German scholars whom Dr. Murray consulted about the Germanic etymology of so many English words. They had been silent since the start of the war. Or silenced. Could those gentle men of language do these things? And if a German could commit such acts, why not a Frenchman or an Englishman?

Mi sentivo scivolare Dalle labbra tutti i miei taboo Sempre di più Rossetto rosso amarena Rosso amarena Che mi hai lasciato quella sera Dura da una vita intera Quella bocca amarena Mi toccava a mala pena Pelle d'oca sulla schiena Indelebile, ti ho su di me Mille notti aspetto Di trovare un'altra te Un'altra stella nel mio letto Brucia come cenere A sapere che poi l'alba Ti avrebbe portata via Avrei detto a quelle labbra "Tu sei mia" Tu ti avvicinavi e io dicevo sì Alla fine varrà la pena arrivati fino a qui Sussurravi vestita di brividi Rosso amarena

Me l'hai detto mille volte Di non scriverti la notte Quando torno posso dirti una bugia Ma che male fa Mentre balli tra le ombre Con un velo di diamante sulla fronte Mi sorridi e poi vai via E ti seguo per un attimo come un pensiero Dove ti nascondi se cade il tuo impero Dimmi cosa vuoi dimenticare La luna taglia il cielo in verticale Stanotte siamo due frammenti di vetro Resti sulle labbra come un segreto Io non ti ho mai detto come amare E tu non mi hai mai detto come fare Come si fa a incontrarsi in un'altra città E se mi perdo questa notte vienimi a cercare Balliamo al buio come le falene Sotto una luna azzurra di Colombia Con il vento che suona una cumbia E ora non ho niente da perdere Ora che sei con me stasera Nella pioggia dell'estate o sotto al sole Portami via che non importa dove Portami via che non importa dove Portami via che non importa Yeah, I've been waiting for you all day And I don't want you to know I heard the door knock Gonna keep you here with me Working nine to five Gonna dance around you my way Come on let me lead you on It's all a friend It's a really bad idea But I'll put you in like I'm a tornado Baby we can stay here if we just lay low Know you can avoid me when I'm calling Yeah, you can you avoid me when I'm calling Stanotte siamo due frammenti di vetro Resti sulle labbra come un segreto Io non ti ho mai detto come amare E tu non mi hai mai detto come fare Come si fa a incontrarsi in un'altra città E se mi perdo questa notte vienimi a cercare Balliamo al buio come le falene Sotto una luna azzurra di Colombia Con il vento che suona una cumbia E ora non ho niente da perdere Ora che sei con me stasera Nella pioggia dell'estate o sotto al sole Portami via che non importa dove Portami via che non importa dove Me ne stavo così in un angolo Scapperai come gli altri ma tu no Just as long as you tell me where to run to We can escape tonight I want you Ma se mi perdo questa notte vienimi a cercare Balliamo al buio come le falene Sotto una luna azzurra di Colombia Con il vento che suona una cumbia E ora non ho niente da perdere Ora che sei con me stasera Nella pioggia dell'estate o sotto al sole Portami via che non importa dove Portami via che non importa dove Portami via che non importa "Falene

You can't cheat the game. You can't cheat the grind. You get out what you put in at the end of the day.

You can't cheat the game. You can't cheat the grind. You get out what you put in at the end of the day.

The Lottery by Stewart Stafford It was New York, 1984, The AIDS tsunami roared in, Friends, old overnight, no more, Breathless, I went for a check-up. A freezing winter's dawn, A solitary figure before me, What we called a drag queen, White heels trembled in the cold. "Hi, are you here to get tested?" Gum chewed, brown eyes stared. This was not my type of person, I turned heel and walked away. At month's end, a crippling flu, The grey testing centre called, Two hundred people ahead of me; A waking nightmare all too real. I gave up and turned to leave, But a familiar voice called out: "Hey, you there, come back!" I stopped and turned around. The drag queen stood there in furs, But sicker, I didn't recognise them, "Stand with me in the line, honey." "Nah, I'm fine, I'll come back again." "Support an old broad before she faints?" A voice no longer frail but pin-sharp. I got in line to impatient murmurs: "If anyone has a problem, see me!" Sylvester on boombox, graveyard choir. My pal's stage name was Carol DaRaunch, (After the Ted Bundy female survivor) Their real name was Ernesto Rodriguez. After seeing the doctor, Carol hugged me, Writing down their number on some paper, With their alias not their real name on it: "Is this the number of where you work?" "THAT is my home number to call me on. THAT'S my autograph, for when I'm famous!" "I was wrong about you, Carol," I said. "Baby, it takes time to get to know me!" A hug, shimmy, the threadbare blonde left. A silent chorus of shuffling dead men walking, Spartan results, a young man's death sentence. Real words faded rehearsal, my eyes watered. Two weeks on, I cautiously phoned up Carol. The receiver was picked up, dragging sounds, Like furniture being moved: "Is Carol there?" "That person is dead." They hung up on me. All my life's harsh judgements, dumped on Carol, Who was I to win life's lottery over a guardian angel? I still keep that old phone number forty years on, Crumpled, faded, portable guilt lives on in my wallet. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

The generation brought up during the Great Depression and the Second World War, still in measure steeped in the much-maligned Protestant work ethic, resolved to work hard and provide a more secure heritage for their children. And, in measure, they did. But the children, for whom the Depression and the War belonged to the relics of history, had nothing to live for but more “progress.” There was no grand vision, no taste of genuine want, and not much of the Protestant work ethic either.83 Soon the war in Vietnam became one of the central “causes” of that generation, but scarcely one that incited hard work, integrity in relationships, frugality, self-denial, and preparation for the next generation. That ’60s generation, the baby boomers, have now gone mainstream—but with a selfishness and consumerism that outstrips anything their parents displayed. There is no larger vision. Contrast a genuine Christian vision that lives life with integrity now because this life is never seen as more than the portal to the life to come, including perfect judgment from our Maker. At its best, such a stance, far from breeding withdrawal from the world, fosters industry, honest work for honest pay, frugality, generosity, provision for one’s children, honesty in personal relationships and in business relationships, the rule of law, a despising of greed. A “Protestant work ethic” of such a character I am happy to live with. Of course, a couple of generations later, when such a Christian vision has eroded, people may equate prosperity with God’s blessing, and with despicable religious cant protest that they are preparing for eternity when in their heart of hearts they are merely preparing for retirement. But a generation or two after that their children will expose their empty fatuousness. In any case, what has been lost is a genuinely Christian vision. This is not to say that such a vision will ensure prosperity. When it is a minority vision it may ensure nothing more than persecution. In any case, other unifying visions may bring about prosperity as well, as we have seen. From the perspective of the Bible, prosperity is never the ultimate goal, so that is scarcely troubling. What is troubling is a measuring stick in which the only scale is measured in terms of financial units.

Der zweite russische Gast ist ein junger Kerl, siebzehn Jahre alt, Partisan gewesen und dann mit der kämpfenden Truppe westwärts gezogen. Er sieht mich mit streng gerunzelter Stirn an und fordert mich auf, zu übersetzen, daß deutsche Militärs in seinem Heimatdorf Kinder erstochen hätten und Kinder bei den Füßen gefaßt, um ihre Schädel an der Mauer zu zertrümmern. Ehe ich das übersetze frage ich: ‘Gehört? Oder selbst mit angesehen?’ Er, streng, vor sich hin: ‘Zweimal selber gesehen.’ Ich übersetze. ‘Glaub ich nicht’, erwidert Frau Lehmann. ‘Unsere Soldaten? Mein Mann? Niemals!’ Und Fräulein Behn fordert mich auf, den Russen zu fragen, ob die Betreffenden ‘Vogel hier’ (am Arm) oder ‘Vogel da’ (an der Mütze) hatten, das heißt, ob sie Wehrmacht waren oder SS. Der Russe begreift den Sinn der Frage sofort: den Unterschied zu machen, haben sie wohl in den russischen Dörfern gelernt. Doch selbst wenn es, wie in diesem Fall und ähnlichen Fällen, SS-Leute waren: Jetzt werden unsere Sieger sie zum ‘Volk’ rechnen und uns allen diese Rechnung vorhalten. Schon geht solches Gerede; ich hörte an der Pumpe mehrfach den Satz: ‘Unsere haben’s wohl drüben nicht viel anders gemacht.’ Schweigen. Wir starren alle vor uns hin. Ein Schatten steht im Raum. Das Baby weiß nichts davon. Es beißt in den fremden Zeigefinger, es kräht und quietscht. Mir steigt ein Klumpen in die Kehle. Das Kind kommt mir wie ein Wunder vor, rosa und weiß mit Kupferlöckchen blüht es in diesem wüsten, halb ausgeräumten Zimmer, zwischen uns verdreckten Menschen. Auf einmal weiß ich, warum es den Krieger zum Kindchen zieht.

the messy papers, she spied a note that stopped her cold. It was written in baby talk in bright red crayon. Ya, ya, da, da, if you’re good enough, I’ll save you, it said. Next to the note was a crinkly map leading somewhere underground. Tracy knew she shouldn’t stay here another minute alone. She needed backup. She’d call in a second, but first Tracy grabbed the map and scoured it. The map seemed to point to the basement of this house. My God! thought Tracy, trembling, could Albert be down there now? Is that where he’s holding

a steadily increasing number of millennials are finally beginning to wake up to the choice we face as a civilization, and to the value they’ve so long overlooked in traditional standards of morality and beauty. They are wondering: is modern culture really so great if it means we substitute Meghan Trainor for Mozart, Emma Sulkowicz for Da Vinci, or Bell Hooks for Plato? Is it really such a step forward that our civilization, which once shed both blood and ink debating Martin Luther’s 95 Theses, is now reduced to considering theses like VICE Magazine’s “Dear Straight Guys: It’s Time to Start Putting Things In Your Butt?” Is this all there is, or can we do better? No,

Satyarthi, l’ex ingegnere che libera i bambini schiavi L’indiano da 30 anni in prima linea contro il lavoro minorile: lavorerò con Malala Kailash Satyarthi, 60 anni, è il primo indiano a vincere il premio Nobel per la Pace Maria Grazia Coggiola | 693 parole Fino a ieri mattina, Kailash Satyarthi, era un volto pressoché sconosciuto in India, uno dei tantissimi volontari seguaci del Mahatma Gandhi che in silenzio e con ostinazione si prendono a cuore le cause che in un Paese di un miliardo e 200 milioni di persone sembrano perse in partenza. Poi la notizia del Premio Nobel per la Pace, condiviso con la pachistana Malala, ha improvvisamente catapultato questo schivo ex ingegnere di 60 anni alla ribalta mondiale e con lui anche la sua organizzazione, Bachpan Bachao Andolan (Movimento per salvare i bambini), che da tre decenni si batte contro lo sfruttamento del lavoro minorile. «D’ora in poi le voci di milioni di bambini non potranno più essere ignorate» ha detto ai primi giornalisti che si sono precipitati nel suo ufficio a Kalkaji, un caotico quartiere di New Delhi vicino a uno dei più vecchi templi induisti della metropoli. Nato nello stato del Madhya Pradesh, nel centro dell’India, ha lasciato a 26 anni una promettente carriera dopo una laurea in ingegneria per dedicarsi a tempo pieno ai diritti dell’infanzia: «È sempre stata la mia passione e a questo ho dedicato la mia vita». L’impegno di Satyarthi iniziò con incursioni in fabbriche e laboratori dove intere famiglie erano costrette a lavorare per rimborsare un prestito che avevano contratto. Incapaci di rimborsare la somma ricevuta, spesso venivano vendute e rivendute, bambini compresi. La sua associazione è nata nel 1980, conta oltre 700 organizzazioni non governative affiliate e finora ha «liberato» oltre 80 mila baby schiavi in centinaia di laboratori e fabbriche. Sembrano tanti, ma è in realtà una goccia in India dove sono svariati milioni i bambini sotto i 14 anni impiegati in diverse attività, come la produzione di «bidi», le piccole sigarette fatte a mano, lavori edili, ricami e soprattutto come domestici low-cost per la ricca borghesia delle metropoli. Appesi muri del suo ufficio ci sono i manifesti delle sue crociate. La più famosa è stata quella della «Global March» nel 1998 quando portò a Ginevra mille bambini lavoratori di tutto il mondo. È stato un punto di svolta, oltre che un successo internazionale, perché l’anno successivo le Nazioni Unite hanno approvato una convenzione contro le forme estreme di impiego minorile e da allora l’esercito dei baby schiavi si è costantemente ridotto. Un’altra battaglia è stata quella ottenere dalle multinazionali l’impegno a garantire che i loro prodotti, come i tappeti, non siano fabbricati con manodopera minorile dei Paesi poveri. Durante i Mondiali di calcio del 2006 in Germania, Satyarthi organizzò una campagna per denunciare l’uso dei bimbi di 6 anni nella cucitura di palloni e nel 2011 pubblicò uno studio in cui si rivelava che in India scompaiono 11 bambini ogni ora, vittime del traffico di esseri umani. Vestito con il tradizionale completo di casacca e pantaloni «khadi» (filati e tessuti a mano come faceva il Mahatma) e fradicio di sudore per il condizionatore rotto, Satyarthi ha ricordato anche i legami con l’Italia. «Ho lavorato tanto con Mani Tese - ha detto - e conosco molti italiani». Tra un’intervista e l’altra, in serata, ha poi sentito per telefono Malala da Birmingham. «La conosco - ha spiegato - perché ci eravamo visti l’ultima volta in Olanda durante una cerimonia. La inviterò a lavorare con me». Curiosamente, il prestigioso riconoscimento non fui mai assegnato all’apostolo della non violenza. «Sono nato dopo la morte del Mahatma Gandhi - ha ricordato l’attivista - e se il premio fosse stato assegnato a lui sarei stato più contento. Ma anche ora lo sono perché appartiene a tutti i bambini di questo Paese». Malala, festa tra i banchi d

It is said that baby busters do not want to be lectured; they expect to be entertained. They prefer videos to books; many of them have not learned to think in a linear fashion; they put more store than they recognize in mere impressions. As a result, they can live with all sorts of logical inconsistencies and be totally unaware of them. (How many times have I tried to explain to a university-age young person who has made some profession of faith that it is fundamentally inconsistent to claim to know and love the God of the Bible, while cohabiting with someone? They can see they are doing what the Bible forbids, but when you press them to articulate the contradiction they scuttle into inconsistency without embarrassment.) They are cynical, not idealistic. They vehemently deny the existence of absolutes: that is their one absolute. Many have never experienced principled morality in the home. They have been brought up without a coherent vision or value system, and they have embraced pragmatism with a vengeance.

Jesus is saying that we may address the infinite, transcendent, almighty God with the intimacy, familiarity, and unshaken trust that a sixteen-month-old baby has sitting on his father’s lap—da, da, daddy.

O anda, tek istediğim birkaç gram otokontroldü. Tam o sırada ondan uzaklabilirdim ve daha sonra olanların hiçbiri olmazdı. Ama hiç de önlem seven biri değildim, olmak da istemiyordum. Yirmi beş yaşındaydım ve asla güvende olmayı özlemedim. "İnsan her şeyi yapabilir, yapılması gerekenkerli ve yapılmaması gerekenleri." Dali'nin ifadesi böyle bir şeydi.

Tian Tian'in de gözlerinin kapalı olduğunu gördüm. Kırmızı şarap içip üflemek insanın uykusunu getirir ve onun da çoktan uykuya daldığından eminim. Tian Tian gürültülü sesler ve hayalet gölgeler arasında uykuya dalmayı daha kolay bulur.

Il pastore augurò Buon Natale, il coro riprese a cantare e l’organo a suonare. Fu in quel momento che Maggie sentì che lui era vicino. Si girò appena e lo vide. Se ne stava in piedi nel corridoio centrale, a qualche passo da lei, lo Stetson fra le mani, un’espressione indecifrabile sul volto. Il sangue prese a correrle troppo veloce nelle vene e, per quanto faticasse ad ammetterlo, si sentì così felice che un sorriso le illuminò il volto, come se lui fosse tornato a casa dopo un lungo viaggio. Già, quale casa? Mitch, invece, rimase di pietra, come se la chiamata di Maggie non fosse che un’altra scocciatura da risolvere. Il sorriso si spense poco per volta sulle labbra di Maggie e gli occhi, prima ridenti, si strinsero in uno sguardo interrogativo. Se il cowboy preferiva che fra loro ci fosse il gelo, che gelo fosse. Non era obbligata a sorridergli, in fondo, né a far conversazione. Lo avrebbe solo ringraziato per il passaggio e poi, estranei come prima. Mitch le fece cenno con la testa di seguirla e, senza neppure aspettarla, ruotò su se stesso e si incamminò verso l’uscita del tempio. Maggie sentì il suo amor proprio reagire all’atteggiamento scostante di Mitch, ma decise di fingere un’indifferenza e una calma che non provava; si prese il tempo necessario per ringraziare i signori Curtis e per salutare le altre persone che, come lei, erano in fila verso l’uscita.

If you could go back to Trehaug, would you want to?” “What?” “Last night you said you couldn’t go home. I wondered if that was what you really wanted to do.” He followed her silently for a time, then added, “Because if it was, I’d find a way to take you there.” She stopped, turned and met his eyes. He seemed so earnest, and she suddenly felt so old. “Tats. If that was what I really wanted to do, I’d find a way to do it. If I left now…well. It all would have been for nothing, wouldn’t it? I’d just be Thymara, slinking back home, to live in my father’s house and abide by my mother’s rules.” He furrowed his brow. “ ‘Just Thymara.’ I don’t think that’s such a bad thing to be. What do you want to be?” That stumped her. “I don’t know. But I know that I want to be something more than just my father’s daughter. I want to prove myself somehow. That’s what I told my da when he asked why I wanted to go on this expedition. And it’s still true.” They’d come to the next trunk and Thymara started up it, digging her claws into the bark. The same claws that had condemned her to a half life in Trehaug might be her salvation out here, she thought. Tats came behind her, more slowly. When Thymara reached a likely branch, she paused and waited for him. When he caught up with her, his face was misted with sweat. “I thought only boys felt things like that.” “Like what?” “That we have to prove ourselves, so people would know we were men now, not boys any longer.” “Why wouldn’t a girl feel that?” Her eyes had caught a glint of yellow. She pointed toward it, and he nodded. At the end of this branch, out over the river, a parasitic vine garlanded the tree. The weight of hanging yellow fruit sagged both vine and branches. It swayed and she saw the flicker of wings. Birds were feeding there, a sure sign the fruit was ripe. “I don’t know if the branches will take your weight.” “I’ll find out.” “Your choice. But don’t follow me too closely.” “I’ll be careful. And I’ll stick to my own branch.” And he was. She ventured out onto the branch, and he transferred to one beside it. She crouched, digging her claws in as she ventured toward the vine. The farther she went, the more the branch sagged. “It’s a long drop to the river, and shallow down there,” Tats reminded her. “Like I don’t know,” she muttered. She glanced over at him. He was belly down on his branch, inching out doggedly. She could tell he was afraid. And she knew that he wouldn’t go back until she did. Proving himself. “Why wouldn’t a girl want to prove herself?” “Well.” He gave a grunt and inched himself along. She had to admire his nerve. He was heavier than she was, and his branch was already beginning to droop with his weight. “A girl doesn’t have to prove herself. No one expects it of her. She just has to, you know, be a girl.” “Get married, have babies,” she said. “Well. Something like that. Not right away, the having babies part. But, well, I guess no one expects a girl to, well—” “Do anything,” she supplied for him. She was as far out as she dared to go, but the fruit was barely within her reach. She reached out and took a cautious grip on a leaf of the vine. She pulled it slowly toward her, careful not to pull the leaf off. When it was near enough, she hooked the vine itself with her free hand. Carefully she scooted back on the parasitic vines had very tough and sturdy stemwork. She’d be able to pull it from here and pluck as much fruit as she wanted. Tats saw that, and she credited his intelligence that he stopped risking himself immediately and backed along the branch. He sighed slightly, watching her. “You know what I mean.” “I do. It didn’t used to be like that, with the early Traders. Women were among the toughest of the new settlers. They had to be, not only to live but to raise their children.

She arrived in Montana after two weeks on boats and trains and wagons to find this played-out convict a decade older than advertised, her first words “I pray there’s enough of you left to make a baby.” “Your mother arrived with grievances,” Dan Dolan used to say, “and plans to send me out with the same.” And so she did after four children, Rye the last, eight years old when his da dropped dead on the steps of a tavern, the very definition of Irish hell: dying walking into a bar.

As I leave the DA's office building, the cold wind bring me wide awake. I trot down the steps through the shouting reporters without a word, turning left toward City Hall, which abuts the southeast face of the courthouse Just as I think I've cleared the feeding frenzy, someone catches hold of my arm. I whirl in anger, then find myself facing an elderly black woman huddling in a jacket. 'Yes, ma'am?' I say. 'How can I help you?' "Isobel Handley,' she says with a smile. 'I want to know when you're going to do something about the schools, Mayor. You got elected saying you were gonna fix 'em, but right now it's a crying shame how few children who go into the first grade make it through the twelfth for graduation. And you've been in office two whole years!' The reasons for this state of affairs are both simple and unimaginably complex, and I certainly don't have the resources to go through them on a cold sidewalk. Not today, anyway. But conversations like this one are the daily fare of a mayor. 'I'm talking about the PUBLIC schools,' the woman goes an. "Not the private white schools where the only black kids are football players.' 'Yes, ma'am," I say hopelessly. 'I'm working as hard as I can on the issue, I promise you.' 'If your little girl wasn't in a private school, you'd work harder.' 'Mrs. Handley, I-' 'You don't have to explain, baby, I understand. But you take a stick to them selectmen and supervisors, if you have to. That's what they need. Sometimes I think the schools were better before integration. At least we learned the fundamentals, and we graduated knowing how to read.' There's no point trying to explain that I have no authority over the county supervisors or the state board of education. 'Sometimes I wish I could do exactly what you suggested, Mrs. Handley. Now, you'd better get out of this cold. And Merry Christmas to you.' At last she smiles. 'You too, Mayor. God bless. And don't pay these reporters no mind.

It’s OK, little one,” he said, holding her to his chest and rocking her slowly. “You’re alright; Da’s here.

I was in the prime of my time as the maiden, the magic of the middle – not yet the mother and far from the crone. My supple, small breasts were not yet deflated from years of nursing sweet babies. My strong, smooth stomach hadn’t expanded in the mysterious, magical way it would, to grow another human. My skin was yet to be speckled in white spots, ravaged by too many summers. As the years passed, my looks would fade, the lines around my eyes would grow deeper, and I would become a different kind of beautiful.

Frasi inizio Bleach Volume 66 – SORRY I AM STRONG – Ōetsu Nimaiya L'unica cosa da recidere è la vita? Volume 67 – BLACK – Ichibē Hyōsube Il futuro, completamente buio completamente capovolto Volume 68 – THE ORDINARY PEACE – Askin Nakk Le Vaar È così odioso e venefico che ti gira la testa, vero? Volume 69 – AGAINST THE JUDGEMENT – Buzzard Black (Bazz-B) Proiettile, artiglio, vessillo militare, sciabola, piego cinque dita e ti aspetto. Volume 70 – FRIENDS – Jugram Haschwalth Non provo dolore a esclusione del fatto che non posso distogliere gli occhi da quella bilancia. Volume 71 – BABY HOLD YOUR HAND – Nemuri Nanagō (Nemu Kurotsuchi) Adorabile mano della mia bambina, manina errante vaga alla mia ricerca come si avvicina, si allontana; la prenderò Camminiamo insieme mano nella mano fino alla fine del tempo Volume 72 – MY LAST WORDS – Uryu Ishida Se le parole avessero forma non potrebbero raggiungerti, tu che ti ergi nelle tenebre. Volume 73 – BATTLE FIELD BURNING – Renji Abarai Il fuoco che stilla dalle zanne non si spegne brucia completamente il campo di guerra facendo emergere la sagoma di colui che è amico. Volume 74 – THE DEATH AND THE STRAWBERRY – Ichigo Kurosaki & Rukia Kuchiki Noi, anche senza forma continuiamo il nostro cammino. it.m.wikiquote org wiki Bleach

(… ) comigo estarás sempre bem, baby

Us guys, we are not rich like Yi Yi. Our two-bedroom flat in Taman Lip Sin is too small for the four of us, but we make do. Me and Babi Jun sleep on two mattresses on the floor in Mami's room. Da Ge gets the back room where Ah Ma used to sleep because he's the oldest. Some nights, when they've all gone to bed and no one's awake to bother me, I fold the clothes on a heap on the sofa, and if the floor is dirty, I take a bucket of water and mop it clean. I try not to smoke indoors.

Cut the bullshit. Your little ingénue act---it's pathetic." Her words sock me like a punch in the gut. As much as I hate lying to her face, as much as I've been dying to tell her the truth, to have it out once and for all in a big, messy fight, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. The steely look in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw---she'll crush me. "Okay. Fine," I say, the courage building inside me. I can do this. I have to. "Let's cut the bullshit, then." My eyes drift toward her cabinets. "Maybe we should talk over a glass of wine. Unless that would be bad for the baby." I wait for her to take the bait, but she just stares at me. "There is a baby, right? You wouldn't make something like that up. Only a crazy person would do that. Only someone who was truly horrible, all the way to her core." She clenches her jaw. "You have no idea what you're talking about." "Yes, I do. And you know it." "Watch yourself." "Why? So you can steamroll me like you steamroll everyone? You don't even love him." "You have no idea how I feel. About anything." "I know your marriage is one of convenience. That you sleep in separate bedrooms. That you're having an affair with a guy named Jacques." "And I suppose that makes you an expert on my love life." "No, but it means I know you don't have Hugh's interests at heart." "What do you know about his interests? You think you can parachute in, five years into our marriage, and decide you understand how or why any of this works? You think a month or two of screwing means you know more about him than I do?" "I know he doesn't love you. I know he never did." "Well, la-di-da. Here's a newsflash: It takes more than love to make a relationship work." "But you can't really make a relationship work without it, can you?" "You can if you want to." "Only if both people do. And Hugh doesn't. Not anymore." "Is that so? Then tell me, why did he just spend more than a week with me, discussing our future?" "Because you created a phantom pregnancy without consulting him? Because he's trying to do damage control?" "Ah, I see. Is that what you keep telling yourself?" My face grows hot. "It kills you that he'd choose me over you." She throws her head back and cackles. "Is that what you think? That he'd choose you? Christ, you're even more naive than I thought." "He loves me," I say. "He said so." "You know what else he loves? His career. And how do you think you fit in with that? Let me answer for you: You don't." My hands are shaking. "What about you? You're having an affair with some French guy named Jacques. How do you think that will play with Hugh's constituency? Let me answer for you: Not well.

fuel to May’s ever-glowing fire. His in-laws would create and so would his father. Wilbur had been determined to see the infant shipped off to the workhouse and out of their lives. But he could handle his da the same as the rest of them if he was strong enough, and he would be strong over this. Mostly for his mother’s sake, he had to admit; she’d go mad with grief if the baby was put away, but also to make some sort of reparation to Bess, late though it was. And then there was Amy herself. He glanced down at the tot on his lap who was sleeping with her thumb in her mouth, her other hand clasping the front of his jacket. She had been sitting on Mrs Price’s lap finishing her supper when he had walked in the house, and when she had caught sight of him she had smiled and held out her arms. She had never done that before. Of course it was probably because she associated him with her grandma, he knew that, but nevertheless it had touched something inside him, melting the hardness.When all was said and done, you couldn’t blame the bairn for her beginnings. If anyone was the innocent in all of this, she was. As the tram jolted and creaked its way along, he looked out of the window, his mouth grim. There was

Mona Lisa and her husband lost a baby. Sometime later, her husband commissioned this painting from da Vinci to celebrate the birth of another baby. Mona Lisa sat for Leonardo to paint her, but she wouldn't smile during the sitting. Not all the way. The story goes that da Vinci wanted her to smile wider, but she refused. She did not want the joy she felt for her new baby to erase the pain she felt from losing the first. There in her half smile is her half joy. Or maybe it's her full joy and her full grief all at the same time. She has the look of a woman who has just realized a dream but still carries the lost dream inside her. She wanted her whole life to be present on her face. She wanted everyone to remember, so she wouldn't pretend.

Goodness, thought Dawn. Aren’t two-year-olds supposed to be over that business of putting things in their mouths? Yes, they are, she told herself, realizing something: Emily was not like other two-year-olds she knew. She thought of Marnie Barrett and Gabbie Perkins, kids us club members sit for. Both Marnie and Gabbie, especially Gabbie, are talkers. (Gabbie’s a little older than Marnie.) Gabbie is toilet-trained and Marnie is working on it. Both girls can put simple puzzles together. When they color, their drawings are becoming identifiable. And Gabbie has memorized and can sing long songs with her older sister. Emily, on the other hand, was nowhere near toilet-trained. Her favorite toys were baby toys like stacking rings. When she got hold of crayons, she just scribbled. And her vocabulary consisted of a handful of words and a lot of sounds (such as “buh” or “da”) that she used to mean a variety of things. Yet, Emily was smiley and giggly and cheerful. She was affectionate, too, and tried hard to please her new family.

It is quite clear that if left alone, babies will make attempts at speech. These attempts, however, show their own inclinations to utter something, and do not follow any existing form of language. It is almost equally clear that if a community of children were left out of contact with the language of their seniors through the critical speech-forming years, they would emerge with something, which crude as it might be, would be unmistakably a language.

The front door flew open.   His gaze went there and he saw Margot swan in, Dave at her back carrying a pie.   She stopped, did a sweep of the place with her eyes, it halted on Izzy in his kitchen and her expression shifted straight to sheer bliss.   “Eliza!” she cried. “My darling girl! Could you be more adorable in that dress?”   As Johnny rolled up to his feet holding Brooks to him, Margot swept in, latched onto Izzy and hugged her like she was her favorite daughter who’d married a Russian who’d whisked her off to the cold of Siberia and she hadn’t seen her in a decade.   “Totally . . . dig . . . this chick,” Addie murmured.   Johnny moved their way as Margot let go of Izzy, assessed Addie, and Dave moved into Iz and gave her a hug, muttering, “Great to see you again, child.”   “You too, Dave,” she said back.   “You must be the sister,” Margot decreed.   “That I am,” Addie replied. “And you must be the awesome Margot.”   Margot arched a brow. “Awesome?”   “Izzy thinks your da bomb.”   “Did she use that vernacular?”   “No, she said, ‘I can’t wait for you to meet Margot. She’s class on a stick.’”   Margot’s face grew smug and she aimed a look Izzy’s way, murmuring demurely, “Darlin’.”   Izzy was blushing.   Johnny waded in.   “Let’s finish this up. Dave, this is Addie, Izzy’s sister. And guys, this is Brooks.” He lifted the baby a couple of inches. “Addie’s boy.”   “Oh . . . my . . . word! Look at that handsome child!” Margot lifted both hands his way. “Give him to me immediately, Johnathon.

Well... I am not DaBaby. But I go like Let's go

Quando apri gli occhi e ti rendi conto che c’è solo la sofferenza davanti a te provi il desiderio di richiuderli, perché l’oscurità che trovi è meno cupa e dolorosa. Ma quando apri gli occhi e non riesci a vedere quello che ti circonda, a quel punto anche il dolore e la sofferenza sono preferibili alle tenebre” __________________________________ “«Congratulazioni, da domani comincerà una nuova vita.» «Grazie,» rispondo commosso. «Non dimentichi a casa il suo lato polemico, l’aiuterà nei prossimi mesi,» mi dice. Ha appena fatto una battuta? Cielo, l’ha fatta? «Ehm, cercherò di trovargli un posticino nella valigia»” ________________________________ “Non ho avuto sfortuna. Ho avuto la maggiore dose di sfiga dalla quale un essere umano possa pensare di poter essere sommerso: prima il supermercato che mi aveva assunto a ore ha preso fuoco e noi dipendenti siamo stati tutti rispediti a casa senza ricevere buona parte della paga, poi la ditta di panettoni per la quale lavoravo stagionalmente come magazziniere ha chiuso i battenti a due settimane da Natale per colpa di alcuni casi di salmonella riguardanti i prodotti venduti – con il risultato che sono stato costretto a stare una settimana in ospedale facendo continuamente pipì in un vasetto per capire se avevo contratto anche io qualche virus –, infine la famiglia che mi aveva assunto come baby sitter ha deciso di punto in bianco di andare in vacanza alle Maldive e mi ha scaricato poco gentilmente dopo soli due giorni di lavoro. Se questa non è sfiga, allora io sono la persona più fortunata dell’Universo

If you just need something to talk, let's talk in baby language. ba-ba la-la da-da ha-ha. I don't want you to ride the vehicle of words. I want you to stay with me fully in the present moment.

Non ho avuto sfortuna. Ho avuto la maggiore dose di sfiga dalla quale un essere umano possa pensare di poter essere sommerso: prima il supermercato che mi aveva assunto a ore ha preso fuoco e noi dipendenti siamo stati tutti rispediti a casa senza ricevere buona parte della paga, poi la ditta di panettoni per la quale lavoravo stagionalmente come magazziniere ha chiuso i battenti a due settimane da Natale per colpa di alcuni casi di salmonella riguardanti i prodotti venduti – con il risultato che sono stato costretto a stare una settimana in ospedale facendo continuamente pipì in un vasetto per capire se avevo contratto anche io qualche virus –, infine la famiglia che mi aveva assunto come baby sitter ha deciso di punto in bianco di andare in vacanza alle Maldive e mi ha scaricato poco gentilmente dopo soli due giorni di lavoro. Se questa non è sfiga, allora io sono la persona più fortunata dell’Universo

The economic pressure on the families of the wet nurses was so great that many of them entrusted their own newborns to an even poorer wet nurse or gave them away to the Foundling Hospital in Florence that was opened in 1445. A merchant’s wife from Prato who arranged wet nurses for the newborns of wealthy families cruelly boasted that she had forced a woman to promise to become wet nurse to a strange child on the very night that her own baby had died. 14

We would have to include all the disciples in the fresco of the Last Supper (Plate 19) and all the figures of the baby Jesus in the images of the Madonna in order to reach anywhere near a balance between the sexes. Even Joseph did not manage to appear in Leonardo’s paintings of the Holy Family; instead, the artist usually assigns his place to Saint Anne, the mother of Mary (Plates

The standoff had already lasted five days. "It was a Monday, the 3rd of October 1502," wrote Tomé Lopes: "a date that I will remember every day of my life." By now Gama's soldiers had removed all the weapons they could find from the Arab ship. It was a sitting duck, and the admiral ordered his men into their boats. Their task was simple. They were to tow the Mîrî out to sea until it was safely away from the Portuguese fleet. Then they were to set it alight and burn it with everyone on board. The soldiers marched onto the Mîrî, set fires across the decks, and jumped back into the boats as the flames licked and the smoke billowed. Some of the Muslims rushed to smother the fires, and one by one they stamped them out. Others dragged out several small bombards they had managed to hide from the search party, and they hurriedly set them up. The pilgrims and merchants ran to grab anything that could serve as ammunition, including fist-sized stones from the piles of ballast in the hold. There was clearly no chance of surrender, and they were determined to die fighting rather than burn to death. When the soldiers in the boats saw the fires go out they rowed back to light them again. As they approached, women and men alike fired the bombards and hurled the stones. The Europeans cowered under the hail of missiles and beat a fast retreat. From a distance they tried to sink the Mîrî with their bombards, but the guns carried on the boats were too small to inflict real damage. The Muslim women tore off their jewelry, clutched the gold, silver, and precious stones in their fists, and shook them at the boats, screaming at their attackers to take everything they had. They held up their babies and little children and desperately pleaded with the Christians to take pity on the innocents. One last time, the merchants shouted and gestured that they would pay a great ransom if their lives were spared. Gama watched, hidden from sight, through a loophole in the side of his ship. Tomé Lopes was stunned: shocked by the admiral's refusal to relent, and amazed that he was willing to turn down such wealth. There was no doubt in his mind that the ransom would have been enough to buy the freedom of every Christian prisoner in Morocco and still leave great treasure for the king. Bergamo and his fellow factors were no doubt wondering just how much of their profit would go up in smoke. Yet there were plenty of zealous Christians among the crews who had no more qualms than their Crusader forebears about killing peaceful merchants and pilgrims. The dehumanizing notion that their enemies in faith were somehow not real people was too deeply ingrained to be shaken. Like holy warriors before and after, they avoided looking into the whites of their victims' eyes and got on with their godly business.

You’ll have my babies, won’t you?” “I…” I cleared my throat and exhaled a ragged breath. “I…” “Shannon, I am so sorry,” Mrs. Kavanagh strangled out. “Say it,” Johnny groaned, clutching my hand. “Tell me you’ll have my babies.” “Johnny—” “Just tell me you will,” he begged loudly. “Just say it, Shannon! Please! I can’t take it.” “Sure?” I croaked out, feeling faint. “Whatever you want, Johnny.” “Gibs,” Johnny called out happily. “Did you hear that, lad?” “I sure did, Bulldozer.” “Didn’t I do good, Da?” he continued to rave. “See? I found her!” “You did a great job,” Mr. Kavanagh coaxed.

Era in corso una fantastica guerra con la Polonia. Hilter da occidente, noi da oriente - e fine della Polonia. Naturalmente, per salvare le apparenze la chiamammo "liberazione dell'Ucraina Occidentale e della Bielorussia", e appendemmo manifesti dove una specie di servo della gleba tutto lacero abbracciava un valoroso liberatore dell'Armata Rossa. Ma così si usa. Chi invade è sempre il liberatore da qualcosa.