Dapper Quotes

Professor Braithwope, shimmering out of his room fully clothed and dapper. His mustache was a fluffy caterpillar of curiosity, perched and ready to inquire, dragging the vampire along behind it on the investigation.

We need a bigger gun.” “We need a shower,” Raphael said. “Gun first. Shower later.” Ten minutes later I walked into the Order’s office. A group of knights standing in the hallway turned at my approach: Mauro, the huge Samoan knight; Tobias, as usual dapper; and Gene, the seasoned former Georgia Bureau of Investigations detective. They looked at me. The conversation died. My clothes were torn and bloody. Soot stained my skin. My hair stuck out in clumps caked with dirt and blood. The reek of a dead cat emanated from me in a foul cloud. I walked past them into the armory, opened the glass case, took Boom Baby out, grabbed a box of Silver Hawk cartridges, and walked out. Nobody said a thing.

And sure enough,the youth in question was not his usual dapper self. His face was puffy, his eyes red and wild; his shirt(distressingly unbuttoned)hung over his trousers in sloppy fashion. All very out of charactar: Mandrake was normally defined by his rigid self-control. Somthing seemed to have stripped all that away. Well, the poor lad was emotionally brittle.He needed sympathetic handling. "You're a mess," I sneered "You've lost it big time. What's happened? All the guilt and self-loathing suddenly get to you? It can't just be that someone else called me, surly?

Something's about to end. Or start. I'm not sure. I just know we're not in the middle anymore. It's safer in the middle.

She loves the way Vic looks, using the world debonair instead of dapper.

As I sometimes do when I’m overwhelmed, I started to giggle like a maniac.

Everything began with a single breath. A light wind that started a sway, and the sway started a turn, and the turn... The turn started everything.

So much is yet to come. Soon will be blankets and pillows, and books by the bed to make the stuff of dreams. And then tomorrows.

Een avontuur was niet voor lafaards, maar voor dapperlingen!

Dapper Dan, one must never sound like an uneducated, classless heathen. Even if the shoe fits

dapper apparition

The tribe of clerks was an obvious one...the junior clerks of flash houses--young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which may be termed [i]deskism[/i] for want of a better word, the manner of these persons seemed to be an exact fac-simile of what had been the perfection of [i]bon ton[/i] about twelve or eighteen months before.

Every day, soon after lunch, at a time when most people stayed indoors, enjoying a siesta, a dapper little old man stepped out on the balcony on the other side of the street. He had a soldierly bearing, very erect, and affected a military style of dressing; his snow-white hair was always brushed to perfect smoothness. Leaning over the balcony he would call:

Scarecrow thin, but immaculate in black long sleeved shirt and slacks, with his big black hat and that grin just a little too wide to be sane... he did. He looked good.

Het viel haar best zwaar, maar het verleden mocht haar heden gewoonweg niet stelen, tòch?

dapper

a dapper little man,

He was rather dapper, I would give him that, but fashion didn't quite make a man, anyone could tell you that. Far too often did fools dress in emperor's clothing.

Hij verdroeg alleen de dood die een gevolg was van dapper vechten, niet een die intrad ondanks het gevecht, waarbij het verlies bij voorbaat vaststond; waartegen geen kruid is gewassen.

Als het niets meer kan schelen wat anderen denken, verliezen we ons vermogen tot verbinding. Maar als we onszelf laten bepalen door wat anderen denken, verliezen we de moed om ons kwetsbaar op te stellen. De oplossing is om heel duidelijk voor ogen te krijgen wiens mening voor jou echt telt. Het moeten de mensen zijn die niet van je houden óndanks je onvolmaaktheden en kwetsbaarheden, maar óm je onvolmaaktheden en kwetsbaarheden. Als je op je gezicht ligt in de arena, zijn dat de mensen die je overeind zullen helpen en zullen bevestigen dat de val echt klote was, en je er vervolgens aan herinneren dat je dapper bent geweest en dat zij er ook de volgende keer zullen zijn om het zand van je af te kloppen. Neem ook mensen op die dapper genoeg zijn om te zeggen: ‘Daar ben ik het niet mee eens,’ of: ‘Ik denk dat je ernaast zit,’ en die je vragen zullen stellen als ze je dingen zien doen die indruisen tegen je waarden en normen.

Then they would make love, Dapper Dan. Not fuck. No aggression. Nothing untoward, just him and her. Joined. Intimate. Slow. Sweet kisses and sensuous strokes until they are brought to climax

When she’d seen Likotsi’s photo—a woman in a dapper suit with a bearing that made her think of royalty and a mouth that made her think of worship—a flash of desire had zipped through her body, surprising her.

For Brennan, the ideal shoe was a comfortable size 12, preferably laceless, that look just good enough to pass for business casual, but easy enough for him to run in. Dapper with the sole of an athlete, the pun inclined might say.

Worse than that, however, was the CFO, a dapper-suited, neat-haired new age carapace containing an uninhibited misogynistic bogan, whose actual words to me, in concert with my boss in the same room were: 'To be successful you have to accept that weekends are for families.

I think I might have something for you today," he says, reaches beneath the counter, and his hand comes back with a book, clothbound cover the color of antique ivory, title and author stamped in faded gold and art deco letters. Best Ghost Stories by Algernon Blackwood, and she lifts it carefully off the countertop, picks it up the way someone else might lift a diamond necklace or a sick kitten, and opens the book to the frontispiece and title page, black-and-white photo of the author in a dapper suit, sadkind eyes and his bow tie just a little crooked.

Never coming back here, she thought. With a groan, she levered herself into a sitting position and discovered a painful crick in her neck. Never ever. She launched herself off the bed and limped over to the door and put here eye to the viewer, was treated to a fish-eye view of a small, dapper, well-dressed man holding a bunch of white roses. Okay. Man with flowers. Carey looked around the room. The windows opened on short tethers so guests couldn't throw furniture or each other out into the street, and she was too high to jump anyway. She looked around the room again, looking for possible weapons. There was a rickety-looking chair by the desk in the corner, but it would probably fall to bits even before she hit anyone with it. She looked through the viewer. The little man knocked again. Not urgently, not in an official we-have-come-to-take-you-to-the-gulag kind of way, but in the manner of a gentleman visiting his lady friend with a nice bunch of roses.

Actual class struggles apart, one of the aesthetic ways you could prove that there was a class system in America was by cogitating on the word, or acronym, 'WASP.' First minted by E. Digby Baltzell in his book The Protestant Establishment , the term stood for 'White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.' Except that, as I never grew tired of pointing out, the 'W' was something of a redundancy (there being by definition no BASPs or JASPs for anyone to be confused with, or confused about). 'ASP,' on the other hand, lacked some of the all-important tone. There being so relatively few Anglo-Saxon Catholics in the United States, the 'S' [sic] was arguably surplus to requirements as well. But then the acronym AS would scarcely do, either. And it would raise an additional difficulty. If 'Anglo-Saxon' descent was the qualifying thing, which surely it was, then why were George Wallace and Jerry Falwell not WASPs? After all, they were not merely white and Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, but very emphatic about all three things. Whereas a man like William F. Buckley, say, despite being a white Irish Catholic, radiated the very sort of demeanor for which the word WASP had been coined to begin with. So, for the matter of that, did the dapper gentleman from Richmond, Virginia, Tom Wolfe. Could it be, then, that WASP was really a term of class rather than ethnicity? Q.E.D.

Gift shop owner Stormy Day is settling into her new life until she comes across a frozen body, hidden inside a well-dressed snowman. When

was easy to be friendly to people who were kind and polite all the time, but most people had flaws. He couldn’t see past the flaws of others, so they wouldn’t look past his. I

Komop, Soraia! pepte zij zichzelf op. Jij alleen kan jouw held zijn!

He'd always been the black sheep, the outlier; with no reason to choose sides because no side had ever chosen him.

There’s the early marriage that ended in divorce when she was eighteen. Then the studio-setup courtship and tumultuous marriage to Hollywood royalty Don Adler. The rumors that she left him because he beat her. Her comeback in a French New Wave film. The quickie Vegas elopement with singer Mick Riva. Her glamorous marriage to the dapper Rex North, which ended in both of them having affairs

Dapper closed his eyes and started to say something quietly—chanting. “Gaelic,” Lincoln whispered in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. After a minute or two, the living-room wall started to move toward us, the mantelpiece splitting in the middle, opening up like two massive doors. “Open sesame,” Zoe said, her voice filled with awe. Spence was grinning ear to ear. “I know, right! I’m waiting for the troll to come out and ask for a magic password.” I smiled at him. Griffin didn’t. He smacked Spence over the head instead. Salvatore

Within Room 40 itself, however, management of day-to-day operations fell largely, if informally, to Cdr. Herbert Hope, recruited in November 1914 to bring naval expertise to the interpretation of intercepted messages. His savvy was badly needed, for the group’s staff were not navy officers but civilians recruited for their skill at mathematics and German and whatever else it was that made a man good at breaking codes and ciphers. The roster came to include a pianist, a furniture expert, a parson from northern Ireland, a wealthy London financier, a past member of the Scottish Olympic hockey team, and a dapper operative named C. Somers Cocks, who, according to one early member, William F. Clarke, was “chiefly remarkable for his spats.

They both loved her, of course. They’d probably still love her even if they knew she’d seduced him. Yes, because he was so much the wounded party in this case. Taken advantage of by a skilled and dangerous seductress whom he was obviously no match for. Pull yourself together, Ryeton. You sound like a frigging little girl! Maxwell arrived right on time, and cheerfully announced by Westford. Grey’s entire face-from his scar to the forced smile he wore-began to ache at the sight of the younger man. Maxwell had to be nine and twenty at best. He was tall and dapper, and just charming enough so as not to seem threatening. It was a part Grey played very well at the same age, only he’d been a wolf masquerading as a harmless spaniel. He wasn’t so sure the same couldn’t be said for Maxwell. He had no choice but to shake the man’s hand and make small talk before watching him take Rose’s arm and lead her away, both of them smiling like idiots.

There’s the early marriage that ended in divorce when she was eighteen. Then the studio-setup courtship and tumultuous marriage to Hollywood royalty Don Adler. The rumors that she left him because he beat her. Her comeback in a French New Wave film. The quickie Vegas elopement with singer Mick Riva. Her glamorous marriage to the dapper Rex North, which ended in both of them having affairs. The beautiful love story of her life with Harry Cameron and the birth of their daughter, Connor. Their heartbreaking divorce and her very quick marriage to her old director Max Girard. Her supposed affair with the much younger Congressman Jack Easton, which ended her relationship with Girard. And finally, her marriage to financier Robert Jamison, rumored to have at least been inspired by Evelyn’s desire to spite former costar—and Robert’s sister—Celia St. James. All of her husbands have passed away, leaving Evelyn as the only one with insight into those relationships.

Comus. The Star that bids the Shepherd fold, Now the top of Heav'n doth hold, And the gilded Car of Day, [ 95 ] His glowing Axle doth allay In the steep Atlantick stream, And the slope Sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky Pole, Pacing toward the other gole [ 100 ] Of his Chamber in the East. Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, Midnight shout, and revelry, Tipsie dance and Jollity. Braid your Locks with rosie Twine [ 105 ] Dropping odours, dropping Wine. Rigor now is gone to bed, And Advice with scrupulous head, Strict Age, and sowre Severity, With their grave Saws in slumber ly. [ 110 ] We that are of purer fire Imitate the Starry Quire, Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, Lead in swift round the Months and Years. The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove [ 115 ] Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move, And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves, Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves; By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim, The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, [ 120 ] Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: What hath night to do with sleep? Night hath better sweets to prove, Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love. Com let us our rights begin, [ 125 ] Tis onely day-light that makes Sin, Which these dun shades will ne're report. Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport Dark vaild Cotytto, t' whom the secret flame Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame [ 130 ] That ne're art call'd, but when the Dragon woom Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom, And makes one blot of all the ayr, Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair, Wherin thou rid'st with Hecat', and befriend [ 135 ] Us thy vow'd Priests, till utmost end Of all thy dues be done, and none left out, Ere the blabbing Eastern scout, The nice Morn on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop hole peep, [ 140 ] And to the tel-tale Sun discry Our conceal'd Solemnity. Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, In a light fantastick round.

Since, however, darwinism has once for all displaced design from the minds of the 'scientific,' theism has lost that foothold; and some kind of an immanent or pantheistic deity working IN things rather than above them is, if any, the kind recommended to our contemporary imagination. Aspirants to a philosophic religion turn, as a rule, more hopefully nowadays towards idealistic pantheism than towards the older dualistic theism, in spite of the fact that the latter still counts able defenders. But, as I said in my first lecture, the brand of pantheism offered is hard for them to assimilate if they are lovers of facts, or empirically minded. It is the absolutistic brand, spurning the dust and reared upon pure logic. It keeps no connexion whatever with concreteness. Affirming the Absolute Mind, which is its substitute for God, to be the rational presupposition of all particulars of fact, whatever they may be, it remains supremely indifferent to what the particular facts in our world actually are. Be they what they may, the Absolute will father them. Like the sick lion in Esop's fable, all footprints lead into his den, but nulla vestigia retrorsum. You cannot redescend into the world of particulars by the Absolute's aid, or deduce any necessary consequences of detail important for your life from your idea of his nature. He gives you indeed the assurance that all is well with Him, and for his eternal way of thinking; but thereupon he leaves you to be finitely saved by your own temporal devices. Far be it from me to deny the majesty of this conception, or its capacity to yield religious comfort to a most respectable class of minds. But from the human point of view, no one can pretend that it doesn't suffer from the faults of remoteness and abstractness. It is eminently a product of what I have ventured to call the rationalistic temper. It disdains empiricism's needs. It substitutes a pallid outline for the real world's richness. It is dapper; it is noble in the bad sense, in the sense in which to be noble is to be inapt for humble service. In this real world of sweat and dirt, it seems to me that when a view of things is 'noble,' that ought to count as a presumption against its truth, and as a philosophic disqualification. The prince of darkness may be a gentleman, as we are told he is, but whatever the God of earth and heaven is, he can surely be no gentleman. His menial services are needed in the dust of our human trials, even more than his dignity is needed in the empyrean. Now pragmatism, devoted tho she be to facts, has no such materialistic bias as ordinary empiricism labors under. Moreover, she has no objection whatever to the realizing of abstractions, so long as you get about among particulars with their aid and they actually carry you somewhere. Interested in no conclusions but those which our minds and our experiences work out together, she has no a priori prejudices against theology. IF THEOLOGICAL IDEAS PROVE TO HAVE A VALUE FOR CONCRETE LIFE, THEY WILL BE TRUE, FOR PRAGMATISM, IN THE SENSE OF BEING GOOD FOR SO MUCH. FOR HOW MUCH MORE THEY ARE TRUE, WILL DEPEND ENTIRELY ON THEIR RELATIONS TO THE OTHER TRUTHS THAT ALSO HAVE TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED.

Anna Chapman was born Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko, in Volgograd, formally Stalingrad, Russia, an important Russian industrial city. During the Battle of Stalingrad in World War II, the city became famous for its resistance against the German Army. As a matter of personal history, I had an uncle, by marriage that was killed in this battle. Many historians consider the battle of Stalingrad the largest and bloodiest battle in the history of warfare. Anna earned her master's degree in economics in Moscow. Her father at the time was employed by the Soviet embassy in Nairobi, Kenya, where he allegedly was a senior KGB agent. After her marriage to Alex Chapman, Anna became a British subject and held a British passport. For a time Alex and Anna lived in London where among other places, she worked for Barclays Bank. In 2009 Anna Chapman left her husband and London, and moved to New York City, living at 20 Exchange Place, in the Wall Street area of downtown Manhattan. In 2009, after a slow start, she enlarged her real-estate business, having as many as 50 employees. Chapman, using her real name worked in the Russian “Illegals Program,” a group of sleeper agents, when an undercover FBI agent, in a New York coffee shop, offered to get her a fake passport, which she accepted. On her father’s advice she handed the passport over to the NYPD, however it still led to her arrest. Ten Russian agents including Anna Chapman were arrested, after having been observed for years, on charges which included money laundering and suspicion of spying for Russia. This led to the largest prisoner swap between the United States and Russia since 1986. On July 8, 2010 the swap was completed at the Vienna International Airport. Five days later the British Home Office revoked Anna’s citizenship preventing her return to England. In December of 2010 Anna Chapman reappeared when she was appointed to the public council of the Young Guard of United Russia, where she was involved in the education of young people. The following month Chapman began hosting a weekly TV show in Russia called Secrets of the World and in June of 2011 she was appointed as editor of Venture Business News magazine. In 2012, the FBI released information that Anna Chapman attempted to snare a senior member of President Barack Obama's cabinet, in what was termed a “Honey Trap.” After the 2008 financial meltdown, sources suggest that Anna may have targeted the dapper Peter Orzag, who was divorced in 2006 and served as Special Assistant to the President, for Economic Policy. Between 2007 and 2010 he was involved in the drafting of the federal budget for the Obama Administration and may have been an appealing target to the FSB, the Russian Intelligence Agency. During Orzag’s time as a federal employee, he frequently came to New York City, where associating with Anna could have been a natural fit, considering her financial and economics background. Coincidently, Orzag resigned from his federal position the same month that Chapman was arrested. Following this, Orzag took a job at Citigroup as Vice President of Global Banking. In 2009, he fathered a child with his former girlfriend, Claire Milonas, the daughter of Greek shipping executive, Spiros Milonas, chairman and President of Ionian Management Inc. In September of 2010, Orzag married Bianna Golodryga, the popular news and finance anchor at Yahoo and a contributor to MSNBC's Morning Joe. She also had co-anchored the weekend edition of ABC's Good Morning America. Not surprisingly Bianna was born in in Moldova, Soviet Union, and in 1980, her family moved to Houston, Texas. She graduated from the University of Texas at Austin, with a degree in Russian/East European & Eurasian studies and has a minor in economics. They have two children. Yes, she is fluent in Russian! Presently Orszag is a banker and economist, and a Vice Chairman of investment banking and Managing Director at Lazard.

Slender, dark-haired, bearded Mathew Brady spoke to his subjects from behind the large, tripod-mounted box of his camera. He was a dapper gentleman

The sky had changed again; a reddish glow was spreading up beyond the housetops. As dusk set in, the street grew more crowded. People were returning from their walks, and I noticed the dapper little man with the fat wife amongst the passers-by. Children were whimpering and trailing wearily after their parents. After some minutes the local picture houses disgorged their audiences. I noticed that the young fellows coming from them were taking longer strides and gesturing more vigorously than at ordinary times; doubtless the picture they‟d been seeing was of the wild-West variety. Those who had been to the picture houses in the middle of the town came a little later, and looked more sedate, though a few were still laughing. On the whole, however, they seemed languid and exhausted. Some of them remained loitering in the street under my window. A group of girls came by, walking arm in arm. The young men under my window swerved so as to brush against them, and shouted humorous remarks, which made the girls turn their heads and giggle. I recognized them as girls from my part of the town, and two or three of them, whom I knew, looked up and waved to me. Just then the street lamps came on, all together, and they made the stars that were beginning to glimmer in the night sky paler still. I felt my eyes getting tired, what with the lights and all the movement I‟d been watching in the street. There were little pools of brightness under the lamps, and now and then a streetcar passed, lighting up a girl‟s hair, or a smile, or a silver bangle. Soon after this, as the streetcars became fewer and the sky showed velvety black above the trees and lamps, the street grew emptier, almost imperceptibly, until a time came when there was nobody to be seen and a cat, the first of the evening, crossed, unhurrying, the deserted street. It struck me that I‟d better see about some dinner. I had been leaning so long on the back of my chair, looking down, that my neck hurt when I straightened myself up. I went down, bought some bread and spaghetti, did my cooking, and ate my meal standing.I‟d intended to smoke another cigarette at my window, but the night had turned rather chilly and I decided against it. As I was coming back, after shutting the window, I glanced at the mirror and saw reflected in it a corner of my table with my spirit lamp and some bits of bread beside it. It occurred to me that somehow I‟d got through another Sunday, that Mother now was buried, and tomorrow I‟d be going back to work as usual.Really, nothing in my life had changed18

Morning, Mr. Nick.” “My, don’t you look dapper.” He looked to find Lilly in the doorway. “And doesn’t your mama look pretty as a daisy.” “Not daisy. Daffodil.” Levi hopped down the steps. “That’s her favorite flower, but her dress is green, so I guess she’s pretty as a toad.” Nick chuckled. “Only you would think toads are pretty.” “Toads

grunted

we heard the clinking of glasses and faint, conversational laughter. A human torso, crudely butchered, lay across a glass table with its innards still wet and glistening. Lauren sat beside it, dressed in her Sunday best and sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup. A man in a dapper black suit sat across from her. His face was a featureless black void, a smudge of frozen smoke. “Eugene!” Lauren said. “You’re just in time for high tea.” “Abelard,” Eugene gasped, obviously in shock, “says he can’t leave the camp. He says the road—” “Right, we can’t let anyone leave. Obviously. Mr. Gray, would you please do something about that pesky man?” The black void buzzed, and the suited man hoisted his teacup emphatically. He spoke in the droning voice of a thousand flies’ wings.

There are many pathways to God.

Je hebt het hart van een leeuw, Coriander. Je bent dapper genoeg om de kamer van de koningin binnen te gaan, flink genoeg om een wit ros te aaien, niet te bang om een prins te redden.

dapper bandleader called Harry Margolis

This Bird, in my opinion, is a pretty, sweet, dapper songster, being of a nature cheerful; as he is pleasant to the ear, so he is to the eye; and when he sings cocks up his tail, and throws out his notes with so much alacrity and pleasure that I know not any bird of its bigness more delights the sense of hearing.

Verhalen vormen de enige echte magie. Een verhaal kan de onmogelijke afstand tussen individuen overbruggen, ons uit ons eigen leven tillen en in dat van iemand anders zetten, al is het maar voor even. Onze honger naar verhalen maakt ons tot mens. We verlangen in het bijzonder naar verhalen die ons blij maken. Verhalen slaan ergens op, terwijl dat voor de echte wereld niet geldt. Want verhalen zijn de opgeschoonde versie van het echte leven, een gedestilleerde versie van het menselijke gedrag die komischer, tragischer en perfecter is dan het echte leven. In een goed gemaakte holo zitten geen doodlopende verhaallijnen of willekeurige opnames. Als de camera op een detail inzoomt, moet je opletten, want dat detail heeft een cruciale betekenis, die nog duidelijk zal worden. Zo is het echte leven niet. In het echte leven leiden de aanwijzingen niet per definitie tot iets. Wegen lopen dood. Geliefden maken geen heroïsche romantische gebaren. Mensen zeggen lelijke dingen en vertrekken zonder afscheid te nemen en lijden op onzinnige manieren. Verhaallijnen worden zonder ontknoping losgelaten. Soms hebben we een verhaal nodig - één dat goed in elkaar steekt, opbeurend is - om de wereld te helpen weer ergens op te slaan. Er zijn geen gelukkige eindes in het echte leven, omdat er in het leven geen eindes zijn, alleen momenten van verandering. Er is altijd een nieuw avontuur, een nieuwe uitdaging, een nieuwe mogelijkheid om geluk te vinden of weg te jagen. Ik wil holografie studeren omdat het mijn droom is om verhalen te creëren. Ik hoop dat mijn holo's mensen op een dag inspireren om de wereld beter achter te laten dan ze hem aantroffen. Om in ware liefde te geloven. Om dapper genoeg te zijn om voor geluk te vechten.

One of the two, well past sixty, small, dapper, with a clear, sunburned complexion and a grey moustache, had the fine, intelligent head of a thinker, thatched with silver hair parted to left and to right. His hands were large, well-kept and useful looking. His expression was that of a philosopher whom the world can’t startle and who is prepared to take such novelties as it does bring with stoical calm and slightly mocking contempt.

O ja, zeg, o wauw, ze is echt fantástisch. En zo leuk! Zo aardig en grappig... Zeg nou maar niet dat het jou niet is opgevallen. Ze wil jou ook altijd beetpakken. Ze wil jou als donzig knuffelbeest hebben!' 'Je bent toch niet jaloers, hè?' vroeg Dax dapper. Meteen boog hij zijn hoofd om een klap van Lisa te ontwijken. 'Dat zou je wel willen, Dax!

Visitors stream in and out of the rooms and corridors. There are families to see, questions to answer, a new admission from the ED. It’s one thing after another—randomly, it seems—bouncing from one story to the next. Mr. Gunther, headed for the NIH, leaves with his wife. She gives me a long look as they head toward the elevator. I wish her well; living with Pascal’s wager can’t be easy. Mr. Kinney, a dapper corporate attorney, is also getting out of here after a rough two weeks. His pancreas is totally destroyed, replaced by puddles of necrotic fluid, yet he refuses to accept the fact that his fondness for single-malt scotch is the reason why. His wife gives me a long look, too, then they’re gone. Jim, the Cardiology fellow, shows me the echocardiogram he just did on Mr. Warner, our guy with HIV. Nothing there, Jim says, no vegetation, no sign of endocarditis. We consider what this means, make a plan. Up on 10 Central, Mr. Mukaj’s bladder irrigation backs up painfully again but there’s nowhere else we can put him, no empty beds in the ICU or Step-Down Unit, no place where he can have his own nurse with him all the time. We bounce this around, too, decide to try this, then that, we’ll see. Mr. Harris, our patient with Marfan syndrome, a plastic aorta, and a septic hip joint, spikes a fever again. Not good. We make a plan. And so it goes, on into the evening. On days like this, doctoring feels like pinball: nonstop random events—intercepted here, altered there, prolonged or postponed by this or that, the bells and boinks sounding all around—and sometimes you can’t be sure whether you’re the guy pushing the buttons, manipulating the levers, and bumping the machine, or whether you’re inside the machine, whether you’re the pinball itself.

Well, then I spent three days in the Field Museum, eyeing the exhibits. Can you beat it? I walk around and walk around rubbering at mummies and bones and—well, I ain't kiddin', but they was among the three most interesting days I ever put in. And I felt pretty good, too, knowin' that no copper would be thinking of Dapper Pete as being in the museums.

Him," he sighed, "that was Jim Sloan, constable from Grand Island, Neb. And they sent him here about two weeks ago to find me. See? And all this rube does is ride around in rubberneck wagons and take in the museums and parks, having no idee where I was. He figured merely on enjoyin' himself at Nebraska's expense. "And he was just on the observation tower lookin' over the city in his rube way when I have to walk into him. Yes, sir, Pete Handley, and there ain't no slicker guy in the country, walkin' like a prize sucker right into the arms of a Grand Island, Neb., constable. It all goes to show," sighed Dapper Pete, "what a small world it is after all.

The proud little man was accompanied by three discreet touches of male vanity: a gold watch chain hanging from his dapper white waistcoat, a polka-dotted silk cravat held tightly to his high collar by a pearl stickpin, and his thirty-six-year-old wife.

Those who had come in, soaked and surly, ate their dinner in silence and discomfort and took themselves away, leaving the freshly scrubbed floor as mucky as a moss-hag on the moor. Late in the afternoon a sergeant, risen from the ranks and cocky about it, came in and turned himself out of a dripping greatcoat, dapper and dry in his red tunic, pipe-clayed belt, and winking buttons. He ordered tea and toast and Dundee marmalade with an air of gay well-being that was no less than a personal affront to a man in Mr. Traill’s frame of mind.

Subconsciously, or maybe not, they picked up the pace. A few seconds later, Lindsey said, “Bobby?” Bobby Dodd rose from the card table. The first word that came to mind: Dapper. He looked sprightly and fresh. He had dark black skin, thick wrinkles like something you might see on an alligator. He was a snappy dresser in a tweed jacket, two-tone loafers, red ascot with matching hanky. His gray hair was cropped close and slicked down. His

Esteban Ventura Novo rose to the rank of a police Lieutenant Colonel during the Batista regime in Cuba. Feared by many, he became known as the white-suited assassin and was infamous in Havana’s Fifth Precinct. He later moved to the Ninth Precinct where he continued his reign of terror. The University of Havana was closed due to the ongoing revolution and the students feared for their lives. Esteban Ventura Novo was known for the cruel torturing of people and how he dispatched his adversaries. On April 20, 1957 Ventura organized the largest massacre of students in Havana. At the time he sent a squad of undercover police to find Fructuoso Rodríguez, the president of the Federation of University Students and his followers and without hesitation Ventura ordered that they be killed in cold blood. During the second half of 1958, the swinging city of Havana became a dangerous place in which to live. The ruthless but dapper Ventura who started as a police snitch gained his promotions by means of his vicious conduct and the diabolical way he eliminated the so-called “enemies of the state.” Ventura, was condemned to death by Fidel Castro’s revolutionary army but managed to escape to Miami where he and other members of the Batista regime found refuge. Ventura settled in Miami, where he founded a security agency, which was located on First South West Street and Bacon Boulevard. On April 1, 1959, Ventura was granted permission to stay in the United States. He had escaped justice despite the overwhelming evidence against him. Esteban Ventura Novo, the “Man in the White Suit” continued to live a comfortable life in South Florida, until his death at the age of 87.

My mother’s father, Grandfather Thieme, the son of a railroad engineer, looked quite dapper as a young man. Prior to 1933 the Hamburg Police Department consisted of 21 units, with 2,100 men. My grandfather was a Polizist with the Sicherheitspolizei or uniformed policeman with the department. Later, with an expansion of the Hamburg Police Department to 5,500 men and the formation of an investigative branch, he was promoted to the esteemed position of a Kriminalbeamte inspector. He rose to the rank of Chief of Detectives, and had a reputation of being tough, and not someone you could mess with. Having a baldhead and the general appearance of Telly Savalas, the late Hollywood movie actor, I don’t think anyone did. An action story and part of my grandfather’s legacy was when he chased a felon across the rooftops of prewar Hamburg, firing his Dienstpistole, service revolver, as he made his way from one steep inclined slate roof to the next. Of course, Grandpa got his man! Even with this factual tidbit, there isn’t all that much I know about him, other than that, at the then ripe old age of sixty-four, he peacefully died in his chair while reading the evening newspaper.

At around nine o’clock, the boss arrived in the war room on the fourteenth floor and stood in front of a wall mounted with six seventy-five-inch TVs, all showing different networks. The number of people in the room had somehow swelled. There were dozens of pizza boxes piled on the tables. Melania Trump was there, as were the Trump kids. Governor Mike Pence, his wife, Karen, and their daughter, Charlotte, were there. New Jersey Governor Chris Christie was there, as was Dr. Ben Carson. Bob Mercer, the reclusive conservative billionaire, was dressed in a dapper three-piece gray suit. Bannon said he looked like Rich Uncle Pennybags, the Monopoly man.

Not wanting to be seen, I shrunk back into the shadows, when I heard a friendly voice ask, “Sind sie allein Fraulein? Warum tanzen sie nicht.” I couldn’t believe that I was being asked by this handsome German Naval Officer if I was alone and why I wasn’t dancing. When I tried to explain, he interjected by saying, “I too am alone. Would you dance with me?” I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t resist his offer to dance. Stepping out onto the dance floor I could see Richard on the other side of the room looking in my direction. I really couldn’t resist being a little naughty as I feigned flirtatious girlish laughter, while whirling in the arms of this gallant, dapper, and oh-so-handsome Naval Officer. Captain Dönitz concluded our dance in typical German fashion, by clicking his heels and kissing my hand. Later that evening Richard reluctantly apologized for his behavior. I could understand that he had been totally engrossed with his duties and decided to forgive the incident and move on. That evening quite a number of the cadets had also asked me for a dance. I felt flattered but decided that I would be loyal to Richard. Later in Germany, Richard loved to tell this story to friends and family or anyone else that would listen.

Sierlijke witte krullen van een smeedijzeren bank werden als vingers, die haar naderbij wenkten.

In de namiddag is Eva langsgekomen. Ik weet nog maar half er gebeurd is. Ik geloof dat zij zich niet goed voelde. Ik herinner mij tranen en gestotter. Een rood aangelopen gezicht. Ik herinner mij dat ik niet gevraagd heb waarom ze huilde. Dat ik een heel betoog heb afgestoken. Over de leegte van het leven, en de onmogelijkheid van echte liefde, en het gore perspectief van de gewisse dood. Over hoe geen mens te vertrouwen valt. Of zo. Ik geloof zelfs dat ik op het einde ben beginnen te janken. Uit angst, geloof ik toch. Om te sterven. Of uit zelfmedelijden. Ik gok een beetje naar de inhoud, maar zoiets moet het geweest zijn. Ik ken de verhalen van anderen over mijn speeches als ik ver genoeg heen ben. Dan gulpt er alles uit wat op nuchterder kwartieren dapper binnen wordt gehouden. Achter dichtgespijkerde ramen en op slot gedraaide deuren. Een mens moet wat.

October of 1883, Bob Ford could be identified correctly by more citizens than could the accidental president of the United States (Chester Alan Arthur); he was reported to be as renowned at twenty as Jesse was after fourteen years of grand larceny, and though it was by then a presumption on his part, it was unanticipated by others that a poised but unscrupulous young man could be thought dapper and tempting to women: the courtroom was as packed during his second-degree murder trial in Plattsburg as was the Mount Olivet Baptist Church when the corpse of Jesse Woodson James was prayed over and dispatched to his Maker, and as the correspondents noted the crowds inside and on the courthouse steps, they were surprised by the presence of otherwise sophisticated ladies, reading in this a proof of the young man’s beguiling powers.

Bob was going on twenty-two when he went back to Kansas City to gamble for a living. He was dapper, glamorous, physically strong, comparatively rich, and psychologically injured. By his own approximation, Bob had by then assassinated Jesse over eight hundred times, and each repetition was much like the principal occasion: he suspected no one in history had ever so often or so publicly recapitulated an act of betrayal, and he imagined that no degree of grief or penitence could change the country’s ill-regard for him.

In walked a vision of elegance that might have just stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. She didn't even bother trying not to stare. Peach Gallagher had arrived. And all her expectations exploded. Not only did he appear to understand the meaning of black tie, he walked into the reception room as if he had invented the look---a perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket and matching trousers, a shirt with studs and cuff links, an expertly tied bow tie, and black laced oxfords. His long hair managed to make the attire seem more formal. He was every crush she'd ever had from junior high onward. Every album cover she'd stared at, listening to torch songs until she cried. Every mooned-over heartthrob she could never have.

Alexander looked as dapper as usual, in a bespoke three-piece suit, which was completely the wrong choice of clothing for the jungle. The patches under his armpits were already soaked with sweat.

Juniper has already whipped open the door to reveal the lanky, shockingly dapper Mr. Lee. His shirt appears to have been ironed and his summer-straw hair looks as though it suffered a recent encounter with a comb; in his left hand he holds a red burst of carnations.

You look fuckin’ dapper, King.” “If I look dapper, then you look like a princess,” I countered with a raised brow. She pursed her lips. “MC princess then.” “Dapper rebel then,” I retorted.

The main reason that Fauci has gotten away with so much,” Kramer observed in 1987, “is that he’s attractive and handsome and dapper and extremely well spoken and he never answers your question.”68

Yet if their time with Julianna Dapper had taught him anything, it was that the world was an arbitrary and ridiculous place, where all things were possible. Coincidence and human stupidity held sway much of the time, but not always: There was love, too, of course, and companionship, and now and then even a measure of grace. At least for those who were wise enough to have faith in the ridiculous.

That’s a big part of what creativity is to me, using new technology in a way that no one would think of using it.

Sadye Pryor is a pillar of the Pensacola Mt. Zion Baptist Church. I myself see the inside of a church only when there’s a funeral. Aunt Sadye wears glasses and frumpy sack dresses and looks studious. I was born dapper and will die dapper; I don’t wear the reading spectacles I need. She is a librarian who’s known for raising her eyebrows to get students to quiet down. I am a show producer known for raising my eyebrows to get kids to project louder. Yes, presidents of Motown PTAs have been known to question whether I am a fit example for our young ones, because I consort with show folk and gamblers and others associated with nightlife. Sadye Pryor maintains perfectly proper associates (fellow board members of the YWCA, members of the Eastern Star lodge she leads, fellow Sunday School teachers) and is lauded as an example of PTA-praiseworthy deportment. In Pensacola, indeed across Florida, and all around these United States. Sadye was born a virgin and by choice will likely die a virgin. Some folks call me the old reprobate.

His bible on the subject was The Passing of the Great Race, a hodgepodge of racist pseudoscience, anti-immigration rants, and archaeological poppycock by a dapper, mustachioed Yale graduate named Madison Grant.

There are good ships, and there are wood ships, the ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are friendships, and may they always be.

It will be a devilish divinity of dapperness

The door at the back of Ventura Superior Courtroom One swung open, and a smiling, confident Elizabeth Duncan sashayed in like she owned the place. Her grand entrance was hindered only by the fact that she was cuffed to a deputy sheriff. Mrs. Duncan nodded and raised her finger tips to a few familiar faces in the press section that she'd come to know during the week-long jury selection process. Reporters and photographers swarmed. 'How about a few pictures before we start?' one newsman called out. Mrs.'s Duncan's dapper little attorney, S. Ward Sullivan, nodded his permission. The deputy unfastened the cuffs. Mrs. Duncan stood next to her chair at the defense table and rubbed her wrist before turning toward reporters. 'Do you like my new outfit?' she asked as she fluffed the skirt of her two-piece, black and white dress. 'Frank bought it for me.' Flashbulbs popped.

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And there, seated at the heart of all that sumptuousness and leaning forward in his chair behind the great desk, was a figure that looked like nothing so much as a dapper but exceedingly despondent frog. The very shape of his head seemed as if it had been altered by a powerful vertical vice, resulting in a symmetrical ovoid with a horizontal polar axis. His complexion was not so much sallow as lightly green. His mouth was unnaturally wide, with thick, tautly stretched lips the color and texture of earthworms. What ears he had were small and circular and somewhat recessed. His nose was broad and rather flat, as if it had been spread on his face unevenly by a butter knife, and had what looked more like nares than full nostrils. The sparse, slick tendrils of his hair were of some murkily nondescript hue and clung unguinously to his scalp. The dense convex lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles made it seem as if his greenish-gray eyes were peering out at the world from the bottom of a shallow pond, through a thin layer of algae. If he had a jawline, it was not immediately evident where he kept it. His hunched, narrow, rounded shoulders, moreover, amplified the amphibian quality of his appearance. He was, however, dressed in the height of fashion: a high collar and pearl-colored cravat, a waistcoat of forest-green velvet, and a formal coat of lighter, lettuce-green damask with lapels of cream-white satin with pink borders.

Raymond Hamilton,' the Judge decreed, 'you are here now to be sentenced, friendless and without money. Have you anything to say as to why sentence should not be passed?' 'Yes, I have,' answered Raymond. 'People,' he began, 'I hope I have a few friends among you I want you to know I never killed anyone. . . . Crowson was going to be killed no matter what I did. . . . and I want to tell you that whenever Simmons and the others get after you together, you don't get fairness. . . . They're afraid they can't hold me, that I'll breakout and call more attention to them, so they get me 'the chair'. . . . I don't know if there's anything like 'haunts' but if there are, I sure do want to come back and kick this whole bunch out of bed every night.' [...] As the once-dapper bandit was being led past the crowd, several young women pressed against the railing, some trying to touch the gunman. Looking over his shoulder, Hamilton raised his manacled hands to wave farewell, a smile on his face.

Père Loyau was born on August 26, 1896, nine decades ago. He is mystified that his son, who ran a tabac in Tours, retired before he has. Loyau is five foot four, wiry (I saw him lift two full cases of Vouvray at the same time), white-haired, and invariably appears in a dapper, tightly knotted necktie. His cave is indeed a cave in the hillside: chalk walls, dirt floor, stone-cold. Once I met another old fellow, an octogenarian, who had worked all his life under refrigeration in a meat-packing plant, and like Loyau he had a delicate, rosy, remarkably wrinkle-free complexion. Is the icy cave also responsible for Loyau’s incredible exuberance? Let us hope the wine of Vouvray contributed something, because we can all lay our hands on some of that.

CARY GRANT IS THE MCCARTNEY OF MOVIE STARS—HIS STORY has much to tell us about Paul’s. They share a spiritual connection, beyond their pronunciation of “Judy.” (Paul described his “hey Judy-Judy-Judy” ad libs as “Cary Grant on heat.”) They dazzled Americans as the ultimate English dream dates—yet both were self-inventions, street guys who taught themselves to pose as posh charmers. Both grew up working-class in hardscrabble industrial cities; both lost their mothers at a young age. (Grant, whose real name was Archibald Leach, was nine when he was told his mother had gone on a trip; more than twenty years later, after he was famous, he learned she was locked up in an institution and got her released.) Both dropped out of school to fight their way into the sleaziest sewers of show biz—Grant joined a troupe of traveling acrobats, which must have been an even rougher scene than the Reeperbahn—yet to them it was a world of freedom and excitement. But both found lasting fame by turning on the charm for Americans who saw them as dapper gentlemen. “Everyone wants to be Cary Grant,” Grant once said. “Even I want to be Cary Grant.

Hij vroeg zich af waarom ze niet gek van angst was geworden. Misschien was je niet bang voor geesten als je de dochter van een Hogepriesteres van Keftioe was. Of misschien was ze gewoon heel dapper.

Identify your assumptions. Question them. Negate them.”- Grayson Davenport Hawthorne ' “I need this,” Xander said into the microphone. “You need this. We all need this. Nash, I’ve cued up the Taylor Swift for you. Jameson, get ready to break out those dance moves because this stage is calling your name, and we all know that your hips are utterly incapable of falsehood. And as for Grayson…” Xander paused. “Where is Gray?” “Grayson Hawthorne skipping out on karaoke?” Libby said. “I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked. ” “Gray has a voice so deep and smooth that you will shed literal tears as he sings something so old school that you will come to believe he spent the 1950s wearing the most dapper of suits and hanging out with his bestie, Frank Sinatra,” Xander swore. - The final Gambit by Jennifer lyn barnes

Slechts een paar malen heb ik hem zien opflakkeren: toen men herinneringen ophaalde uit het Rusland van zijn jeugd, vertelde hij haperend hoe zijn ouders in een pogrom waren afgeslacht door de dappere kozakken – die nu zo aandoenlijk kunnen zingen in Carnegie Hall, zei hij – en hoe men nagelaten had hem te doden omdat zijn moeder het wicht dat hij toen was onder haar lichaam had bedolven. Alsof het een academische vraag betrof, zei hij nadenkend: ‘Om mij te verstikken, of om mij te redden, wie zal het zeggen?’ Haar buik had men met een sabelhouw opengereten, en het zien van haar ingewanden op de aarden vloer van de hut van Prichov had de dienaars van de Tsar ontmoedigd in hun opzet om het jodengebroed van het dorp geheel uit te roeien. ‘En toch,’ zei Sam Cohn, ‘had ieder van die kozakken ook een moeder. Het is lastig om te begrijpen wat er in de wereld omgaat.’ De zeldzame malen dat hij zich in het gesprek mengde, uitte hij steeds bedenkingen die aantoonden dat hij aanhoudend op zoek was naar de diepere betekenis van de dingen en van de gebeurtenissen, en dat hij er zich op toelegde niet te haten maar begrijpen. Het was duidelijk dat hij alleen waarde hechtte aan de goedheid van de mens, en ontsteld was en verward wanneer hij boosheid ontdekte die niet door eigenbelang of hebzucht was ingegeven, en die door dergelijk gebrek aan motivering geheel onverklaarbaar werd. [ Marnix Gijsen – Kaddisj voor Sam Cohn ]

...de Gurkha’s de meest doorgewinterde gevechtseenheden van het Britse leger. Bij de jaarlijkse rekrutering in Nepal dingen circa 11.000 kandidaten in loodzware toelatingsproeven mee naar de slechts 170 beschikbare plaatsen. In de Tweede Wereldoorlog werden ze naar het Midden-Oosten en Italië gestuurd. Maar in de voorbije halve eeuw vochten ze ook op de Falklands, in Irak, Joegoslavië en Afghanistan.895 Zowel in Nepal als in Engeland bezitten de Gurkha’s een mythische status: ze heten uitzonderlijk dapper, loyaal en onversaagd te zijn. Dertien van hen zijn zelfs dragers van het Victoria Cross, de hoogste militaire onderscheiding van het Verenigd Koninkrijk.896 Men zou ook kunnen zeggen: als voetvolk afkomstig uit arme, geïsoleerde en traditiegetrouwe dorpsgemeenschappen van een onherbergzaam land deden de Gurkha’s (en doen zij nog steeds) het vuile werk waar westerse soldaten niet langer toe bereid waren.

If Francis is taking the time to hover by our window like a forlorn specter, something must truly be amiss.

We all must choose a side in a coin flip. Even if the coin is covered in blood.

In jou, Lizzie Rosenfeld, bange bakvis, dappere hoer, ondermaans onderwatermeisje, alleen in jou verdiep ik mij, dompel ik mij onder, graaf ik mij in, tot victorieuze verstikking toe.

Arthur’s ties to the powerful New York State Republican machine won him nomination as candidate for vice president. To near-universal dismay, he had entered the White House when President James A. Garfield died from an assassin’s bullet. A good storyteller and man about town, fond of whiskey, cigars, and expensive clothes, the dapper, sideburned Arthur is perhaps best remembered for saying, “I may be president of the United States, but my private life is nobody’s damned business.” On this trip to Florida, however, his private life fitted very nicely into someone else’s business. The owner of the Belair orange plantation was General Henry Shelton Sanford, the man who had helped Leopold recruit Stanley. Sanford did not bother to leave his home in Belgium to be in Florida for the president’s visit. With the self-assurance of the very rich, he played host in absentia. He made sure that the president and his party were greeted by his personal agent, and that they got the best rooms at the Sanford House hotel, which stood on a lakeshore fringed with palm trees in the town of Sanford. When the president and his guests were not out catching bass, trout, and catfish, or shooting alligators, or exploring the area by steamboat, the Sanford House was where they stayed for the better part of a week. There is no record of who paid the hotel bill, but most likely, as with the rail journey south, it was not the president. Ironically, the huge Sanford orange plantation the Washington visitors admired was proving as disastrous a venture as Sanford’s other investments. Some Swedish contract laborers found the working conditions too harsh and tried to leave as stowaways on a steamboat. A slaughterhouse Sanford invested in had a capacity fifty times larger than what the local market could consume and went bankrupt. A 540-foot wharf with a warehouse at the end of it that he ordered built was washed away by a flood. The manager of one of the hotels in Sanford absconded while owing him money. Foremen failed to put up fences, and wandering cattle nibbled at the orange trees. But if everything Sanford touched as a businessman turned to dust, as an accomplice of Leopold he was a grand success. Sanford was a long-time supporter of President Arthur’s Republican Party. For two years, he had been corresponding with Arthur and other high United States officials about Leopold’s plans for the Congo. Now, after the president’s trip to Florida, confident that Arthur would pay attention, he pressed his case with more letters. Seven months later, Leopold sent Sanford across the Atlantic to make use of his convenient connection to the White House. The man who had once been American minister to Belgium was now the Belgian king’s personal envoy to Washington. Sanford carried with him to Washington a special code for telegraphing news to Brussels: Constance meant “negotiations proceeding satisfactorily; success expected”; Achille referred to Stanley, Eugénie to France, Alice to the United States, Joseph to “sovereign rights,” and Émile to the key target, the president.

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Stop leaving me alone with these people.” I laughed out loud. “Did Aunt Violet wrangle you into that suit?” “She practically barricaded the closet, so I couldn’t pick out anything else.” “You look very dapper if that helps.” “It doesn’t,

Wellington Books was looking less than dapper. His coif was rumpled,