David Villa Quotes

She has four sons,” Nurse Purvis leads me on, “all with a London post code, but they never visit. You’d think old age was a criminal offense, not a destination we’re all heading to.” I consider airing my theory that our culture’s coping strategy towards death is to bury it under consumerism and Sansara, that the Riverside Villas of the world are screens that enable this self-deception, and that the elderly are guilty: guilty of proving to us that our willful myopia about death is exactly that.

As David lifted a suitcase onto the conveyor belt, he came to an unexpected and troubling realisation: that he was bringing himself with him on his holiday. Whatever the qualities of the Dimitra Residence, they were going to be critically undermined by the fact that he would be in the villa as well.

He stopped at the base of the steps, turned her. "You're a good daughter." With a casual tap of his finger, he tipped up her chin. "And not a half-bad person, as people go." "Oh, I can be bad. If he hurts her, David's going to find out just how bad I can be." "I'll hold him down, you skin him." "That's a deal.

Kids are still up," David commented, noting the guest house was lit up like a Vegas casino. "I'll have to kill them." "Yes, I've noticed what a terrifying and brutal father you are. And how your children fear you." He slanted her a look. "I wouldn't mind seeing the occasional tremble out of them." "I think it's way too late for that. You've gone and raised two happy, well-adjusted kids

The land afterward was cleared by oxen, the fallen trees stripped of their bark and cut for lumber that would be used in the construction of the villa, in which the women would live as servants, on whose property their daughters terraced the mountain for orange and lemon groves, where they could see to the east from the peak of Mount Terminus their sons raising swine in the valley below.

heading to.’ I consider airing my theory that our culture’s coping strategy towards death is to bury it under consumerism and samsara; that the Riverside Villas of the world are screens that enable this self-deception, and that the elderly are guilty: guilty of proving to us that our wilful myopia about death is exactly that.

It's weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen's culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she'd already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franken and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the works absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, friend eggs, ten hours' sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury's Caramel. John and Paul and George and Ringo. And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. The instinct never goes - look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I've chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other's self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drink from very large mugs. And looking forward to the Glastonbury ticket day and the new season of Game of Thrones and taking the piss out of ourselves for being just like everyone else. Our culture was over-tipping in restaurants because we both used to work in the service industry, salty popcorn at the cinema and afternoon naps. Side-by-side morning sex. Home-made Manhattans. Barmade Manhattans (much better). Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee" (our song). Discovering a new song we both loved and listening to it over and over again until we couldn't listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can't believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn't get enough of them together - stuffing them in our gobs, her hand on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I'm not a member of that club anymore. No one is. It's been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where so I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I'm no longer a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird? Why do I find this so hard?

Today, the men from that meeting are frozen in photographs. They are immortal, or rather: they must never be forgotten. The villa has become a place of memorial. I visited it one gloriously sunny day in July 2004. You can walk through the horror. The long table used for the meeting is frightening. As if the objects had taken part in the crime. The place with forever be charged with terror. So this is what it means, when a chill runs down your spine. I had never understood that expression before. The physical manifestation of an invisible icy finger. Tracing the vertebrae in your back.

Appreciate it." David headed toward the door, paused. "Listen, would you let me know if she gets… if she starts to get a crush on you. It's probably normal, but I'd like to head it off if it veers that way." "It's not like that. I think I'm more big brother, maybe uncle material. But your boy's got a champion crush on Sophie." David stared. Blinked. Then rubbed his hands over his face. "Missed that one. I thought it came and went the first week. Hell." "She can handle it. Nothing she does better than handle the male of the species. She won't bruise him." "He manages to bruise himself." He thought of Pilar, and winced

My dwelling was small, and I could hardly entertain an echo in it; but it seemed larger for being a single apartment and remote from neighbors. All the attractions of a house were concentrated in one room; it was kitchen, chamber, parlor, and keeping-room; and whatever satisfaction parent or child, master or servant, derive from living in a house, I enjoyed it all. Cato says, the master of a family (patremfamilias) must have in his rustic villa "cellam oleariam, vinariam, dolia multa, uti lubeat caritatem expectare, et rei, et virtuti, et gloriae erit," that is, "an oil and wine cellar, many casks, so that it may be pleasant to expect hard times; it will be for his advantage, and virtue, and glory." I had in my cellar a firkin of potatoes, about two quarts of peas with the weevil in them, and on my shelf a little rice, a jug of molasses, and of rye and Indian meal a peck each. I sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials, and without gingerbread work, which shall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial, primitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and purlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one's head—useful to keep off rain and snow, where the king and queen posts stand out to receive your homage, when you have done reverence to the prostrate Saturn of an older dynasty on stepping over the sill; a cavernous house, wherein you must reach up a torch upon a pole to see the roof; where some may live in the fireplace, some in the recess of a window, and some on settles, some at one end of the hall, some at another, and some aloft on rafters with the spiders, if they choose; a house which you have got into when you have opened the outside door, and the ceremony is over; where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and converse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you would be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the essentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping; where you can see all the treasures of the house at one view, and everything hangs upon its peg, that a man should use; at once kitchen, pantry, parlor, chamber, storehouse, and garret; where you can see so necessary a thing, as a barrel or a ladder, so convenient a thing as a cupboard, and hear the pot boil, and pay your respects to the fire that cooks your dinner, and the oven that bakes your bread, and the necessary furniture and utensils are the chief ornaments; where the washing is not put out, nor the fire, nor the mistress, and perhaps you are sometimes requested to move from off the trap-door, when the cook would descend into the cellar, and so learn whether the ground is solid or hollow beneath you without stamping. A house whose inside is as open and manifest as a bird's nest, and you cannot go in at the front door and out at the back without seeing some of its inhabitants; where to be a guest is to be presented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully excluded from seven eighths of it, shut up in a particular cell, and told to make yourself at home there—in solitary confinement. Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance. There is as much secrecy about the cooking as if he had a design to poison you. I am aware that I have been on many a man's premises, and might have been legally ordered off, but I am not aware that I have been in many men's houses. I might visit in my old clothes a king and queen who lived simply in such a house as I have described, if I were going their way; but backing out of a modern palace will be all that I shall desire to learn, if ever I am caught in one.

... Gino Fosse vond deze vreemde afbeeldingen van martelaren fascinerend. Hij had uren in de San Stefano Rotondo, niet ver van de villa Celimontana, zitten kijken naar de vaklieden die de verbijsterende schilderingen op de muren daar restaureerden. Deze afbeeldingen spraken tot hem, zeiden iets dat hij niet helemaal begreep. Op de lippen van de martelaren lag op het moment dat zij de kwellingen doorstonden, een raadselachtig eeuwig geheim dat ze na al die jaren nog met hem zouden kunnen delen als hij de sleutel maar wist.

Sir David Evans was a charming old man with philosophic pretensions and a mass of white hair. Because of the philosophy he sat in front of the immense bookcases groaning under Locke, Hartley and Hume; and because of the hair these sages were cased in a dark shiny leather sparsely tooled in gold. The effect was charming – the more so in that Sir David's features invariably suggested rugged benevolence. Every few years a portrait of Sir David robed in scarlet and black and with Locke and Hume behind him would appear in the exhibitions which our greatest painters arrange at Burlington House. Of these portraits one already hung in the Great Hall of the university, a second could be seen in a dominating position as soon as one entered Sir David's villa residence, and a third was stowed away ready for offer to the National Portrait Gallery when the time came.

buy my car?” David glanced in the

Thoth is the Egyptian ibis-headed god of magick and writing, whose name means “Leader”.  His worship has been suggested by bronze ibis heads at Chiddingfold (Surrey) and Caerwent (Monmouthshire), indicating his worship found its way to Britain, if only in private villas.

William and Kate escaped to Villa Hibiscus on the exclusive island enclave of Mustique in the Grenadines. Mustique had royal connections going back to the 1950s, when the high-living Princess Margaret built a lavish villa there. Mick Jagger bought a place on Mustique in 1971 and was soon joined by the likes of David Bowie and Richard Branson. Two other island residents—fashion moguls John and Belle Robinson, founders of the Jigsaw clothing chain—graciously waved the customary $14,000 weekly rental fee and lent Villa Hibiscus, their estate overlooking Macaroni Beach, to the young cadet and his girlfriend. The

All of these men conquered England. And Vikings had been conquering bits of it, and Anglo-Saxons reconquering them again, for centuries, Conquering England doesn't look like that big deal at this point - in fact, it seems like one of the main things that happened in England since everyone forgot how to build villas.

Short story: The true and incredible tale of David Kirkpatrick, a Scottish ex-boy scout, and miner, serving in WW2 with 2nd Highland Light Infantry and the legendary elite corps 2nd SAS. A man who becomes a hero playing his bagpipe during a secret mission in Italy, March 1945, where he saved the lives of hundreds just playing during the attack. After he fought in North Africa, Greece, Albania, Sicily and being reported as an unruly soldier, (often drunk, insulting superiors and so on) in Tuscany, 23 march 1945 he joined as volunteer in the 2nd Special Air Service ( the British elite forces), for a secret mission behind enemy line in Italy. He parachuted in the Italian Apennines with his kilt on (so he becomes known as the 'mad piper' ) for a mission organized with British elite forces and an unruly group of Italian-Russian partisans (code name: 'Operation Tombola' organized from the British secret service SOE and 2nd SAS and the "Allied Battalion") against the Gothic Line german headquarter of the 51 German Mountains Corps in Albinea, Italy. The target of the anglo-partisan group's mission is to destroy the nazi HQ to prepare the big attack of the Allied Forces (US 5th Army, British 8th Army) to the German Gothic Line in North Italy at the beginning of April. It's the beginning of the liberation of Italy from the nazi fascist dictatorship. The Allied Battalion guided by major Roy Farran, captain Mike Lees Italian partisan Glauco Monducci, Gianni Ferrari, and the Russian Viktor Pirogov is an unruly brigade of great fighters of many nationalities. Among them also not just British, Italian, and Russian but also a dutch, a greek, one Austrian paratrooper who deserted the German Forces after has killed an SS, a german who deserted Hitler's Army being in love with an Italian taffeta's, two Jewish escaped from nazi reprisal and 3 Spanish anti-Franchise who fought fascism in the Spanish Civil War and then joined first the French Foreign Legion and the British Elite Forces. The day before the attack, Kirkpatrick is secretly guested in a house of Italian farmers, and he donated his white silk parachute to a lady so she could create her wedding dress for the Wedding with his love: an Italian partisan. During the terrible attack in the night of 27th March 1945, the sound of his bagpipe marks the beginning of the fight and tricked the nazi, avoiding a terrible reprisal against the civilian population of the Italian village of Albinea, saving in this way the life of hundreds The German HQ based in two historical villa's is destroyed and in flames, several enemy soldiers are killed, during the attack, the bagpipe of David played for more than 30 minutes and let the german believe that the "British are here", not also Italian and Russian partisan (in war for Hitler' order: for partisans attack to german forces for every german killed nazi were executing 10 local civilians in terrible and barbarian reprisal). During the night the bagpipe of David is also hit after 30 minutes of the fight and, three British soldiers of 2nd SAS are killed in the action in one of the two Villa. The morning later when Germans bring their bodies to the Church of Albinea, don Alberto Ugolotti, the local priest notes in his diary: "Asked if they were organizing a reprisal against the civilian population, they answered that it was a "military attack" and there would.

To understand the background to the most momentous telegram ever sent, we have to go back to July 1916. Jutland has just been fought, the British and their allies are dying in unprecedented numbers on the Somme, and the American general John Pershing is fighting in Mexico in pursuit of Pancho Villa. It isn’t going well for him.

He paused by Theo's door, knocked with his free hand. "Get lost, creep." David looked down at Maddy. "I assume he means you." He

David." "Nobody home but you and me," he said, nibbling at her jaw, her throat, her mouth as he guided her out of the kitchen. "You know what I was thinking the other day?" "No." How could she? She didn't know what she was thinking right now. "That it's a complex business. My girlfriend lives with her mother." She did laugh now, at the idea of being called anyone's girlfriend. "And I live with my kids. No place to go to do all the things I've imagined doing with you. Do you know the things I've imagined doing with you?" "I'm getting the picture. David, it's the middle of the day." "The middle of the day." He paused at the base of the steps. "And an opportunity. I hate wasted opportunities, don't you?

Tyler studied him over his coffee. "From what I've seen so far you're not much of a time-waster. And you're not so bad, for a suit." With a half-laugh, David lifted his own coffee. Steam from it rose and merged with the mist. "Coming from you, that's a hell of a kudo." "Damn right.

She's going to have to be more than smart. She'll have to be brilliant." "She is. That's what makes her a pain in the ass." "Stuck on her, are you?" David waved the comment away. "Sorry. Too personal." "I was wondering if you were asking as a corporate suit, an associate or as the guy who's dating her mother." "I was aiming toward friend.

We got distracted. Ty said I could come to the tasting." "Maddy—" "Please. He's going to put my wine in." David glanced over. "You're a brave man, MacMillan." "You never spent an evening chugging any Run, Walk and Fall Down?" With a grin, David covered Maddy's ears. "Once or twice, and fortunately I lived to regret it. Your wine club might object to the addition." "Yeah." The thought of that tickled Ty, too. "It'll broaden their outlook." "Or poison them." "Please, Dad. It's for science.

She was still head of the Giambelli family, and they had a right to know why she believed their father had been hurt. They had a right to know it fell to her blood. "I've spoken with David," she began, and smiled at his children. "Before his doctor came in and forced him to rest.

Buying baubles, are we?" She flipped the box open, blinked. "Oh my." "I guess I should tell you, I bought it for your mother. Gonna ask her to marry me." He pulled himself up a bit on the pillow and slid straight down again. "Got a problem with that?" "I might, seeing as you proposed to me five minutes ago, you fickle bastard." A little teary-eyed, she sat on the side of the bed. "It's beautiful, David. She'll love it. She loves you." "She's everything I've ever wanted. Beautiful, beautiful Pilar. Inside and out. Second chances all around. I'll be careful with her.

Obligingly, visions of sports cars dancing in his head, Theo plopped down on the couch. "Can we look at convertibles? It'd be so cool to tool around with the top down. Chicks really dig on that." "Jeez, Theo." Maddy turned herself around until she was kneeling, her hands resting on David's knees. "You don't score a convertible by telling him you're going to use it to pick up girls. Anyway, shut up so Dad can tell us how he wants to ask Ms. Giambelli to marry him." David's grin at the first half of her statement faded. "How the hell do you do that?" he demanded. "It's spooky." "It's just following logic. That's what you wanted to tell us, right?" "I wanted to talk to you about it. Any point in doing that now?" "Dad." Theo gave him a manly pat. "It's cool." "Thank you, Theo. Maddy?" "When you have a family, you're supposed to stay with them. Sometimes people don't—" "Maddy—" "Uh-uh." She shook her head. "She'll stay because she wants to. Maybe sometimes that's better.

Mama, David asked me to marry him. I said yes." "I see." "That's it? That's all you have to say?" "I'm not finished." Tereza tugged Pilar's hand under the desk light, examined the ring, the stones. She, too, recognized symbols. And valued such things. "He gave you a family to wear on your hand." "Yes. His and mine. Ours.

At mid-morning, David stood among the rows, among the young mustard plants, at the MacMillan vineyard. He felt useless, out of touch and more than a little panicked because his just-turnedseventeen- year-old son had driven off to school that morning behind the wheel of a secondhand convertible. "Don't you have some papers to push?" Tyler asked him. "Up yours." "In that case I won't suggest you head over to the caves to check on the month's drawing. We're going to be testing the '93 Merlot for starters.

That's the way some people do business." "I don't." It was the tone that made Ty stop. He supposed somehow over the past months they'd become friends. Almost family. Near enough that he understood the guilt, and the frustration. "Nobody's saying that, David. Nobody thinks that.

You going to finish beating yourself up soon? Because I've got a lot of work to catch up on, seeing as I had to go to Italy to help wipe your blood off the street. You getting yourself shot really put a crimp in my schedule." David turned back toward Tyler. "Did you use that same tone when you suggested that fucker DeMorney get an X ray?" "Probably. It's the one I use when somebody's being annoyingly stupid." The raw edges in David's stomach smoothed away, and the first glint of humor sparked into his eyes. "I'd take a swing at you over that, but you're bigger than me." "Younger, too." "Bastard. Now that I think of it, I could take you down, but I'll give you a break because Sophia's heading this way. I'd hate for her to have to watch her future stepfather kick your ass." "In your dreams." "I'm going to go sulk in the caves." He started off, pausing as he passed Tyler. "Thanks

I have to go. I'll just say goodbye to David and Theo." Pilar kissed Maddy lightly, absently on the cheek, and made the girl's color come up. "See you later." "Yeah, okay. How come they're for me?" she asked Tyler. "Because I hear you did good." He held them out. "You want them or not?" "Yeah, I want them." She took them, noted the little flutter in her belly as she sniffed. A kind of muscle reflex, she supposed it was. A nice one. "Nobody ever gave me flowers before.

And after this is over? Do I retire to that lovely villa in Aix-en-Provence that I saw in the magazine? Or the hilltop estate in Tuscany that was in that foodie show with the adorable Stanley Tucci?