Derbyshire Quotes

Wherever there is a jackboot stomping on a human face there will be a well-heeled Western liberal to explain that the face does, after all, enjoy free health care and 100 percent literacy.

The more depressed and maladjusted you are, the more likely it is that you are seeing things right, with minimal bias

Matthais: *Sighs* England. I’d take my Valentine to England on a tour of all the places from Jane Austen’s books. Derbyshire, Mr. Darcy’s house. Places like that. Ayden: You’re really milking that whole dark, brooding thing.

I preach that odd defiant melancholy that sees the dreadful loneliness of the human soul and the pitiful disaster of human life as ever redeemable and redeemed by compassion, friendship and love.

Ninety percent of paid work is time-wasting crap. The world gets by on the other ten.

I tell you, with complex numbers you can do anything.

The ordinary modes of human thinking are magical, religious, social, and personal. We want our wishes to come true; we want the universe to care about us; we want the approval of those around us; we want to get even with that s.o.b. who insulted us at the last tribal council. For most people, wanting to know the cold truth about the world is way, way down the list.

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.

Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth. Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself. Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself: and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. With the Gardiners they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.

Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going tommorow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.

The problem is hedonism. The problem is the preening vanity and selfishness of 'coming out,' of parading private inclinations, of a kind that repel normal people, as if those inclinations were, all by themselves, marks of authenticity and virtue, of suffering and oppression.

Books, in the plural lose their solidity of substance and become a gas, filling all available space.

Oh!” I replied brightly, “that is my mother. I am dancing with the richest man in Derbyshire, and she is planning our wedding.

Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.

Our political system is now run by the Big People for their own interests. If they ever deign to notice the Little People, it is with disdain and contempt.

The arts and humanities are not mere entertainment, to be turned to for relaxation after a busy day spent solving differential equations; they are our templates for living, for governing ourselves and our societies. Nor can science offer any help with the knottier problems besetting the human race. It can remedy bad smells, bad pains, and bad roads, but not bad behavior, bad government, or bad ideas.

Puritans don’t laugh—except at the sight of a burning witch.

A very civilized thing, glass—almost an index of civilization. When civilization retreats, it leaves behind broken glass.

I under-stand, madam, that you met my brother twice before following him to Derbyshire.” “I did not follow him here,” Elizabeth said coolly.

The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.

Nothing come of it? Are you out of your mind, daughter? A letter could not be seen between the most eligible bachelor in Derbyshire, and the daughter of an unknown gentleman in Hertfordshire, without comment and speculation!

Con los Gardiner estuvieron siempre los Darcy en la más íntima relación. Darcy, lo mismo que Elizabeth, les quería de veras; ambos sentían la más ardiente gratitud por las personas que, al llevar a Elizabeth a Derbyshire, habían sido las causantes de su unión.

Let me see: There's Miss Garnnett in Ireland, in June of 1770; Miss Nightjar in Swansea on April 3, 1901; Miss Avocet and Miss Bunting together in Derbyshire on Saint Swithin's Day of 1867; Miss Treecreeper I don't remmeber where exactly-- oh, and dear Miss Finch.

Charlotte had tried to read his work. It seemed only polite, after all, given that they were neighbors. But after a while, she'd simply had to give up. 'Love' always rhymed with 'dove,' (Where, she wondered, did one locate that many doves in Derbyshire?) and 'you' rhymed so often with 'dew,' that Charlotte had wanted to grab Rupert by the shoulders and yell, 'Few, hue, new, woo, Waterloo!' Good gracious, even 'moo' would have been preferable. Rupert's poetry could surely have been improved by a cow or two. Saying moo on cue at Waterloo.

Another little fact she’d never have known if she had not ventured from her safe little home in Derbyshire. She was glad she’d come. Truly, she was. She would be leaving with a broken heart—for more reasons than one—but it would be worth it. She was a better person—no, she was a stronger person.

In front of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind, sweeping from Derbyshire, caught the houses with full force, and the tree shrieked again. Morel liked it. "It's music," he said. "It sends me to sleep." But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul, it became an almost demonical noise.

When a gentleman spends quite some time telling me in detail about his father's courtship of his mother, I have to assume there is some moral for me in the tale. Since in this case that courtship consisted primarily of his father insisting repeatedly they were to marry and his mother refusing him almost as often, I take the moral to be that there is very little point in refusing, since it would only lead to the question being repeated until I agreed to it out of sheer exhaustion.

till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.

When she (Marjorie) was at her prayers (which was pretty often just now), and at other times, when the air lightened suddenly about her and the burdens of earth were lifted as if another hand were put to them, why, then, all was glory, and she saw Robin as transfigured and herself beneath him all but adoring. Little visions came and went before her imagination. Robin riding, like some knight on an adventure, to do Christ's work; Robin at the altar, in his vestments; Robin absolving penitents- all in a rosy light of faith and romance. She saw him even on the scaffold, undaunted and resolute, with God's light on his face, and the crowd awed beneath him; she saw his soul entering heaven, with all the harps ringing to meet him, and eternity begun...and then, at other times, when the heaviness came down on her, as clouds upon the Derbyshire hills, she understood nothing but that she had lost him; that she was not to be hers, but Another's; that a loveless and empty life lay before her, and a womanhood that was without its fruition. And it was this latter mood that fell on her, swift and entire, when, looking out from her window a little before dinnertime, she saw suddenly his hat, and his horse's head, jerking up the steep path to the house. She fell on her knees by her bedside. 'Jesu!' She cried. 'Jesu! Give me strength to meet him.

I have been given to understand that it is a series of love letters,” the colonel answered, with a sly look, “quite a few, in fact, written between a certain gentleman in Derbyshire and a single lady near Meryton. You should take care with them. I am certain they would be quite compromising if anyone were to come across them unexpectedly.

Her husband was the most indulgent man who ever lived, or so said a neighbor who didn't know them very well.

If you're not thinking about numbers, you're probably not thinking.

It was in 1742 that Christian Goldbach put forward his famous conjecture that every even number greater than 2 can be expressed as the sum of two primes.

(which has inspired at least one novel, Apostolos Doxiadis's Uncle Petros and Goldbach's Conjecture29).

Those whom [the Lord] teaches, are always increasing in knowledge, both of themselves and of him. The heart is deep, and, like Ezekiel's vision, presents so many chambers of imagery, one within another, that it requires time to get a considerable acquaintance with it, and we shall never know it thoroughly. It is now more than twenty-eight years since the Lord began to open mine to my own view; and from that time to this, almost every day has discovered to me something which until then was unobserved; and the farther I go, the more I seem convinced that I have entered but a little way. A person who travels in some parts of Derbyshire may easily be satisfied that the country is cavernous; but how large, how deep, how numerous the caverns may be, which are hidden from us by the surface of the ground, and what is contained in them—are questions which our most discerning inquirers cannot fully answer… And if our own hearts are beyond our comprehension, how much more incomprehensible is the heart of Jesus! If sin abounds in us—grace and love superabound in him! His ways and thoughts are higher than ours, as the heavens are higher than the earth; his love has a height, and depth, and length, and breadth, which passes all knowledge! The riches of his grace are unsearchable riches! Eph. 3:8, Eph. 3:18, Eph. 3:19. All that we have received or can receive from him, or know of him in this life, compared with what he is in himself, or what he has for us—is but as the drop of a bucket—compared with the ocean; or a single ray of light—compared with the sun. The waters of the sanctuary flow to us at first almost ankle deep—so graciously does the Lord condescend to our weakness; but they rise as we advance, and constrain us to cry out, with the Apostle, O the depth! We find before us, as Dr. Watts beautifully expresses it, A sea of love and grace unknown, Without a bottom or a shore!

As a result of these news stories, millions of people must have become aware of "niggardly," who otherwise would never have heard it, let alone thought to use it. If this is right, and the word has a new currency, it is probably not the currency I would wish for. The word's new lease of life is probably among manufacturers and retailers of sophomoric humor. I bet that even as I write, some adolescent boys, in the stairwell of some high school somewhere in America, are accusing each other of being niggardly, and sniggering at their own outrageous wit. I bet … Wait a minute. Sniggering? Oh, my God …

A few decades back one could get a pretty good idea of someone’s overall political stance by finding out how much he hates rich people; the equivalent today is finding out how much he hates white people.

The whole Romantic sham, Bernard! It’s what happened to the Enlightenment, isn’t it? A century of intellectual rigour turned in on itself. A mind in chaos suspected of genius. In a setting of cheap thrills and false emotion. The history of the garden says it all, beautifully. There’s an engraving of Sidley Park in 1730 that makes you want to weep. Paradise in the age of reason. By 1760 everything had gone – the topiary, pools and terraces, fountains, an avenue of limes – the whole sublime geometry was ploughed under by Capability Brown. The grass went from the doorstep to the horizon and the best box hedge in Derbyshire was dug up for the ha-ha so that the fools could pretend they were living in God’s countryside. And then Richard Noakes came in to bring God up to date. By the time he’d finished it looked like this (the sketch book). The decline from thinking to feeling, you see.

Mathematicians call it “the arithmetic of congruences.” You can think of it as clock arithmetic. Temporarily replace the 12 on a clock face with 0. The 12 hours of the clock now read 0, 1, 2, 3, … up to 11. If the time is eight o’clock, and you add 9 hours, what do you get? Well, you get five o’clock. So in this arithmetic, 8 + 9 = 5; or, as mathematicians say, 8 + 9 ≡ 5 (mod 12), pronounced “eight plus nine is congruent to five, modulo twelve.

One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad. It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern.

Published mathematical papers often have irritating assertions of the type: “It now follows that…,” or: “It is now obvious that…,” when it doesn't follow, and isn't obvious at all, unless you put in the six hours the author did to supply the missing steps and checking them. There is a story about the English mathematician G.H. Hardy, whom we shall meet later. In the middle of delivering a lecture, Hardy arrived at a point in his argument where he said, “It is now obvious that….” Here he stopped, fell silent, and stood motionless with furrowed brow for a few seconds. Then he walked out of the lecture hall. Twenty minutes later he returned, smiling, and began, “Yes, it is obvious that….” If he

We are a rugged species, up for anything the universe can throw at us; and as the great gloominaries knew, we will be immeasurably better prepared for nasty surprises if we approach the universe realistically — pessimistically — than if we continue to peer out at our surroundings through a distorting, rose-colored prism of wish-fulfillment fantasy.

Western culture is in its twilight; there is a dark age ahead; and while college-humanities fads and 'secular-progressive values' have certainly done much damage, they are symptoms, not causes—fragments of junk sucked into a vacuum. The fundamental reason why so much of our culture is shit—either literally, like Signor Manzoni's masterwork, or figuratively—is exhaustion, cultural exhaustion.

than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend. Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest,

The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire were blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the bell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries across the field stood fierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing; perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the west’s scarlet. The big haystacks on the hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold. With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and the strength to see herself. Now and again, a swallow cut close to her. Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The baby was restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the light.

From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet. What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph. She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family. How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.

The air without is impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence celestial, glistering on Dublin stone there under starshiny coelum. God's air, the Allfather's air, scintillant circumambient cessile air. Breathe it deep into thee. By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a doughty deed and no botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablest progenitor barring none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle. Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which thou hast fructified with thy modicum of man's work. Cleave to her! Serve! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and all Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art drooping under thy load, bemoiled with butcher's bills at home and ingots (not thine!) in the countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt gather thy homer of ripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envy Darby Dullman there with his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed curdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee! He is a mule, a dead gasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth a cracked kreutzer. Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod's slaughter of the innocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterile cohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary pandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever, bedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious attacks, gallstones, cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and trentals and jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music! Twenty years of it, regret them not. With thee it was not as with many that will and would and wait and never do. Thou sawest thy America, thy lifetask, and didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison. How saith Zarathustra? Deine Kuh Trübsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du die süsse Milch des Euters. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink, man, an udderful! Mother's milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk too of those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour, punch milk, such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk of madness, the honeymilk of Canaan's land. Thy cow's dug was tough, what? Ay, but her milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this but thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! Per deam Partulam et Pertundam nunc est bibendum!

The air without is impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence celestial, glistening on Dublin stone there under starshiny coelum. God’s air, the Allfather’s air, scintillant circumambient cessile air. Breathe it deep into thee. By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a doughty deed and no botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablest progenitor barring none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle. Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which thou hast fructified with thy modicum of man’s work. Cleave to her! Serve! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and all Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art drooping under thy load, bemoiled with butcher’s bills at home and ingots (not thine!) in the countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt gather thy homer of ripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envy Darby Dullman there with his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed curdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee! He is a mule, a dead gasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth a cracked kreutzer. Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod’s slaughter of the innocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterile cohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary pandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever, bedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious attacks, gallstones, cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and trentals and jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music! Twenty years of it, regret them not. With thee it was not as with many that will and would and wait and never—do. Thou sawest thy America, thy lifetask, and didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison. How saith Zarathustra? Deine Kuh Trübsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du die süsse Milch des Euters. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink, man, an udderful! Mother’s milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk too of those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour, punch milk, such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk of madness, the honeymilk of Canaan’s land. Thy cow’s dug was tough, what? Ay, but her milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this but thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! Per deam Partulam et Pertundam nunc est bibendum!

Treat Your Business like a Romance "With Passion

Drummond’s character, she was quite happy with this

Pray, do not keep us in suspense,” cried Elizabeth. “We are prodigiously interested to learn to what you are alluding.

Lady Catherine has a particular liking for smoked ham. It is important to ensure that it is served in ample quantities.

The remarkable thing about the Diversity cult is that all the circumstances of the actual human world refute its tenets, wherever we look. I don't think it is an exaggeration to say that there has never been an ideology so heartily and jealously embraced by all the main institutions of a society, that was at the same time so obviously at odds with the evidence of our senses. It is as if the entire Western world had committed itself to the belief that human beings can fly by flapping their arms.

Once this was a nation of farmers, builders, inventors, creators, explorers, and thinkers. Now we are a nation of bubblehead academic poseurs, race-guilt hucksters, and keening middle-class "victims" of imaginary wrongs.

On the border of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire sits Creswell Crags, an area with many cave formations. In the rock known as the Church Hole at Nottinghamshire, engravings were discovered on the cave walls, dating from about 13,000 years ago.[2] Birds, buffalo, deer, and bears are shown in the engravings, which is the earliest form of cave art found in Britain.

Then, via a report on the Internet authored by David Derbyshire, dated May 14, 1998, it seems that a “24,000 mph UFO” buzzed Britain on May 13,1998. THIS craft was tracked by the Royal Air Force and the Dutch Air Force. It was “triangular” and “as big as a battleship. About 900 feet long.” British and Dutch interceptors were sent aloft. The Big Thing left them in the mists and went who knows where?

Spring had missed its cue. Snow still clings to the Derbyshire dales, and the sun hangs low, timid in the sky. Bluebells and snowdrops lie in wait, desperate for a climate in which they can thrive for a while. I suppose I wait like them too. Hardy to the core, but mindful that in the wrong environment, I can perish in an instant

Russell

I Can Work With Broke People ... I Can't Work With Broke Minds! ~Cindy Derbyshire

Let me see: There’s Miss Gannett in Ireland, in June of 1770; Miss Nightjar in Swansea on April 3, 1901; Miss Avocet and Miss Bunting together in Derbyshire on Saint Swithin’s Day of 1867; Miss Treecreeper I don’t remember where exactly—oh, and dear Miss Finch. Somewhere I have a lovely photograph of her.

Even if kids had time left after all of this regulation, they’re increasingly unable to partake in the world outside their schools and homes anyway. The 1950s hunter-gatherer childhood of Gray’s memory is partly a nostalgic myth in the spirit of Thoreau, for one part. For another, kids are largely prohibited from meandering on their own or in groups today. Writing in the Daily Mail, David Derbyshire contrasts a contemporary eight-year-old schoolboy (Edward), with his great-grandfather (George) of the same age.5 In 1926, George was able to meander some six miles to a pond to fish. Eighty years later, Edward is driven everywhere, even to safe, predetermined venues for bike riding. This shift didn’t happen all at once. Edward’s grandfather Jack was afforded a mile of freedom from his house at age eight, in the 1950s. His mother, Vicky, was allowed to wander about a half-mile away, to the local pool, in the late 1970s. By 2007, little Ed was permitted to stray less than three hundred yards from his door, as far as the end of the street.

The spread of flash talk to the general population would prove to be a permanent shift in the English language. When you say “so long” to your “pal” in parting, you are participating in a subversive cultural phenomenon dating back to 1530 and the Derbyshire scoundrels who first developed a secret language all their own.

Miss Darcy took little convincing of its aptness, though lamenting the postponement of her time with Elizabeth.

I am in complete agreement with you – and it is on the basis of the substance of your assertions that I placate my conscience, for I have always prided myself upon my honesty.

Bernhard Riemann was a very pure case of the intuitive mathematician. This needs some explaining. The mathematical personality has two large components, the logical and the intuitive. Both are present in any good mathematician, but often one or the other is strongly dominant.

If Weierstrass is a rock climber, inching his way methodically up the cliff face, Riemann is a trapeze artist, launching himself boldly into space in the confidence—which to the observer often seems dangerously misplaced—that when he arrives at his destination in the middle of the sky, there will be something there for him to grab. It is plain that Riemann had a strongly visual imagination, and also that his mind leaped to results so powerful, elegant, and fruitful that he could not always force himself to pause to prove them. He was keenly interested in philosophy and physics, and notions gathered from long, deep contemplation of those two disciplines—the flow of sensations through our senses, the organizing of those sensations into forms and concepts, the flow of electricity through a conductor, the movements of liquids and gases— can be glimpsed beneath the surface of his mathematics.

In theorizing post-capitalism—in thinking about what comes after the system—a universal politics cannot downplay “the power of envy” (Derbyshire 2009) or engage in a fetishistic disavowal of envy. We know very well that envy is part of human nature, but we believe in utopia, that a just society will be freed of envy, that envy is really a capitalist problem. Envy is to be avowed, acknowledged as a constitutive element of human existence. To be clear: this is not to naturalize or justify envy. Quite the contrary, the avowal of envy enjoins us to politically confront it, to de-individualize envy’s hold on us—and not to transcend it (dreaming of a prelapsarian mode of plenitude, attaining the ideal of completion) nor acquiesce to its presence (normalizing its social manifestations, legitimizing the fear of Others—the “theft of enjoyment”). Envy registers first and foremost an ontological dissatisfaction, a “glitch” in us, that the current system is all too keen to exploit and manipulate. And this insight must not be lost on a universal politics.

It isn't right if you ask me,' Cook says. 'Women have no need of an education.' 'Well luckily nobody is asking you,' Mrs Derbyshire snaps at her, showing a rare glimpse into her inner thoughts. 'Women have as much right to an education as men

My uncle insists I must leave Derbyshire immediately before harm comes through renewed ties. What is he talking about? Why?

The rules of evidence can deliver very persuasive results, sometimes contrary to the strictly argued certainties of mathematics. […] Hypothesis: No human can possibly be more than nine feet tall. Confirming instance: A human being who is 8'11¾" tall. The discovery of that person confirms the hypothesis … but at the same time casts a long shadow of doubt across it!

Magical weddings, stunning summer balls whatever the occasion we’ll make sure its one to remember. Our uniquely different range of beautiful marquees, commitment to great service and above all else a promise to deliver excellence in everything we do, sets us apart.

Magical weddings, stunning summer balls whatever the occasion we’ll make sure its one to remember. Our uniquely different range of beautiful marquees, commitment to great service and above all else a promise to deliver excellence in everything we do, sets us apart.

Magical weddings, stunning summer balls whatever the occasion we’ll make sure its one to remember. Our uniquely different range of beautiful marquees, commitment to great service and above all else a promise to deliver excellence in everything we do, sets us apart.

but he knew she hallowed from Derbyshire.

hand and we beam at each other

hear you grew up in the finest place in all of Derbyshire, and the little girl who still lives in my heart is very jealous indeed.

He is a neighbor from Derbyshire, and currently in mourning,

Aunt Rosaline in Derbyshire. Tabitha and Jo would

His eyes drifted back up to the top of the letter. On one side was the name and address of the recipient, William Dredger of Chesterfield in Derbyshire. On the other was the sender’s return address in Jaipur.

Most of the villages in this area were picture-perfect tourist honeypots of stone cottages and tea rooms. But just a few miles away you'd come upon a remote  settlement full of rusting machinery, bags of cement, feral collies, and farmers who'd stare blankly at you as if they'd never previously encountered someone from outside Derbyshire.

I’ve lied to my family and friends for years,’ said Miss Adelia. ‘My mother lives in Derbyshire. She thinks I teach English at a girls’ school. Which I do, but she doesn’t know I also teach breaking and entering, weapon handling and codebreaking.

Here at Equipet, we pride ourselves on providing natural, high quality, wholesome products, and services for both dogs & horses. This is something we have been passionately providing in the UK for over 20 years. Our natural dog treats are sourced with only the best quality British meats and other British & EU approved ingredients. You can be confident that you are providing your dog with the best treats possible.

Mr. Darcy employed an extra courier who was responsible for carrying missives between Derbyshire and Hertfordshire.

Georgiana had come to Derbyshire to tempt men into wickedness by performing such risqué acts as existing while being pretty.

Did you have a good journey from Derbyshire?" he asked. "How was Cuthbert?" "Cousin Cuthbert lives in Kent," she replied calmly. "I was in Somerset with the Brothertons.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever lost your wits over anyone.” He gave her a wry look. “I’m at a baronet’s Christmas house party in the wilds of Derbyshire. Frozen solid most nights and obliged to listen to Mrs. Lanyon lament the passing of Prince Albert most days. I think I’ve lost more than my wits.