Dev D Quotes

And neither do I, asshole. (Wren) Wow. Multiple syllables and a whole sentence from the tiger. Who’d have ever thought it? Whoever she was, she must have had a lot of talent to make you speak. Next thing you know, she’ll have the dead walking. Quick, call a Dark-Hunter. I’m sure some of them would like another resurrection. (Dev)

You ever think about having kids?” “All the time.I´d love to have a houseful. Then one of my nieces or nephews turns Exorsist on me and spews the most discusting things imaginable out both ends — things that make the demon snot feel like a bubble bath. That usually cures me of that stupidity for at least a day or two.” (Sam & Dev)

What are you? Insane? I’m not interested in Ms. Preppy Uptight Sloan Ranger. Jeez. I’d get khaki between my teeth. Can you imagine? I’ve never been in khaki and I never want to see a woman out it. It scares me. (Dev)

I thought you’d be home by now,” he said as she neared him. Then he realized how stupid that comment was since he was standing right in front of her motorcycle. Der…He might as well be wearing a sign that said I’m a moron. Please help me remember where I live. Oh yeah, it’s right behind me. -Dev

What are we watching?" [...] [...] He hugged her closer. "The sacrifices I make for you -just watch." She was intrigued enough to pay attention to the screen. "Pride and Prejudice," she read out. "It's a book written by a human. Nineteenth century?" "Uh-huh." "The hero is... Mr. Darcy?" "Yes. According to Ti, he's the embodiment of male perfection." Dev ripped open a bag of chips he'd grabbed and put it in Katya's hands. "I don't know -the guy wears tights.

Oh, I see how it is. Baby finds her Johnny Castle, and all of a sudden, she forgets about the small matter of her BFF?” There was only one person in the world who could deliver that line with a straight face. Until I’d heard his voice, I hadn’t realized just how much I’d missed it. “Devon!” Chase stiffened as Dev’s name left my lips, and Devon beamed at me, doing a good impression of someone who hadn’t been bristling a moment before, when I’d buried myself in Chase’s arms. “In the flesh,” Devon said. “When you call, Bronwyn, I answer. Always.” It was a testament to the gravity of the moment that he didn’t treat everyone present to an impromptu performance of “Ain’t No Mountain.” Lest Devon decide the situation did call for some tunes, I pushed on.

War is a violent thing but its purpose is often to protect your own, and to ultimately bring peace. Sometimes you have to go to war to move forward and past suffering, to get closer to our natural state as humans. That of equilibrium and well-being." Trisha simply nodded. The only time Esha ever lectured was when she'd seen something and she was trying to tell you what she'd seen. "When it's time to fight, it's okay to fight," Esha said. "Even if sometimes your biggest enemies may be hiding inside you. Not everyone who fights you is your enemy.

One thing he'd say about her- she blushed like no one else he'd ever met. Her gorgeous skin went from warm brown to an almost fiery pink. It didn't help that Rico knew she was blushing with her entire body right now. He had loved to chase that blush across her skin.

You really want me gone, don't you?" "Creed, wait." "Why? So you can tell me again how you only want me for sex? How you have Dev to fill your emotional needs?" He stopped at the door, scrubbed his face with a shaking hand. "Jesus. All this time I thought I could get through to you eventually, that you would come around. But you don't even want to try. I'm nothing to you, and you don't care." "That's not true." "Bullshit. If you could fuck anyone else, you'd be with them just so you wouldn't have to be with me." ~Creed/Annika

La patria moderna dev'essere abbastanza grande, ma non tanto che la comunione d’interessi non vi si possa trovare, come chi ci volesse dare per patria l’Europa. La propria nazione con i suoi confini segnati dalla natura, è la società che ci conviene. E conchiudo che senza amor nazionale non si dà virtù grande.

I’ve learned that while the finance goals are important, they’re not the most important. Finance can hit all our objectives, and the company still can fail. After all, the best accounts receivables team on the planet can’t save us if we’re in the wrong market with the wrong product strategy with an R&D team that can’t deliver.

I stay pressed against the solid structure as the doors open . “I’d get some air if I were you. From the feel of it, you seem a little hot and bothered.

When I was too young to know better, I dreamed of a white knight. Someone who'd rescue me, protect me, keep me from harm. By the time I found him, all I wanted was for him to know I didn't need protecting.

I’d rather have a large life than a long one.” It was a line from a film Bhanu loved. No life could be large in its entirety. Even a life that looked large from the outside was mostly mundane, filled with day-to-day struggles. But if you were lucky, you got to have moments—experiences and relationships—that were so big they made the rest of your life feel large. What I had with Bhanu altered the dimension of my lifetime.

If only she’d known then that the cycle of belief, which caused the world to work the way it did, could be broken only by disproving one lie at a time. Women were here today, where they had power, where they had a voice, because molecule by molecule, moment by moment, choice by choice, someone had called out the lies peddled as truth. It had been a boulder the size of the earth, and changing the direction of its spin couldn’t happen at one go.

After Dev died in the gorge, I’d became adamant that my children would never suffer the same fate, migrating back and forth with the tribe through the mountains, toes lost to frostbite, the threat of death always only a few paces away.

Ai tempi dei miei genitori, e anche ai miei tempi e ai suoi, le carenze erano dell'individuo. Oggi sono della disciplina. Leggere i classici è troppo difficile, dunque la colpa è dei classici. Oggi lo studente sbandiera la sua incapacità come se fosse un privilegio. Non riesco a impararlo, dunque dev'esserci qualcosa di sbagliato. E qualcosa di particolarmente sbagliato deve avere l'insegnante cattivo che pretende d'insegnarlo. Non ci sono più criteri, signor Zuckerman, ma semplici opinioni.

Io mi diverto ad avere trent’anni, io me li bevo come un liquore i trent’anni: non li appassisco in una precoce vecchiaia ciclostilata su carta carbone. Ascoltami, Cernam, White, Bean, Armstrong, Gordon, Chaffee: sono stupendi i trent’anni, ed anche i trentuno, i trentadue, i trentatré, i trentaquattro, i trentacinque! Sono stupendi perché sono liberi, ribelli, fuorilegge, perchè è finita l’angoscia dell’attesa, non è incominciata la malinconia del declino, perché siamo lucidi, finalmente, a trent’anni! Se siamo religiosi, siamo religiosi convinti. Se siamo atei, siamo atei convinti. Se siamo dubbiosi, siamo dubbiosi senza vergogna. E non temiamo le beffe dei ragazzi perché anche noi siamo giovani, non temiamo i rimproveri degli adulti perchè anche noi siamo adulti. Non temiamo il peccato perché abbiamo capito che il peccato è un punto di vista, non temiamo la disubbidienza perché abbiamo scoperto che la disubbidienza è nobile. Non temiamo la punizione perché abbiamo concluso che non c’è nulla di male ad amarci se ci incontriamo, ad abbandonarci se ci perdiamo: i conti non dobbiamo più farli con la maestra di scuola e non dobbiamo ancora farli col prete dell’olio santo. Li facciamo con noi stessi e basta, col nostro dolore da grandi. Siamo un campo di grano maturo, a trent’anni, non più acerbi e non ancora secchi: la linfa scorre in noi con la pressione giusta, gonfia di vita. È viva ogni nostra gioia, è viva ogni nostra pena, si ride e si piange come non ci riuscirà mai più, si pensa e si capisce come non ci riuscirà mai più. Abbiamo raggiunto la cima della montagna e tutto è chiaro là in cima: la strada per cui siamo saliti, la strada per cui scenderemo. Un po’ ansimanti e tuttavia freschi, non succederà più di sederci nel mezzo a guardare indietro e in avanti, a meditare sulla nostra fortuna: e allora com’è che in voi non è così? Com’è che sembrate i miei padri schiacciati di paure, di tedio, di calvizie? Ma cosa v’hanno fatto, cosa vi siete fatti? A quale prezzo pagate la Luna? La Luna costa cara, lo so. Costa cara a ciascuno di noi: ma nessun prezzo vale quel campo di grano, nessun prezzo vale quella cima di monte. Se lo valesse, sarebbe inutile andar sulla Luna: tanto varrebbe restarcene qui. Svegliatevi dunque, smettetela d’essere così razionali, ubbidienti, rugosi! Smettetela di perder capelli, di intristire nella vostra uguaglianza! Stracciatela la carta carbone. Ridete, piangete, sbagliate. Prendetelo a pugni quel Burocrate che guarda il cronometro. Ve lo dico con umilità, con affetto, perché vi stimo, perché vi vedo migliori di me e vorrei che foste molto migliori di me. Molto: non così poco. O è ormai troppo tardi? O il Sistema vi ha già piegato, inghiottito? Sì, dev’esser così.

And I think,” Dev says quietly, “if that were my life, then no, Charlie. I wouldn’t care that you’ve never had sex with anyone else, and I wouldn’t care if you weren’t sexually attracted to anyone else. It would be pretty wonderful, knowing you’d chosen me.

Dev tucks my hair behind my ear. “Yeah— whoa.” I clear my throat and sit up straighter. Somehow I managed to lean in rather close as he was talking. “The weird thing was,” he continues, “where we found you, under this tree, is where I’d go anytime I wanted to be alone. I would come here to think and get out of the city. And that’s where you landed. Sometimes, I think…” “What do you think?” I nudge him to finish. He delicately plays with the top of my hand. “Sometimes I think that you were sent to me, that someone knew I would find you.

It's funny. Dev had always said disposables were different. That what they contained was more special because you couldn't instantly see inside. You had to wait. You had to invest in the moment and then wait to see what you got. And those moments had to be the right moments. You had to be sure you wanted this moment when you pressed the button, because time was always running out, you were always one click closer to the end. That's what it felt like here. But that's what made it exciting. I looked at the tin number at the top of the wheel. 1. Eleven more clicks. What would they be? Who'd be in them? What story would they tell?

She had never been the most social person. Rico hadn't either. They'd been two self-contained teenagers who had somehow cracked each other's shells and further destroyed each other's ability to need other people. This version of her, the one who was so acutely aware of people's reaction to her, made him want to break her loose.

Ridacchia, e un istante dopo è fuori dall'auto. Mi guardo intorno per cercare di capire dov'è finito il mio cuore, dato che mi è uscito dal culo. Dev'essere per forza questa l'unica spiegazione del motivo per cui mi sento così vuota ora che se n'è andato. Oppure lo stronzo se l'è portato via con sé. Faccio un sospiro. Di sicuro è andata così.

He’d sworn off sex, remember? Not unless he could do it properly, humanly, heartfully.

But he'd turned it into something beautiful. He'd always turned all her messy, impulsive, unfettered emotion into something beautiful.

You want to be friends? he'd asked her. And her life had changed.

«Il secondo capitolo è molto importante, Marcus. Dev'essere incisivo, d'impatto.» «In che senso, Harry?» «È come nella boxe. Tu sei destro, e quando attacchi porti sempre avanti per primo il sinistro: con quello stordisci l'avversario, poi arriva la combinazione di destro con cui mandarlo al tappeto. È così che dev'essere il tuo secondo capitolo: un diretto sulla mascella dei lettori.»

Is it always so sensitive?" He took moments to answer as though it cost him an effort. "It's never been before." Lifting her fingers, he kissed them, and then spoke against them. "It's your hands, they're magic." Heat rose in her cheeks. "I can't believe I actually asked you if you knew what my hands were worth." There it was again, that laugh. Deep and husky and perfect. "If only I'd known.

  Th' invention all admir'd, and each, how hee   To be th' inventer miss'd, so easie it seemd   Once found, which yet unfound most would have thought   Impossible: yet haply of thy Race   In future dayes, if Malice should abound,   Some one intent on mischief, or inspir'd   With dev'lish machination might devise   Like instrument to plague the Sons of men   For sin, on warr and mutual slaughter bent.

Would it be all right to top the crab kachoris with date chutney foam, so the hors d'oeuvre could be circulated without a mess? Should the chicken be served over a bed of pulav or plated individually in bowls?

Aware she’d likely never tasted such a thing before, she took a cautious sip. Nothing came up. “The straw’s defective.” Dev shot her a quick grin. It altered his face, turning him strikingly beautiful. But that wasn’t the odd part. The odd part was that seeing him smile made her heart change its rhythm. She lifted her hand a fraction, compelled to trace the curve of his lips, the crease in his cheek. Would he let her, she thought, this man who moved with the liquid grace of a soldier . . . or a beast of prey? “Did I say milk shake?” he said, withheld laughter in his voice. “I meant ice cream smoothie—with enough fresh fruit blended into it to turn it solid.” Glancing at her when she didn’t move, he raised an eyebrow. She felt a wave of heat across her face, and the sensation was so strange, it broke through her fascination. Looking down, she took off the lid after removing the straw and stared at the swirls of pink and white that dominated the delicious-smelling concoction. Intrigued, she poked at it with the tip of her straw. “I can see pieces of strawberry, and what’s that?” She looked more closely at the pink-coated black seeds. “Passion fruit?” “Try it and see.” Handing her his water bottle, he started the car and got them on their way. “How would I know?” She put his water in the holder next to the unopened bottle. “And I need a spoon for this.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a plastic-wrapped piece of cutlery. “Here.” “You did that on purpose,” she accused. “Did you want to see how hard I’d try to suck the mixture up?” Another smile, this one a bare shadow. “Would I do that?” It startled her to realize he was teasing her. Devraj Santos, she thought, wasn’t supposed to have a sense of humor. That was something she just knew. And, it was wrong. That meant the shadow-man didn’t know everything, that he wasn’t omnipotent. A cascade of bubbles sparkled through her veins, bright and effervescent. “I think you’re capable of almost anything.” Dipping in the spoon, she brought the decadent mixture to her lips. Oh! The crisp sting of ice, the cream rich and sweet, the fruit a tart burst of sensation. It was impossible not to take a second bite. And a third.

Are you bothered because he says he could see us together? Or is there something else?” Sam's voice had grown quieter with that last question. Devin looked up from the board to see something he'd never thought he'd see from Sam. An expression that, on anyone else, would've been more than curious. It was open, vulnerable. A naked longing that disappeared as soon as Devin was sure he knew what it was, to be replaced by Sam pressing his lips together and looking down at the board again. Wow. Okay. That made this conversation a hell of a lot more interesting. Maybe Sam had spent so much time analyzing Devin because he wanted to know if he had a chance. Devin wasn't sure how he felt about that. “I'm not in love with the idea that you guys have talked about me,” Devin said. “It's strange.” “I'm sorry our conversation made you feel that way,” Sam said. “I honestly wouldn't have said anything if you didn't want to know.” “I know, I asked for it,” Devin responded. “About...us.” Dev looked up in time to see Sam's expression change before the mask slid back into place. “You don't think it's weird?” Sam's lips trembled as he fought down a smile. “I think,” he began, reaching across the table, “life is full of possibilities.” He touched the back of Devin's hand with the tips of his fingers, gently stroking the skin. “If this isn't one you want to take advantage of, then you shouldn't feel pressured to do so.” It wasn't Devin's imagination that the temperature in the room had risen. It was one thing when Sam was getting into his head on a purely academic level. It was another thing when Sam looked at him from beneath thick lashes as if he could unravel Devin from the inside out if given half the chance. And he so wanted that chance. Holy hell. The little nerd was trying to seduce him.

The world was filled with weapons and combat was a way of life. Perhaps the only way of life. He’d bled to whips and words, to punches and glances. He’d been bludgeoned by invisible shields, blindsided by unseen clubs, and had laboured under the chains of his own vows. And as Samar Dev would say, one survives by withstanding this onslaught, this history of the then and the now. To fail was to fall, but falling was not always synonymous with a quick, merciful death. Rather, one could fall into the slow dissolution, losses heaped high, that dragged a mortal to his or her knees. That made them slow slayers of themselves.

Is there something I can do for you?” he said. “Good morning.” I straightened myself. “I’m Soo-Lin Lee-Segal, the new admin.” “Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand. “We’ve actually met. I have a son, Lincoln, at Galer Street, in Bee’s class.” “I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course.” The Dev lead, Pablo, popped his head in. “It’s a beautiful day, neighbor.” (Everyone on the team teases Elgin with Mr. Rogers references. It’s a quirk of Elgin’s, apparently, that as soon as he gets inside, like Mr. Rogers, he removes his shoes. Even on his TEDTalk, which I just rewatched, Elgin is standing there in his socks. In front of Al Gore and Cameron Diaz!)

Extra bitter melon was never an issue. The unpopular vegetable was a favorite with the Rajes, none of whom were daunted by the bitterness that sat atop the other, more complex underlying flavors. She would take some over to her aunt and uncle's house later. Her grandmother could make magic with bitter melon, stuffing it with fried onions and then frying the entire thing to a buttery, salty crunch. Baba's recipe at the restaurant was derived from Aji's recipe, he'd made it richer with cashews added to the stuffing and a creamy onion sauce. Decadent, the way all of Baba's versions of traditional recipes were. Ashna could make that version in her sleep, but she preferred the taste of the one her grandmother made.

Prima di addormentarsi si trovò a riflettere, e non per la prima volta, sulla stramberia degli adulti. Pigliavano lassativi, bevevano liquori e trangugiavano sonniferi per liberarsi delle loro paure e dormire tranquilli, e le loro paure erano così domestiche...il lavoro, lo stipendio, il vestitino nuovo al bambino perché non debba sfigurare a scuola, l'amore del coniuge, la fedeltà dell'amico. Roba da ridere se paragonata al terrore del bambino quando, spenta la luce, i mostri vengono a rintanarsi ai piedi del suo letto, appena fuori dal suo campo visivo...Simili terrori, oltretutto, non si possono confidare a nessuno, se non forse a qualche coetaneo, la stessa battaglia disperata dev'essere combattuta una notte dopo l'altra, e l'unica cura è l'atrofizzazione finale d'ogni facoltà fantastica che sopravviene o forse coincide con l'età adulta.

Sam swallowed as she saw the fury in those precious blue eyes she'd never thought to see again. "I don't want to bury you, Dev. I don't. I love you and it terrifies me." Those words hit him like a vicious punch to his gut. "What did you say?" "I love you." He cupped her cheek in his hand as he stared at her in disbelief. Those were the three words he'd never expected to hear from someone he wasn't related to. "I don't want to live without you, Sam." Tears glistened in her eyes. "I haven't been alive in over five thousand years. Not until some bear made a smart-ass comment about my bad driving and followed me home." He bristled under her accusation. "You invited me." Her smile blinded him. "And I'm inviting you in again." "Are you sure?" She nodded. "I know this is fast, but--" A loud knock on the door interrupted her. "Clothes on, people, quick," Nick said from the other side of the door. "Buckle up, buttercups. We have incoming and it's about to get bloody.

There's still time. The first episode hasn't aired yet. You can ask for any other chef and they'll give you what you want. I don't think I can do this." "The habit of walking away from things must be a hard one to break," he said, when the last thing he wanted to think about right now was that particular moment from their past. She's just a girl I dated in high school. Her long, incredibly delicate fingers squeezed her temples, her jaw clenched, every inch of her screamed how badly she did not want to be doing this with him. If she wanted to walk away, she was going to have to be the one to do it. Again. "As for how I behaved with DJ," he said when the silence had stretched out long enough that he knew she wasn't going to respond, "it was an honest mistake." None of this was about DJ. "Dropping a knife from shock, that's an honest mistake," she said, the new shell she'd grown melting like ice around pine needles after a winter storm. "Being rude to someone because you're angry with someone else? That's just being spoiled and self-centered.

What do you remember most about what your pai put in his lamb chops?" "I think it was basically salt, pepper, and garlic." He squeezed his eyes shut and focused so hard that not dropping a kiss on his earnestly pursed mouth was the hardest thing. His eyes opened, bright with memory. "Of course. Mint." "That's perfect. Since we're only allowed only five tools, simple is good." "My mãe always made rice and potatoes with it. How about we make lamb chops and a biryani-style pilaf?" Ashna blinked. Since when was Rico such a foodie? He shrugged but his lips tugged to one side in his crooked smile. "What? I live in London. Of course Indian is my favorite cuisine." Tossing an onion at him, she asked him to start chopping, and put the rice to boil. Then she turned to the lamb chops. The automatic reflex to follow Baba's recipe to within an inch of its life rolled through her. But when she ignored it, the need to hyperventilate didn't follow. Next to her Rico was fully tuned in to her body language, dividing his focus between following the instructions she threw out and the job at hand. As he'd talked about his father's chops, she'd imagined exactly how she wanted them to taste. An overtone of garlic and lemon and an undertone of mint. The rice would be simple, in keeping with the Brazilian tradition, but she'd liven it up with fried onions, cashew nuts, whole black cardamom, cloves, bay leaves, and cinnamon stick. All she wanted was to create something that tasted like Rico's childhood, combined with their future together, and it felt like she was flying. Just like with her teas, she knew exactly what she wanted to taste and she knew exactly how to layer ingredients to coax out those flavors, those feelings. It was her and that alchemy and Rico's hands flying to follow instructions and help her make it happen. "There's another thing we have to make," she said. Rico raised a brow as he stirred rice into the spice-infused butter. "I want to make tea. A festive chai." He smiled at her, heat intensifying his eyes. Really? Talking about tea turned him on? Wasn't the universe just full of good news today.

I WASN’T AWARE THE LADIES got a turn at the proposing. I thought it was up to us stalwart lads to risk rejection and to do the actual asking.” “We can take first crack,” the earl said, his finger tracing the rim of his glass, “but I took first through fifth, and that means it’s her turn.” “I’m sure you’ll explain this mystery to me, as I hope at some point to put an end to my dreary bachelor existence,” Dev murmured, taking a long swallow of his drink. The earl smiled almost tenderly. “With Anna, I proposed, explaining to her she should marry me because I am titled and wealthy and so on.” “That would be persuasive to most any lady I know, except the lady you want.” “Precisely. So I went on to demonstrate she should marry me because I am, though the term will make you blush, lusty enough to bring her a great deal of pleasure.” “I’d marry you for that reason,” Dev rejoined, “or I would if, well… It’s a good argument.” “It is, if you are a man, but on Anna, the brilliance of my logic was lost. So I proposed again and suggested I could make her troubles disappear, then failed utterly to make good on my word.” “Bad luck, that.

FAUST: Ah, Faust, hai solo un'ora di vita, poi sarai dannato per sempre. Fermatevi sfere del cielo che eternamente ruotate, che il tempo finisca e mezzanotte non venga mai. Occhio lieto della natura, sorgi, sorgi di nuovo e fai un giorno eterno, o fai che un'ora duri un anno, un mese, una settimana, un giorno, che Faust possa pentirsi e salvare l'anima. "O lente lente currite noctis equi". Le stelle ruotano, il tempo corre, l'orologio suonerà, verrà il demonio e Faust sarà dannato. Salirò fino a Dio! Chi mi trascina in basso? Guarda, il sangue di Cristo allaga il firmamento e una sola goccia mi salverebbe, metà d'una goccia. Ah, mio Cristo, non uncinarmi il cuore se nomino Cristo. Lo dirò di nuovo. Risparmiami, Lucifero. Dov'è? E' scomparso. Vedo Dio che stende il braccio e china la fronte minacciosa Montagne e colline, venite, franatemi addosso, nascondetemi all'ira terribile di Dio. No, no? Allora mi getto a capofitto nella terra: apriti, terra. No, non mi dà riparo. Stelle che regnavate alla mia nascita e che mi avete dato morte e inferno, risucchiatevi Faust come una nebbia nelle viscere di quelle nubi incinte, affinché, quando vomitate in aria, il corpo cada dalle bocche fumose ma l'anima salga al cielo. (L'orologio suona) Ah, mezz'ora è passata. Presto passerà tutta. Dio, se non vuoi avere pietà di quest'anima almeno per amore di Cristo il cui sangue mi ha riscattato, assegna un termine alla mia pena incessante: che Faust resti all'inferno mille anni, centomila, e alla fine sia salvato. Ma non c'è fine alle anime dannate. Perché non sei una creatura senz'anima? Perché la tua dev'essere immortale? Metempsicosi di Pitagora, fossi vera, l'anima mi lascerebbe, sarei mutato in una bestia bruta. Felici le bestie che morendo cedono l'anima agli elementi, ma la mia vivrà torturata in eterno. Maledetti i genitori che mi fecero! No, Faust, maledici te stesso, maledici Lucifero che ti ha privato del cielo. (L'orologio suona mezzanotte). Suona, suona! Corpo, trasformati in aria, o Lucifero ti porterà all'inferno. Anima, mùtati in piccole gocce d'acqua e cadi nell'oceano, nessuno ti trovi. (Tuono, ed entrano i diavoli) Mio Dio, mio Dio, non guardarmi così feroce! Serpi e vipere, lasciatemi vivere ancora un poco. Inferno orribile, non aprirti. Non venire, Lucifero. Brucerò i miei libri. Ah, Mefistofele. (Escono con Faust. [Escono in alto Lucifero e i diavoli]) Christopher Marlowe, La tragica storia del Dottor Faust [Atto V, Scena II]

You know that I'm the owner of Curried Dreams, right? I inherited it as his wife." Her parents had never gotten divorced. Ashna remembered how guilty she had felt every time she prayed that they would. "I think it's time we sell it." Ashna dumped the paper towels in the garbage, hands shaking. The urge to press down, crush the garbage until it shrank to the bottom of the bin pushed inside her. "That's a new low, even for you." She gave in and jammed her hand into the garbage, pressing it down until it crushed and folded and smashed. "You already hate me. I might as well do what's right for you and risk you hating me more." "How is forcing me to give up my livelihood right for me?" She washed her hands to keep from shoving the garbage again. "If it weren't for Curried Dreams you would actually be looking for and doing something you enjoyed. You'd get out from that dark place your father thrust you into." Ashna was shaking now. All she wanted was to walk away. To crawl into bed. To get away from Shobi. The habit of walking away from things must be a hard one to break. Go to hell, Frederico Silva! "Curried Dreams is not a dark place. I can turn it around. I'm close to doing it." "You're not going to win that show. You don't even like being a chef! You can't win without passion." "Thanks, Mom. And not all of us are selfish enough to put ourselves and our damn passion before everything else!" Shobi gasped and Ashna sucked in her lips.

Shall we stroll in the moonlight?” “Brother”—Dev grinned—“I have heard rumors about you.” “No doubt,” Val said easily as they moved off. “They are nothing compared to what one hears about you.” “And that gossip is usually true,” Dev said with no modesty whatsoever as they neared the mews. “Now why are we out here stumbling around in the night?” Val turned and regarded his brother in the moonlight. “So I can remind you not to make disparaging remarks about Mrs. Seaton or her situation with Westhaven where anybody could overhear you. You know what the duke tried to do with the last mistress?” “I’d heard about Elise. Then you are aware of a situation between Westhaven and Mrs. Seaton?” “He’s considering marrying her,” Val said. “Or I think he is. They’re certainly interested in each other.” “They’re a bit more than interested,” Dev said, rubbing his chin. “They were all but working on the succession when I came upon them in the library last night.” “Ye gods. I came upon them in her sitting room this afternoon, door open, all hands in view, but the way they look at each other… puts one in mind of besotted sheep.” “His Grace will be in alt,” Dev said on a sigh. “His Grace,” Val retorted, “had best not get wind of it, unless you want Westhaven to immediately lose all interest.” “Gayle wouldn’t be that stupid, but he would be that stubborn.” Dev tossed a companionable arm around Val’s shoulders. “This will be entertaining as hell, don’t you think? I’m not sure Westhaven’s wooing is entirely well received, and he has to go about it in stealth, winning the lady without alerting the duke. And we have front-row seats.” “Lucky us,” Val rejoined. “Doesn’t working on the succession comport with welcoming a man’s suit?” Dev’s grin became devilish. “That, my boy, is a common misunderstanding among the besotted male sheep of this world. And the female sheep? They like us befuddled, you know…

A new wife is not a matter. She is my family. Their Graces have had thirty years to spend holidays with us, and this my first—” Westhaven sighed, took a sip of punch, and glanced over at Val. “It doesn’t get easier the longer you’re married. You still fret, more in fact, once the babies start coming.” Val’s head cocked, as if he’d just recalled his brother was also his friend. “Well, as to that…” Val smiled at his punch. Baby Brother sported a devastating smile when he wanted to, but this expression was… St. Just lifted his mug. “Congratulations, then. How’s Ellen faring?” “She’s in fine spirits, in glowing good health, and I’m a wreck. I think she sent me off to Peterborough with something like relief in her eye.” Westhaven was staring morosely at his grog. “Anna isn’t subtle about it anymore. She tells me to get on my horse and not come back until I’ve worked the fidgets out of us both. She’s quite glad to see me when I return, though. Quite glad.” For Westhaven, that was the equivalent of singing a bawdy song in the common. St. Just propped his mug on his stomach. “Emmie says I’m an old campaigner, and I get twitchy if I’m confined to headquarters too long. Winnie says I need to go on scouting patrol. The reunions are nice, though. You’re right about that.” Val took a considering sip of his drink then speared St. Just with a look. “I wouldn’t know about those reunions, but I intend to find out soon. Dev, you are the only one of us experienced at managing a marching army, and I’m not in any fit condition to be making decisions, or I’d be on my way back to Oxfordshire right now.” “Wouldn’t advise that,” Westhaven said, still looking glum. “Your wife will welcome you sweetly into her home and her bed, but you’ll know you didn’t quite follow orders—our wives are in sympathy with Her Grace—and they have their ways of expressing their…” Both brothers chimed in, “Disappointment.

«Quello che mi colpisce» disse Ernest «è che abbia perso qualunque prospettiva. È così preso da tutti questi eventi e sentimenti che ha cominciato a identificarsi con essi. Dobbiamo trovare un modo per aiutarlo a prendere un po’ di distanza da sé. Dobbiamo aiutarlo a vedersi da lontano, persino da una prospettiva cosmica. È esattamente quello che stavo cercando di fare con lei, Carolyn, ogni volta che le chiedevo di esaminare qualcosa preso dall’ammasso di eventi della sua vita. Il suo cliente è diventato queste cose: ha perso il senso di un io persistente che sperimenta questi eventi per una piccola frazione della sua esistenza. E quel che peggiora le cose è che il suo cliente ritiene che la sua attuale disgrazia diventerà una condizione permanente nel futuro. Naturalmente questo è un elemento caratteristico della depressione, una combinazione di tristezza e pessimismo». «Come si fa a interrompere questo meccanismo?» «Ci sono parecchie possibilità. Da quel che mi ha detto, per esempio, è chiaro che per l’identità di questa persona il conseguimento di un risultato e la sua efficacia sono centrali. In questo momento deve sentirsi assolutamente indifeso, e terrorizzato per questa condizione. È successo che potrebbe avere perso di vista il fatto che ha delle scelte, e che queste scelte gli danno il potere di cambiare. Dev’essere aiutato a comprendere che la situazione difficile in cui si trova non è il risultato di un destino predeterminato, ma delle sue scelte: per esempio quella di venerare il denaro. Una volta accettato che è lui l’artefice della propria situazione, sarà anche possibile condurlo alla comprensione del fatto che ha il potere di uscirne: sono state le sue scelte a portarlo dov’è, saranno le sue scelte a tirarlo fuori da lì. «Oppure» continuò Ernest, «probabilmente ha perso di vista la naturale evoluzione del suo turbamento attuale, che esiste in questo momento, ma ha avuto un inizio e avrà una fine. Lei potrebbe persino rivisitare le volte, in passato, in cui il suo cliente ha provato questa stessa rabbia e turbamento, e aiutarlo a ricordare il modo in cui quel dolore è svanito, così come il dolore presente, a un certo punto, si tramuterà in un ricordo sbiadito».

Mi occupo di ciò che c'è da fare, di quello che è alla portata delle mie capacità di bambina. Concedo respiro allo zio e alla mamma, mi sento buona e amata. Una brava bambina diligente. Quando la zia muore, io ho dodici anni e mi sento di colpo sola. "Questo lavoro, si vede che ti fa star male, allora perchè lo fai?" "Faccio questo lavoro perchè l'ho scelto, signora, perchè ho fatto una promessa. E non sono abituata a scappare solo perchè le cose sono troppo difficili." "Ma non puoi nemmeno rovinarti la vita per una promessa. Neanche se quella promessa l'hai fatta a te stessa". Credi di avere tutto sotto controllo. Pensi di essere nel posto giusto, nel pieno del tuo potenziale, a fare quel che vuoi. E poi basta una cosa così, bastano una domanda e due parole dette da un'estranea. E di colpo, nel riflesso dello specchio, ti sembra di scorgere un viso che non riconosci più. (...) Però, se siamo qui, significa che siamo state tutte toccate, in un modo o in un altro, dalla sua maniera accogliente di stare al mondo. "Speravo di non trovarti ancora qui. A volte ci sono cose che facciamo perchè dobbiamo. Altre che invece facciamo perchè vogliamo. Il fatto è che siamo spesso i nostri peggiori nemici, perchè preferiamo fare quello che ci riesce, o ciò che le persone che amiamo si aspettano da noi, piuttosto che fare quello che ci piace davvero. Preferiamo sentirci adatti a un ruolo già scritto, andare sul sicuro. E alla mia età posso dirtelo serena: è un gran peccato". "Perchè si preoccupa tanto? Perchè si interessa del mio lavoro?" "Perchè l'interessamento dev'essere a senso unico? Solo tu puoi prenderti cura di me?" "Beh, l'infermiera sono io". "E questo stabilisce parti impermeabili? Sei tu quella che cura, allora credi di non poter star male? Di non aver mai bisogno di aiuto?" "E da cosa avrei bisogno di essere salvata, io?" "Forse da te stessa. Forse la rabbia non è l'unica gabbia dentro la quale si può rimanere prigionieri. Il senso di responsabilità, il timore di deludere o ferire chi ci ama, possono essere anche peggio. Io ho fatto esperienza di entrambi, per questo so riconoscerli negli occhi delle persone". Basta questa frase, e sento la mia intera vita traballare. Pensi che a te non succederà mai. Credi di sapere chi sei, l'hai sempre saputo, hai cominciato presto a nutrire i tuoi obiettivi e ti sei costruita con cura, un pezzettino per volta. Sei convinta che questo ti terrà al riparo da tutto. E invece, in un pomeriggio di metà agosto, capisci che non stai combattendo i mostri ma che il tuo mostro ha divorato te. Rifletto sulle sue parole e mi rendo conto che a portarmi qui, a trattenermi negli anni, è stata quella bambina che credeva di poter essere amata solo facendo la brava, quella che esisteva esclusivamente attraverso l'approvazione degli altri, tormentata dall folle e inconfessata paura che, se avesse smesso di compiacerli, il loro amore sarebbe scomparso. Quella che non si era mai concessa la possibilità di fare una cosa sbagliata, di correre un rischio, di accettare di sentirsi sola o spaesata. Quella che adesso, d'un tratto, in una camer d'ospedale, davanti a una donna vicina alla fine, si accorge di aver scalato una montagna che non era la sua. Un paio di occhi buoni, quella mattina, mi cambiano la vita in un attimo.

Non solo cattivo, ma proprio nulla sono riuscito a diventare: né cattivo, né buono, né furfante, né onesto, né eroe, né insetto. E ora vegeto nel mio cantuccio, punzecchiandomi con la maligna e perfettamente vana consolazione che l’uomo intelligente non può diventare seriamente qualcosa, ma diventa qualcosa soltanto lo sciocco. Sissignori, l’uomo intelligente del diciannovesimo secolo deve ed è moralmente obbligato a essere una creatura essenzialmente priva di carattere; mentre l’uomo di carattere, l’uomo d’azione, dev’essere una creatura essenzialmente limitata.

They’d be responsible for documenting what they learned, and Brent would never be allowed to work on the same problem twice. I’d review each of the issues weekly, and if I find out that Brent worked a problem twice, there will be hell to pay. For both the level 3s and Brent.” I add, “Based on Wes’ story, we shouldn’t even let Brent touch the keyboard. He’s allowed to tell people what to type and shoulder-surf, but under no condition will we allow him to do something that we can’t document afterward. Is that clear?

Edward was standing with his back to the bed like he’d said, but his shoulders were shaking with laughter. Nicky stood beside him totally nude and totally comfortable, as he watched me struggle to hide my nakedness and drag all the covers off Dev. He didn’t care any more than Nicky did—stupid wereanimals and their lack of modesty, and stupid me still caring this much. Edward was bent almost double, laughing so hard it sounded like he was having trouble breathing. “Glad I could lighten your morning,” I said, grumpily. It made Dev grin, and then Nicky chuckled. I pointed a finger at Dev. “Don’t you dare.” Dev’s mouth quirked as he fought not to laugh. Nicky’s face was alight with suppressed laughter. I fled to the bathroom with the king-size sheet wrapped around me like the most oversized robe in the world, grabbing my overnight bag as I moved, so that I actually tripped over the sheet and fell in the doorway to the bathroom. “Motherfucking son of a bitch!” That was it; both of them laughed out loud. I gathered my sheet and what was left of my dignity and closed the door to the bathroom to the sounds of masculine laughter.

Dev realized he’d been wrong about them all along. Cats weren’t dogs with Asperger’s; they were neurotypical women.

As far as Dev was concerned, the moon was no big deal. Had it not been around, he’d have used flashlights or the garden lights or run the generator. It was convenient, was all—not a sign from God. As far as Lucy’s lesser claim that it was romantic, he’d just have to take her neurotypical word for it. Not that he did so without challenging it, starting with, “You mean the moon?” Lucy nodded during the latest sweaty calm between contractions. “It’s just a rock with sunlight bouncing off it . . .” “So why are you always looking at it with your telescope?” “Because it’s a rock with sunlight bouncing off of it,” Dev said calmly, “in outer space.

«In vita mia ho conosciuto tanti militari. Ho conosciuto marescialli, generali, voivodi ed etmani, trionfatori d'innumerevoli campagne e battaglie. Ho ascoltato i loro racconti e ricordi. Li ho visti chini su mappe sulle quali disegnavano linee di diversi colori, facendo piani e architettando strategie. In queste guerre di carta andava tutto liscio, funzionava tutto, era tutto chiaro e in un ordine esemplare. Così dev'essere, spiegavano i militari. Un esercito è innanzitutto ordine e disciplina. Un esercito non può esistere senza ordine e disciplina. È perciò tanto più strano constatare che, quanto a ordine e a disciplina, la vera guerra – e di vere guerre ne ho viste parecchie – ricorda come due gocce d'acqua un bordello in preda alle fiamme.»

Guilt is a waste of time. The fact that you have the things you have isn’t wrong. Not understanding what you have is. You do understand what you have, right, beta?” He’d paused until she acknowledged the meaning in his brown gaze. “It’s not just sight or comfort. What you have is that brain, and access to resources. But even more important than that is the thing you felt today. That compass inside that told you something wasn’t right. That is your greatest gift. So what are you going to do about what you felt today?

The fact that you have the things you have isn’t wrong. Not understanding what you have is. You do understand what you have, right, beta?” He’d paused until she acknowledged the meaning in his brown gaze. “It’s not just sight or comfort. What you have is that brain, and access to resources. But even more important than that is the thing you felt today. That compass inside that told you something wasn’t right. That is your greatest gift. So what are you going to do about what you felt today?

I hate that everyone wants to save me from myself.” That was one of the last things Bhanu ever said to me. I wish I’d had a chance to tell her that I’d give anything to make sure she never let anyone change her even a little.

They’d told him that they’d been waiting all their lives for someone like him, someone who’d made them believe again when they’d lost faith in the system.

He’d put the election before the truth. He’d believed the narrative that you had to come to power first, then you could do the work you held dear. That belief had turned him into a politician. Instead of the people he wanted to work for, he’d allowed the system to become his guiding force.

She was no longer young enough to cook all day, clean herself up, and have the energy to be charming at the end of it all. That had been her job for twenty-two years. She’d done it excellently and for long enough that it was well and truly out of her system. Managing your energy and your assets was the key to aging right.

But she’d had a hankering for makhani chicken, and the Indian restaurants in the area tended to add a pound of sugar to the sauce. It was a curry, not pudding, for heaven’s sake.

Even though she felt sorry for anyone who’d lived a life thinking rice with cucumbers and tomatoes was delicious, no matter how well she’d seasoned the salad.

How she could bear to go through life with such vulnerability, I’ll never know. When I asked her how she was never afraid of anything, she said, “If I’d been afraid, I wouldn’t know what it was like to love you. If ever I’m afraid, I’ll remind myself that being fearless gave me you.

I’d rather have a large life than a long one.

You said that if a killer zombie can’t find his murderer and have his revenge, he can start killing and eating anything that gets in his way, right?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Then shouldn’t giving the vampires over to the zombies quiet some of them?’ ‘It might, but we’d be giving two legal citizens over to be torn limb from limb. Vampires are a lot harder to kill than humans usually, which means the vamps would stay alive a lot longer during the process.’ He nodded. ‘Makes sense.’ ‘That would be a really bad way to die, Nicky.’ ‘Yeah.’ He said it as if to say, So what? ‘If we were just going to execute the vamps anyway, and it would save dozens of lives …’ Yancey let his words trail off. Badger looked at him. ‘You could do that, give someone over to the thing we saw today?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a thought; we’re just brainstorming and gathering information, right?’ ‘They’re rotting vampires,’ Nicky said. ‘If you can’t teach them how to look human, the woman seemed to want to die.’ ‘They should have two forms; one should be totally human and as attractive as they were in life,’ I said. Dev and Lisandro came over to us. ‘What has you guys all serious face?’ Dev asked, smiling. ‘We’re debating on whether giving the two vampires in custody over to the zombies of their murder victims would make the zombies stop killing other people,’ I said. Dev’s eyes widened and he went pale. ‘Who came up with the idea?’ Lisandro asked. ‘I did,’ Nicky said. ‘You are a sick motherfucker,’ Lisandro said. ‘Yes, yes, I am,’ Nicky said, totally unbothered by the comment. Lisandro laughed, as if he couldn’t quite believe it, but he did.

I’d like you to sign this,” he said as he opened his manila folder and slid a sheet of paper across the metal table top to me. “Today’s date is the twenty-first.

Benjamin Hazlit was a fiend from hell. Maggie became convinced of this when after their third pot of tea—he preferred Darjeeling—he was still grilling her about her household, her habits, her schedule on the day her reticule had gone missing. And all the while—when she herself ought to have been focused on how to recover the dratted reticule—Maggie had been hard put not to watch his mouth as it formed question after question. His mouth was neither cold nor stern. It was warm and knowing and even tender… gentle, God help her. Gracious, gracious, gracious. His mouth was… it was a revelation, a window into a side of the man Maggie would never have guessed existed. With the spotty boys and aging knights, she’d endured some pawing and slobbering. She’d been kissed, groped, and otherwise introduced to the nonsense that went on between men and women. They’d given her a rare moment of sympathy for her own mother, those suitors who wanted Maggie’s settlement despite the fact that it came attached to her hand in marriage. Until she’d asked her brother Devlin why men felt compelled to behave in such a fashion, and Dev had gotten that tight, lethal look to him. He’d taught her a few moves then, creative uses of the knee, the fist, the fingers, and the suitors had become more respectful as a result. She wanted to plant her fist in Mr. Hazlit’s gut at that moment, though she suspected her fist would be the worse for it. How could a man kiss so sweetly, so ardently, and yet be so… fiendish? “Show

The earl got up and paced to the window. Anna and Dev were on the terrace, and she was smiling at something he’d said. Dev’s smile was flirtatious and a little wistful—charmingly so, damn the scoundrel.

How funny do you think it feels not to be able to play the piano when it’s all I’ve done of worth in the past twenty-some years? I did not excel at school, and I can’t point to an illustrious career like my brother, the former cavalry officer. I haven’t Westhaven’s head for business. I wasn’t a jolly good time like Bart or a charmer like Vic. But, by God, I could play the piano.” “And you can build stone walls and referee between Day and Phil and keep an eye on Nick Haddonfield when he hares all over the Home Counties,” Darius retorted. “Do you think one activity defines you?” “I’m like a whore, Darius, in that, yes, the one activity, in my case playing the piano, defines me.” Val heard weariness in his own voice. “When Dev was driven mad by nightmares, I played for him so he couldn’t hear the battles anymore. When his little Winnie was scared witless by all the changes in her life, I played for her and taught her a few things to play for herself. When Victor was so sick, I’d play for him, and he’d stop coughing for a little while. It’s how I let people know they matter to me, Darius, and now…” Darius got up and crossed the room, then lowered himself to sit beside Val in the shifting candlelight. “Now all this playing for others has left you one-handed, angry, and beating yourself up.” Not beating himself up, precisely, but feeling beaten up. “The piano is the way I have a soul, Dare. It’s always there for me, always able to say the things I can’t, always worth somebody’s notice, even if they don’t know they notice. It has never let me down, never ridiculed me before others, never taken a sudden notion not to know who I am or what I want. As mistresses go, the piano has been loyal, predictable, and lovely.” “You

Per me, se esiste il paradiso, dev'esserci assolutamente una tavola imbandita come quella del locale di zia Katja. Non osavamo bere alcol davanti a lei, per non darle dispiacere. Così bevevamo kompot, una specie di composta di frutta, una macedonia di mele, pesche, prugne, albicocche e mirtilli rossi e neri fatta bollire a lungo in un grosso pentolone. Si preparava d'estate, e per il resto dell'anno veniva conservato in bottiglioni da tre litri con un collo largo circa dieci centimetri, chiuso ermeticamente. Si teneva in fresco nelle cantine, poi andava riscaldato prima di berlo. Ogni volta che zia Katja si allontanava, zio Kostič aggiungeva nei nostri bicchieri un po' di vodka facendoci l'occhiolino: - Fate bene a non farvi vedere da lei...- Noi buttavamo giù obbedienti il misto di vodka e kompot, e lui rideva delle facce che facevamo subito dopo.

See, look, you don’t know how black it got.” I stepped up next to him. Didn’t touch him, but my voice dropped low. “I’d get so, I don’t know, but I’d get to a point where I’d head into Vegas, maybe meet up with Dev and go hunting tail.” I’d never, ever told nobody what I was telling him. “It felt so desperate. I’d come home and well, while I didn’t have blue balls anymore, I probably felt worse than when I left.

What does it mean?” “What?” “That word. ‘Sexy.’ What does it mean?” He looked down, suddenly shy. “I can’t tell you.” “Why not?” “It’s a secret.” He pressed his lips together, so hard that a bit of them went white. “Tell me the secret. I want to know.” Rohin sat on the bed beside Miranda and began to kick the edge of the mattress with the backs of his shoes. He giggled nervously, his thin body flinching as if it were being tickled. “Tell me,” Miranda demanded. She leaned over and gripped his ankles, holding his feet still. Rohin looked at her, his eyes like slits. He struggled to kick the mattress again, but Miranda pressed against him. He fell back on the bed, his back straight as a board. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and then he whispered, “It means loving someone you don’t know.” Miranda felt Rohin’s words under her skin, the same way she’d felt Dev’s. But instead of going hot she felt numb. It reminded her of the way she’d felt at the Indian grocery, the moment she knew, without even looking at a picture, that Madhuri Dixit, whom Dev’s wife resembled, was beautiful. “That’s what my father did,” Rohin continued. “He sat next to someone he didn’t know, someone sexy, and now he loves her instead of my mother.

We will actively manage this technical debt by ensuring that we invest at least 20% of all Development and Operations cycles on refactoring, investing in automation work and architecture and non-functional requirements (NFRs, sometimes referred to as the “ilities”), such as maintainability, manageability, scalability, reliability, testability, deployability, and security. Figure 11: Invest 20% of cycles on those that create positive, user-invisible value (Source: “Machine Learning and Technical Debt with D. Sculley,” Software Engineering Daily podcast, November 17, 2015,

I’d say he was out partying, but that might hurt my feelings if he chose to party without us. Probably at the library reading one of those philosophy books that’s thicker than my dick,” Beau chimes in. “Maybe thicker than yours, but not mine.” Jenson can’t help but chime in. “You wish,” Dev says with a snort, dropping to the ice to do some frog stretches.

Che noja dev'esser la vostra, poveri alberi appajati in fila lungo i viali della città e anche talvolta lungo le vie lastricate, di qua e di là su i marciapiedi, o sorgenti solitarii fra piante nane dentro qualche vasto atrio silenzioso d'antico palazzo o in qualche cortile!

If you’re going to let this guy near you and open up that heart of yours to him, then you’d better make sure you never forget, not even for a moment, how incredibly lucky the bastard is.

Per tutto il XX secolo abbiamo preteso che la terra ci fosse utile, abbiamo voluto aumentarne la resa [...]. Buonsenso, lo abbiamo chiamato. A che ci serve una palude? Perché avere tante mosche? Perché non liberarci della concorrenza di volpi e coccodrilli? Decidiamo di salvaguardare una zona solo quando ne vediamo l'utilità pratica: la sua trasformazione in un parco nazionale o in un'attrazione turistica; e l'utilità dev'essere quantificabile, almeno in termini di profitto: occupazione, merchandising attività collegate. Quando si parla della barriera corallina si citano sempre la pesca e il turismo. L'arte, la giustifichiamo con delle vendite e il volume d'affari. La cultura e la scienza devono sempre trovare la loro legittimazione nei beni di consumo e nell'occupazione che creano.

Per tutto il XX secolo abbiamo preteso che la terra ci fosse utile, abbiamo voluto aumentarne la resa [...]. Buonsenso, lo abbiamo chiamato. A che ci serve una palude? Perché avere tante mosche? Perché non liberarci della concorrenza di volpi e coccodrilli? Decidiamo di salvaguardare una zona solo quando ne vediamo l'utilità pratica: la sua trasformazione in un parco nazionale o in un'attrazione turistica; e l'utilità dev'essere quantificabile, almeno in termini di profitto: occupazione, merchandising e attività collegate. Quando si parla della barriera corallina si citano sempre la pesca e il turismo. L'arte, la giustifichiamo con le vendite e il volume d'affari. La cultura e la scienza devono sempre trovare la loro legittimazione nei beni di consumo e nell'occupazione che creano.

She’d spent a lifetime fielding men’s gazes, their admiration, their lust. In recent years most younger men had stopped having that reaction to her, but men around her age still rarely gazed upon her as anything more than an object they’d like to possess.

But living life on her own terms meant she had to be intentional about it. She refused to let her choices be mere acts of rebellion. Freedom meant she’d do things for the right reasons, when she was good and ready for them. Because now she could.

He’d always dipped the crisp arrowroot cookies into her chai because he didn’t like his own picking up the flavor. He did it now, and she didn’t stop him. Not all ways of taking someone for granted were hurtful. Everyone deserved someone whose chai they could dip their biscuits into without thought.

It wasn't like Naina didn't know what an orgasm felt like. Riz, her vibrator, had some goodly miles on him. But when Vansh said he was going to make her scream, she was never again taking that lightly. Her throat felt raw as she sagged against him like he'd wring every last drop of pleasure from her, wrung every last scream and whimper from her. Had she begged? Yes, she'd begged. He'd taken her by surprise. Yet, God, he hadn't. He was panting between her legs like someone who'd sprinted up a hill. One of her knees was hooked over his shoulder. There was a thunderstorm inside her. Her entire wet body was throbbing and spasming like she'd turned into her vagina, all of her that one beautifully, blessedly pleasured organ.

In that book of yours, Emma, what happens to her?" he asked Naina as she looked over some paperwork they were about to submit to Naman's office. They were in Yash's apartment, a.k.a. their temporary office, working long after everyone else had left. She raised a brow at him, all the accusations she'd thrown at him---not entirely inaccurately---flashing guiltily in her eyes. "The one who tries to be a matchmaker so she can feel good about herself and fill her boredom?" She smiled, but there was an apology in her eyes. A hot apology. "She learns that having more privilege than other people doesn't mean you know what's best for them. She learns to admit her mistakes and listen to others, and it teaches her to listen to her own feelings too." He laughed. "And she finds the love of her life and they live happily ever after." He'd been joking, but her face said that was exactly what happened. "You're kidding me," he said. "And this is a book you liked?" Which, come to think of it, gave him great hope. "You're a romantic, Naina Kohli," he said, and got all up in her face. "You wish," she said, but she did kiss every last of breath out of him.

Why is your sari all askew?" she asked, squatting down in front of Naina and straightening out the pleats. "This is a mess. Oh my gosh, Naina! Is that why you were late?" "I don't know what you're talking about," Naina said, but her face went flaming red. Naina had disappeared for a good half hour when she'd gone to "check up on the guys." "All I'll say is that Neel's not the only gavel in town, Nisha.

As always, the dosas were perfect, crisp and lacy, and the unusual chef's addition of the habanero chutney made Naina's mouth burn in the best way. She'd inherited her ability to tolerate spice from her mother. Dr. Kohli was something of a wimp in this department, and so naturally Naina and her mother only ever ate the truly hot stuff when he wasn't around. "Never make people feel bad when you're better at something than they are," her mother had said with an unfamiliar amount of glee one night at dinner when her husband had been on call and she'd made the potato bhujia with enough red chili powder to make even Naina and her break into a sweat.

She was no longer young enough to cook all day, clean herself up, and have the energy to be charming at the end of it all. That had been her job for twenty-two years. She’d done it excellently and for long enough that it was well and truly out of her system.

Especially the ones who’d been in long marriages where their wives had been their maintenance mechanics. Richard had been married five times.

In a hurry?” They’d been eye-fucking for weeks. Could he be one of those puritanical abstinence-before-marriage people? “Why does physical intimacy have to be such a big deal?

What she’d really wanted to do was scream at him that he was a lucky bastard to have Alisha and Cullie, and he was being an idiot.

For years he’d done laundry, because he was only home over the weekends and that was the least he could do, because he knew how much she hated doing laundry. It was an act of love that had meant more than all the flowers in the world he could have bought her. As soon as she made reporter, he stopped helping around the house.

She’d made a fortuitous escape from having to walk the streets selling her body (as her mother had so ominously predicted) and landed instead in the safety of matrimony (which her mother had so graciously taken credit for).

Remember the man who packed up my leftovers, including my half-eaten bread, and took it home? After he’d made me pay for dinner,” Alisha went on. “And the one who spent the entire time filling me in over coffee on all the foods that gave him gas. I get scavengers and flatulents, and you get extravagant gifters and Hallmark poets.

She would never tell Mummy that her cousin’s daughter had been under the influence of enough drugs and alcohol to qualify as an overdose when she’d died in that car crash. Ravina had suffered enough with losing a child. She didn’t need the family’s judgment and blame.

Our bodies being as magical as they are, the tissue wraps up the bullet and protects the body from it. I once had a student who fainted during a session. Turns out he'd been shot ten years ago and the bullet they'd left in his elbow had mushroomed into a lead-leaking bomb." She poked a finger into Yash's elbow and made an explosion with her hand. "Boom! It was flooding lead into his blood like a pump." Yash's eyes shone. "Wow!" The smile he threw India lit a spark inside her. "What happened?" Tara grinned, relishing the gore as much as her captivated audience. "They dug the bullet out of him. It was five times its original size. Then they pumped him full of drugs to absorb the lead. No permanent damage. Simen ended up going to nursing school.

They'd had it all. Humans. And look what they did with it.

But he also knew there were truths bigger than the ones he was programed with. Yes, he knew there was the letter of the law, the spirit of the Law and all the gray in between. But even after all he'd learned, all he'd suffered, he knew sometimes there was simple black and white, too. Sometimes there was right, and there was just plain wrong.

Wondering how they'd come all this way, been through so much, and learned so little. The supposed faithful. The so-called pure. In truth, they were grubby and emaciated. Desperate and ugly. Blind and complacent. Willing to murder innocents whose only crime was being born different. All to maintain their illusion that they were somehow superior. That their hatred and fear were justified, that their cause was righteous. that this was somehow anything other than murder.

Si l'abus est le seul lien connu à ses parents, il devient la seule manière de se relier à ceux dont on espère l'amour. L'enfant pensant qu'il mérite tout ce qui lui est infligé intègre l'abus à sa propre identité, puisque c'est la seule manière qu'il connaisse d'appartenir au clan. Si l'abus est la relation principale que l'on a eue avec un parent ou un proche, il est à la fois insupportable et voluptueux. Insupportable parce que la conscience se sait flouée, mais voluptueux parce que la répétition de l'abus a durablement pris la place des archétypes parentaux indispensables à l'équilibre psychique.

Dev is like a human bonfire walking around generously warming everyone with his presence. But burning that bright and that fiercely must be exhausting. Charlie wishes he could tell Dev it’s okay to flicker out sometimes. It’S okay to the d his own flame, to keep himself warm.

Neither the embossed leather envelope containing her forged letter of introduction to the valley and the archeo- logical dig, nor the Esteemed Scientist’s notes and com- munications, nor the weight of the experimentally mod- ified micrograph in its elegant case on her lap that she had removed from Netherby’s laboratory without per- mission—none of it made Dev feel like she’d successfully embarked on her mission to find her mentor as much as the train’s rumble across the bridge, and the wide gap of distance it implied.

She’d needed to know what she had missed. What being by herself might tell her about herself. A bead crashing to the floor. An echo of a forgotten word boomeranging back to her. Trouble.

I’ve long believed that to effectively manage it is not only a critical competency but a significant predictor of company performance,” he explains. “One of these days, I’d like to create a hedge fund that invests in companies, taking long positions on companies with great it organizations that help the business win, and short the companies where it lets everyone down. I think we’d make a killing. What better way is there to force the next generation of ceos to give a shit about it?