Diego Quotes

I imagined myself as Frida to Diego, both muse and maker. I dreamed of meeting an artist to love and support and work with side by side.

There have been two great accidents in my life. One was the train the other was Diego. Diego was by far the worst.

The way I see it, it's got nothing to do with all of that. It has to do with love...A person don't got a soul until that person is loved. If a mother loves her baby--wants her baby--it's got a soul from the moment she knows it's there. The moment you're loved, that's when you got your soul. --Diego

Worst high five ever." - Diego

Super-secret Ninja Club sounds way cooler than the whole BFF thing.

This was how Diego saw me. I was Henry Denton and I was Space Boy. I was broken and I was beautiful. I was nothing and I was everything. I didn't matter to the universe, but I mattered to him.

If you can't paint yourself honestly, everything else you paint will be a lie too." - Diego

I couldn‘t make sense of the mess in my head. Diego was dead, and that was the main thing, the devastating thing. Other than that, the fight was over, my coven had lost and my enemies had won. But my dead coven was full of people who would have loved to watch me burn, and my enemies were speaking to me kindly when they had no reason to.

Mai in vita mia Dimenticherò la tua presenza. Tu mi hai presa quando ero spezzata E mi hai riparata Su questa terra troppo piccola Dove potrei mai voltare il mio sguardo? Così immenso, così profondo! Non c'è più tempo. Non c'è più nulla. Distanza. C'è soltanto la realtà. Quello che è stato, è stato per sempre.

It’s our scars that define us, Sara. Diego has to live life to appreciate life.” “Yes.” A knot forms in my stomach at the idea that I still don’t know how deeply Chris’s scars define him.

Kill her for me," she said in that whiny little-girl voice. Diego took a step toward me, wearing an expression that told me he was only too happy to oblige his lady love. "Oh, what?" I said. I wasn't even scared. I didn't care anymore. The numbness in my heart had pretty much taken over my whole body. "You always do what she tells you? You know, we have a word for that now. It's called being whipped.

What if . . . what if . . . "What if it's a harvest camp after all?" says Emby. Connor doesn't tell him to shut up this time, because he's thinking the same thing. It's Diego who answers him. "If it is, then I want my fin gers to go to a sculptor. So he can use them to craft something that will last forever." They all think about that. Hayden is the next to speak. "If I'm unwound," says Hayden, "I want my eyes to go to a photographer — one who shoots supermodels. That's what I want these eyes to see." "My lips'll go to a rock star," says Connor. "These legs are definitely going to the Olympics." "My ears to an orchestra conductor." "My stomach to a food critic." "My biceps to a body builder." "I wouldn't wish my sinuses on anybody." And they're all laughing as the plane touches down.

It is like sitting in a traffic jam on the San Diego Freeway with your windows rolled up and Portuguese music booming out of the surround-sound speakers while animals gnaw on your neck and diseased bill collectors hammer on your doors with golf clubs.

Even though I grew up two hours south, I had rarely ventured to Los Angeles. I soon learned that my dad wasn't totally off base when he said, "Los Angeles is like San Diego's older, uglier sister that has herpes." . . . "Remember. Family," he said. "Also, how do I get back to I-5? I hate this fucking city.

It was like talking to Diego had cleared my head. For the first time in three months, blood was not the main thing in there.

Pemenang sejati bukan orang yang selalu menang setiap kali pertandingan, tapi mereka yang selalu bangkit setiap mereka jatuh.

You too know that all my eyes see, all I touch with myself, from any distance, is Diego. The caress of fabrics, the color of colors, the wires, the nerves, the pencils, the leaves, the dust, the cells, the war and the sun, everything experienced in the minutes of the non-clocks and the non-calendars and the empty non-glances, is him.

I am, and always have been - first, last, and always - a child of America. You raised me. I grew up in the pastures and hills of Texas, but I had been to thirty-four states before I learned how to drive. When I caught the stomach flu in the fifth grade, my mother sent a note to school written on the back of a holiday memo from Vice President Biden. Sorry, sir—we were in a rush, and it was the only paper she had on hand. I spoke to you for the first time when I was eighteen, on the stage of the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, when I introduced my mother as the nominee for president. You cheered for me. I was young and full of hope, and you let me embody the American dream: that a boy who grew up speaking two languages, whose family was blended and beautiful and enduring, could make a home for himself in the White House. You pinned the flag to my lapel and said, “We’re rooting for you.” As I stand before you today, my hope is that I have not let you down. Years ago, I met a prince. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, his country had raised him too. The truth is, Henry and I have been together since the beginning of this year. The truth is, as many of you have read, we have both struggled every day with what this means for our families, our countries, and our futures. The truth is, we have both had to make compromises that cost us sleep at night in order to afford us enough time to share our relationship with the world on our own terms. We were not afforded that liberty. But the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable. America has always believed this. And so, I am not ashamed to stand here today where presidents have stood and say that I love him, the same as Jack loved Jackie, the same as Lyndon loved Lady Bird. Every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it, whom the American people will “hold beside them in hearts and memories and history books. America: He is my choice. Like countless other Americans, I was afraid to say this out loud because of what the consequences might be. To you, specifically, I say: I see you. I am one of you. As long as I have a place in this White House, so will you. I am the First Son of the United States, and I’m bisexual. History will remember us. If I can ask only one thing of the American people, it’s this: Please, do not let my actions influence your decision in November. The decision you will make this year is so much bigger than anything I could ever say or do, and it will determine the fate of this country for years to come. My mother, your president, is the warrior and the champion that each and every American deserves for four more years of growth, progress, and prosperity. Please, don’t let my actions send us backward. I ask the media not to focus on me or on Henry, but on the campaign, on policy, on the lives and livelihoods of millions of Americans at stake in this election. And finally, I hope America will remember that I am still the son you raised. My blood still runs from Lometa, Texas, and San Diego, California, and Mexico City. I still remember the sound of your voices from that stage in Philadelphia. I wake up every morning thinking of your hometowns, of the families I’ve met at rallies in Idaho and Oregon and South Carolina. I have never hoped to be anything other than what I was to you then, and what I am to you now—the First Son, yours in actions and words. And I hope when Inauguration Day comes again in January, I will continue to be.

You’re a Centurion,” Ty said. “You have vows—” “Vows of friendship and love are stronger,” said Diego. Drusilla

No worries,” said Jaime. “I have written out a receipt.” “He has not written out a receipt,” said Diego. "I considered it," said Jaime. "Sometimes it is not the thought that counts, little brother.

Selalu ada kata andai saja sesaat setelah kita kehilangan sesuatu.

That’s the downside to San Diego. Once you live here, you never want to live anywhere else. Unfortunately everyone else already lives here.

The hat kid’s name was Diego? I swear it was Darnell,” Darius murmured to Tory

Perhaps it is expected that I should lament about how I have suffered living with a man like Diego. But I do not think that the banks of a river suffer because they let the river flow, nor does the earth suffer because of the rains, nor does the atom suffer for letting its energy escape. To my way of thinking, everything has its natural compensation.

The Santa Monica Freeway is traditionally the scene of every form of automotive folly known to man. It is not white and well-bred like the San Diego, nor as treacherously engineered as the Pasadena, nor quite as ghetto-suicidal as the Harbor. No, one hesitates to say it, but the Santa Monica is a freeway for freaks.

Sixty-five seconds," he said. "You weren't breathing for sixty-five seconds after we found you. I lived and died during each one of them." He let out a breath. "Never again.

Didn't you," he asked, "have me exorcised?" "Me?" My own voice rocketed up about ten octaves. "Me? Jesse, of course not. I would never do that. I mean, you know I would never do something like that. That kid Jack did it. Your girlfriend Maria made him do it. She was trying to get rid of you. She told Jack you were bothering me, and he didn't know any better, so he exorcised you, and then Felix Diego threw me off the porch roof, and Jesse, they found your body, I mean your bones, and I saw them and I threw up all over the side of the house, and Spike really misses you and I was just thinking, you know, if you wanted to come back, you could, because that's why I've got this rope, so we can find our way back.

I like people, not the parts they have.” Diego frowned. “Well, I mean, I definitely like the parts; they’re just not why I like the person.

It was one of Diego Alatriste's virtues that he could make friends in Hell.

But without ego," Diego said, "your writing is just scribbles in a journal. Your art is just doodles. Ego demands that what you do is important enought that you be given money to work on it." He gestured to the hotel around us. "It demands that what you say is important enough that it be published or shown to the world.

I've never believed in God. But I believe in Picasso.

At the end of the day I have many answers for it. It has to do with my mom, who was an extraordinary woman, and a great feminist. It has to do with the people in my life. It has to do with a lot of different things, but -- I don't know! Because I'm not just writing from the female characters for other people. I have a desire to see them in our culture -- that was not met for most of my childhood. Except occasionally by James Cameron. [From the 2011 San Diego Comic Con, in response to being asked why he writes strong female characters.]

Los Angeles is like San Diego’s older, uglier sister that has herpes.

My Diego: Mirror of the night Your eyes green swords inside my flesh. waves between our hands. All of you in a space full of sounds — in the shade and in the light. You were called AUXOCHROME the one who captures color. I CHROMOPHORE — the one who gives color. You are all the combinations of numbers. life. My wish is to understand lines form shades movement. You fulfill and I receive. Your word travels the entirety of space and reaches my cells which are my stars then goes to yours which are my light.

He was such a great lover. He was so male, so thoroughly a man that she felt all the rewards of being his woman." (showing 0-0 of 0) (0.04 seconds)

In the fall of 1998, I began my freshman year at San Diego State University, which my dad commonly referred to as 'Harvard, without all the smart people.

San Diego has the finest zoo in America, but the Los Angeles Zoo is not much more than a home for retired Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lions.

They can't expect anyone to actually pay for a shirt that says, 'I (picture of an elephant) the San Diego Zoo.' What does that even mean?

The girl Diego said he loved was the strong one, the winning Camila, the one with a future she was forging for herself… If he rescued me, if I quit for him. I wouldn’t be the girl he loved. I wouldn’t be myself.

He walked straight out of college into the waiting arms of the Navy. They gave him an intelligence test. The first question on the math part had to do with boats on a river: Port Smith is 100 miles upstream of Port Jones. The river flows at 5 miles per hour. The boat goes through water at 10 miles per hour. How long does it take to go from Port Smith to Port Jones? How long to come back? Lawrence immediately saw that it was a trick question. You would have to be some kind of idiot to make the facile assumption that the current would add or subtract 5 miles per hour to or from the speed of the boat. Clearly, 5 miles per hour was nothing more than the average speed. The current would be faster in the middle of the river and slower at the banks. More complicated variations could be expected at bends in the river. Basically it was a question of hydrodynamics, which could be tackled using certain well-known systems of differential equations. Lawrence dove into the problem, rapidly (or so he thought) covering both sides of ten sheets of paper with calculations. Along the way, he realized that one of his assumptions, in combination with the simplified Navier Stokes equations, had led him into an exploration of a particularly interesting family of partial differential equations. Before he knew it, he had proved a new theorem. If that didn't prove his intelligence, what would? Then the time bell rang and the papers were collected. Lawrence managed to hang onto his scratch paper. He took it back to his dorm, typed it up, and mailed it to one of the more approachable math professors at Princeton, who promptly arranged for it to be published in a Parisian mathematics journal. Lawrence received two free, freshly printed copies of the journal a few months later, in San Diego, California, during mail call on board a large ship called the U.S.S. Nevada. The ship had a band, and the Navy had given Lawrence the job of playing the glockenspiel in it, because their testing procedures had proven that he was not intelligent enough to do anything else.

Spesso la gente non ha le emozioni chiare, altro che le idee.

Bukankah persahabatan tidak hanya menerima semua perlakuan yang manis dari sahabatnya? Bukannya persahabatan juga menanggung rasa asam dan pahit bersama? Bukannya untuk itu perjalanan ini diadakan?

As an artist I have always tried to be faithful to my vision of life, and I have frequently been in conflict with those who wanted me to paint not what I saw but what they wished me to see.

Look, sometimes we want to see the good in people we care about so much that we pretend it’s there, living under all the layers of cruelty. But the fact is, Diego, some people are toxic. And if you keep them in your life, they’ll poison everything good in your world until you end up being just like them. And that’s a far worse fate than going against the grain and making your own path. Even if that means you’re alone.

People argue between Pele or Maradona. Di Stéfano is the best, much more complete.

Diego looked at me and saw me. No one had seen me since Jesse.

Dicono che la felicità si trova nelle piccole cose. Sapeste l'infelicità.

Kapal yang hanya diam dalam pelabuhan adalah kapal yang aman, tapi bukan untuk itu kapal diciptakan

I am so very proud of you, Diego.

Well, I guess slave-runners aren't really my cup of tea. That is who you married instead, right? A slave-runner. Your father must have been so proud." That wiped the grin right off her face. "You leave my father out of this," she snarled. "Oh, why?" I asked. "Tell me something, is he sore at you? Your dad, I mean. You know, for having Jesse killed? Because I imagine he would be. I mean, basically, thanks to you, the de Silva family line ran out. And your kids with that Diego dude turned out to be, as we've already discussed, major losers. I bet whenever you run into your dad out there, you know, on the spiritual plane, he doesn't even say hi anymore, does he? That's gotta hurt." I'm not sure how much of that, if any, Maria actually understood. Still, she seemed plenty mad.

Livvy stared at Diego for most of the meal, probably thinking about their plan to stop Zara, but it was clearly making Diego nervous, since he tried twice to cut his steak with his spoon.

We dropped down, and Diego quickly threw the cars into a new arrangement, so that it sort of looked like they'd hit each other rather than been piled up by a giant tantrum-throwing baby. -Bree

Kadang, proses yang berat adalah belajar kehilangan manusia, bukan belajar mencintainya.

I am an atheist and I consider religions to be a form of collective neurosis. I am not an enemy of the Catholics, as I am not an enemy of the tuberculars, the myopic or the paralytics; you cannot be an enemy of the sick, only their good friend in order to help them cure themselves.

Creed scowls. "Hardly. All he does now is mope like a goddamn teenage girl. Anytime I'm home, he's in his room with the door locked. I'm telling you guys, he got worked over really bad in San Diego. I thought the whole point of having a gay brother was that they were supposed to be all cool and shit. I got a defective gay.

O problema não é o cavalo falar, é o jumento ouvir.

I pray that you become so focused and satisfied by God's love that it heals every part of you.

Llora todas tus lágrimas reprimidas, Victoria, deja salir tu tristeza. Yo estaré aquí para sostenerte. - Diego Alcorta.

Atesoro hasta el más mínimo papel en que has trazado una línea.

You already made it this far and God is still going to take you way farther.

I recommend her to you, not as a husband but as an enthusiastic admirer of her work, acid and tender, hard as steel and delicate and fine as a butterfly's wing, lovable as a beautiful smile, and as profound and cruel as the bitterness of life.

What does that word mean?" Cassidy asked. Her voice was soft, sexy. Mind-blowing. "Querida, or whatever you said? I don't speak Spanish." "It's a term of endearment. An Anglo might say darling or honey." "What was the other one you used? Me ha? "Mi ja. Short for mi hija. It's what you say to someone you care about." She smiled. "When you say that you sound ---I don't know---affectionate." "Maybe I like cats," Diego said. Cassidy rested her hand on his chest, and her smile widened. "Meow.

I can think of only one good solution to this dilemma," Diego said, having spent the entire night developing a plan. You sneak into the school and carry her off?" Gaspar quipped. That is the not-so-good solution. And it would be very difficult to sneak into a house full of women without raising an alarm." A cloud descended on Gaspar's brow. "I was not serious. Kidnapping is not a choice.

Traveling across the United States, it's easy to see why Americans are often thought of as stupid. At the San Diego Zoo, right near the primate habitats, there's a display featuring half a dozen life-size gorillas made out of bronze. Posted nearby is a sign reading CAUTION: GORILLA STATUES MAY BE HOT. Everywhere you turn, the obvious is being stated. CANNON MAY BE LOUD. MOVING SIDEWALK ABOUT TO END. To people who don't run around suing one another, such signs suggest a crippling lack of intelligence. Place bronze statues beneath the southern California sun, and of course they're going to get hot. Cannons are supposed to be loud, that's their claim to fame, and - like it or not - the moving sidewalk is bound to end sooner or later. It's hard trying to explain a country whose motto has become You can't claim I didn't warn you. What can you say about the family who is suing the railroad after their drunk son was killed walking on the tracks? This pretty much sums up my trip to Texas.

Me sentiré muchísimo menos extranjera contigo que en cualquier otra tierra.

Terkadang, saat kita nggak bisa jelaskan dengan logika gimana caranya untuk menyelamatkan seseorang yang kita hargai dan sayangi, kita cuma perlu percaya.

What? You don't want to be- BFFs?

Baz takes me to a Starbucks to use the facilities, and when I come out—with a massive rainbow-striped Frappuccino—he’s shouting at Penny: “Thirty-one hours to San Diego?!” “That can’t be right,” Penny says. “That’s like driving from London to Moscow. Let me see.” Baz has been looking at her phone, and she takes it back. “But it’s the same country,” she says.

...I decided I'd changed my mind about home. Home was not Pensacola San Diego Guam or any of the other places we might have lived. In fact home wasn't any particular place at all. Home was my family. Even if they didn't get my jokes sometimes.

The trick is, don’t give in to the grief. Instead, I let myself feel it, embrace it, learn from it. In bed by 9:30, up at 7:00, breakfast, then off to school where I spend five mind-numbing hours living by the dictates of San Diego County’s Board of Education, the Western version of Mao’s Little Red Book.

Auxochrome — Chromophore. Diego. She who wears the color. He who sees the color. Since the year 1922. Until always and forever. Now in 1944. After all the hours lived through. The vectors continue in their original direction. Nothing stops them. With no more knowledge than live emotion. With no other wish than to go on until they meet. Slowly. With great unease, but with the certainty that all is guided by the “golden section.” There is cellular arrangement. There is movement. There is light. All centers are the same. Folly doesn’t exist. We are the same as we were and as we will be. Not counting on idiotic destiny.

Diego considered while he stroked the thick ruff of fur around Finn’s neck. "Fiction isn’t lying. Everyone knows it’s imaginary. It’s not as if the writer’s being dishonest and misleading the reader." "Though it’s still not true." "Well...no, it’s not." "Honest lying." Finn laid his head on Diego’s thigh. "I like that.

Looking back upon my work today, I think the best I have done grew out of things deeply felt, the worst from a pride in mere talent.

you have to trust a TRUE compliment as muc as a critique.

Cinta yang terlalu besar hanya dua akibatnya untukmu: membahagiakanmu atau malah mencelakakan kamu. Segala sesuatu yang terlalu tidak pernah terlalu baik.

Ho riflettuto molto, in questi giorni. E la sai una cosa? Non ho capito niente.

You were not where you were supposed to be but God met you exactly where you are. He is always going to be your breakthrough.

Let the eyes of your heart be wide open to the forgiveness that goes through every crack. Let your thoughts dwell on the security of love that fought for you first.

From sunrise to sunset, I was in the forest, sometimes far from the house, with my goat who watched me as a mother does a child. All the animals in the forest became my friends, even dangerous and poisonous ones. Thanks to my goat-mother and my Indian nurse, I have always enjoyed the trust of animals--a precious gift. I still love animals infinitely more than human beings.

A forza di soffrire per te ho contratto un debito intellettuale nei confronti del tempo che attraverso. Sono un militante del pensiero critico. Mi attirano libri che fino a qualche tempo fa m’innervosivano solo a leggerne il titolo. Sei compatibile con tutto: con il privato, il pubblico, la politica, l’etica, l’estetica, la religione, la musica, la letteratura, il cinema, il teatro, l’informazione, la tecnologia, la pubblicità dei pannolini e persino quella delle macchine. Ogni cosa è compromessa con te. E io sono obbligato a speculare su tutto, perché tutto ti riguarda. Sei ovunque, tranne dove vorrei che fossi. Indovina dove.

Io non mento a me stesso per ingannarmi. Mento a me stesso per crederci. So come mi sento e perché. Conosco ogni micromovimento, avvisaglia, sintomo o rumore del mobbing dell’infelicità. Quello smarrimento così caratteristico, che rende l’aria disgustosamente dolciastra, come di pesche andate a male. Quella solitudine definitiva. Quella svalutazione immediata di tutto. Di me stesso, soprattutto.

Raine’s been through some shit.” Prosper was looking at Diego. “Shit that happened in what they call the formative years. Shit that happens when you’re that young, sets a course for the rest of it.” Prosper was looking right into Diego’s eyes. “Shit that she keeps buried deep. So deep she has to wrap her arms around herself to keep it in. Because if she don’t, she’s afraid that on the way out, it will tear her up so bad inside that it will kill her. Stuff she keeps down. Stuff she thinks no one knows or can see or can touch but her.

Doc fell in to a car convoy, moving slowly, single lane through the fog. He figured if he missed the Gordita Beach exit, he'd take the first one whose sign he could read and work his way back on surface streets. He knew that at Rosecrans, the freeway began to dogleg east, and at some point, Hawthorne Boulevard or Artesia,he'd lose the fog, unless it was spreading tonight, and settled in region wide... Maybe then it would stay this way for days, maybe he'd have to just keep driving, down past Long Beach, down through Orange County, and San Diego and across a border where nobody could tell anymore in the fog who was Mexican, who was Anglo, who was anybody. Then again, he might run out of gas before that happened, and have to leave the caravan, and pull over on the shoulder, and wait. For whatever would happen. For a forgotten joint to materialize in his pocket. For the CHP to come by and choose not to hassle him. For a restless blonde in a Stingray to stop and offer him a ride. For the fog to burn off, and for something else this time, somehow, to be there instead.

Non siamo responsabili dei nostri sentimenti né del flusso che li causa o li alimenta e tutto sommato neanche delle nostre azioni, anche se poi dobbiamo risponderne (e farlo anche se nessuno ce lo chiede), com’è giusto che sia.

i g l o o his name was Eddie and he had a big white dog with a curly tail a huskie like one of those that pulled sleighs up near the north pole Igloo he called him and Eddie had a bow and arrow and every week or two he'd send an arrow into the dog's side then run into his mother's house through the yelping saying that Igloo had fallen on the arrow. that dog took quite a few arrows and managed to survive but I saw what really happened and didn't like Eddie very much. so when I broke Eddie's leg in a sandlot football game that was my way of getting even for Igloo. his parents threatened to sue my parents claiming I did it on purpose because that's what Eddie told them. well, nobody had any money anyhow and when Eddie's father got a job in San Diego they moved away and left the dog. we took him in. Igloo turned out to be rather dumb did not respond to very much had no life or joy in him just stuck out his tongue panted slept most of the time when he wasn't eating and although he wiped his ass up and down the lawn after defecating he usually had a large fragrant smear of brown under his tail when he was run over by an icecream truck 3 or 4 months later and died in a stream of scarlet I didn't feel more than the usual amount of grief and loss and I was still glad that I had managed to break Eddie's leg.

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland.

How can you love me if you don’t even know me?” He lifted my arms around his neck and placed his hands on the small of my back. “I know you, Jade. You’re witty and stubborn, like when you wanted to get rid of me at the bar in San Diego. And you’re sweet and caring, like when you talked to my mother at the hospital. And you can drink like a sailor. ” He chuckled. “And you hardly ever blush, but when you do it’s like the sunshine.” Then, he whispered in my ear with a husky voice, “And you make love with your soul.” Peter gave my earlobe a quick nibble. “I couldn’t care less about energy. It might have brought us together, but I only care about you. I want to spend the rest of my days with you; no matter if it’ll be ten or ten thousand.” Despite myself, I felt my eyes burn from tears I wasn’t ready to shed. Still, I couldn’t say it. “Peter...” I kissed him with all the tenderness I found in my heart and said, “the tub is about to spill.” “Oh, shit.” He jerked away from me, turned the water off and unplugged the tub, then hugged me again with wet hands. “All we need is time, Jade. You’ll see this love is real.

Mi sa che è questo il mio limite: mi mancano le conclusioni, nel senso che ho l'impressione che niente finisca mai veramente. Io vorrei, vorrei davvero che i dispiaceri scaduti, le persone sbagliate, le risposte che non ho dato, i debiti contratti senza bisogno, le piccole meschinità che mi hanno avvelenato il fegato, tutte le cose a cui ancora penso, le storie d'amore soprattutto, sparissero dalla mia testa e non si facessero più vedere, ma sono pieno di strascichi, di fantasmi disoccupati che vengono spesso a trovarmi. Colpa della memoria, che congela e scongela in automatico rallentando la digestione della vita...

She grabbed her briefcase and took a step toward him. “You don’t have a last name?” “Everyone has a last name.” His hand hovered in the air, waiting. He was forcing her to cross the marble floor to meet him, and like a Luna moth drawn to a midnight moon, she drifted toward him. When she reached him, she took his hand and looked up into his face. “Is it Jones? Smith? Or Brown?” His lips twitched. “None of the above.” “And you won’t tell me?” “It’s not necessary information.” She tilted her head, studying his angular features. “You don’t look like an Adrian.” His smile broadened. “Imagine that.” “More like a Carlos, or a Juan, or a Diego.” “Those are Hispanic names.” “Aren’t you Hispanic?” “I’m anything you want me to be.

The rest of the question-and-answer period was pretty standard stuff, with a few hardballs thrown in just to keep things interesting. Where did the senator stand on the death penalty? Given that most corpses tended to get up and try to eat folks, he didn’t see it as a productive pursuit. What was his opinion on public health care? Failure to keep people healthy enough to stay alive bordered on criminal negligence. Was he prepared to face the ongoing challenges of disaster preparedness? After the mass reanimations following the explosions in San Diego, he couldn’t imagine any presidency surviving without improved disaster planning.

However, Dorian's acceptance of Andrew only went so far. And it was nowhere near enough to allow him this close to Ashaya. "What are you doing here?" Though SnowDancer and DarkRiver had free range over each other's territory, the wolves preferred to stick to the higher elevations. Andrew's eyes shifted over Dorian's shoulder. "I can smell her." "Don't." The younger male grinned. "She's all over you, too. Is she as sexy as she smells?" Dorian knew Andrew was deliberately jerking his chain. "Why don't you come closer and find out?" "Do I look stupid?" "You look like a wolf." Andrew bared his teeth. "I thought we were friends." "And I thought you got posted back to San Diego." The other man shrugged. "I came back to visit my baby sister, check up on that mate of hers." "She's fine," Dorian said, relaxing a little at Andrew's deliberately nonaggressive stance. "I've been keeping an eye on her." "Yeah, I know. She's always muttering about how she has three over protective morons for brothers now. Andrew snorted. "Wait till she has a baby girl. I can't exactly see Judd being any less feral.

All the neighborhood dogs can see right through me. They know. They aren’t even barking. Out of pity, I suppose. The Carlucci’s dog is the worst barker in the neighborhood, but not today. I walk up to his gate and give it a shake. No reaction. He sits on the porch staring at me, like I ain’t nothin’. I look around and find a stick. I throw it at him. Down deep, I really didn’t intend to hit him, but the stick bounces off his rump. I cringe and cover my mouth. “Sorry,” I say. The old dog just walks to his back yard, disgusted with the whole mess. “You don’t understand,” I yell after him. “I’m having a life crisis!

E sì, mi manca ancora. Per quanto incomprensibile possa essere, sento ancora la sua mancanza. La sento soprattutto in questo tipo di situazione, quando esco, quando mi siedo in un ristorante con qualcuno, quando viene un po’ di sole dopo che ha piovuto, quando la gente intorno parla del più e del meno, quando la normalità incalza. E’ soprattutto in quei momenti che mi domando cosa ci faccio lì. Perché rimango. Perché non me ne vado. E perché quello che mangio non sa di niente. E perché delle cose che mi dicono gli amici, cose per le quali dovrei provare un qualche interesse, non m’importi assolutamente nulla. E risponda per pura cortesia, sperando che se la bevano e pensando che se pure non se la bevono fa lo stesso. E perché quando mi sembra di cominciare a rilassarmi, finalmente, vengo subito assalito dal solito stormo di piccoli ricordi felici che vuole portarmi via da dove sto. E perché mi sembra di aver lasciato la vita da qualche parte. Ma dove? Fanculo, va’.

Doing a geographic” is a term alcoholics often use for acting on the impulse to start over by moving to a new town, or state, instead of making any internal changes. It’s the anywhere-but-here part of the disease that says, “Remove yourself from this, go someplace new, and everything will be better.” Two years into our Florida stint, my mother pulled a geographic as radical as the move from Rochester. The new plan was to head for California. She enrolled in the mathematics graduate program at the University of California’s shiny new campus in San Diego, and as soon as our elementary school let out for the summer, she put us into a new Buick station wagon – a gift from her parents – and drove us across the country. You’d think we’d have protested at yet another move. After all, having been duped before, we were in no position to believe that the next move would be any different. But I have no memory of being unhappy about the news. Because that’s what often happens when an alcoholic parent is doing a geographic. She pulls you in and, before you know it, you, too, believe in the promise of the new place.

You might have been in the same place, in the same exact position for years now, and somehow you feel terribly stuck. You might feel unsatisfied, unfulfilled, and this unbearable feeling, "I am so tired. When can I dod what I wanted to do?" Hey, you are moving. Slow is fast. You are no longer at the beginning. You are no longer where you used to be.

One [project of Teddy Cruz's] is titled Living Rooms at the Border. it takes a piece of land with an unused church zoned for three units and carefully arrays on it twelve affordable housing units, a community center (the converted church), offices for Casa in the church's attic, and a garden that can accommodate street markets and kiosks. 'In a place where current regulation allows only one use,' [Cruz} crows, ' we propose five different uses that support each other. This suggests a model of social sustainability for San Diego, one that conveys density not as bulk but as social choreography.' For both architect and patron, it's an exciting opportunity to prove that breaking the zoning codes can be for the best. Another one of Cruz's core beliefs is that if architects are going to achieve anything of social distinction, they will have to become developers' collaborators or developers themselves, rather than hirelings brought in after a project's parameters are laid out.

If there was a single moment when the breach between us, which had been cracking and splintering for two decades, was at last too vast to be bridged, I believe it was that winter night, when I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, while, without my knowing it, my father grasped the phone in his knotted hands and dialed my brother. Diego, the knife. What followed was very dramatic. But the real drama had already played out in the bathroom. It had played out when, for reasons I don’t understand, I was unable to climb through the mirror and send out my sixteen-year-old self in my place. Until that moment she had always been there. No matter how much I appeared to have changed—how illustrious my education, how altered my appearance—I was still her. At best I was two people, a fractured mind. She was inside, and emerged whenever I crossed the threshold of my father’s house. That night I called on her and she didn’t answer. She left me. She stayed in the mirror. The decisions I made after that moment were not the ones she would have made. They were the choices of a changed person, a new self.

It infuriates him, this killing, this death. Infuriating that this is what we’re known for now, drug cartels and slaughter. This my city of Avenida 16 Septembre, the Victoria Theater, cobblestone streets, the bullring, La Central, La Fogata, more bookstores than El Paso, the university, the ballet, garapiñados, pan dulce, the mission, the plaza, the Kentucky Bar, Fred’s—now it’s known for these idiotic thugs. And my country, Mexico—the land of writers and poets—of Octavio Paz, Juan Rulfo, Carlos Fuentes, Elena Garro, Jorge Volpi, Rosario Castellanos, Luis Urrea, Elmer Mendoza, Alfonso Reyes—the land of painters and sculptors—Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Gabriel Orozco, Pablo O’Higgins, Juan Soriano, Francisco Goitia—of dancers like Guillermina Bravo, Gloria and Nellie Campobello, Josefina Lavalle, Ana Mérida, and composers—Carlos Chávez, Silvestre Revueltas, Agustín Lara, Blas Galindo—architects—Luis Barragán, Juan O’Gorman, Tatiana Bilbao, Michel Rojkind, Pedro Vásquez—wonderful filmmakers—Fernando de Fuentes, Alejandro Iñárritu, Luis Buñuel, Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro—actors like Dolores del Río, “La Doña” María Félix, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, Salma Hayek—now the names are “famous” narcos—no more than sociopathic murderers whose sole contribution to the culture has been the narcocorridas sung by no-talent sycophants. Mexico, the land of pyramids and palaces, deserts and jungles, mountains and beaches, markets and gardens, boulevards and cobblestoned streets, broad plazas and hidden courtyards, is now known as a slaughter ground. And for what? So North Americans can get high.

[Author's note:] When I decided to write this book, I worried that my privilege would make me blind to certain truths, that I would get things wrong, as I may well have. I worried that, as a non-immigrant and non-Mexican, I had no business writing a book set almost entirely in Mexico, set entirely among migrants. I wished someone slightly browner than me would write it. But then I thought, 'If you're a person who has the capacity to be a bridge, why not be a bridge?' So I began. In the early days of my research, before I'd fully convinced myself that I should undertake the telling of this story, I was interviewing a very generous scholar, a remarkable woman who was chair of the Chicana and Chicano studies Department at San Diego State University. Her name is Norma Iglesias Prieto, and I mentioned my doubts to her. I told her I felt compelled, but unqualified, to write this book. She said, "Jeanine. We need as many voices as we can get, telling this story." Her encouragement sustained me for the next four years. I was careful and deliberate in my research. I traveled extensively on both sides of the border and learned as much as I could about Mexico and migrants, about people living throughout the borderlands. The statistics in this book are all true, and though I changed some names, most of the places are real, too. But the characters, while representative of the folks I met during my travels, are fictional.

I usually enjoy setting up a new kitchen, but this has become a joyless and highly charged task. My mother and I each have our own set of kitchen boxes, which means that if there are two cheese graters between us, only one will make it into a cupboard. The other will be put back in a box or given to Goodwill. Each such little decision has the weight of a Middle East negotiation. While her kitchenware is serviceable, I’m a sucker for the high end: All-Clad saucepans and Emile Henry pie dishes. Before long, I’m shaking my head at pretty much everything my mother removes from her San Diego boxes. She takes each rejected item as a personal slight – which in fact it is. I begrudge her even her lightweight bowls, which she can lift easily with her injured hand. Here she is, a fragile old woman barely able to bend down as she peers into a low cupboard, looking for a place where she can share life with her grown daughter. At such a sight my heart should be big, but it’s small, so small that when I see her start stuffing her serving spoons into the same drawer as my own sturdy pieces, lovingly accumulated over the years, it makes me crazy. Suddenly I’m acting out decades of unvoiced anger about my mother’s parenting, which seems to be materializing in the form of her makeshift collection of kitchenware being unpacked into my drawers. When I became a mother myself, I developed a self-righteous sense of superiority to my mother: I was better than my mother, for having successfully picked myself up and dusted myself off, for never having lain in bed for days on end, too blotto to get my child off to school or even to know if it was a school day. By sheer force of will and strength of character, I believed, I had risen above all that she succumbed to and skirted all that I might have inherited. This, of course, is too obnoxiously smug to say in words. So I say it with flatware.