Dig Dug Quotes

I stay cool, and dig all jive, That's the way I stay alive. My motto, as I live and learn, is Dig and be dug In return.

Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper. I didn’t want to write these pages until there were no hard feelings, no sharp ones. I do not have that luxury. I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. I want to be grateful but I’m having a hard time with it.

[Gold] gets dug out of the ground in Africa, or someplace. Then we melt it down, dig another hole, bury it again and pay people to stand around guarding it. It has no utility. Anyone watching from Mars would be scratching their head.

Of course, it is quite possible to be in the dark in the dark, but there are so many secrets in the world that it is likely that you are always in the dark about one thing or another, whether you are in the dark in the dark or in the dark not in the dark, although the sun can go down so quickly that you may be in the in the dark about being in the dark, only to look around and find yourself no longer in the dark about being in the dark, but in the dark in the dark nontheless, not only because of the dark, but because of the ballerinas in the dark, who are not in the dark about the dark, but also not in the dark about the locked cabinet, and you may be in the dark about the ballerinas digging up the locked cabinet in the dark, even though you are no longer in the dark about being in the dark, and so you are in fact in the dark about being in the dark, even though you are not in the dark about being in the dark, and so you may fall into the hole that the ballerinas have dug, which is dark, in the dark, and in the park.

Personally, I’m a mess of conflicting impulses—I’m independent and greedy and I also want to belong and share and be a part of the whole. I doubt that I’m the only one who feels this way. It’s the core of monster making, actually. Wanna make a monster? Take the parts of yourself that make you uncomfortable—your weaknesses, bad thoughts, vanities, and hungers—and pretend they’re across the room. It’s too ugly to be human. It’s too ugly to be you. Children are afraid of the dark because they have nothing real to work with. Adults are afraid of themselves. Oh we’re a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them. We’ve been to the moon and we’re still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It’s two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I’d know it was something true. Now I’m trying to dig deeper.

A tractor is going to come dig the rest of this hole?” “Yeah, they haven’t hand dug graves in years. I just thought it would be fun.” “I’m going to kill you.” “This would be the perfect place.

Oh we're a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them. We've been to the moon and we're still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It's two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet. I used to think that if I dug deep enough to discover something sad and ugly, I'd know it was something true. Now I'm trying to dig deeper.

The phrase "in the dark," as I'm sure you know, can refer not only to one's shadowy surroundings, but also to the shadowy secrets of which one might be unaware. Every day, the sun goes down over all these secrets, and so everyone is in the dark in one way or another. If you are sunbathing in a park, for instance, but you do not know that a locked cabinet is buried fifty feet beneath your blanket, then you are in the dark even though you are not actually in the dark, whereas if you are on a midnight hike, knowing full well that several ballerinas are following close behind you, then you are not in the dark even if you are in fact in the dark. Of course, it is quite possible to be in the dark in the dark, as well as to be not in the dark not in the dark, but there are so many secrets in the world that it is likely that you are always in the dark about one thing or another, whether you are in the dark in the dark or in the dark not in the dark, although the sun can go down so quickly that you may be in the dark about being in the dark in the dark, only to look around and find yourself no longer in the dark about being in the dark in the dark, but in the dark in the dark nonetheless, not only because of the dark, but because of the ballerinas in the dark, who are not in the dark about the dark, but also not in the dark about the locked cabinet, and you may be in the dark about the ballerinas digging up the locked cabinet in the dark, even though you are no longer in the dark about being in the dark, and so you are in fact in the dark about being in the dark, even though you are not in the dark about being in the dark, and so you may fall into the hole that the ballerinas have dug, which is dark, in the dark, and in the park.

My personal motto has always been if you've already dug yourself a hole too deep to climb out of, you may as well keep digging.

There are men who dig for gold; [Monseigneur Bienvenu] dug for compassion.

The council meeting was soon over, and Manon paused as she walked past Vernon on her way out. She put a hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin, and he yelped as she brought her iron teeth close to his ear. "Just because she is dead, Lord, do not think I will forget what you tried to do to her." Vernon paled. "You can't touch me." Manon dug her nails in deeper. "No, I can't," she purred into his ear. "But Aelin Galathynius is alive. And I hear that she has a score to settle." She yanked out her nails and squeezed his shoulder, setting the blood running down Vernon's green tonic before she stalked from the room.

You ain’t know nothing,” a man scoffed. “How I’m supposed to trust some junkie Churchwitch-” The words sliced through her like razor-sharp fangs. Her face flooded with shame, so hot she imagined it steamed in the icy air. At least it wasn’t difficult to identify the speaker. All she had to do was look for the man with Terrible’s fist locked around his neck. “Ain’t think I hear you right,” Terrible said in a calm, quiet voice. “Wanna louden up?” The man shook his head His eyes bulged. He looked like a bug, with his hands clenching into tiny useless fists. “You sure? You got else to say, you best say it now, instead of later. Now we got us watchers. Later might not be true, dig?” The man dug.

I handed my tools. The two of them reached down to help me out of the crater I'd dug. ''Isn't that a little deep?'' Yoda asked. ''It'll help the roots get established,'' I explained. ''Established where? China?

Back at the compound, they had dug in a systematic order, row upon row, allowing space for the water truck. But out here there was no system. It was as if every once in a while, in a fit of frustration, the Warden would just pick a spot at random, and say, “What the hell, dig here.” It was like trying to guess the winning numbers in a lottery.

He didn't just dig me; he dug me the MOST. Nothing can compare to hearing something like that from a seventeen-year-old kid who looks like he might be fully awake for the first time in his academic career.

One thing they don’t tell you ’bout the blues when you got ’em, you keep on fallin’ ’cause there ain't no bottom,' sings Emmylou Harris, and she may be right. Perhaps it would help to be told that there is no bottom, save, as they say, wherever and whenever you stop digging. You have to stand there, spade in hand, cold whiskey sweat beaded on your brow, eyes misshapen and wild, some sorry-ass grave digger grown bone-tired of the trade. You have to stand there in the dirty rut you dug, alone in the darkness, in all its pulsing quiet, surrounded by the scandal of corpses.

More times than I can remember I look around and I ask why the hole I’m in looks so strangely familiar. Probably because it looks a whole lot like all the other ones I dug before I got around to digging this one.

Lonely's a temporary condition, a cloud that blocks out the sun for a spell and then makes the sunshine seem even brighter after it travels along. Like when you're far away from home and you miss the people you love and it seems like you're never going to see them again. But you will, and you do, and then you're not lonely anymore. Lonesome's a whole other thing. Incurable. Terminal. A hole in your heart you could drive a semi truck through. So big and so deep that no amount of money or whiskey or pussy or dope in the whole goddamn world can fill it up because you dug it yourself and you're digging it still, one lie, one disappointment, one broken promise at a time.

Hell is eternal apartness. What had she done that she must spend the rest of her years reaching out with yearning for them, making secret trips to long ago, making no journey to the present? I am their blood and bones, I have dug in this ground, this is my home. But I am not their blood, the ground doesn’t care who digs it, I am a stranger at a cocktail party.

But I’m not the one digging her grave; I didn’t open her hole in the earth when I drove away that night or when I couldn’t make her come with us. My dad dug it years ago; he forced her to lie down in it and kept her there by fear and beatings. And when she tried to get out, he stomped her back in. She has been lying there for twenty-five years. Her muscles have atrophied, her joints have stiffened, and she can’t see anything except him and the tight little space she calls home. I don’t know how she’ll get out; I can tug and pull and yank, but it won’t make any difference. She was right: she’s gotta solve it her own way.

Pain, too, comes from depths that cannot be revealed. We do not know whether those depths are in ourselves or elsewhere, in a graveyard, in a scarcely dug grave, only recently inhabited by withered flesh. This truth, which is banal enough, unravels time and the face, holds up a mirror to me in which I cannot see myself without being overcome by a profound sadness that undermines one's whole being. The mirror has become the route through which my body reaches that state, in which it is crushed into the ground, digs a temporary grave, and allows itself to be drawn by the living roots that swarm beneath the stones. It is flattened beneath the weight of that immense sadness which few people have the privilege of knowing. So I avoid mirrors.

I am their blood and bones, I have dug in this ground, this is my home. But I am not their blood, the ground doesn’t care who digs it, I am a stranger at a cocktail party.

Nearly everyday life leans over and says, ‘Come on down!’ But standing at the bottom looking up, it’s finally dawned on me that it’s not these invitations that have dug this hole. Rather, it’s the fact that I accepted them.

Many will advise you to dig for the truth, but you must never, never do that. I have dug. I have seen what lies below, and I would not wish that upon the worst of you.

Buried how long?” The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.” You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?” Long ago.” You know that you are recalled to life?” They tell me so.” I hope that you care to live?” I can’t say.” Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?” The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.” Sometimes it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, “Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, “I don’t know her. I don’t understand.” After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig – to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fall away to dust. The passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the reality of mist and rain on his cheek. Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge of the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train of night shadows within. Out of the midst in them, a ghostly face would rise, and he would accost it again. Buried how long?” Almost eighteen years.” I hope you care to live?” I can’t say.” Dig – dig – dig – until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leather strap, and speculate on the two slumbering life forms, until his mind lost hold of them, and they again slid away into the bank and the grave. Buried how long?” Almost eighteen years.” You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?” Long ago.” The words were still in his hearing just as spoken – distinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life – when the weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the shadows of night were gone.

The men digging in on both sides of me cursed the stench and the mud. I began moving the heavy, sticky clay mud with my entrenching shovel to shape out the extent of the foxhole before digging deeper. Each shovelful had to be knocked off the spade, because it stuck like glue. I was thoroughly exhausted and thought my strength wouldn’t last from one sticky shovelful to the next. Kneeling on the mud, I had dug the hole no more than six or eight inches deep when the odor of rotting flesh got worse. There was nothing to do but continue to dig, so I closed up my mouth and inhaled with short shallow breaths. Another spadeful of soil out of the hole released a mass of wriggling maggots that came welling up as though those beneath were pushing them out. I cursed and told the NCO as he came by what a mess I was digging into. ‘You heard him, he said put the holes five yards apart.’ In disgust, I drove the spade into the soil, scooped out the insects, and threw them down the front of the ridge. The next stroke of the spade unearthed buttons and scraps of cloth from a Japanese army jacket in the mud—and another mass of maggots. I kept on doggedly. With the next thrust, metal hit the breastbone of a rotting Japanese corpse. I gazed down in horror and disbelief as the metal scraped a clean track through the mud along the dirty whitish bone and cartilage with ribs attached. The shoved skidded into the rotting abdomen with a squishing sound. The odor nearly overwhelmed me as I rocked back on my heels. I began choking and gagging as I yelled in desperation, ‘I can’t dig in here! There’s a dead Nip here!’ The NCO came over, looked down at my problem and at me, and growled, ‘You heard him; he said put the holes five yards apart.

Stanley spent more time pushing the wheelbarrow than digging, because he was such a slow digger. He carted away the excess dirt and dumped it into previously dug holes. He was careful not to dump any of it in the hole where the gold tube was actually found.

Ah, are you digging on my grave, My loved one? -- planting rue?" -- "No: yesterday he went to wed One of the brightest wealth has bred. 'It cannot hurt her now,' he said, 'That I should not be true.'" "Then who is digging on my grave, My nearest dearest kin?" -- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use! What good will planting flowers produce? No tendance of her mound can loose Her spirit from Death's gin.'" "But someone digs upon my grave? My enemy? -- prodding sly?" -- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate That shuts on all flesh soon or late, She thought you no more worth her hate, And cares not where you lie. "Then, who is digging on my grave? Say -- since I have not guessed!" -- "O it is I, my mistress dear, Your little dog, who still lives near, And much I hope my movements here Have not disturbed your rest?" "Ah yes! You dig upon my grave... Why flashed it not to me That one true heart was left behind! What feeling do we ever find To equal among human kind A dog's fidelity!" "Mistress, I dug upon your grave To bury a bone, in case I should be hungry near this spot When passing on my daily trot. I am sorry, but I quite forgot It was your resting place.

Idols of the injury, dug in behind the least understood motor plan information. The vile abomination temporal lobes and The four loathsome memory walls and The four reasoning, arithmetic beasts are found for all behind pain and planes. Portrayed as a house, Go in, function, cause blindness from The house's hearing spirit, judgment and The court's four bronze woes and The functioning brain lobe wings, Go in, hearing and perception, I dig under door fronts, pain and plans.

The hole that I’m in wasn’t a hole until I dug it.

Then El-ahrairah knew that Frith was too clever for him and he was frightened. He thought that the fox and the weasel were coming with Frith and he turned to the face of the hill and begin to dig. He dug a hole, but he had dug only a little of it when Frith came over the hill alone. And he saw El-ahrairah's bottom sticking out of the hole and the sand flying out in showers as the digging went on. When he saw that, he called out, 'My friend, have you seen El-ahrairah, for I am looking for him to give him my gift?' 'No,' answered El-ahrairah, without coming out, 'I have not seen him. He is far away. He could not come.' So Frith said, 'Then come out of that hole and I will bless you instead of him.' 'No, I cannot,' said El-ahrairah, 'I am busy. The fox and the weasel are coming. If you want to bless me you can bless my bottom, for it is sticking out of the hole.

The men dug some way down, I believe they struck the coffin." "Excellent. We can deal with it now. George here is good with a spade, aren't you George?" "Well I certainly get plenty of practice." George said.

After digging a thousand wells of my own and stumbling upon a thousand others dug by the hands of thirsty men, I have yet to realize that the only well that can satiate every thirst is the one that men will never dig.

They say when seeking revenge, dig two graves, one for you and one for them. I've buried them all, disposed of bodies and left a trail of charred remains in my wake, and now all that's left is my own grave. And I dug it, all right… dug it so deep there's no fucking way out of it.

Entitlement is the shovel that digs a grave of greed. And there are those of us who stand at the bottom of such a grave having thrown out the last shovel full of dirt, never realizing that the grave that we’ve dug is our own until the same shovel suddenly starts backfilling the hole.

kicked off my flip-flops and dug my feet into the sand. It was what we did in the Lowcountry when we found ourselves alone on the beach. We would sit, stare at the water, kick off our shoes, and dig our feet into the sand to stay cool. With the ocean rolling all around me, I could look at life from different angles. The sky gradually gave up its blanket of deep gray to pale blue with golden edges of light, erasing the last traces of night. And over the next half hour or so, the sky would become brilliant blue again. The water changed from deep steel to sparkling navy as the morning sun climbed into position and another day began. On

Make life about more than just you. Take the world around you and transform it for the sake of others. Do a good deed for your neighbor; smile at strangers; volunteer for a bigger purpose and don’t except anything in return. The first step of redemption is digging yourself out of the hole you dug around yourself and dedicating your time to others. When the world stops revolving around your comfort zone and draws in the needs of others, you may quickly break the chains that hold you down from reaching your ultimate goal.

The world is nearing spiritual death, and America is second only to Europe in the digging of its grave - a grave dug by deception.

If you find you have dug yourself into a hole... stop digging.

The oddity of our existence is that we are capable of digging holes deeper than we are capable of getting ourselves out of. The greatness of God is that He has a shovel long enough for every hole ever dug.

Miserable, sullen men, black and white under guard had to keep on searching for bodies and digging graves. A huge ditch was dug across the white cemetery and a big ditch was opened across the black graveyard. Plenty

[Vilie] didn't answer [Ate] but came out with a rusty spade. He began to dig the soil next to Pehu's blood. When he had dug a deep hole he scooped up the dried blood with the spade, put it in the earth and covered it up. Then he put some stones over it in such a way that a passer-by would know it was a memorial, and hesitate to disturb it. He felt the despondence lift from his spirit. Slowly he walked away from the shed, leading them back onto the small path by the fields.

Bailey gaped. “Son of a bitch. We totally need to dig out the tire iron.” Aspen dug her nails into the arms of the chair. “And also the claymore.” Corbin’s brow furrowed. “You have a claymore?” “You don’t?” asked Bailey. His frown deepened. “No.” “Huh,” said the mamba. “Well that’s weird.” “No, Bailey, it’s not. I’d say most people don’t own a claymore,” he told her. “That’s a problem they should rectify. Swords often come in handy. As do bullwhips.” “You have a bullwhip?” “You don’t?” “No.” “Weird.

Dig—dig—dig—until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid away into the bank and the grave. "Buried how long?" "Almost eighteen years." "You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?" "Long ago." The words were still in his hearing as just spoken—distinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his

They talked about what they’d felt as they rained blows on the fallen body. A combination of sleepiness and sexual desire. Desire to fuck the poor bastard? Not at all! More as if they were fucking themselves. As if they were digging into themselves. With long nails and empty hands. Though if your fingernails are long enough your hands are never really empty. But in this dreamlike state, they dug and dug, rending fabric and ripping veins and puncturing vital organs. What were they looking for? They didn’t know. Nor, at that stage, did they care.

It don’t make no difference how foolish it is, it’s the right way — and it’s the regular way.  And there ain’t no other way, that ever I heard of, and I’ve read all the books that gives any information about these things. They always dig out with a case-knife — and not through dirt, mind you; generly it’s through solid rock.  And it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever.  Why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was he at it, you reckon?

I REMEMBER the day the Aleut ship came to our island. At first it seemed like a small shell afloat on the sea. Then it grew larger and was a gull with folded wings. At last in the rising sun it became what it really was—a red ship with two red sails. My brother and I had gone to the head of a canyon that winds down to a little harbor which is called Coral Cove. We had gone to gather roots that grow there in the spring. My brother Ramo was only a little boy half my age, which was twelve. He was small for one who had lived so many suns and moons, but quick as a cricket. Also foolish as a cricket when he was excited. For this reason and because I wanted him to help me gather roots and not go running off, I said nothing about the shell I saw or the gull with folded wings. I went on digging in the brush with my pointed stick as though nothing at all were happening on the sea. Even when I knew for sure that the gull was a ship with two red sails. But Ramo’s eyes missed little in the world. They were black like a lizard’s and very large and, like the eyes of a lizard, could sometimes look sleepy. This was the time when they saw the most. This was the way they looked now. They were half-closed, like those of a lizard lying on a rock about to flick out its tongue to catch a fly. “The sea is smooth,” Ramo said. “It is a flat stone without any scratches.” My brother liked to pretend that one thing was another. “The sea is not a stone without scratches,” I said. “It is water and no waves.” “To me it is a blue stone,” he said. “And far away on the edge of it is a small cloud which sits on the stone.” “Clouds do not sit on stones. On blue ones or black ones or any kind of stones.” “This one does.” “Not on the sea,” I said. “Dolphins sit there, and gulls, and cormorants, and otter, and whales too, but not clouds.” “It is a whale, maybe.” Ramo was standing on one foot and then the other, watching the ship coming, which he did not know was a ship because he had never seen one. I had never seen one either, but I knew how they looked because I had been told. “While you gaze at the sea,” I said, “I dig roots. And it is I who will eat them and you who will not.” Ramo began to punch at the earth with his stick, but as the ship came closer, its sails showing red through the morning mist, he kept watching it, acting all the time as if he were not. “Have you ever seen a red whale?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, though I never had. “Those I have seen are gray.” “You are very young and have not seen everything that swims in the world.” Ramo picked up a root and was about to drop it into the basket. Suddenly his mouth opened wide and then closed again. “A canoe!” he cried. “A great one, bigger than all of our canoes together. And red!” A canoe or a ship, it did not matter to Ramo. In the very next breath he tossed the root in the air and was gone, crashing through the brush, shouting as he went. I kept on gathering roots, but my hands trembled as I dug in the earth, for I was more excited than my brother. I knew that it was a ship there on the

Your manicured lawn did dissipate, revealing a garden dug with holes. Secrets germinated deep within, blossoming into botanical madness. A mix of grass stalks and fallen leaves, swept single letters across the ground. Digging and planting them into the dirt, you helped me bring earth to my words. [Awakening North]

MY DEAR FOXY!” cried Badger. “What in the world has happened to your tail?” “Don’t talk about it, please,” said Mr. Fox. “It’s a painful subject.” They were digging the new tunnel. They dug on in silence. Badger was a great digger and the tunnel went forward at a terrific pace now that he was lending a paw. Soon they were crouching underneath yet another wooden floor. Mr. Fox grinned slyly, showing sharp white teeth. “If I am not mistaken, my dear Badger,” he said, “we are now underneath the farm which belongs to that nasty little pot-bellied dwarf, Bunce. We are, in fact, directly underneath the most interesting part of that farm.

We went far down the garden to the farthest end, where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play in the summer in the shade of a great elm, and there the footman dug a hole, and I saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad, because it would grow and come up a fine handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and be a beautiful surprise for the family when they came home; so I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg was no good, being stiff, you know, and you have to have two, or it is no use. When the footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head, and there were tears in his eyes, and he said: "Poor little doggie, you saved HIS child!

Hell is eternal apartness. What had she done that she must spend the rest of her years reaching out with yearning for them, making secret trips to long ago, making no journey to the present?I am their blood and bones, I have dug in this ground, this is my home. But I am not their blood, the ground doesn't care who digs it, I am a stranger at a cocktail party.

Do you remember that movie we saw when we were little?” I begin. “The Great Escape—we watched it with Dad at least seven or eight times. It was about these American pilots in a German POW camp who dig this long, long tunnel that runs the length of the compound. But, on the night of the escape, when they reach the end of the tunnel, they realize they’re six meters short of the forest. Their calculations had been off by six meters! They’ve got no choice but to risk their necks and make a run for it, in plain view of the guards. Do you remember?” “No,” she says indifferently. “Whatever. What I’m trying to say is: Being with a woman is like sticking your head out of the tunnel and discovering that you’ve actually dug through those last few meters.

Fate has dug me a hole, and rather than crawling out, I’m digging it deeper. What Fate began with a post-hole digger, I have expanded with a backhoe. I think I expect that when I reach bottom, I’ll find some sort of enlightenment - that which would give my life meaning, like a buried treasure. It may be buried treasure, but I think it’s buried deep within my soul. It may even be shouting to be let out.

What can I tell them? Sealed in their metallic shells like molluscs on wheels, how can I pry the people free? The auto as tin can, the park ranger as opener. Look here, I want to say, for godsake folks get out of them there machines, take off those fucking sunglasses and unpeel both eyeballs, look around; throw away those goddamned idiotic cameras! For chrissake folks what is this life if full of care we have no time to stand and stare? eh? Take off your shoes for a while, unzip your fly, piss hearty, dig your toes in the hot sand, feel that raw and rugged earth, split a couple of big toenails, draw blood! Why not? Jesus Christ, lady, roll that window down! You can't see the desert if you can't smell it. Dusty? Of course it's dusty—this is Utah! But it's good dust, good red Utahn dust, rich in iron, rich in irony. Turn that motor off. Get out of that peice of iron and stretch your varicose veins, take off your brassiere and get some hot sun on your old wrinkled dugs! You sir, squinting at the map with your radiator boiling over and your fuel pump vapor-locked, crawl out of that shiny hunk of GM junk and take a walk—yes, leave the old lady and those squawling brats behind for a while, turn your back on them and take a long quiet walk straight into the canyons, get lost for a while, come back when you damn well feel like it, it'll do you and her and them a world of good. Give the kids a break too, let them out of the car, let them go scrambling over rocks hunting for rattlesnakes and scorpions and anthills—yes sir, let them out, turn them loose; how dare you imprison little children in your goddamned upholstered horseless hearse? Yes sir, yes madam, I entreat you, get out of those motorized wheelchairs, get off your foam rubber backsides, stand up straight like men! like women! like human beings! and walk—walk—WALK upon your sweet and blessed land!

And remember when I said that Liam doesn’t spend money to the excess? I take that back. I might not be a car expert, but I know a Bugatti Veyron when I see one. And that’s what I’m looking at right now. A sexy-as-hell Bugatti. “This car is a total babe magnet.” I run my fingertips over the smooth, shiny black paintwork. “Like its owner,” he says, shutting the trunk with a soft clunk. “Ha!” I laugh. “Seriously though, you could look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and still score a supermodel if you had this car.” Liam gives a mock-offended look. “I hope to fuck you’re not implying that chicks only dig me because of my car.” I laugh again. “As if. This is the first time I’ve seen your car, and I totally dug you long before this.” He comes around the car, toward me. Standing before me, he takes my face in his hands, tipping it back so that I’m looking up into his eyes. Leaning in, he softly kisses me on the lips. “I kinda dig you, too, Boston.

The very next day, delegates from Moscow visited mining towns around the USSR to recruit miners for an operation to cool the ground beneath the destroyed reactor. They were bussed to Chernobyl and began work on the 13th. One miner described the plan: “Our mission was this: dig a 150-meter tunnel, from the third block to the fourth. Then dig a room 30 meters long and 30 meters wide [and 2 meters tall] to hold a refrigeration device for cooling down the reactor.”210 Scientists worried that pneumatic drills would stress the building’s fragile foundations, so the miners were ordered to dig their tunnel by hand. To limit exposure, they dug down 12 meters before heading towards Unit 4. The project took one month and four days, with miners digging 24 hours a day - in a normal mine, that distance would have taken three times as long. Due to the nature of the dig, it wasn’t possible to install ventilation holes, so there was a lack of oxygen and the temperature reached highs of 30°C.

hardening steel, yet anyone could go out and dig up as much of it in the hills of the New Territories as he or she could carry on a flat basket balanced on the head to the big shed where it was bought clandestinely. I found this out when I was hunting wood pigeons and I brought it to the attention of people purchasing wolfram in the interior. No one was very interested and I kept bringing it to the attention of people of higher rank until one day a very high officer who was not at all interested that wolfram was there free to be dug up in the New Territories said to me, ‘But after all, old boy, the Nam Yung set-up is functioning you know.’ But when we shot in the evenings outside the women’s prison and would see an old Douglas twin-motor plane come in over the hills and slide down toward the airfield, and you knew it was loaded with sacked wolfram and had just flown over the Jap lines, it was strange to know that many of the women in the women’s prison were there for having been caught digging wolfram illicitly.

Thock. She flattened the paper cup into the table, shattering their images. The sun stood at two o’clock, as it had stood yesterday and would stand tomorrow. Hell is eternal apartness. What had she done that she must spend the rest of her years reaching out with yearning for them, making secret trips to long ago, making no journey to the present? I am their blood and bones, I have dug in this ground, this is my home. But I am not their blood, the ground doesn’t care who digs it, I am a stranger at a cocktail party.

Just here.’ Ramiro squatted and placed the pot on the ground, then swung his beam around the site. ‘You already dug twelve holes!’ he observed. ‘And I thought you were messing around with Agata all morning.’ Azelio made a noncommittal sound. Ramiro suddenly felt queasy. ‘My plan is to dig up all these plants at the end of the trial and take them back to the Peerless for my colleagues to analyse,’ Azelio mused. ‘So I guess that’s when I’ll see the transition between cultivated and truly pristine ground. But right now, in Esilio’s terms, we’ve just dug the plants up – so on our terms, we’re about to do that. Backwards.’ Ramiro said, ‘You make it sound as if you’ve been practising time-reversed agronomy all your life.’ ‘It’s not that hard to see what’s going on, if you think it through,’ Azelio replied lightly. ‘But you don’t mind following markers like this? Evidence of acts you haven’t performed yet?’ ‘It’s a little disconcerting,’ Azelio conceded. ‘But I can’t say that it fills me with claustrophobia to know that I’ll carry out the experimental protocols I always planned to carry out.

Russia’s biggest transport helicopters flew around the clock dropping a special polymer resin to seal radioactive dust to the ground. This prevented the dust from being kicked up by vehicles and inhaled, giving troops time to dig up the topsoil for extraction and burial. Construction workers laid new roads throughout the zone, allowing vehicles to move around without spreading radioactive particles.218 At certain distance limits, decontamination points, manned by police, intersected these roads. They came armed with dosimeters and a special cleaning spray to hose down any passing trucks, cars or armoured vehicles. Among the more drastic clean-up measures was bulldozing and burying the most contaminated villages, some of which had to be reburied two or three times.219 The thousands of buildings that were spared this fate - including the entire city of Pripyat - were painstakingly sprayed clean with chemicals, while new asphalt was laid on the streets. At Chernobyl itself, all the topsoil and roads were replaced. In total, 300,000m³ of earth was dug up and buried in pits, which were then covered over with concrete. The work took months. To make matters worse, each time it rained within 100km of the plant, new spots of heavy contamination appeared, brought down from the radioactive clouds above.

Sorry to inform you...but as a fellow failed miner, the problem is there's nowhere left to dig. We're real poets man. And whatever. But it's the digging, it's the holes! Its these burrows to half nestle in just to pass the time, to chafe the inner thigh of boredom and that level of power-demanding pain is only in existence because you really, really know that there isn't anything else. The holes. And me missing a shovel, that has created the voids, the tears, the fucks, the sucks, the shame, the stares, the songs, the words, and in admittedly, even more holes. Not having one of my shovels has somehow overcompensated the digs in which I've dug. The holes. The holes are why you smoke aware of cancer, a disease to take over years of boring lives, and give us a bone to gnaw on, overcome, defeat, lick-dry, or die. The holes are why you drink with your last dollars, when you know you're going to throw it up tonight anyway. The holes are why you think you're in love, and that's a hole that you might not climb back from. The holes, the holes the holes, making you question everything standing at a bus stop...smelling like cigarettes and perfume...signing up for classes you wont go to... hand covered in club stamps... face covered in guilt... Maybe go to a protest and just stand there...Or lay in bed when there's no way you can sleep...

...in the book’s epilogue, a man moves about a barren plain “striking fire that God has placed” in the earth. He is digging holes for fenceposts, creating the demarcation between civilization and the wild; or, depending on your point of view, between a new civilization and an old one. Other men follow him blindly. They see only the holes he has dug. They don’t see the man. They don’t see his fire. The man leads them alone, and in isolation, calling this divine fire from the raw materials of existence. This of course is what Great Artists do. They follow their inner voice into places others will not understand; they work knowing they will be ignored and misunderstood. The lucky few—like Cormac McCarthy—will live to see their masterpieces recognized.

For many years,Rides the Wind cared only for Walks the Fire. Together they read this Book she speaks of.My daughter has told me of this.Walks the Fire would tel the words in the Book. Rides the Wind repeated them,then he would tell how the words would help him in the hunt or in the council.Walks the Fire listened as he spoke. She respected him.She did as he said." As Talks a Lot spoke,the people remembered the years since Walks the Fire had come to them.Many among them recalled kindness beyond the saving of Hears Not.Many regretted the early days, when they had laughed at the white woman.They remembered Prairie Flower and Old One teaching her,and many could recall times when some new stew was shared with their family or a deerskin brought in by Rides the Wind found its way to their tepee. Prairie Flower's voice was added to the men's. "Even when no more sons or daughters came to his tepee-even then, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire." She turned to look at Running Bear, another elder, "Even when you offered your own beautiful daugher, Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire.This is true. My father told me. When he walked the earth,Rides the Wind wanted only Walks the Fire.Now that he lies upon the earth,you must know that he would say, 'Do this for her.'" Jesse had continued to dig into the earth as she listened. When Prairie Flower told of the chief's having offered his daughter,she stopped for a moment.Her hand reached out to lovingly caress the dark head that lay so still under the clear sky.Rides the Wind had never told her of this.She had been afraid that he might take another wife when it became evident they would have no children.Now she knew that he had chosen her alone-even in the face of temptation. From the women's group there was movement. Prairie Flower stepped forward, her digging tool in her hand. Defiantly she sputtered, "She is my friend..." and stalked across the short distance to the shallow grave. Dropping to her knees beside Jesse, she began attacking the earth.Ferociously she dug.Jesse followed her lead, as did Old One.They began again,three women working side by side.And then there were four women,and then five, and six, until a ring of many women dug together. The men did nothing to stop them, and Running Bear decided what was to be done. "We will camp here and wait for Walks the Fire to do what she must. Tonight we will tell the life of Rides the Wind around the fire.Tomorrow, when this is done, we will move on." And so it was.Hours later Rides the Wind, Lakota hunter, became the first of his village to be laid in a grave and mourned by a white woman. Before his body was lowered into the earth, Jesse impulsively took his hunting knife, intending to cut off the two thick, red braids that hung down her back. It seemed so long ago that Rides the Wind had braided the feathers and beads in, dusting the part.Had it really been only this morning? He had kissed her,too, grumbling about the white man's crazy ways.Jesse had laughed and returned his kiss.

when a really cold day like this come along he’d take my grammaw, and the kids, my uncle and my aunt and my daddy—he was the youngest—and the serving girl and the hired man, and he’d go down with them to the creek, give ’em a little rum-and-herbs drink, it was a recipe he’d got from the old country, then he’d pour creek water over them. Course they’d freeze in seconds, stiff and blue as so many popsicles. He’d haul them to a trench they’d already dug and filled with straw, and he’d stack ’em down there, one by one, like so much cordwood in the trench, and he’d pack straw around them, then he’d cover the top of the trench with two-b’-fours to keep the critters out—in those days there were wolves and bears and all sorts you never see any more around here, no hodags though, that’s just a story about the hodags and I wouldn’t ever stretch your credulity by telling you no stories, no, sir,—he’d cover the trench with two-b’-fours and the next snowfall would cover it up completely, save for the flag he’d planted to show him where the trench was. “Then my grampaw would ride through the winter in comfort and never have to worry about running out of food or out of fuel. And when he saw that the true spring was coming he’d go to the flag, and he’d dig his way down through the snow, and he’d move the two-b’-fours, and he’d carry them in one by one and set the family in front of the fire to thaw. Nobody ever minded except one of the hired men who lost half an ear to a family of mice who nibbled it off one time my grampaw didn’t push those two-b’-fours all the way closed. Of course, in those days we had real winters. You could do that back then. These pussy winters we get nowadays it don’t hardly get cold enough.

Bob came back just in time to see us getting ready to leave. “O-oh, h-hey, I’m back from the restroom. D-did you find a volunteer already? Oh, okay, darn, I-I’m too late...Good luck out there…” said Bob nervously. “Oh, Bob…” I replied. Cindy and I exited the mayor’s house and headed towards the nearby trench. From there we dug tunnels towards the giant cube. “Hey, Cindy!” I yelled through the dirt wall tunnel. “Yeah?” she answered. “If you need anything just yell, ‘kay? I’m only a few feet away.” She laughed. “Oh, you’re worried about me, Steve?” “Of course! I care about you.” “Y-you do…?” I blushed. “A-ahem…I meant I care about your well-being.” “A-ah…right,” she said shyly. We proceeded to dig and placed the items until nearly sunrise with no incident. Then suddenly I heard a sharp scream coming through the dirt. AHHHHH!!!! I smashed through the dirt wall to find Cindy cornered by a brain-hungry zombie. “No worries, Cindy! I got you.” I pulled out my stone sword and drove it into the zombie. Raggggghhhhhh! I whacked it a few more times until it dropped some rotten flesh. “Whew! Thanks for saving me, Steve. I’ve never seen a zombie so up close before. They are actually quite stinky.” I laughed. “No problem. I’m here for you, Cindy.” She smiled. “The sun will be up soon, we should probably head back,” I said. She nodded. I stayed in her tunnel and led the way back. On the way back, we encountered a baby zombie. That thing was lightning quick. The tunnel was narrow, so I couldn’t really maneuver anywhere. No circle strafing technique for me. Suddenly, I heard Cindy scream from behind me. I turned around to see another zombie behind her. It must have fallen through the holes we made topside. Oh, no! We’re trapped with nowhere to go! This isn’t good, I thought to myself.

The front is a cage in which we must await fearfully whatever may happen. We lie under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty. Over us, Chance hovers. If a shot comes, we can duck, that is all; we neither know nor can determine where it will fall. It is this Chance that makes us indifferent. A few months ago I was sitting in a dug-out playing skat; after a while I stood up and went to visit some friends in another dug-out. On my return nothing more was to be seen of the first one, it had been blown to pieces by a direct hit. I went back to the second and arrived just in time to lend a hand digging it out. In the interval it had been buried. It is just as much a matter of chance that I am still alive as that I might have been hit. In a bomb-proof dug-out I may be smashed to atoms and in the open may survive ten hours’ bombardment unscathed. No soldier outlives a thousand chances. But every soldier believes in Chance and trusts his luck.

Right about here will do,” I decided.  I cast a magelight to illuminate the place.  The first faint glow of dawn was arising along the horizon in the east, but it was still as dark as a miner’s butt.  “When my father heard that I was having a girl, he gave me some advice,” I said, stripping off my mantle.  “As the father of five daughter’s himself, he was full of sage wisdom on the subject of raising girls.” “Are they any different than raising boys?” “Worlds apart,” I nodded.  “But he said there are some things that you can count on with girls,” I continued, philosophically.  “When a young father has a girl, he’s strong.  By the time she grows into a lovely young woman, age takes a toll on a man.  He’s not as strong.  “So . . . when a young woman enters courting age, you might not be as hale as you are now, my friend.  And you will find the nights colder in your bones.” “You . . . you fear I won’t have the strength to show him the door?”  He still looked confused.  And a little drunk.  As big as he is, Arborn is a lightweight when it comes to his cups.   “Oh, no.  When the wrong sort of suitor shows interest in your daughter,” I explained, as I took out the hoxter wand, “then passion can provide the strength you need to contend with the situation.  “But passion fades, when the deed is done.  And then you are left with but your decrepit strength, and a long night of work ahead.”  I manifested two shovels from the hoxter.  “My father told me that the wise father of any daughter has the foresight to dig the hole while he’s still young and strong.  It saves the trouble of a long night, when you are old and weary.” “A hole?  For . . .?” “My father assures me this is effective: for someone who is not impressed by being shown a hole an attentive father dug before he was born and intended for him, at need,” I supplied.  “Mine is behind the stable at the castle.  If a young man is worrisome, I’ll show him the hole, and explain the purpose.  You have three daughters.  That’s three holes.  I’ll help you dig.

Radiation levels inside the tunnel were around 1 roentgen per hour, but because the work was so cramped and demanding, the miners dug without any protective gear - not even their respirators, which became damp and useless within minutes. At the tunnel entrance, radiation reached highs of 300 roentgens-per-hour. The miners were never warned of the true extent of the danger, and every single one of them received a significant dose. Vladimir Amelkov, a miner who participated in the operation, said years later, “Someone had to go and do it. Us or someone else. We did our duty. Should we have done it? It’s too late to judge. I don’t regret anything.”211 The miners achieved their goal of digging a room beneath Unit 4, but the refrigeration machinery was never installed because the core began to cool on its own. Instead, the space was filled with heat resistant concrete. While no official studies have ever been published, it’s estimated that one-quarter of the miners - who were all between 20 and 30 - died before they reached the age of 40.212 “The miners died for nothing,” laments Veniamin Prianichnikov, chief of the plant’s training programmes. “Everything we did was a waste of time.213

These nuts, as far as they went, were a good substitute for bread. Many other substitutes might, perhaps, be found. Digging one day for fishworms, I discovered the ground-nut (Apios tuberosa) on its string, the potato of the aborigines, a sort of fabulous fruit, which I had begun to doubt if I had ever dug and eaten in childhood, as I had told, and had not dreamed it. I had often since seen its crumpled red velvety blossom supported by the stems of other plants without knowing it to be the same. Cultivation has well-nigh exterminated it. It has a sweetish taste, much like that of a frost-bitten potato, and I found it better boiled than roasted. This tuber seemed like a faint promise of Nature to rear her own children and feed them simply here at some future period. In these days of fatted cattle and waving grain-fields this humble root, which was once the totem of an Indian tribe, is quite forgotten, or known only by its flowering vine; but let wild Nature reign here once more, and the tender and luxurious English grains will probably disappear before a myriad of foes, and without the care of man the crow may carry back even the last seed of corn to the great cornfield of the Indian› s God in the southwest, whence he is said to have brought it; but the now almost exterminated ground-nut will perhaps revive and flourish in spite of frosts and wildness, prove itself indigenous, and resume its ancient importance and dignity as the diet of the hunter tribe.

we neared Liverpool’s Lime Street station, we passed through a culvert with walls that appeared to rise up at least thirty feet, high enough to block out the sun. They were as smooth as Navajo sandstone. This had been bored out in 1836 and had been in continuous use ever since, the conductor told me. “All the more impressive,” he said, “when you consider it was all done by Irish navvies working with wheelbarrows and picks.” I couldn’t place his accent and asked if he himself was Irish, but he gave me a disapproving look and told me he was a native of Liverpool. He had been talking about the ragged class of nineteenth-century laborers, usually illiterate farmhands, known as “navvies”—hard-drinking and risk-taking men who were hired in gangs to smash the right-of-way in a direct line from station to station. Many of them had experienced digging canals and were known by the euphemism “navigators.” They wore the diminutive “navvy” as a term of pride. Polite society shunned them, but these magnificent railways would have been impossible without their contributions of sweat and blood. Their primary task was cleaving the hillsides so that tracks could be laid on a level plain for the weak locomotive engines of the day. Teams of navvies known as “butty gangs” blasted a route with gunpowder and then hauled the dirt out with the same kind of harness that so many children were then using in the coal mines: a man at the back of a full wheelbarrow would buckle a thick belt around his waist, then attach that to a rope dangling from the top of the slope and allow himself to be pulled up by a horse. This was how the Lime Street approach had been dug out, and it was dangerous. One 1827 fatality happened as “the poor fellow was in the act of undermining a heavy head of clay, fourteen or fifteen feet high, when the mass fell upon him and literally crushed his bowels out of his body,” as a Liverpool paper told it. The navvies wrecked old England along with themselves, erecting a bizarre new kingdom of tracks. In a passage from his 1848 novel Dombey and Son, Charles Dickens gives a snapshot of the scene outside London: Everywhere

I fumbled in my pockets for my father’s map. I stared and rubbed the paper between my fingers. I read the sightings’ dot’s dates with my wormed eyes, connecting them in order. There was the first point where my father felt sure he’d seen mother digging in the neighbor’s yard across the street. And the second, in the field of power wires where Dad swore he saw her running at full speed. I connected dots until the first fifteen together formed a nostril. Dots 16 through 34 became an eye. Together the whole map made a perfect picture of my mother’s missing head. If I stared into the face, then, and focused on one clear section and let my brain go loose, I saw my mother’s eyes come open. I saw her mouth begin to move. Her voice echoed deep inside me, clear and brimming, bright, alive. She said, “Don’t worry, son. I’m fat and happy. They have cake here. My hair is clean.” She said, “The earth is slurred and I am sorry.” She said, “You are OK. I have your mind.” Her eyes seemed to swim around me. I felt her fingers in my hair. She whispered things she’d never mentioned. She nuzzled gleamings in my brain. As in: the day I’d drawn her flowers because all the fields were dying. As in: the downed bird we’d cleaned and given a name. Some of our years were wall to wall with wonder, she reminded me. In spite of any absence, we had that. I thought of my father, alone and elsewhere, his head cradled in his hands. I thought of the day he’d punched a hole straight through the kitchen wall, thinking she’d be tucked away inside. All those places he’d looked and never found her. Inside their mattress. In stained-glass windows. How he’d scoured the carpet for her stray hair and strung them all together with a ribbon; how he’d slept with that one lock swathed across his nostrils, hugging a pillow fitted with her nightshirt. How he’d dug up the backyard, stripped and sweating. How he’d played her favorite album on repeat and loud, a lure. How when we took up the carpet in my bedroom to find her, under the carpet there was wood. Under the wood there was cracked concrete. Under the concrete there was dirt. Under the dirt there was a cavity of water. I swam down into the water with my nose clenched and lungs burning in my chest but I could not find the bottom and I couldn’t see a thing.

cap to scratch his bald head. ‘Well, you won’t miss the veg because I’ll be bringing you some every week now. I’ve always got plenty left over and I’d rather give it to you than see it waste.’ He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘I caught that young Tommy Barton digging potatoes from Percy’s plot this mornin’. Give ’im a cuff round ’is ear but I let him take what he’d dug. Poor little bugger’s only tryin’ to keep his ma from starvin’; ain’t ’is fault ’is old man got banged up for robbin’, is it?’ Tilly Barton, her two sons Tommy and Sam and her husband, lived almost opposite the Pig & Whistle. Mulberry Lane cut across from Bell Lane and ran adjacent to Spitalfields Market, and the folk of the surrounding lanes were like a small community, almost a village in the heart of London’s busy East End. Tilly and her husband had been good customers for Peggy until he lost his job on the Docks. It had come as a shock when he’d been arrested for trying to rob a little corner post office and Peggy hadn’t seen Tilly to talk to since; she’d assumed it was because the woman was feeling ashamed of what her husband had done. ‘No, of course not.’ Peggy smiled at him. A wisp of her honey-blonde hair had fallen across her face, despite all her efforts to sweep it up under a little white cap she wore for cooking. ‘I didn’t realise Tilly Barton was in such trouble. I’ll take her a pie over later – she won’t be offended, will she?’ ‘No one in their right mind would be offended by you, Peggy love.’ ‘Thank you, Jim. Would you like a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie?’ ‘Don’t mind a slice of that pie, but I’ll take it for my docky down the allotment if that’s all right?’ Peggy assured him it was and wrapped a generous slice of her freshly cooked pie in greaseproof paper. He took it and left with a smile and a promise to see her next week just as her husband entered the kitchen. ‘Who was that?’ Laurence asked as he saw the back of Jim walking away. ‘Jim Stillman, he brought the last of the stuff from Percy’s allotment.’ Peggy’s eyes brimmed and Laurence frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re upset for, Peggy. Percy was well over eighty. He’d had a good life – and it wasn’t even as if he was your father…’ ‘I know. He was a lot older than Mum but…Percy was a good stepfather to me, and wonderful to Mum when she was so ill after we lost Walter.’ Peggy’s voice faltered, because it still hurt her that her younger brother had died in the Great War at the tender age of seventeen. The news had almost destroyed their mother and Peggy thought of those dark days as the worst of her

The first time Christina and Lachlan Meet ...Christina wasn't about to stop fighting—not until she took her last breath. Boring down with her heels, she thrashed. "Get off me, ye brute." She would hold her son in her arms this day if it was the last thing she did. And by the shift of the crushing weight on her chest, she only had moments before her life's breath completely whooshed from her lungs. The very thought of dying whilst her son was still held captive infused her with strength. With a jab, she slammed the heel of her hand across the man's chin. He flew from her body like a sack of grain. Praises be, had the Lord granted her with superhuman strength? Blinking, Christina sat up. No, no. Her strike hadn't rescued her from the pillager. A champion had. A behemoth of a man pummeled the pikeman's face with his fists. "Never. Ever." His fists moved so fast they blurred. "Harm. A. Woman!" Bloodied and battered, the varlet dropped to the dirt. A swordsman attacked her savior from behind. "Watch out," she cried, but before the words left her lips the warrior spun to his feet. Flinging his arm backward, he grabbed his assailant's wrist, stopped the sword midair and flipped the cur onto his back. Onward, he fought a rush of English attackers with his bare hands, without armor. Not even William Wallace himself had been so talented. This warrior moved like a cat, anticipating his opponent's moves before they happened. Five enemy soldiers lay on their backs. "Quickly," the man shouted, running toward her, his feet bare. No sooner had she rolled to her knees than his powerful arms clamped around her. The wind whipped beneath her feet. He planted her bum in the saddle. "Behind!" Christina screamed, every muscle in her body clenching taut. Throwing back an elbow, the man smacked an enemy soldier in the face resulting in a sickening crack. She picked up her reins and dug in her heels. "Whoa!" The big man latched onto the skirt of her saddle and hopped behind her, making her pony's rear end dip. But the frightened galloway didn't need coaxing. He galloped away from the fight like a deer running from a fox. Christina peered around her shoulder at the mass of fighting men behind them. "My son!" "Do you see him?" the man asked in the strangest accent she'd ever heard. She tried to turn back, but the man's steely chest stopped her. "They took him." "Who?" "The English, of course." The more they talked, the further from the border the galloway took them. "Huh?" the man mumbled behind her like he'd been struck in the head by a hammer. Everyone for miles knew the Scots and the English were to exchange a prisoner that day. The champion's big palm slipped around her waist and held on—it didn't hurt like he was digging in his fingers, but he pressed firm against her. The sensation of such a powerful hand on her body was unnerving. It had been eons since any man had touched her, at least gently. The truth? Aside from the brutish attack moments ago, Christina's life had been nothing but chaste. White foam leached from the pony's neck and he took in thunderous snorts. He wouldn't be able to keep this pace much longer. Christina steered him through a copse of trees and up the crag where just that morning she'd stood with King Robert and Sir Boyd before they'd led the Scottish battalion into the valley. There, she could gain a good vantage point and try to determine where the backstabbing English were heading with Andrew this time. At the crest of the outcropping, she pulled the horse to a halt. "The pony cannot keep going at this pace." The man's eyebrows slanted inward and he gave her a quizzical stare. Good Lord, his tempest-blue eyes pierced straight through her soul. "Are you speaking English?

Near my house, groups of men were digging up the chikhawo roots of banana trees so they could boil them like cassava. Some dug up other roots and tubers, even the grass from the roadside, and milled them into flour. Others resorted to eating the seeds from government starter packs, scrubbing off the pink and green insecticide that kept off the weevils. But it was impossible to get all the poison off, and many suffered from vomiting and diarrhea, which only made them weaker. Plus, having now eaten their seeds, they had nothing left to plant.

If you find you have dug yourself into a hole... stop digging.

For the mass of Israelis not involved in these power plays, however, the ordeal was all-consuming. Throughout the country, thousands were hurrying to dig trenches, build shelters, and fill sandbags. In Jerusalem, in particular, schools were refitted as bomb shelters, and air raid drills were practiced daily. Most buses and virtually all taxis were mobilized, and an emergency blood drive launched. An urgent request for surgeons—“in view of the tough conditions they must be physically fit and experienced”—was submitted to the Red Cross, and extra units of plasma ordered from abroad. Special committees were placed in charge of gathering essential foodstuffs, for replacing workers called to the front, and for evacuating children to Europe. Upward of 14,000 hospital beds were readied and antidotes stockpiled for poison gas victims, expected to arrive in waves of 200. Some 10,000 graves were dug.15

Now, all this time El-ahrairah was dancing and mating and boasting that he was going to Frith's meeting to receive a great gift. And at last he set out for the meeting place. But as he was going there, he stopped to rest on a soft, sandy hillside. And while he was resting, over the hill came flying the dark swift, screaming as he went, 'News! News! News!' For you know, this is what he has said ever since that day. So El-ahrairah called up to him and said, 'What news?' 'Why,' said the swift, 'I would not be you, El-ahrairah. For Frith has given the fox and the weasel cunning hearts and sharp teeth, and to the cat he has given silent feet and eyes that can see in the dark, and they are gone away from Frith's place to kill and devour all that belongs to El-ahrairah.' And he dashed on over the hills. And at that moment El-ahrairah heard the voice of Frith calling, 'Where is El-ahrairah? For all the others have taken their gifts and gone and I have come to look for him.' "Then El-ahrairah knew that Frith was too clever for him and he was frightened. He thought that the fox and the weasel were coming with Frith and he turned to the face of the hill and began to dig. He dug a hole, but he had dug only a little of it when Frith came over the hill alone. And he saw El-ahrairah's bottom sticking out of the hole and the sand flying out in showers as the digging went on. When he saw that, he called out, 'My friend, have you seen El-ahrairah, for I am looking for him to give him my gift?' 'No,' answered El-ahrairah, without coming out, 'I have not seen him. He is far away. He could not come.' So Frith said, 'Then come out of that hole and I will bless you instead of him.' 'No, I cannot,' said El-ahrairah, 'I am busy. The fox and the weasel are coming. If you want to bless me you can bless my bottom, for it is sticking out of the hole.

that he had dug very deep and found the place where a man had drawn the picture of a reindeer. But he would dig a good deal deeper before he found a place where a reindeer had drawn a picture of a man.

Gold isn’t the only rare metal. Yet there is an obsession for it. Warren Buffett thinks gold lust is bizarre. He juxtaposes my journeys to the African mine and the New York Fed’s vault when he says, “Gold gets dug out of the ground in Africa, or someplace. Then we melt it down, dig another hole, bury it again and pay people to stand around guarding it. It has no utility. Anyone watching from Mars would be scratching their head.”95

No matter how deeply she dug, the body was not there. The truth was that the body had been moved and Lisa did not know where. The hope of changing what she had seen was now gone and it was her fault. If she had died instead, the infant would not have had to be killed. Isn't that what they had told her? She gave up crying and digging.

Steve Paikin : Can you imagine evolution being unproved someday ? Jerry A. Coyne : It's possible, there are some facts that could disprove evolution, for example if I dug down into rocks say.. a billion years old and found a fossil of human or a fossil of rabbit and you did that and you were certain enough that these rocks were old, that would completely overthrow darwinism but the fact is, you know, over a 150 years of digging we haven't found a fossil out of place. [Evolution and Religion - Paul Nelson vs. Jerry Coyne/Denis Lamoureux, 16m40]

I did not have to say a word. The look on my face communicated everything to Jase Robertson when he presented me with my Christmas gift in 1988. It was a potted plant, not even a very big one or some exotic species, just an ordinary plant in a plain clay pot. Since I could not hide my confusion, I stared at him with a look that clearly said, “Are you kidding me?” Sensing that I was not exactly pleased with this present, Jase could hardly restrain himself from grinning as he told me to “dig around in the dirt.” As I dug, I found a small box covered in felt (and dirt). I knew immediately that it was a jewelry box but had no idea that the box held a beautiful engagement ring! Once again, the look on my face communicated everything I wanted to say, which was great, because I was so excited and surprised I could not speak. Jase looked at me and proposed in his unique way, not gushing about how much he loved me and tenderly asking for my hand in marriage. He simply said with completely confidence, “Well, you’re gonna marry me, aren’t ya?” Too thrilled and shocked to say very much, I managed to answer yes, and that was the beginning of a commitment the two of us still hold and treasure to this day, one that now includes our two amazing sons, Reed and Cole, and our remarkable daughter, Mia. We have a wonderful life together, but it did not just happen to us. Since the very beginning, when Jase and I first met, we have had challenges to overcome. We are still facing challenges, and with God’s grace and help, we are still overcoming them.

If you insist on digging for the truth, you can start at the cemetery. But not the one on the wealthy side of town, because I already dug up everything of value.

On the subway… I dug a man digging on me But the dude was hung up in a mass of confusion As to who I was He thought he was trying to see But you see, but you see Me knowing me Black, proud, and determined to be free Could plainly see my enemy Yes, yes Yes, I know him! I once slaved for him body and soul And made him a pile of black gold Off the sweat of my labor he stole But his game, his game is old! We broke in the mental hole Things must change There's no limit to our range He can never understand The new black man Lest alone see us everyday Riding the subway... 8th Ave, 7th Ave, 6th Ave, I-N-D, B-M-Z, I-R-T He still hasn't dug me! He stares endlessly Blinking Blink Blink Blink Blink He's on the brink About to sink I ask you Shall I save him? Can he be saved? NO! Next stop, 125th street... "On The Subway" by the Last Poets

into lava. Trust me.” “Right, got it,” said Alex. “Lava is the blue one, right? And water is the orange one?” “No!” said Dave. “Water is blue, lava is orange.” “Ok,” said Alex, “I think I’ve got it now. And… water is the bad one?” “No!” said Dave. He was trying not to get too annoyed with Alex, but her brain was a bit like Steve’s—all over the place. “Anyone for a drink?” Porkins called from the front door of the house. “Can I have a glass of lava please?” Alex shouted back. “I’m feeling a bit thirsty.” Dave put his head in his hands. Over the next few hours, Dave showed Alex how to dig for materials—showing her what was useful and what was not. Robo-Steve had made all five of them new backpacks, out of the leather from a herd of nearby cows, so they had plenty of room to store the useful blocks that they found. Soon Alex’s wood pickaxe broke, so Dave showed her how to make a stone one out of cobblestone. She kept on digging, and soon dug up some coal and iron ore. “Ooo, is this iron?” Alex asked, holding up a tiny block full of shiny chunks. “Let’s make an iron sword! Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh!” “You need to smelt it first,” Dave told her. Alex gave the block a sniff. “It doesn’t smell like anything,” she said. “Not

But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach (in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was always with him, there was another current of impression that never ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one out of a grave. Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and- forty by years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre: "Buried how long?" The answer was always the same: "Almost eighteen years." "You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?" "Long ago." "You know that you are recalled to life?" "They tell me so." "I hope you care to live?" "I can't say." "Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?" The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, "Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon." Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, "Take me to her." Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, "I don't know her. I don't understand." After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the reality of mist and rain on his cheek.

I want to do it properly,” were the first words of which Harry was fully conscious of speaking. “Not by magic. Have you got a spade?” And shortly afterward he had set to work, alone, digging the grave in the place that Bill had shown him at the end of the garden, between bushes. He dug with a kind of fury, relishing the manual work, glorying in the non-magic of it, for every drop of his sweat and every blister felt like a gift to the elf who had saved their lives. His scar burned, but he was master of the pain; he felt it, yet was apart from it. He had learned control at last, learned to shut his mind to Voldemort, the very thing Dumbledore had wanted him to learn from Snape. Just as Voldemort had not been able to possess Harry while Harry was consumed with grief for Sirius, so his thoughts could not penetrate Harry now, while he mourned Dobby. Grief, it seemed, drove Voldemort out . . . though Dumbledore, of course, would have said that it was love. . .

They refused to admit their mistake, and in the process of digging in their heels they dug their own graves.

Large fountain glasses arrived at our table, layered with sweet beans, caramelized saba bananas, jackfruit, palm fruit, nata de coco, and strips of macapuno topped with shaved ice, evaporated milk, a slice of leche flan, a healthy scoop of ube halaya, and a scattering of pinipig, the toasted glutinous rice adding a nice bit of crunch. This frosty rainbow confection raised my spirits every time I saw it, and both Sana and I pulled out our phones to take pictures of the dish. She laughed. "This is almost too pretty to eat, so I wanted to document its loveliness before digging in." "This is for the restaurant's social media pages. My grandmother only prepares this dish in the summer, so I need to remind our customers to come while it lasts." "How do we go about this?" Rob asked, looking at his rapidly melting treat in trepidation. "Up to you. You can mix everything together like the name says so that you get a bit of everything in each bite. Or you can tackle it layer by layer. I'm a mixing girl, but you better figure it out fast or you're going to be eating dessert soup." We all dug in, each snowy bite punishing my teeth making me shiver in delight. I loved the interplay of textures---the firmness of the beans versus the softness of the banana and jackfruit mingling with the chewiness of the palm fruit, nata de coco, and macapuno. The fluffy texture of the shaved ice soaked through with evaporated milk, with the silky smoothness of the leche flan matched against the creaminess of the ube halaya and crispiness of the pinipig. A texture eater's (and sweet tooth's) paradise. "This is so strange," Valerie said. "I never would've thought of putting all these things together, especially not in a dessert. But it works. I mean, I don't love the beans, but they're certainly interesting. And what are these yellow strips?" "Jackfruit. When ripe, they're yellow and very sweet and fragrant, so they make a nice addition to lots of Filipino desserts. They were also in the turon I brought to the meeting earlier. Unripe jackfruit is green and used in vegetarian recipes, usually.

Nothing on this earth had ever felt as good as being inside Chloe. He gritted his teeth, hanging on to the last remnants of sanity he possessed, as he tried to calm enough not to take her like some primal beast. The grip of her. The silky heat. He braced his elbow next to her head and their eyes locked. He was fucking Chloe. This was going to change them forever. He experienced a rush of panic that quickly dimmed as her thighs clasped his hips and she arched to meet him, gasping. Her hands fell to his waist, nails digging into his skin. He moved, gripped her wrists, and brought them up over her head. They were touching everywhere, the length of him sliding into her. Her breasts against his chest. Her inner muscles clamped around him and he cursed, thrusting inside her. He'd think later. Much, much later. He covered her mouth with his, his tongue sliding against hers. The air grew thick and humid. Tinged with a desperate, urgent lust. He ripped away and groaned. Pumped harder inside her. Her head pressed into the pillow and her neck arched. He held her wrists tighter, he bit her exposed throat, before soothing the skin with his tongue. She cried out. Her nails dug harder. Her thighs clenched. Their movements deepened. Quickened. He let her go, levered up, and rammed hard inside her, circling his hips. Grinding against her. Thrusting harder. Faster. Deeper. The bed frame banged its frantic beat against the wall. Over and over and over again. Her body rippled down the length of his cock. He jerked, losing what little control he had as he came in a loud shout, just as her orgasm rushed through her, milking him for everything he was worth, his vision dimming as intense pleasure tore through him in endless waves. He had no idea how long they went on like that. Pushing and pulsing together mindlessly, lost in the aftershocks of bone-deep satisfaction. He collapsed on top of her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling that special scent, unique to Chloe. He licked her skin. Tasting salt and sex.

They never found ore no matter how deep they dug or how many branches they made off the main tunnels. And I, a seaman for whom ports were mere pretexts for transient loves and brothel fights, who can still feel in my bones the sway of the crow’s nest when I climbed to the top to watch the horizon and give storm warnigs, to call out sightings of coastlines and pods of whales and dizzying schools of fish that approached the ship like a drunken mob, here I am, visiting the cool darkness of these labyrinths where a wind that is often warm and damp carries voices, laments, the unending, relentless toil of insects, the fluttering wings of dark butterflies, the screech of a bird lost in the depths of the mine shafts.

When her kisses became as hungry as his, he tore his mouth away and trailed it down her throat again. He found her breasts next, but didn't stay there long before his lips followed an invisible trail down her stomach. Her stomach began jumping in anticipation at once as she recalled their wedding night, and Claray bit her lip and held her breath, almost afraid she was wrong and he wasn't about to--- "Ahhh!" she cried out as his mouth found the spot she'd hoped he was looking for. Dear God in heaven, she loved his tongue, Claray thought wildly as he pleasured her with it. She wanted to dig her nails into his shoulders, but he was too far away so she dug them into the earth at her sides instead. She wanted to wrap her legs around him to urge him on, but was afraid of smothering him, so she dug her heels into the ground and thrust her pelvis up instead. And then his tongue pushed into her as if he were kissing her mouth, and Claray came undone for a second time. But this time was stronger than the last and an ululating cry burst from her mouth as she convulsed under the onslaught.

I had made a promise to Jaim when he was born that I would dig us out of the hole I had dug for myself and start to build a better world for him. Now I was making good on that promise, and I started the best way I knew how: by building a home.

Beside my chair, our dog’s paws drag at the sand; these are the first holes she has ever dug, and now digging is her vocation. My kids giggle at her industriousness, though it’s clear that they are ready to no longer be sandy, to return to the house for showers and games and ice cream. As they begin rolling up their towels, folding up their chairs, I pull my phone out of my pocket and search for a poem I saved long ago: “What the Living Do,” by Marie Howe. I first encountered it when I was twenty-two, an age when I’d barely known grief, and was so moved by Howe’s words that I kept the poem to reread and eventually bought all of her books. Addressed to her brother John, who died of complications from AIDS, “What the Living Do” has always seemed to me a perfect expression of love, and loss, and what it means to survive. It’s been a few years since I last thought of it, but now that I need it, it’s waiting for me, as the best poems do.

More money seldom solves someone’s money problems. Intelligence solves problems. There is a saying a friend of mine uses over and over to people in debt: “If you find you have dug yourself into a hole... stop digging.

Not wanting to come without him inside, she gently pulled him up, sliding him into her. She clutched his ass, digging her nails into his tender flesh motioning him quicker and harder. Her pussy clung to his dick as the wave built up, growing stronger as he pumped faster into her. Instantly, the waves crashed at the same time, immense pleasure sweeping over them. Robert grit his teeth as Sharon's nails dug deeper into his ass. She squealed loudly as she climaxed. Robert groaning, his face scrunched as he came inside her.

A normal day! Holding it in my hand this one last moment, I have come to see it as more than an ordinary rock, it is a gem, a jewel. In time of war, in peril of death, people have dug their hands and faces into the earth and remembered this. In time of sickness and pain, people have buried their faces in pillows and wept for this. In time of loneliness and separation, people have stretched themselves taut and waited for this. In time of hunger, homelessness, and wants, people have raised bony hands to the skies and stayed alive for this. Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it will not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky, and want more than all the world your return. And then I will know what now I am guessing: that you are, indeed, a common rock and not a jewel, but that a common rock made of the very mass substance of the earth in all its strength and plenty puts a gem to shame.

THERE WAS A CERTAIN PARADOX in this sudden release and movement of human energy—from continents away, no less—all to dig in the dirt for a shiny metal that, once dug out successfully, was melted into neat rectangular bars and made its way back into darkness, in bank vaults, never again to see the light of day. Yet this arbitrary construct underpinned the entire monetary system of the United States and the world. The same primal attraction that had once led pirates, conquistadores, and medieval sovereigns to search for gold was now being mirrored in an age when wires transmitted words at near the speed of light. The value of gold then, as now, was largely based on a seemingly universal agreement, an article of faith: that gold is valuable because others see it as valuable. Why should the discovery or nondiscovery of a yellow metal in the dirt in California have any impact on the utilization of industrial capacity, growth of crops, transportation of goods via rail, improvement of the telegraph infrastructure, or any other economic activity? But its religious effect, regardless of its logic, was undeniable. The flood of gold helped unleash significant economic activity throughout the world.

This pattern of decreasing age going from northwest to the southeast of the Hawaiian island chain had already been recognized by ancient Hawaiians and is represented as such in the telling of the Pele legend. It is said that the volcano goddess Pele and her family came from the land of Kahiki (Tahiti), which was regarded as a faraway mythical land to ancient Hawaiians. In the vein of Hawaiian mythology being centered around families and gods having a certain element that they are intimately connected with, Pele and her family looked to build a home of lava and fire in a volcanic hollow. She began digging on the island her family first landed on, the island of Niʻihau. But for every deep and large hole she dug, groundwater would rush in and flood the pit, rendering it unsuitable for her and her family. Pele continued with her efforts on all of the islands, making her way southward, only to have her efforts fail again and again. When she reached the island of Hawaiʻi, she was able to find a home for her family in the water-free pits of Mokuʻaweoweo and Halemaʻumaʻu. Pele and her family made their abodes there in fiery homes of lava and magma. Today, those two pits lie in the calderas of Mauna Loa and Kilauea, respectively, with Mauna Loa being the largest active volcano on Earth and Kilauea being Hawaiʻi’s most active volcano.

Dylan’s antagonism towards critical opinion has never been complete. Naturally, he has thought of his work as being regarded as ‘up there with the greats’. Talking to Robert Shelton, Dylan remarked that: “Until Bringing It All Back Home song-writing was a sideline. I was still a performer. Then I knew I had to write songs… Get some of those literary people, some of those poetry people to sit down with my records … that would be good.” This was soon after declaring “I never dug Pound or Eliot. I dig Shakespeare”, in Spring 1966.35