Dull Weather Quotes

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. “He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. “The story is this man’s adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.

Beneath the rust and grime which dulls the shine of our weathered hearts, joy patiently waits to be rediscovered

In everything that can be called art there is a quality of redemption. It may be pure tragedy, if it is high tragedy, and it may be pity and irony, and it may be the raucous laughter of the strong man. But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor -- by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. I do not care much about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin; if he is a man of honor in one thing, he is that in all things. He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man's money dishonestly and no man's insolence without due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He talks as the man of his age talks -- that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. The story is the man's adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right, because it belongs to the world he lives in. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.

But when you talk about Nabokov and Coover, you’re talking about real geniuses, the writers who weathered real shock and invented this stuff in contemporary fiction. But after the pioneers always come the crank turners, the little gray people who take the machines others have built and just turn the crank, and little pellets of metafiction come out the other end. The crank-turners capitalize for a while on sheer fashion, and they get their plaudits and grants and buy their IRAs and retire to the Hamptons well out of range of the eventual blast radius. There are some interesting parallels between postmodern crank-turners and what’s happened since post-structural theory took off here in the U.S., why there’s such a big backlash against post-structuralism going on now. It’s the crank-turners fault. I think the crank-turners replaced the critic as the real angel of death as far as literary movements are concerned, now. You get some bona fide artists who come along and really divide by zero and weather some serious shit-storms of shock and ridicule in order to promulgate some really important ideas. Once they triumph, though, and their ideas become legitimate and accepted, the crank-turners and wannabes come running to the machine, and out pour the gray pellets and now the whole thing’s become a hollow form, just another institution of fashion. Take a look at some of the critical-theory Ph.D. dissertations being written now. They’re like de Man and Foucault in the mouth of a dull child. Academia and commercial culture have somehow become these gigantic mechanisms of commodification that drain the weight and color out of even the most radical new advances. It’s a surreal inversion of the death-by-neglect that used to kill off prescient art. Now prescient art suffers death-by acceptance. We love things to death, now. Then we retire to the Hamptons.

...though weather is important while it happens it seems to me to be pretty dull to look back on. You can take descriptions of most any sort of weather out of an almanac and stick them in just anywhere; they'll probably fit.

Sometimes it rained, but mostly it was just dull, a land without shadows. It was like living inside Tupperware.

There was the Dolphin coming up the river with all her sails. The curving tail of the prow was chipped and dull, the hull was battered and knobby with barnacles, the canvas dark and weathered, yet how beautiful she was! In

First, the wind would rumble in the distance like an approaching river, then he would see grass bend, pressed by a great invisible hand. The dull rumble would rise in pitch to a swishing, lashing exultation, causing stalks to lie flat against the ground while the tougher branches of shrubs held themselves up and shrieked their defiance in the gusts. Then the first drops, cold and heavy, would plummet from the sky and burst on the ground.

The history of Immanuel Kant's life is difficult to portray, for he had neither life nor history. He led a mechanical, regular, almost abstract bachelor existence in a little retired street of Königsberg, an old town on the north-eastern frontier of Germany. I do not believe that the great clock of the cathedral performed in a more passionless and methodical manner its daily routine than did its townsman, Immanuel Kant. Rising in the morning, coffee-drinking, writing, reading lectures, dining, walking, everything had its appointed time, and the neighbors knew that it was exactly half-past three o'clock when Kant stepped forth from his house in his grey, tight-fitting coat, with his Spanish cane in his hand, and betook himself to the little linden avenue called after him to this day the "Philosopher's Walk." Summer and winter he walked up and down it eight times, and when the weather was dull or heavy clouds prognosticated rain, the townspeople beheld his servant, the old Lampe, trudging anxiously behind Kant with a big umbrella under his arm, like an image of Providence. What a strange contrast did this man's outward life present to his destructive, world-annihilating thoughts! In sooth, had the citizens of Königsberg had the least presentiment of the full significance of his ideas, they would have felt far more awful dread at the presence of this man than at the sight of an executioner, who can but kill the body. But the worthy folk saw in him nothing more than a Professor of Philosophy, and as he passed at his customary hour, they greeted him in a friendly manner and set their watches by him.

For some days, now, the termperature had wavered between freezing and thawing and it was difficult to tell whether the sediment thickening the atmostphere was rain or sleet or smog. Through the murk the dull red eye of a sun that had scarcely been able to drag itself above roof level all day was sinking blearily beneath the horizon, spreading a rusty stain across the snow-covered surfaces. Read pathetic fallacy weather.

Ye never saw dull weather clear without a shower; and if the world is turned upside down, why, honest men have the better chance to cut bread out of it.

Tell me something about yourself.” “I’d rather save the small talk.” “There’s no need to be rude, child, and believe me, I’m asking for a reason. Tell me something about yourself. Anything.” “I’m twenty-eight . . .” He rejected that one out of hand. “Something personal. Something . . . interior. Tell me something you love.” I thought about it for a long few seconds, then said, “Ralph Lauren’s summer line this year. Not the spring collection, which was way too pastel, and the winter was really crappy, all bland browns and grays. But he’s got some good fabrics this summer, kind of a hot tangerine matched with dull red. Only he skirts, though. Hiscapri pants are for shit. Pockets? Who wants pockets on capri pants? What woman in her right mind puts extra fabric on her hips?” There was a long and ringing silence. Patrick’s eyes were wide and rather frightened. He finally cleared his throat and said, “Anything else apart from fashion?” “What do you want me to say? Puppies? Fluffy kittens? Babies?” “Let’s try something simple. Your favorite food.” I rolled my eyes. “Chocolate.” Duh .

Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:- had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared.

Then everything turned brilliant white for a second, and Jacob's eyes were stunned. The shock faded, but then another flash came, dulled by the darkness of the fog. Blades of lightning broke through the sea of smoke, accompanied by the violent clap of thunder, as if an angry god saw the storm devour them, and burst out into wild applause.

They just sat there looking back at me. The orange queen was clacking her typewriter. Cop talk was no more treat for her than legs to a dance director. They had the calm weathered faces of healthy men in hard condition. They had the eyes they always have, cloudy and grey like freezing water. The firm set mouth, the hard little wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, the hard hollow meaningless stare, not quite cruel and a thousand miles from kind. The dull ready-made clothes, worn without style, with a sort of contempt; the look of men who are poor and yet proud of their power, watching always for ways to make it felt, to shove it into you and twist it and grin and watch you squirm, ruthless without malice, cruel and yet not always unkind. What would you expect them to be? Civilization had no meaning for them. All they saw of it was the failures, the dirt, the dregs, the aberrations and the disgust.

If we knew everything about the future with certainty, our lives would be drained of emotion. No surprise and pleasure, no joy or thrill—we knew it all along. The first kiss, the first proposal, the birth of a healthy child would be about as exciting as last year’s weather report. If our world ever turned certain, life would be mind-numbingly dull. The

It’s a dark night, sang the kettle, and the rotten leaves are lying by the way; and, above, all is mist and darkness, and, below, all is mire and clay; and there’s only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and I don’t know that it is one, for it’s nothing but a glare; of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together; set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long dull streak of black; and there’s hoar–frost on the finger–post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice it isn’t water, and the water isn’t free; and you couldn’t say that anything is what it ought to be; but he’s coming, coming, coming!—

Consequently, he is held to be one of the best husbands in France. Though not susceptible of lively interest, he never scolds, unless, to be sure, he is kept waiting. His friends have named him “dull weather,” — aptly enough, for there is neither clear light nor total darkness about him.

everything. I would never want depression to be a public or political excuse, but I think that once you have gone through it, you get a greater and more immediate understanding of the temporary absence of judgment that makes people behave so badly—you learn even, perhaps, how to tolerate the evil in the world.” On the happy day when we lose depression, we will lose a great deal with it. If the earth could feed itself and us without rain, and if we conquered the weather and declared permanent sun, would we not miss grey days and summer storms? As the sun seems brighter and more clear when it comes on a rare day of English summer after ten months of dismal skies than it can ever seem in the tropics, so recent happiness feels enormous and embracing and beyond anything I have ever imagined. Curiously enough, I love my depression. I do not love experiencing my depression, but I love the depression itself. I love who I am in the wake of it. Schopenhauer said, “Man is [content] according to how dull and insensitive he is”; Tennessee Williams, asked for the definition of happiness, replied “insensitivity.” I do not agree with them. Since I have been to the Gulag and survived it, I know that if I have to go to the Gulag again, I could survive that also; I’m more confident in some odd way than I’ve ever imagined being. This almost (but not quite) makes the depression seem worth it. I do not think that I will ever again try to kill myself; nor do I think

We read a good novel not in order to know more people, but in order to know fewer. Instead of the humming swarm of human beings, relatives, customers, servants, postmen, afternoon callers, tradesmen, strangers who tell us the time, strangers who remark on the weather, beggars, waiters, and telegraph-boys--instead of this bewildering human swarm which passes us every day, fiction asks us to follow one figure (say the postman) consistently through his ecstasies and agonies. That is what makes one impatient with that type of pessimistic rebel who is always complaining of the narrowness of his life and demanding a larger sphere. Life is too large for us as it is: we have all too many things to attend to. All true romance is an attempt to simplify it, to cut it down to plainer and more pictorial proportions. What dullness there is in our life arises mostly from its rapidity; people pass us too quickly to show us their interesting side. By the end of the week we have talked to a hundred bores; whereas, if we had stuck to one of them, we might have found ourselves talking to a new friend, or a humorist, or a murderer, or a man who had seen a ghost.

Waiting is one of the forms of boredom, as it can be one of the shapes of fear. The thing you wait for compels you time after time toward the same feelings, which become only further repetitive elements in the sameness of the days. Here, even the weather enforces monotony. The mornings curve over, one like another, for a week, two weeks, three weeks, unchanging in temperature, light, color, humidity, or if changing, changing by predictable small gradations that amount to no changes at all. Never a tempest, thunderstorm, high wind; never a cumulus cloud, not at this season. Hardly a symptom to tell you summer is passing into autumn, unless it is the dense green of the tarweed that late in summer…in recollection, those weeks of waiting telescope for me as all dull time does.

But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. I do not care much about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin; if he is a man of honor in one thing, he is that in all things. He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He talks as the man of his age talks—that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. The story is this man’s adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right, because it belongs to the world he lives in. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.

Geography could not be bucked. Their bogs and trees shrouded in a perpetual drizzle, Germans were the spawn of their environment. The gods, who had considerately endowed Rome with a climate ideally suited to the growth of a mighty city, had doomed the inhabitants of the chilly North to a backwardness that was at once torpid and ferocious, dull and intemperate. Landscape, weather, people: Germany was unredeemably savage.

Before heading back up the road, she had turned for a moment toward the sea. In the late afternoon light, the water was gray wrinkled with orange. Tiger water, she called it when it looked like that. Rhino water was smooth and leaden, dull as smoke. But her favorite was polar bear water, when the moon hung low and large, as if too heavy to rise very high, and scattered great radiant patches, like ice floes, across a dark blue ocean.

A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity—Actually snowing at this moment!— The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;—and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;— here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home.

In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. The bad weather was coming over the mountains from the sea. The flags in the square hung wet form the with poles and the banners were wet and hung damp against the front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the rain came down and drove every one under the arcades and made pools of water in the square, and the streets were dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up without any pause. It was only driven under covers. The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded with people sitting out of the rain watching the concourse of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding hallow and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding ahead of their big, heavy-footed horse, their costumes wet, the horses’ coats wet in the rain. The crowd was in the cafés and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the water from their belled caps, and spreading their red and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was raining hard outside.

She dances, She dances around the burning flames with passion, Under the same dull stars, Under the same hell with crimson embers crashing, Under the same silver chains that wires, All her beauty and who she is inside, She's left with the loneliness of human existence, She's left questioning how she's survived, She's left with this awakening of brutal resilience, Her true beauty that she denies, As much she's like to deny it, As much as it continues to shine, That she doesn't even have to admit, Because we all know it's true, Her glory and success, After all she's been through, Her triumph and madness, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Broken legs- but she's still standing, Still dancing in this void, You must wonder how she's still dancing, You must wonder how she's not destroyed, She doesn't even begin to drown within the flames, But little do you realize, Within these chains, She weeps and she cries, But she still goes on, And just you thought you could stop her? You thought you'd be the one? Well, let me tell you, because you thought wrong. Nothing will ever silence her, Because I KNOW, I know that she is admiringly strong, Her undeniable beauty, The triumph of her song, She's shining bright like a ruby, Reflecting in the golden sand, She's shining brighter like no other, She's far more than human or man, AND YET, SHE STANDS. She continues to dance with free-spirit, Even though she's locked in these chains, Though she never desired to change it, Even throughout the agonizing pain, Throughout all the distress, Anxiety, depression, tears and sorrow, She still dances so beautify in her dress, She looks forward to tomorrow, Not because of a fresh start but a new page, A new day full of opportunities, Despite being trapped in her cage, She still smiles after being beaten so brutally, A smile that could brighten anyone's day, She's so much more than anyone could ask for, She's so much more than I could ever say, She's a girl absolutely everyone should adore, She never gets in the way, Even after her hearts been broken, Even after the way she has been treated, After all these severe emotions, After all all the blood she's bled, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Even if sometimes she wonders why she's still here, She wonders why she's not dead, But there's this one thing that had been here throughout every tear, Throughout the blazing fire leaving her cheeks cherry red, Everyday this thing has given her a place to exist, This thing, person, these people, Like warm sunlight it had so softly kissed, The apples of her cheeks, Even when she's feeling feeble, Always there at her worst and at her best Because of you and all the other people, She has this thing deep inside her chest, That she will cherish forever, Even once you're gone, Because today she smiles like no other, Even when the sun sets at dawn, Because today is the day, She just wants you to remember, In dark and stormy weather, It gets better. And after what she's been through she knows, Throughout the highs and the lows, Because of you and all others, After crossing the seas, She has come to understand, You have formed this key, This key to free her from this land, This endless gorge that swallowed her, Her and other men, She had never knew, nor had she planned, That because of you, She's free. AND YET, THIS VERY DAY, SHE DANCES. EVEN IN THE RAIN.

Even the few days I spend reminiscing in Mexico City seem like memories or dreams. Everything looks different and backward without [him] and his uncertainties. I could have even stayed at the same hotels, in the same rooms even, yet would have never known the difference. Traffic and weather seem painted onto this dull grey canvas of highway, detached from any near past. Nietzsche calls it the separation of body and soul - the improbability of two separate worlds. I was incapable of fitting in anywhere. I was in search of expiation. I would never find it - it had never been there.

Black Rook in Rainy Weather On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain. I do not expect a miracle Or an accident To set the sight on fire In my eye, nor seek Any more in the desultory weather some design, But let spotted leaves fall as they fall, Without ceremony, or portent. Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain; A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of the kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then -- Thus hallowing an interval Otherwise inconsequent By bestowing largesse, honor, One might say love. At any rate, I now walk Wary (for it could happen Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical, Yet politic; ignorant Of whatever angel may choose to flare Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook Ordering its black feathers can so shine As to seize my senses, haul My eyelids up, and grant A brief respite from fear Of total neutrality. With luck, Trekking stubborn through this season Of fatigue, I shall Patch together a content Of sorts. Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.

I’d known, of course, that a blizzard was coming, or I suppose I’d known, for I didn’t own a television or a radio, and I didn’t traffic in circles where people talked excessively about the weather—we had larger, more important things to discuss; weather was something over which our grandmothers, our dull neighbors in the suburbs, obsessed.

When I see you plodding along through the rain in dull, drab mackintoshes, with your noses tucked into your collars, I long to offer you a little advice. It is this: fight the weather with contrasts ... You must create an artificial sun to replace the one who has hidden himself. So why not a brighter note in your dress instead of the eternal grey, black, brown or navy?

Is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful—had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared.

. You get some bona fide artists who come along and really divide by zero and weather some serious shit-storms of shock and ridicule in order to promulgate some really important ideas. Once they triumph, though, and their ideas become legitimate and accepted, the crank-turners and wannabes come running to the machine, and out pour the gray pellets and now the whole thing’s become a hollow form, just another institution of fashion. Take a look at some of the critical-theory Ph.D. dissertations being written now. They’re like de Man and Foucault in the mouth of a dull child. Academia and commercial culture have somehow become these gigantic mechanisms of commodification that drain the weight and color out of even the most radical new advances. It’s a surreal inversion of the death-by-neglect that used to kill off prescient art. Now prescient art suffers death-by acceptance. We love things to death, now. Then we retire to the Hamptons.

We collect terabytes of information to turn our computers into crystal balls. Yet think of what would happen if our wishes were granted. If we knew everything about the future with certainty, our lives would be drained of emotion. No surprise and pleasure, no joy or thrill—we knew it all along. The first kiss, the first proposal, the birth of a healthy child would be about as exciting as last year’s weather report. If our world ever turned certain, life would be mind-numbingly dull.

The fisherman-painter has the best of the bargain as far as the weather goes, for the weather that is too bright for the trout deluges his hills and his sea with floods of radiant colour; the rain that interrupts picture-making puts water into the rivers and the lochs and sends him hopefully forth with rod and creel; while on cold dull days, when there is neither purple on the hills nor fly on the river, he can join a friendly party in a cosy bar and exchange information about Cardinals and March Browns, and practise making intricate knots in gut.

and here instead’s another version of what was happening that morning, as if from a novel in which sophia is the kind of character she’d choose to be, prefer to be, a character in a much more classic sort of story, perfectly honed and comforting, about how sombre yet bright the major-symphony of winter is and how beautiful everything looks under a high frost, how every grassblade is enhanced and silvered into individual beauty by it, how even the dull tarmac of the roads, the paving under our feet, shines when the weather’s been cold enough and how something at the heart of us, at the heart of all our cold and frozen states, melts when we encounter a time of peace on earth, goodwill to all men; a story in which there’s no room for severed heads; a work in which sophia’s perfectly honed minor-symphony modesty and narrative decorum complement the story she’s in with the right kind of quiet wisdom-from-experience ageing-female status, making it a story that’s thoughtful, dignified, conventional in structure thank god, the kind of quality literary fiction where the slow drift of snow across the landscape is merciful, has a perfect muffling decorum of its own, snow falling to whiten, soften, blur and prettify even further a landscape where there are no heads divided from bodies hanging around in the air or anywhere, either new ones, from new atrocities or murders or terrorisms, or old ones, left over from old historic atrocities and murders and terrorisms and bequeathed to the future as if in old french revolution baskets, their wickerwork brown with the old dried blood, placed on the doorsteps of the neat and central-heating-interactive houses of now with notes tied to the handles saying please look after this head thank you, well, no, thank you, thank you very much:

The studio was immense and gloomy, the sole light within it proceeding from a stove, around which the three were seated. Although they were bold, and of the age when men are most jovial, the conversation had taken, in spite of their efforts to the contrary, a reflection from the dull weather without, and their jokes and frivolity were soon exhausted. In addition to the light which issued from the crannies in the stove, there was another emitted from a bowl of spirits, which was ceaselessly stirred by one of the young men, as he poured from an antique silver ladle some of the flaming spirit into the quaint old glasses from which the students drank. The blue flame of the spirit lighted up in a wild and fantastic manner the surrounding objects in the room, so that the heads of old prophets, of satyrs, or Madonnas, clothed in the same ghastly hue, seemed to move and to dance along the walls like a fantastic procession of the dead; and the vast room, which in the day time sparkled with the creations of genius, seemed now, in its alternate darkness and sulphuric light, to be peopled with its dreams. Each time also that the silver spoon agitated the liquid, strange shadows traced themselves along the walls, hideous and of fantastic form. Unearthly tints spread also upon the hangings of the studio, from the old bearded prophet of Michael Angelo to those eccentric caricatures which the artist had scrawled upon his walls, and which resembled an army of demons that one sees in a dream, or such as Goya has painted; whilst the lull and rise of the tempest without but added to the fantastic and nervous feeling which pervaded those within. Besides this, to add to the terror which was creeping over the three occupants of the room, each time that they looked at each other they appeared with faces of a blue tone, with eyes fixed and glittering like live embers, and with pale lips and sunken cheeks; but the most fearful object of all was that of a plaster mask taken from the face of an intimate friend but lately dead, which, hanging near the window, let the light from the spirit fall upon its face, turned three parts towards them, which gave it a strange, vivid, and mocking expression. All people have felt the influence of large and dark rooms, such as Hoffmann has portrayed and Rembrandt has painted; and all the world has experienced those wild and unaccountable terrors - panics without a cause - which seize on one like a spontaneous fever, at the sight of objects to which a stray glimpse of the moon or a feeble ray from a lamp gives a mysterious form; nay, all, we should imagine, have at some period of their lives found themselves by the side of a friend, in a dark and dismal chamber, listening to some wild story, which so enchains them, that although the mere lighting of a candle could put an end to their terror, they would not do so; so much need has the human heart of emotions, whether they be true or false. So it was upon the evening mentioned. The conversation of the three companions never took a direct line, but followed all the phases of their thoughts; sometimes it was light as the smoke which curled from their cigars, then for a moment fantastic as the flame of the burning spirit, and then again dark, lurid, and sombre as the smile which lit up the mask from their dead friend's face. At last the conversation ceased altogether, and the respiration of the smokers was the only sound heard; and their cigars glowed in the dark, like Will-of-the-wisps brooding o'er a stagnant pool. It was evident to them all, that the first who should break the silence, even if he spoke in jest, would cause in the hearts of the others a start and tremor, for each felt that he had almost unwittingly plunged into a ghastly reverie. ("The Dead Man's Story")

Let any man make a calculation of his existence, subtracting the hours in which he has been thoroughly happy—really and entirely at his ease, without one arriere pensée to mar his enjoyment—without the most infinitesimal cloud to overshadow the brightness of his horizon. Let him do this, and surely he will laugh in utter bitterness of soul when he sets down the sum of his felicity, and discovers the pitiful smallness of the amount. He will have enjoyed himself for a week or ten days in thirty years, perhaps. In thirty years of dull December, and blustering March, and showery April, and dark November weather, there may have been seven or eight glorious August days, through which the sun has blazed in cloudless radiance, and the summer breezes have breathed perpetual balm. How fondly we recollect these solitary days of pleasure, and hope for their recurrence, and try to plan the circumstances that made them bright; and arrange, and predestinate, and diplomatize with fate for a renewal of the remembered joy. As if any joy could ever be built up out of such and such constituent parts! As if happiness were not essentially accidental—a bright and wandering bird, utterly irregular in its migrations; with us one summer's day, and forever gone from us on the next!

sunshine made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to her of his own accord. “Springtime’s comin’,” he said. “Cannot tha’ smell it?” Mary sniffed and thought she could. “I smell something nice and fresh and damp,” she said. “That’s th’ good rich earth,” he answered, digging away. “It’s in a good humor makin’ ready to grow things. It’s glad when plantin’ time comes. It’s dull in th’ winter when it’s got nowt to do. In th’ flower gardens out there things will be stirrin’ down below in th’ dark. Th’ sun’s warmin’ ’em. You’ll see bits o’ green spikes stickin’ out o’ th’ black earth after a bit.” “What will they be?” asked Mary. “Crocuses an’ snowdrops an’ daffydowndillys. Has tha’ never seen them?” “No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India,” said Mary. “And I think things grow up in a night.” “These won’t grow up in a night,” said Weatherstaff. “Tha’ll have to wait for ’em. They’ll poke up a bit higher here, an’ push out a spike more there, an’ uncurl a leaf this day an’ another that. You watch ’em.” “I am going to,” answered Mary. Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question. “Do you think he remembers me?” she said. “Remembers thee!” said Weatherstaff indignantly. “He knows every cabbage stump in th’ gardens, let alone th’ people. He’s never seen a little wench here before, an’ he’s bent on findin’ out all about thee. Tha’s no need to try to hide anything from him.” “Are

She pottered round now, a tall vague woman in her early fifties, with a long pale face and brown eyes which her daughter Deirdre had inherited. As she pottered she murmured to herself, ‘large knives, small knives, pudding spoons, will they need forks too? Oh, large forks, serving spoons, mats, glasses, well two glasses in case Deirdre and Malcolm want to drink beer, Rhoda probably won’t … and now, wash the lettuce …’ It was nice when the warm weather came and they could have salads for supper, she thought, though why it was nice she didn’t really know. Washing a lettuce and cutting up the things to go with it was really almost as much trouble as cooking a hot meal, and she herself had never got over an old-fashioned dislike of eating raw green leaves. When her husband had been alive they had always had a hot meal in the evenings, winter and summer alike. He needed it after a day in the City. But now he was gone and Rhoda had been living with them for nearly ten years now and everyone said how nice it was for them both, to have each other, though of course she had the children too. Malcolm was a good solid young man, very much like his father, reliable and, although of course she never admitted it, a little dull. He did not seem to mind about the hot meal in the evenings. But Deirdre was different, clever and moody, rather like she herself had been at the same age, before marriage to a good dull man and life in a suburb had steadied her.

In the store the old men gathered, occupying for endless hours the creaking milkcases, speaking slowly and with conviction upon matters of profound inconsequence, eying the dull red bulb of the stove with their watery vision. Shrouded in their dark coats they had a vulturuous look about them, their faces wasted and thin, their skin dry and papery as a lizard's. John Shell, looking like nothing so much as an ill-assembled manikin of bones on which clothes were hung in sagging dusty folds, his wrists protruding like weathered sticks from his flapping prelate sleeves, John Shell unhinged his toothless jaw with effort, a slight audible creaking sound, to speak his one pronouncement: It ain't so much that as it is one thing'n another.

She dances, She dances around the burning flames with passion, Under the same dull stars, Under the same hell with crimson embers crashing, Under the same silver chains that wires, All her beauty and who she is inside, She's left with the loneliness of human existence, She's left questioning how she's survived, She's left with this awakening of brutal resilience, Her true beauty that she denies, As much she's like to deny it, As much as it continues to shine, That she doesn't even have to admit, Because we all know it's true, Her glory and success, After all she's been through, Her triumph and madness, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Broken legs- but she's still standing, Still dancing in this void, You must wonder how she's still dancing, You must wonder how she's not destroyed, She doesn't even begin to drown within the flames, But little do you realize, Within these chains, She weeps and she cries, But she still goes on, And just you thought you could stop her? You thought you'd be the one? Well, let me tell you, because you thought wrong. Nothing will ever silence her, Because I KNOW, I know that she is admiringly strong, Her undeniable beauty, The triumph of her song, She's shining bright like a ruby, Reflecting in the golden sand, She's shining brighter like no other, She's far more than human or man, AND YET, SHE STANDS. She continues to dance with free-spirit, Even though she's locked in these chains, Though she never desired to change it, Even throughout the agonizing pain, Throughout all the distress, Anxiety, depression, tears and sorrow, She still dances so beautify in her dress, She looks forward to tomorrow, Not because of a fresh start but a new page, A new day full of opportunities, Despite being trapped in her cage, She still smiles after being beaten so brutally, A smile that could brighten anyone's day, She's so much more than anyone could ask for, She's so much more than I could ever say, She's a girl absolutely everyone should adore, She never gets in the way, Even after her hearts been broken, Even after the way she has been treated, After all these severe emotions, After all all the blood she's bled, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Even if sometimes she wonders why she's still here, She wonders why she's not dead, But there's this one thing that had been here throughout every tear, Throughout the blazing fire leaving her cheeks cherry red, Everyday this thing has given her a place to exist, This thing, person, these people, Like warm sunlight it had so softly kissed, The apples of her cheeks, Even when she's feeling feeble, Always there at her worst and at her best Because of you and all the other people, She has this thing deep inside her chest, That she will cherish forever, Even once you're gone, Because today she smiles like no other, Even when the sun sets at dawn, Because today is the day, She just wants you to remember, In dark and stormy weather, It gets better. And after what she's been through she knows, Throughout the highs and the lows, Because of you and all others, After crossing the seas, She has come to understand, You have formed this key, This key to free her from this land, This endless gorge that swallowed her, Her and other men, She had never knew, nor had she planned, That because of you, She's free. AND YET, THIS VERY DAY, SHE STILL DANCES, EVEN IN THE RAIN.

But the great fact in life, the always possible escape from dullness, was the lake. The sun rose out of it, the day began there; it was like an open door that nobody could shut. The land and all its dreariness could never close in on you. You had only to look at the lake, and you knew you would soon be free. it was the first thing one saw in the morning, across the rugged cow pasture studded with shaggy pines, and it ran through the days like the weather, not a thing thought about, but a part of consciousness itself. When the ice chunks came in of a winter morning, crumbly and white, throwing off gold and rose-coloured reflections from a copper-coloured sun behind grey clouds, he didn't observe the detail or know what is was that made him happy; but now, forty years later, he could recall all its aspects perfectly. They had made pictures in him when he was un-willing and unconscious, when his eyes were merely wide open.

Up to this moment in her life, Audrey had never evinced the slightest sentimentality about children. Insofar as she had recognized them as an independent category of personhood, she had tended to think of them as trainee humans. Inadequate adults. She loved her own daughters well enough - wanted them to be happy and so forth - but they had failed to inspire in her that mad, lioness passion to which other mothers so preeningly testified. She was still in some shock regarding the servility of motherhood - the sheer, thankless drudgery of it. All the cleaning up of messes she had made and preparing meals she did not want to eat. She fed her girls regularly and diligently brushed their teeth twice a day and made sure they were more or less appropriately dressed for the weather, but beyond a dull sense of satisfaction at having fulfilled her maternal duties, she received no pleasure from performing these tasks. Try as she might, she she could not feel her daughters' happiness and sorrows as her own.

A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity — Actually snowing at this moment! — The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home — and the folly of people’s not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it — and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can — here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse — four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home.

You could speak on my behalf. Try to persuade him.” His black eyes glittered. “I’m afraid I’m only a messenger.” “Please,” I said. “I do not want them here, truly. I am not being funny.” “No,” he said, “you are not. You are being very dull. Use your imagination, they must be good for something. Take them to your bed.” “That is absurd,” I said. “They would run screaming.” “Nymphs always do,” he said. “But I’ll tell you a secret: they are terrible at getting away.” At a feast on Olympus such a jest would have been followed by a roar of laughter. Hermes waited now, grinning like a goat. But all I felt was a white, cold rage. “I am finished with you,” I said. “I have been finished a long time. Let me not see you again.” If anything, his grin deepened. He vanished and did not return. It was no obedience. He was finished with me too, for I had committed the unpardonable sin of being dull. I could imagine the stories he was telling of me, humorless, prickly, and smelling of pigs. From time to time, I could sense him just out of sight, finding my nymphs in the hills, sending them back flushed and laughing, giddy from the great Olympian who had shown them favor. He seemed to think I would go mad with jealousy and loneliness, and turn them into rats indeed. A hundred years he had been coming to my island, and in all that time he had never cared for more than his own entertainment.

Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 169 The thick, frosty rain had long since subsided. A thin, fur clad figure peered through the thick, rain soaked foliage, just outside the army's encampment. The old Wizard's raspy whisper suddenly broke the silence. He shivered against the cold and swore to himself, as no eyes peered back at him from the forest. "Damnable rabbits!" He shook both stiff, old legs from the bitter cold of the forest night and from the puddle he had been standing in. The half-asleep guard paid no attention or tribute to the thin, fur clad bearer of wood, as he trudged through the camp's outer perimeter with a load of firewood in his arms. Slumber played a barbaric tune to the rhythms of the wind through the trees, while the army slept. Arkin readjusted the stack of wood held precariously in his arms, as he walked through the center of camp. His steady, silent pace took him around large mud puddles and before a roaring fire built beneath a rocky shelf. The large bonfire spit colorful sparks into the blackness and the cold of the night. His thin arms let fall the wood he had gathered, while he surveyed the camp. A long, walking stick suddenly appeared in his hand, as if by magic, while his senses took in all around him. The small, white haired Wizard leaned lazily on his heavy staff for a thoughtful moment, while his calculating eye took in the figures huddled on the ground around the small campfires. Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 170 In the forest, two sets of eyes suddenly blinked their timidity at Arkin and then disappeared. "Dull witted rabbits to save a future King," he grumbled. "Will wonders never cease." From an ancient leather pouch, old weathered hands drew a sparkling dust that seemed to be alive in its’ every glimmer. The old man watched its’ mesmerizing glow for a moment. Then, as if youth possessed his body once again, Arkin began dancing like a misguided wood nymph through the camp, sprinkling the powder on the slumbering figures. The old Wizard's ritualistic dance took him the complete circumference of the camp. An old Wizard smiled broadly, as he danced by the giant, blond Nobleman chained helplessly to a tree. Their eyes met in an exchanged mischievous greeting. Garish beamed his roguish smile at him, hope renewed once more. The blond, captive Nobleman had to fight back the mounting laughter in his throat, from the comforting sight of his mentor and the queer fairy dance he was performing. His gaze followed the little man's every step with pure delight. The little Grand Master Wizard slowed his mischievous fairy dance only long enough to retrieve the glimmering Sword of Damen from the pile of weapons in the center of the camp. Edgerton/Assassins of Dreamsongs 171 The Old Man carefully concealed the sword under his cloak and continued his fairy dance, while sprinkling the sparkling powder over the sleeping figures. Stooping low, he picked up a shield and flung it over his shoulder. Once again the old, fur clad Wizard’s movements brought him to where he had first entered the camp, through the forest. The half-asleep guard awakened faintly, to watch the little man in his queer dance, as he moved towards him. He made no effort to detain the Old One but merely stared in disbelief, as Arkin vanished into the forest once again. The guard stood dazed in disbelief at the sight and then rubbed away the sleep from his eyes, uncertain if he had been daydreaming.

brief glimpses of sun between otherwise omnipresent dull gray cloud cover, a shapeless mist blanketing the sky. Weather’s

brief glimpses of sun between otherwise omnipresent dull gray cloud cover, a shapeless mist blanketing the sky. Weather’s equivalent of depression, I mused, replicating the mind’s perception in the atmosphere.

She was a pretty and lovable but perhaps not a beautiful woman, with wide, intelligent, peaceful eyes and a smiling mouth that ran pink and red depending on the weather. She rarely dressed inside the fashion, yet always managed to look fashionable, and while there were those in London society who condemned her curling, unostentatious hair as dull, there were others who thought it her best asset. Lenox, of course, stood with this latter group.

They had the calm weathered faces of healthy men in hard condition. They had the eyes they always have, cloudy and gray like freezing water. The firm set mouth, the hard little wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, the hard hollow meaningless stare, not quite cruel and a thousand miles from kind. The dull ready-made clothes, worn without style, with a sort of contempt; the look of men who are poor and yet proud of their power, watching always for ways to make it felt, to shove it into you and twist it and grin and watch you squirm, ruthless without malice, cruel and yet not always unkind. What would you expect them to be? Civilization had no meaning for them. All they saw of it was the failures, the dirt, the dregs, the aberrations and the disgust.

Then he turned to Rosemary Barr. “Meanwhile we’ll put you somewhere safe,” he told her. “Your tutorials will start as soon as the soldier is buried.” The outer western suburbs were bedroom communities for people who worked in the city, so the traffic stayed bad all the way out. The houses were much grander than in the east. They were all two-story, all varied, all well maintained. They all had big lots and pools and ambitious evergreen landscaping. With the last of the sunset behind them they looked like pictures in a brochure. “Tight-ass middle class,” Reacher said. “What we all aspire to,” Yanni said. “They won’t want to talk,” Reacher said. “Not their style.” “They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks to me.” They drove past the Archer place slowly. There was a cast-metal sign on thin chains under the mailbox: Ted and Oline Archer. Beyond it, across a broad open lawn, the house looked closed-up and dark and silent. It was a big Tudor place. Dull brown beams, cream stucco. Three-car garage. Nobody home, Reacher thought. The neighbor they were looking for lived across the street and one lot to the north. Hers was a place about the same size as the Archers’ but done in an Italianate style. Stone accents, little crenellated towers, dark green sun awnings on the south-facing ground-floor windows. The evening light was fading away to darkness and lamps were coming on behind draped windows. The whole street looked warm and rested and quiet and very satisfied with itself. Reacher said, “They sleep safely in their beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do them harm.” “You know George Orwell?” Yanni asked. “I went to college,” Reacher said. “West Point is technically a college.” Yanni said, “The existing social order is a swindle and its cherished beliefs mostly delusions.” “It is not possible for any thinking person to live in such a society as our own without wanting to change it,” Reacher said. “I’m sure these are perfectly nice people,” Helen said. “But will they talk to us?” “They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks.” Helen pulled into a long limestone driveway and parked about twenty feet behind an imported SUV that had big chrome wheels. The front door of the house was made of ancient gray weathered oak with iron banding that had nail heads as big as golf balls. It felt like you could step through it straight into the Renaissance. “Property is theft,” Reacher said. “Proudhon,” Yanni said. “Property is desirable, is a positive good in the world.” “Abraham Lincoln,” Reacher said. “In his first State of the Union.” There was an iron knocker shaped like

Gordon wrote to Mayor Ritsema: “On September 17, 1944 I participated in the large airborne operation which was conducted to liberate your country. As a member of company E, 506th PIR, I landed near the small town of Son. The following day we moved south and liberated Eindhoven. While carrying out our assignment, we suffered casualties. That is war talk for bleeding. We occupied various defense positions for over two months. Like animals, we lived in holes, barns, and as best we could. The weather was cold and wet. In spite of the adverse conditions, we held the ground we had fought so hard to capture. “The citizens of Holland at that time did not share your aversion to bloodshed when the blood being shed was that of the German occupiers of your city. How soon we forget. History has proven more than once that Holland could again be conquered if your neighbor, the Germans, are having a dull weekend and the golf links are crowded. “Please don’t allow your country to be swallowed up by Liechtenstein or the Vatican as I don’t plan to return. As of now, you are on your own.

Several years ago a violent storm struck Pawleys Island and the Carolina coast. Two men riding in a car during the storm wondered what they should do. One mad said, “We sure need the Gray Man to tell us whether or not we should leave.” The other man responded quickly, “Well, there he is up ahead! Why don’t you ask him?” And it was! They saw the figure of a man, dressed all in gray, his shoulders hunched up against the driving wind and rain, while he strode purposefully along the island road. They stopped the car near the man. “Sir, are you the Gray Man?” one of them asked out the window. “No!” the man exploded. His head bent against the rain. The men in the car were disappointed. One said, “I’m sorry, sir. You’re dressed all in gray and out in this storm. No offense, sir.” They started to drive on. “Look,” the man in the storm said, “I had a heart attack, and my doctor told me I had to exercise. So I’m going to exercise if it kills me!” And he plodded on. The man was wearing a dull gray, knitted warm-up suit, with the hood pulled over his head. Today we depend on the Weather Bureau for warnings, watches, and evacuation notices in the face of a threatening hurricane or coastal storm. Certainly you should heed these warnings. But if you happen to see the Gray Man—take his advice and leave quickly!

them reminded him of all he had experienced and learned during these weeks and this recollection was pleasant to him. For some days the weather had been calm and clear with slight frosts in the mornings—what is called an “old wives’ summer.” In the sunshine the air was warm, and that warmth was particularly pleasant with the invigorating freshness of the morning frost still in the air. On everything—far and near—lay the magic crystal glitter seen only at that time of autumn. The Sparrow Hills were visible in the distance, with the village, the church, and the large white house. The bare trees, the sand, the bricks and roofs of the houses, the green church spire, and the corners of the white house in the distance, all stood out in the transparent air in most delicate outline and with unnatural clearness. Near by could be seen the familiar ruins of a half-burned mansion occupied by the French, with lilac bushes still showing dark green beside the fence. And even that ruined and befouled house—which in dull weather was repulsively ugly—seemed quietly beautiful now, in the clear, motionless brilliance. A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, a skullcap on his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came from behind a corner of the shed and approached Pierre with a friendly wink. “What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!” (Their name for Pierre.) “Eh? Just like spring!” And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre his pipe, though whenever he offered it Pierre always declined it. “To be on the march in such weather . . .” he began. Pierre inquired what was being said about leaving, and the corporal told him that nearly all the troops were starting and there ought to be an order about the prisoners that day. Sokolov, one of the soldiers in the shed with Pierre, was dying, and Pierre told the corporal that something should be done about him. The corporal replied that Pierre need not worry about that as they had an ambulance and a permanent hospital and arrangements would be made for the sick, and that in general everything that could happen had been foreseen by the authorities. “Besides, Monsieur Kiril, you have only to say a word to the captain, you know. He is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the captain when he makes his round, he will do anything for you.” (The captain of whom the corporal spoke often had long chats with Pierre and showed him all sorts of favors.) “ ‘You see, St. Thomas,’ he said to me the other day. ‘Monsieur Kiril is a man of education, who speaks French. He

Did I really write to them from a fake e-mail account, posing as my mother to get out of it? My face flames and sweat dots my hairline. It itches, but my arms refuse to let me do anything about it. The crowd blurs into a dull shifting mass, pressing in on me. I look back up at the ceiling for stability, but it only makes me dizzier. Colors swirl together. God shifts his eyes from Adam to me. Murmurs and whispers amplify, joining my accelerating pulse until there’s a stampede in my ears. My heart might explode. What have I done? Chiara grabs my hand and supports my weakened body through a maze of people and doorways until we’re outside. The brightness burns my eyes, but I welcome the awakening. “What happened? You looked as if you might fall over.” I avoid her question and instead gaze up at the weathered, bluish dome of St. Peter’s Basilica looming over us from high above all the other buildings in the city. Is the pope in there praying for liars like me?

Two years before our arrival at Maplehurst, we had left the Midwest eager for new jobs, milder weather, and a house of our own with a real backyard. We were unprepared for the enormity of our losses. Good friends. Close-knit community. A meaningful connection with the work of our minds and our hands. There was one lost thing, in particular. It was such a natural part of our prewilderness lives that I only ever recognized it after it was gone. In our northern city, we had lived a seasonal rhythm of summer festivals and winter sledding, spring baseball games and autumn apple picking. Our moments and our months were distinguished by the color of the trees, deep red or spring green, and the color of the lake, sparkling and playful in summer, menacing and dull in winter. These things were the beautiful, sometimes harsh, but always rhythmic backdrop in our days. Time was like music. It had a melody. In the wilderness, the only thing that differentiated one season from the next was my terrible winter asthma. Without time's music, I became aimless and disconnected, like a child's lost balloon.

The first kiss, the first proposal, the birth of a healthy child would be about as exciting as last year’s weather report. If our world ever turned certain, life would be mind-numbingly dull.

It was good for me to be afflicted. (Psalm 119:71) It is a remarkable occurrence of nature that the most brilliant colors of plants are found on the highest mountains, in places that are the most exposed to the fiercest weather. The brightest lichens and mosses, as well as the most beautiful wildflowers, abound high upon the windswept, storm-ravaged peaks. One of the finest arrays of living color I have ever seen was just above the great Saint Bernard Hospice near the ten-thousand-foot summit of Mont Cenis in the French Alps. The entire face of one expansive rock was covered with a strikingly vivid yellow lichen, which shone in the sunshine like a golden wall protecting an enchanted castle. Amid the loneliness and barrenness of that high altitude and exposed to the fiercest winds of the sky, this lichen exhibited glorious color it has never displayed in the shelter of the valley. As I write these words, I have two specimens of the same type of lichen before me. One is from this Saint Bernard area, and the other is from the wall of a Scottish castle, which is surrounded by sycamore trees. The difference in their form and coloring is quite striking. The one grown amid the fierce storms of the mountain peak has a lovely yellow color of a primrose, a smooth texture, and a definite form and shape. But the one cultivated amid the warm air and the soft showers of the lowland valley has a dull, rusty color, a rough texture, and an indistinct and broken shape. Isn’t it the same with a Christian who is afflicted, storm-tossed, and without comfort? Until the storms and difficulties allowed by God’s providence beat upon a believer again and again, his character appears flawed and blurred. Yet the trials actually clear away the clouds and shadows, perfect the form of his character, and bestow brightness and blessing to his life. Amidst my list of blessings infinite Stands this the foremost, that my heart has bled; For all I bless You, most for the severe. Hugh Macmillan

Estonian students, sitting in a café, impervious to the sparkling weather out of doors, impervious to the far roar of the world. It would not be so bad, if the café had an atmosphere of its own, if it could encourage the growth of an Estonian Boheme, throughout these winter months. But it has nothing of the sort. It is only a shabby reproduction of that indescribably vacuous institution: the typical northern-European café, where heavy red draperies shut out the healthy light of day; where coffee and cake is served on little tables with sticky imitation-marble tops and paper-napkins, where bored traveling salesmen read the daily papers and look at the women; where women sit patiently, by themselves, hoping to appear mysterious and romantic through their anonymity, hoping someday to encounter the shadowy Prince Charming, as he is encountered in fiction magazines; where a second-rate orchestra scrapes out tunes to which nobody listens—in short, where there is not even the lure of intoxication and vice and despair, but only sickening pretension, dullness, boredom, and stale air.

What are we talking about in 2001? A Tuesday morning with a crystalline sky. American Airlines Flight 11 from Boston to Los Angeles crashes into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175, also from Boston to Los Angeles, crashes into the South Tower at 9:03. American Airlines Flight 77 from Washington Dulles to Los Angeles hits the Pentagon at 9:37 a.m. And at 10:03 a.m., United Flight 93 from Newark to San Francisco crashes in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. There are 2,996 fatalities. The country is stunned and grief-stricken. We have been attacked on our own soil for the first time since the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in December 1941. A man in a navy-blue summer-weight suit launches himself from a 103rd-floor window. An El Salvadoran line chef running late for his prep shift at Windows on the World watches the sky turn to fire and the top of the building—six floors beneath the kitchen where he works—explode. Cantor Fitzgerald. President Bush in a bunker. The pregnant widow of a brave man who says, “Let’s roll.” The plane that went down in Pennsylvania was headed for the Capitol Building. The world says, America was attacked. America says, New York was attacked. New York says, Downtown was attacked. There’s a televised benefit concert, America: A Tribute to Heroes. The Goo Goo Dolls and Limp Bizkit sing “Wish You Were Here.” Voicemail messages from the dead. First responders running up the stairs while civilians run down. Flyers plastered across Manhattan: MISSING. The date—chosen by the terrorists because of the bluebird weather—has an eerie significance: 9/11. Though we will all come to call it Nine Eleven

I mean, don’t you ever wonder what’s going to happen to the rest of us?” There was a clap of dull, muffled thunder, and a sudden heavy shower. Radio weather reports say today’s rain will be the last of the four-day series of storms. I hope not. “Sure I think about it,” Joanne said. “With people shooting little kids, how can I not think about it?” “People have been killing little kids since there’ve been people,” I said. “Not in here, they haven’t. Not until now.” “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it. We got a wake-up call. Another one.

is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank, I have erred against every common place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful: - had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared.

The Minnesota State Weather observer at Pine River Dam recorded a minimum temperature of 46 below on December 29; observers at Pokegama Falls and Leech Lake Dam were unable to take temperature readings that day because the mercury inside their government-issued thermometers froze solid. It's hard to find vocabulary for weather this cold. The senses first become sharp and then dulled. Objects etch themselves with hyperclarity on the dense air, but it's hard to keep your eyes open to look at them steadily. When you first step outside from a heated space, the blast from 46-below-zero air clears the mind like a ringing slap. After a breath or two, ice builds up on the hairs of your nasal passages and the clear film bathing your eyeballs thickens. If the wind is calm and your body, head, and hands are covered, you feel preternaturally alert and focused. At first. A dozen paces from the door, your throat begins to feel raw, your lips dry and crack, tears sting the corners of your eyes. The cold becomes at once a knife and, paradoxically, a flame, cutting and scorching exposed skin.

I'm not a very good [father], I'm afraid," Martin said. "Ach." Marianne waved this away. "I'm sure you are." Sitting here on this weather-beaten porch, with its brittle railings and the dull pounding of the sea below, he felt a gray bloom of failure. This was why he had come to see [her]. She was the gardener of this ugly flower. She knew just how to turn his face to the sun.

She dances, She dances around the burning flames with passion, Under the same dull stars, Under the same hell with crimson embers crashing, Under the same silver chains that wires, All her beauty and who she is inside, She's left with the loneliness of human existence, She's left questioning how she's survived, She's left with this awakening of brutal resilience, Her true beauty that she denies, As much she's like to deny it, As much as it continues to shine, That she doesn't even have to admit, Because we all know it's true, Her glory and success, After all she's been through, Her triumph and madness, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Broken legs- but she's still standing, Still dancing in this void, You must wonder how she's still dancing, You must wonder how she's not destroyed, She doesn't even begin to drown within the flames, But little do you realize, Within these chains, She weeps and she cries, But she still goes on, And just you thought you could stop her? You thought you'd be the one? Well, let me tell you, because you thought wrong. Nothing will ever silence her, Because I KNOW, I know that she is admiringly strong, Her undeniable beauty, The triumph of her song, She's shining bright like a ruby, Reflecting in the golden sand, She's shining brighter like no other, She's far more than human or man, AND YET, SHE STANDS. She continues to dance with free-spirit, Even though she's locked in these chains, Though she never desired to change it, Even throughout the agonizing pain, Throughout all the distress, Anxiety, depression, tears and sorrow, She still dances so beautify in her dress, She looks forward to tomorrow, Not because of a fresh start but a new page, A new day full of opportunities, Despite being trapped in her cage, She still smiles after being beaten so brutally, A smile that could brighten anyone's day, She's so much more than anyone could ask for, She's so much more than I could ever say, She's a girl absolutely everyone should adore, She never gets in the way, Even after her hearts been broken, Even after the way she has been treated, After all these severe emotions, After all all the blood she's bled, AND YET, SHE STANDS. Even if sometimes she wonders why she's still here, She wonders why she's not dead, But there's this one thing that had been here throughout every tear, Throughout the blazing fire leaving her cheeks cherry red, Everyday this thing has given her a place to exist, This thing, person, these people, Like warm sunlight it had so softly kissed, The apples of her cheeks, Even when she's feeling feeble, Always there at her worst and at her best Because of you and all the other people, She has this thing deep inside her chest, That she will cherish forever, Even once you're gone, Because today she smiles like no other, Even when the sun sets at dawn, Because today is the day, She just wants you to remember, In dark and stormy weather, It gets better. And after what she's been through she knows, Throughout the highs and the lows, Because of you and all others, After crossing the seas, She has come to understand, You have formed this key, This key to free her from this land, This endless gorge that swallowed her, Her and other men, She had never knew, nor had she planned, That because of you, AND YET, THIS VERY DAY, SHE DANCES. EVEN IN THE RAIN.

Have you ever, on a summer's day, gone to bed in dull, rainy weather, and, waking just at sunset, opened your eyes and seen through the square space of the window—the space where the linen blind is blowing up and down, and beating its rod upon the window-sill—the rain-soaked, shadowy, purple vista of an avenue of lime-trees, with a damp garden path lit up by the clear, slanting beams of the sun, and then suddenly heard the joyous sounds of bird life in the garden, and seen insects flying to and fro at the open window, and glittering in the sunlight, and smelt the fragrance of the rain-washed air, and thought to yourself, ‘Am I not ashamed to be lying in bed on such an evening as this?’ and, leaping joyously to your feet, gone out into the garden and revelled in all that welter of life? If you have, then you can imagine for yourself the overpowering sensation which was then possessing me.

【国外学历办理】【+QV信:1954292140】购买英华美学院毕业证,英华美学院文凭Informatics毕业证学历认证方法,Informatics毕业证办理多少钱又安全,办理英华美学院毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售Anglo-American Academy毕业文凭证书哪里能购买英华美学院毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理英华美学院Anglo-American Academy在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake Anglo-American Academy Bachloer Degree。 我们承诺采用的是Informatics学校原版纸张（原版纸质、底色、纹路）我们工厂拥有全套进口原装设备，特殊工艺都是采用不同机器制作，仿真度基本可以达到100%，Buy fake Anglo-American Academy Academic Transcript所有成品以及工艺效果都可提前给客户展示，不满意可以根据客户要求进行调整，直到满意为止！ 一整套留学英华美学院文凭证书办理（包含英华美学院毕业证《Q微1954 292 140》、Informatics成绩单、学历认证、使馆认证、归国人员证明、教育部认证、留信网认证永远存档，教育部学历学位认证查询），办理国外文凭国外学历学位认证《购买英华美学院毕业证认证》【Q/微1954 292 140】《Informatics学位证书实拍图在线购买》我们提供全套办理服务。 Many dishes, many diseases 很多菜，很多病。 Love will find a way. 爱心所至, 金石为开. The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 No living man all things can. 世上没有万能的人. Far fowls have fair feathers. 远方的鸟羽毛美。/弄不到手的东西是最好的。 Don’t try so hard, the best things come when you least expect them 不要著急，最好的總會在最不經意的時候出現。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 The pot calls the kettle black 壶叫壶黑。 Extremes meet. 两极相通，有无相生。 While the dog gnaws bone, companions would be none 狗啃骨头时，没有同伴。 Teach your grandmother to suck eggs 教你奶奶去吸鸡蛋。 If someone truly loves you, distance is not a problem Its just the power of making love grow each day Four eyes see more than two. 两人总比一人看得周到.

【买国外学历】【+QV信:1954292140】哪里买Denver丹佛大学毕业证|Denver成绩单,美国丹佛大学文凭学历证书样板查看,Denver丹佛大学毕业证成绩单学历认证最安全办理方式,定做丹佛大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售University of Denver毕业文凭证书哪里能购买丹佛大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理丹佛大学University of Denver在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake University of Denver Transcript。 当遭遇挂科、旷课导致无法修满学分，或者直接被学校退学，最后无法毕业拿不到丹佛大学毕业证【+微信：1954292140】。此时的你一定手足无措，因为留学一场，没有获得毕业证以及学历证明肯定是无法给自己和父母一个交代的。 全套留学文凭办理=《加急办理丹佛大学毕业证书电子版》【Q/微1954 292 140】《Denver成绩单电子版原版定制》1:1原版毕业证+原版成绩单+真实使馆证明+真实教育部认证！我们会根据您的实际情况，帮您选取最合适的方案，完善申请资料，填写申请并追踪进度，在最短的时间内帮你完成申请，专业解决各国留学生毕业证成绩单学历学位认证难题。 I know I’m not beautiful, but everyday I hope you think that I am 我知道我不夠美，但每天我都期望著你會覺得我是美麗的。 There are spots in the sun. 太阳也有黑点。 To the world you may be just one person對這世界來說，你也許只是某個人；但對某個人來說，你卻是全世界。 You are as warm as the sunset glow 你與日落晚霞同樣溫暖。 There are two reasons why I wake up in the morning: my alarm clock and you 我早上願意醒來為兩個理由: 鬧鐘和你。 He that will not work shall not eat 不工作的人不可吃东西。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 No living man all things can. 世上没有万能的人. Every man is his own enemy. 人都有与自己为敌的时候. /败事全由已. In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 Study, study, and study. 学习, 学习, 再学习. Be still, and have the will. 不动声色, 事方有成.

【留学生学历学位】【+QV信:1954292140】波恩茅斯大学Bournemouth University大学毕业证成绩单,Bournemouth学位证波恩茅斯大学学位证Bournemouth海外学历造假,最便宜办理Bournemouth波恩茅斯大学毕业证书,办理波恩茅斯大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售Bournemouth University毕业文凭证书哪里能购买波恩茅斯大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理波恩茅斯大学Bournemouth University在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake Bournemouth University Master Degree。 当遭遇挂科、旷课导致无法修满学分，或者直接被学校退学，最后无法毕业拿不到波恩茅斯大学毕业证【+微信：1954292140】。此时的你一定手足无措，因为留学一场，没有获得毕业证以及学历证明肯定是无法给自己和父母一个交代的。 一整套留学波恩茅斯大学文凭证书办理（包含波恩茅斯大学毕业证《Q微1954 292 140》、Bournemouth成绩单、学历认证、使馆认证、归国人员证明、教育部认证、留信网认证永远存档，教育部学历学位认证查询），办理国外文凭国外学历学位认证《原版定做波恩茅斯大学毕业证认证》【Q/微1954 292 140】《Bournemouth学位证书出售》我们提供全套办理服务。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 Silence gives consent 沉默会得到同意。 A lie begets a lie till they come to generations 谎言生出谎言，世代相传。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 Give losers leave to speak. 要允许失败者讲话。 Skill and confidence are an unconquered army 技能和信心是一支没有征服力的军队。 Keep your shirt on 冷靜點，別急。 The fox is known by his brush 狐狸以其刷子为人所知。 Marry thy like. 结婚须找同类人. Familiarity breeds contempt. 亲密生侮心。 Nothing venture, nothing have. 不担风险就无收获. People are lonely because They build walls instead of bridges人類會寂寞是因為他們建了牆壁而不是橋樑。 History repeats itself. 历史往往重演。

【英国毕业证成绩单】【+QV信:1954292140】网络办理Manchester曼彻斯特大学毕业证官方成绩单学历认证,英国曼彻斯特大学学历学位证书出售,英国大学文凭办理曼彻斯特大学毕业证学历认证,购买曼彻斯特大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售University of Manchester毕业文凭证书哪里能购买曼彻斯特大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理曼彻斯特大学University of Manchester在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake University of Manchester Bachelor Diploma。 当遭遇挂科、旷课导致无法修满学分，或者直接被学校退学，最后无法毕业拿不到曼彻斯特大学毕业证【+微信：1954292140】。此时的你一定手足无措，因为留学一场，没有获得毕业证以及学历证明肯定是无法给自己和父母一个交代的。 我们是一家专业制作海外大学文凭《出售曼彻斯特大学毕业证书复印件》【Q/微1954 292 140】《Manchester双学位证书哪里卖》，在读证明办理，学位证办理，毕业证，diploma办理的公司。致力于用最真诚的服务跟质量来为每一位因特殊因素拿不到学位证的同学服务。 Time waits for no one Treasure every moment you have Make each day your masterpiece 讓每一天成為你的傑作。 Empty hands no hawk allure 空手无鹰。 Failure is the mother of success 失敗乃成功之母。 It is impossible to love and to be wise 要愛又兼有理性是不可能的。 One man, no man. 个人是渺小的. History repeats itself 历史重演。 Hope well and have well. 善寄希望于未来, 又善保有现在. Poverty tries friends. 贫穷考验朋友. The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 Love is like the moon, when it does not increase, it decreases 愛情就像月亮，不增則減。 He who hesitates is lost. 当断不断, 反受其乱.

【国外学历认证】【+QV信:1954292140】英国篇Bath英国巴斯大学文凭学历证书毕业证书办理,办理巴斯大学毕业证办理毕业证,优质渠道办理Bath巴斯大学毕业证成绩单学历认证,办理巴斯大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售University of Bath毕业文凭证书哪里能购买巴斯大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理巴斯大学University of Bath在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake University of Bath Bachelor Diploma。 — — 制作工艺 【高仿真】— — 凭借多年的制作经验本公司制作巴斯大学Bath毕业证认证学历认证报告【QQ/微信：1954292140】成绩单《激光》《水印》《钢印》《烫金》《紫外线》凹凸版uv版等防伪技术一流高精仿度几乎跟学校100%相同！让您绝对满意。 我们是一家专业制作海外大学文凭《原版定做巴斯大学毕业证书扫描件》【Q/微1954 292 140】《Bath成绩单电子版定做》，在读证明办理，学位证办理，毕业证，diploma办理的公司。致力于用最真诚的服务跟质量来为每一位因特殊因素拿不到学位证的同学服务。 Bread is the staff of life. 民以食为天。 It is Better to be a martyr than a confessor 当烈士总比忏悔者强。 Sweep before your own door. 正人先正己。 Extremes meet. 两极相通，有无相生。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 Time is the great healer. 时间是最好的医治者. Love and a cough cannot be hid 愛情跟咳嗽一樣是掩飾不了的。 Anything for a quiet life. 悠然自在最难求. I know I’m not beautiful, but everyday I hope you think that I am 我知道我不夠美，但每天我都期望著你會覺得我是美麗的。 Do not despise your enemy 不要轻视你的敌人。 It’s up to you how far you’ll go 能走多遠取決於你自己。 Do not hallo till you are out of the wood 不出森林就不要打哈罗。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。

【假学历美国假文凭购买】【+QV信:1954292140】如何办理俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证文凭学历证书,Ohio State University – Columbus俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校颁发典礼学术荣誉颁奖感受博士生的光荣时刻,原版俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证办理成绩单办理,定做俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售Ohio State University – Columbus毕业文凭证书哪里能购买俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校Ohio State University – Columbus在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake Ohio State University – Columbus Academic Transcript。 定做俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校学位证流程： 1:客户提供办理信息：姓名生日专业学位毕业时间等（如信息不确定可以咨询顾问：我们有专业老师帮你查询）【QQ/微信：1954292140】； 2:开始安排制作俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证成绩单电子图； 3:俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证成绩单电子版做好以后发送给您确认； 4:俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证成绩单电子版您确认信息无误之后安排制作成品； 5:俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证成绩单成品做好拍照或者视频给您确认； 6:快递给客户（国内顺丰国外DHLUPS等快读邮寄） 美国留学办理osu文凭俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证【Q/微信1954 292 140】办理全套留学文凭材料（俄亥俄州立大学哥伦布分校毕业证/成绩单（GPA成绩修改）/osu文凭学历证书)；（真实可查）教育部学历认证、留信网认证、使馆认证留学人员回国证明、文凭认证、osu diploma、osu certificate、osu Degree（实体公司，专业可靠）。 A man’s best friends are his ten fingers 人最好的朋友是自己的十個手指。(靠自己最實在) The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 To laugh at yourself is to love yourself 學會自嘲也是愛自己的一種表現。 An empty bag cannot stand upright 空袋子立不起来。 Every dog is a lion at home 家里的狗都是狮子。 One's sin will find one out. 坏事终归要败露。 Love is a sweet torment 爱情是一种甜蜜的折磨。 Far fowls have fair feathers. 远方的鸟羽毛美。/弄不到手的东西是最好的。 Have the ability to love oneself, have the strength to love others 有能力愛自己，有餘力愛別人 You can’t please everyone 你不可能取悅所有人。 Ill news never comes too late 祸不单行。 Whatever happens tomorrow, we had today Ill always remember it In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。

【美国读书未毕业】【+QV信:1954292140】佛罗里达大学毕业证办理美国留信网学历认证,佛罗里达大学毕业证认证真实,Offer(UFL成绩单)UFL佛罗里达大学如何办理?,定制佛罗里达大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售University of Florida毕业文凭证书哪里能购买佛罗里达大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理佛罗里达大学University of Florida在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake University of Florida Bachelor Diploma。 （真实可查，永久存档）招代理中介/原件一模一样纸张工艺/offer、外壳等材料/诚信可靠,可直接看成品样本，帮您解决无法毕业带来的各种难题！外壳，原版制作，诚信可靠，可直接看成品样本。行业标杆！精益求精，诚心合作，真诚制作！多年品质 ,按需精细制作，24小时接单,全套进口原装设备。十五年致力于帮助留学生解决难题，包您满意。【QQ/微信：1954292140】Buy University of Florida fake Degree Certificate 留学生买佛罗里达大学毕业证文凭、学历认证请联系【Q/微信1954 292 140】美国文凭毕业证做佛罗里达大学毕业证成绩单。专业为留学生办理佛罗里达大学毕业证、成绩单、使馆留学回国人员证明、教育部学历学位认证、佛罗里达大学录取通知书、Offer、在读证明、雅思托福成绩单、网上存档永久可！ He that never rode never fell 从不骑马的人从不跌倒。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 Live and learn 活到老学到老。 It's never too late to mend. 改过不嫌晚。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 Fair and softly goes far. 谦和者致远。 Man is not made for defeat. 创造人不是为了让他遭受失败. /人不是为失败而生的. A friend in court is Better than a penny in purse 法庭上的朋友胜过钱包里的一分钱。 Ignorance of the law excuses no man 对法律的无知不能成为任何人的借口。 Every man has his faults. 人都有缺点. Do not through fear of poverty surrender liberty 不要因为害怕贫穷而放弃自由。 Older and wiser 更老更聪明。 Forbidden fruit is sweet. 禁果分外甜。

Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one’s acquaintance.

【英国毕业证成绩单】【+QV信:1954292140】高仿萨里大学假毕业证能查出来吗,如何办理萨里大学毕业证文凭学历证书,Surrey diploma安全可靠购买萨里大学毕业证,高仿萨里大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售University of Surrey毕业文凭证书哪里能购买萨里大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理萨里大学University of Surrey在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake University of Surrey Diploma。 我们承诺采用的是Surrey学校原版纸张（原版纸质、底色、纹路）我们工厂拥有全套进口原装设备，特殊工艺都是采用不同机器制作，仿真度基本可以达到100%，Buy fake University of Surrey Offer letter所有成品以及工艺效果都可提前给客户展示，不满意可以根据客户要求进行调整，直到满意为止！ 专业留学服务公司《1比1仿制萨里大学毕业证书电子版》【Q/微1954 292 140】《Surrey成绩单GPA修改1比1复刻》拥有海外样板无数，能完美1:1还原海外各国大学萨里大学degree #Diploma #Transcripts等毕业材料。 You can have no more of the fox than the skin 狐狸的皮不能再多了。 He that will not work shall not eat 不工作的人不可吃东西。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 What can&; t be cured must be endured 不能治愈的必须忍受。 Misfortunes never come alone 祸不单行。 Prettiness makes no pottage. 漂亮不能当饭吃. Idleness rusts the mind. 懒散使头脑衰退. Never too late to mend 改过自新永不嫌晚。 Don&; t swap horses when crossing a stream 过河不要换马。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 Many heads are Better than one 多头不如一头。 A wilful fault has no excuse and deserves no pardon 故意的过错没有借口，也不值得原谅。 It is never too late to fall in love 愛永遠不會嫌晚。

同等学力毕业证【Q/V:1954292140】办法国毕业证学位证巴黎第六大学毕业证书,fake UPMC diploma transcript,法国篇巴黎第六大学毕业证UPMC文凭认证成绩单,巴黎第六大学毕业证和成绩单仿制【QQ/微信:1954292140】办留信网认证、海牙认证（实体公司，专业可靠）鉴于此，出售UPMC学位证书哪里能购买巴黎第六大学毕业证【QQ/微信:1954292140】巴黎第六大学文凭认证海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法。当遭遇挂科、旷课导致无法修满学分，或者直接被学校退学，最后无法毕业拿不到毕业证。此时的你一定手足无措，因为留学一场，没有获得巴黎第六大学毕业证【办证微信Q：1954292140】以及学历证明肯定是无法给自己和父母一个交代的。Buy Université Paris VI fake Master Diploma 我们承诺采用的是UPMC学校原版纸张（原版纸质、底色、纹路）我们工厂拥有全套进口原装设备，特殊工艺都是采用不同机器制作，仿真度基本可以达到100%，Buy fake Université Paris VI Bachelor Diploma所有成品以及工艺效果都可提前给客户展示，不满意可以根据客户要求进行调整，直到满意为止！ 全套留学文凭服务：巴黎第六大学毕业证+成绩单+学历认证《Q微1954 292 140》《在线购买巴黎第六大学毕业证和学位证》《法国文凭证书设计原版定做巴黎第六大学毕业证和学位证》#成绩单 #真实回国人员证明 #真实教育部认证。让您回国发展信心十足！ East or West, home is best. 无论在何处, 家园最美好. A horse that will not carry a saddle must have no oats 不带鞍的马一定没有燕麦。 Marry in haste, and repent at leisure 仓促结婚，闲时悔改。 Remember thou art but a man 记住你只是一个人。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 The fox smells his own stink first 狐狸先闻到了自己的臭味。 "Never”is a long word. 不要轻易说“决不”。 If you aim at the moon, even if you are lost, you will fall between the stars 如果你瞄準月亮，即使迷失了，你仍會落在星河之間。 Spend your life in your own way 用自己喜歡的方式過一生。

【留学生学历学位】【+QV信:1954292140】BC学历证书波士顿学院学历证书BC假文凭,留学生买文凭BC波士顿学院毕业证成绩单,美国办理BC波士顿学院学历学位证书,购买波士顿学院毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售Boston College毕业文凭证书哪里能购买波士顿学院毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理波士顿学院Boston College在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake Boston College Master Diploma。 【实体公司】办波士顿学院BC毕业证、成绩单【QQ/微信:1954292140】学历认证、学位证、文凭认证、办留信网认证、办留服认证、海牙认证、办教育部认证（网上可查，实体公司，专业可靠）【办证微信Q：1954292140】 留学生买波士顿学院毕业证文凭、学历认证请联系【Q/微信1954 292 140】美国文凭学位证书原版复刻波士顿学院毕业证书电子版。专业为留学生办理波士顿学院毕业证、成绩单、使馆留学回国人员证明、教育部学历学位认证、波士顿学院录取通知书、Offer、在读证明、雅思托福成绩单、网上存档永久可！ Bad times make a good man. 艰难困苦出能人. Comfort is better than pride. 华美不如舒适. Live beautifully, dream passionately, love completely 活要活得美好，夢要夢得熱烈，愛要愛得完整。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 Beard the lion in his den 把狮子放在巢穴里。 Short pleasure, long lament 短暂的快乐，长长的哀叹。 There are two reasons why I wake up in the morning: my alarm clock and you 我早上願意醒來為兩個理由: 鬧鐘和你。 All that glitters is not gold. 闪烁者不尽是金。 Live beautifully, dream passionately, love completely 活要活得美好，夢要夢得熱烈，愛要愛得完整。 Long absent, soon forgotten 久违，不久便被遗忘。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 Every Jack has his Jill. 人均有其偶. In valour there is hope. 希望在于勇敢.

【国外大学文凭制作】【+QV信:1954292140】原版Stanford毕业证最佳办理流程,国外假文凭找工作斯坦福大学毕业证成绩单官方正版,666办理斯坦福大学毕业证最佳渠道,定制斯坦福大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售Stanford University毕业文凭证书哪里能购买斯坦福大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理斯坦福大学Stanford University在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake Stanford University Bachloer Degree。 （真实可查，永久存档）招代理中介/原件一模一样纸张工艺/offer、外壳等材料/诚信可靠,可直接看成品样本，帮您解决无法毕业带来的各种难题！外壳，原版制作，诚信可靠，可直接看成品样本。行业标杆！精益求精，诚心合作，真诚制作！多年品质 ,按需精细制作，24小时接单,全套进口原装设备。十五年致力于帮助留学生解决难题，包您满意。【QQ/微信：1954292140】Buy Stanford University fake Diploma 全套留学文凭办理=《真实可查斯坦福大学毕业证认证》【Q/微1954 292 140】《Stanford电子版学位证书1：1制作》1:1原版毕业证+原版成绩单+真实使馆证明+真实教育部认证！我们会根据您的实际情况，帮您选取最合适的方案，完善申请资料，填写申请并追踪进度，在最短的时间内帮你完成申请，专业解决各国留学生毕业证成绩单学历学位认证难题。 Beauty is but skin-deep. 美只是外表, /不能以貌取人. Study sickness while you are well 趁你身体好的时候研究疾病。 The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 Life does not have to be perfect to be wonderful 精彩的人生不必苛求完美。 When an opportunity is neglected, it never comes back to you 当一个机会被忽视时，它永远不会回到你身边。 Extremes meet. 两极相通，有无相生。 Charity begins at home. 仁爱先施于亲友. The shortest answer is doing. 最简短的回答是干. Ill air slays sooner than the sword 恶毒的空气比剑更能杀死人。 In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 Anything you want me to do, I remember, you remember你要帶我做的任何事，我都記得，你也記得。 A wise man will make tools of what comes to hand 聪明人会用手头的东西做工具。 Mercy to the eriminal may be eruelty to the people 可能会有人怜悯他们。

【美国毕业证成绩单】【+QV信:1954292140】罗文大学学历认证美国大学本科硕士文凭证书,仿制罗文大学毕业证文凭最新版本,罗文大学毕业证成绩单 高端定制Rowan毕业证,仿制罗文大学毕业证成绩单【QQ/微信：1954292140】鉴于此，出售Rowan University毕业文凭证书哪里能购买罗文大学毕业证【微信：1954292140】在线办理罗文大学Rowan University在读证明海外各大学Degree版本，因为疫情学校推迟发放证书、证书原件丢失补办、没有正常毕业未能认证学历面临就业提供解决办法Buy fake Rowan University Academic Transcript。 — — 制作工艺 【高仿真】— — 凭借多年的制作经验本公司制作罗文大学Rowan电子版毕业证书学历认证报告【QQ/微信：1954292140】成绩单《激光》《水印》《钢印》《烫金》《紫外线》凹凸版uv版等防伪技术一流高精仿度几乎跟学校100%相同！让您绝对满意。 美国买罗文大学毕业证文凭、留学生学历认证【Q威信:1954 292 140】致力于帮助留学生解决无法毕业，无法认证学历的难题，并帮助留学生办理国外大学罗文大学毕业证/成绩单以及回国所需的真实学位学历认证。十五年老牌公司，成功案例近万，诚信第一，一手价格，物超所值！ A man is only as good as what he loves 一個人要用他所愛的東西有多好來衡量。 Like begets like. 龙生龙，凤生凤。 Im thankful to all those who said NO because of them, I did it myself No pleasure without pain. 乐中必有苦. A crafty knave needs no broker 狡猾的无赖不需要中间人。 Ill news never comes too late 祸不单行。 Fake friends never betray in front of you They always do it behind you The good seaman is known in bad weather 好海员是在坏天气下认识的。 He who does not rise early never does a good day&; s work 不早起的人，一天的工作都做不好。 Business before pleasure. 先工作, 后娱乐./干完正事再玩儿. In the dull and boring world, there is also occasional luck 枯燥無味的世界，總會有小確幸。 Health and money go far. 有了健康和钱财，就能走遍天下。 Who knows most says least. 知道得最多的人说得最少。