Ems Shipping Quotes

What's the point of wearing your favorite rocket ship underpants if nobody ever asks to see 'em?

That's why it's always worth having a few philosophers around the place. One minute it's all is truth beauty and is beauty truth, and does a falling tree in the forest make a sound if there's no one there to hear it, and then just when you think they're going to start dribbling one of 'em says, incidentally, putting a thirty-foot parabolic reflector on a high place to shoot the rays of the sun at an enemy's ships would be a very interesting demonstration of optical principles.

England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world's fleet accompanying her towards eternity?

Oh, they have just a bully time—take ships and burn them, and get the money and bury it in awful places in their island where there's ghosts and things to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships—make 'em walk a plank.

Gankis lifted an arm to point at the distant shale cliffs. "And in the face of it there were thousands of little holes, little what-you-call-'ems..." "Alcoves," Kennit supplied in an almost dreamy voice. "I call them alcoves, Gankis. As would you, if you could speak your own mother tongue.

No, there wouldn't be," Holden said. "It'd be entirely different." Sally looked at him; he had contradicted her so quietly. "It wouldn't be the same at all. We'd have to go downstairs in elevators with suitcases and stuff. We'd have to call up everyone and tell 'em goodbye and send 'em postcards. And I'd have to work at my father's and ride in Madison Avenue buses and read newspapers. We'd have to go to the Seventy-second Street all the time and see newsreels. Newsreels! There's always a dumb horse race and some dame breaking a bottle over a ship. You don't see what I mean at all." "Maybe I don't. Maybe you don't, either," Sally said. Holden stood up, with his skates swung over one shoulder. "You give me a royal pain," he announced quite dispassionately.

Why’re you like that?” the boy persisted. “Like what?” Paragon finally asked in annoyance. “Ya’know. Allus mad. Or crazy fightin’ Say’n stuff ta be mean.” “How else do you expect me to be?” Paragon retorted. “Joyous that they’ve dragged me out here? All excited to go off on a hare-brained rescue mission with them?” He felt the boy’s shrug. “Ya could be.” “I could be?” Paragon snorted. “I’d like to know how.” “S’easy. Ya decide t’be.” “You decide to be happy? I should just forget everything that has been done to me, and be happy? Tra-la-la-la? Like that.” “Ya could.” He heard the boy’s nails against his scalp. “Lookit me. I coulda hated everyone o’ ‘em. I decided t’be happy. Decided ta take what I could get. Make a life outer it.” A pause. “S’not like I’m gonna get another life. Gotta make this’n work.” “It’s not that simple,” Paragon snapped. “Could be,” Cliff insisted. “In’t no harder than decidin’t’be mad allus.” The boy sauntered away slowly. His bare feet scuffed lightly on the deck. “But it’s a lot funner,” he called back over his shoulder. p. 406: Clef to Paragon

Says O'Sullivan to me, "Mr. Fay, I'll have a word wid yeh?" "Certainly," says I; "what can I do for you?" "Sell me your sea- boots, Mr. Fay," says O'Sullivan, polite as can be. "But what will you be wantin' of them?" says I. "'Twill be a great favour," says O'Sullivan. "But it's my only pair," says I; "and you have a pair of your own," says I. "Mr. Fay, I'll be needin' me own in bad weather," says O'Sullivan. "Besides," says I, "you have no money." "I'll pay for them when we pay off in Seattle," says O'Sullivan. "I'll not do it," says I; "besides, you're not tellin' me what you'll be doin' with them." "But I will tell yeh," says O'Sullivan; "I'm wantin' to throw 'em over the side." And with that I turns to walk away, but O'Sullivan says, very polite and seducin'-like, still a-stroppin' the razor, "Mr. Fay," says he, "will you kindly step this way an' have your throat cut?" And with that I knew my life was in danger, and I have come to make report to you, sir, that the man is a violent lunatic.

I s’pose you know—though I can see you’re a Westerner by your talk—what a lot our New England ships used to have to do with queer ports in Africa, Asia, the South Seas, and everywhere else, and what queer kinds of people they sometimes brought back with ’em. You’ve probably heard about the Salem man that came home with a Chinese wife, and maybe you know there’s still a bunch of Fiji Islanders somewhere around Cape Cod.

Then Jip went up to the front of the ship and smelt the wind; and he started muttering to himself, "Tar; Spanish onions; kerosene oil; wet raincoats; crushed laurel-leaves; rubber burning; lace-curtains being washed--No, my mistake, lace-curtains hanging out to dry; and foxes--hundreds of 'em--cubs; and--" "Can you really smell all those different things in this one wind?" asked the Doctor. "Why, of course!" said Jip. "And those are only a few of the easy smells--the strong ones. Any mongrel could smell those with a cold in the head. Wait now, and I'll tell you some of the harder scents that are coming on this wind--a few of the dainty ones." Then the dog shut his eyes tight, poked his nose straight up in the air and sniffed hard with his mouth half-open. For a long time he said nothing. He kept as still as a stone. He hardly seemed to be breathing at all. When at last he began to speak, it sounded almost as though he were singing, sadly, in a dream. "Bricks," he whispered, very low--"old yellow bricks, crumbling with age in a garden-wall; the sweet breath of young cows standing in a mountain-stream; the lead roof of a dove-cote--or perhaps a granary--with the mid-day sun on it; black kid gloves lying in a bureau-drawer of walnut-wood; a dusty road with a horses' drinking-trough beneath the sycamores; little mushrooms bursting through the rotting leaves; and--and--and--" "Any parsnips?" asked Gub-Gub. "No," said Jip. "You always think of things to eat. No parsnips whatever.

You had room for four kids sitting or six standing up. It had been a pirate ship, Nemo’s Nautilus, and a canoe for the Lenni Lennape among other things. Today the water was maybe three and a half feet deep. She seemed happy to be there, not scared at all. “We call this the Big Rock,” I said. “We used to, I mean. When we were kids.” “I like it,” she said. “Can I see the crayfish? I’m Meg.” “I’m David. Sure.” She peered down into the can. Time went by and we said nothing. She studied them. Then she straightened up again. “Neat.” “I just catch ‘em and look at ’em awhile and then let them go.” “Do they bite?” “The big ones do. They can’t hurt you, though. And the little ones just try to run.” “They look like lobsters.” “You never saw a crayfish before?

Quando alguém está a viajar, tudo parece mais luminoso e mais agradável, o que não significa que seja mais luminoso e mais agradável, significa apenas que o lar terno e aprazível sofre em comparação com lugares desconhecidos aprimorados, com tudo o que têm de melhor à mostra.

Someone was listening outside his door. Mark closed his eyes and in his mind the monstrous waves soared high above their sails. He sang to soothe the water, but mostly he sang for the sailor who listened, and Laura, and Gale, and the ship. He could think of no greater honor than to sing in this place, where nothing lasted and everything mattered.

If Wilcoxes hadn't worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn't sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it.

The Three-Decker "The three-volume novel is extinct." Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail. It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail; But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best— The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest. Fair held the breeze behind us—’twas warm with lovers’ prayers. We’d stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs. They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed, And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest. By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of Cook, Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berths we took With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed, And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest. We asked no social questions—we pumped no hidden shame— We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came: We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell. We weren’t exactly Yussufs, but—Zuleika didn’t tell. No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared, The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered. ’Twas fiddle in the forc’s’le—’twas garlands on the mast, For every one got married, and I went ashore at last. I left ’em all in couples a-kissing on the decks. I left the lovers loving and the parents signing cheques. In endless English comfort by county-folk caressed, I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest! That route is barred to steamers: you’ll never lift again Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain. They’re just beyond your skyline, howe’er so far you cruise In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws. Swing round your aching search-light—’twill show no haven’s peace. Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray-bearded seas! Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep’s unrest— And you aren’t one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest! But when you’re threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail, At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale, Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed, You’ll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest. You’ll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread; You’ll hear the long-drawn thunder ’neath her leaping figure-head; While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine! Hull down—hull down and under—she dwindles to a speck, With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck. All’s well—all’s well aboard her—she’s left you far behind, With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind. Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make? You’re manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming’s sake? Well, tinker up your engines—you know your business best— She’s taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!

She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. “If Wilcoxes hadn’t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn’t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No — perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it.

Who’s teasing? I’m telling him the truth. He ain’t going to have it. Neither one of ‘em going to have it. And I’ll tell you something else you not going to have. You not going to have no private coach with four red velvet chairs that swivel around in one place whenever you want ‘em to. No. and you not going to have your own special toilet and your own special-made eight-foot bed either. And a valet and a cook and a secretary to travel with you and do everything you say. Everything: get the right temperature in your hot-water bottle and make sure the smoking tobacco in the silver humidor is fresh each and every day. There’s something else you not going to have. You ever have five thousand dollars of cold cash money in your pocket and walk into a bank and tell the bank man you want such and such a house on such and such a street and he sell it to you right then? Well, you won’t ever have it. And you not going to have a governor’s mansion, or eight thousand acres of timber to sell. And you not going to have no ship under your command to sail on, no train to run, and you can join the 332nd if you want to and shoot down a thousand German planes all by yourself and land in Hitler’s backyard and whip him with your own hands, but you never going to have four stars on your shirt front, or even three. And you not going to have no breakfast tray brought in to you early in the morning with a red rose on it and two warm croissants and a cup of hot chocolate. Nope. Never. And no pheasant buried in coconut leaves for twenty days and stuffed with wild rice and cooked over a wood fire so tender and delicate it make you cry. And no Rothschild ’29 or even Beaujolais to go with it.” A few men passing by stopped to listen to Tommy’s lecture. “What’s going on?” they asked Hospital Tommy. “Feather refused them a beer,” said. The men laughed. “And no baked Alaska!” Railroad Tommy went on. “None! You never going to have that.” “No baked Alaska?” Guitar opened his eyes wide with horror and grabbed his throat.” You breaking my heart!” “Well, now. That’s something you will have—a broken heart.” Railroad Tommy’s eyes softened, but the merriment in them died suddenly. “And folly. A whole lot of folly. You can count on it.” “Mr. Tommy, suh,” Guitar sang in mock humility, “we just wanted a bottle of beer is all.” “Yeah,” said Tommy. “Yeah, well, welcome aboard.

Now, that bird," he would say, "is, maybe, two hundred years old, Hawkins--they live forever mostly; and if anybody's seen more wickedness, it must be the devil himself. She's sailed with England, the great Cap'n England, the pirate. She's been at Madagascar, and at Malabar, and Surinam, and Providence, and Portobello. She was at the fishing up of the wrecked plate ships. It's there she learned 'Pieces of eight,' and little wonder; three hundred and fifty thousand of 'em, Hawkins! She was at the boarding of the viceroy of the Indies out of Goa, she was; and to look at her you would think she was a babby. But you smelt powder-- didn't you, cap'n?

I have no will. That is to say,’—he coloured a little,—‘ next to none that I can put in action now. Trained by main force; broken, not bent; heavily ironed with an object on which I was never consulted and which was never mine; shipped away to the other end of the world before I was of age, and exiled there until my father’s death there, a year ago; always grinding in a mill I always hated; what is to be expected from me in middle life? Will, purpose, hope? All those lights were extinguished before I could sound the words.’ ‘Light ’em up again!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Ah! Easily said. I am the son, Mr Meagles, of a hard father and mother. I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced, had no existence.

You know that we have lost the sense of space. We say “space is annihilated”, but we have annihilated not space, but the sense thereof. We have lost a part of ourselves. I determined to recover it, and I began by walking up and down the platform of the railway outside my room. Up and down, until I was tired, and so did recapture the meaning of “Near” and “Far”. “Near” is a place to which I can get quickly on my feet, not a place to which the train or the air-ship will take me quickly. “Far” is a place to which I cannot get quickly on my feet; the vomitory is “far”, though I could be there in thirty-eight seconds by summoning the train. Man is the measure. That was my first lesson. Man's feet are the measure for distance, his hands are the measure for ownership, his body is the measure for all that is lovable and desirable and strong. ...Man is the measure.

closed her computer. She felt herself breathing rapidly. I was going to be okay, she thought, if Lady Em had died in her sleep. That’s what old people do. If they’re right and she was murdered, will that change the way they look at me? It might provide cover for me and Ralphie. The article had said that the Cleopatra necklace was missing. That means the killer probably got into Lady Em’s safe. Unless he’s caught, nobody will know how much jewelry or which pieces were stolen. If I’m asked, I can say that Lady Em used to make copies of various pieces of her jewelry. She brought a number of legitimate pieces and a number of copies on the trip. The thief must have taken some of the good stuff and left the junk. Brenda was now feeling infinitely better. That also explains the guard at the door of her suite and not letting me in, she thought. The ship was trying to cover up the murder

The bookstore is owned by septuagenarian nudist Paul Winer, who has skin like burnished leather and wanders the aisles in nothing but a knit codpiece. When it’s cold, he dons a sweater. Paul can afford to keep his bookstore going because, technically, it isn’t a permanent structure, and that keeps the taxes down. It has no real walls—just a ramada roof above a concrete slab. Tarps span the space between them. Shipping containers and a trailer are annexes. Trailer Life magazine called it “the ultimate in Quartzsite architecture.” In an earlier career Paul toured as Sweet Pie, a nude boogie-woogie pianist known for his sing-along anthem “Fuck ’Em If They Can’t Take a Joke,” and he still performs spontaneously on a baby grand near the front of the shop, not far from a discreetly covered adult book section. There’s a Christian section, too, but it’s in the back and Paul usually has to help people find it. “They follow my bare ass to the Bible,” he declares.

At Starfleet Academy, there is a simulated test for trainee crews called the Kobayashi Maru, named after a ship marooned in the Klingon Neutral Zone. Your job is to decide whether to try and rescue it, thereby risking war with the Klingons, or sacrifice it to collateral damage. It’s a purpose-built no-win situation designed to show that sometimes decisions needing to be made don’t necessarily have a clear-cut right and wrong road, a best course of action and a worst course of action. Some things you can’t win –it’s how you don’t win that counts. If you’re going to not win, then do it with style, integrity and aplomb. Not with misery, depression and defeat. Not by cheating the system the way Kirk did –by surreptitiously reprogramming the simulator so that it was possible to rescue the freighter. The irony is, he was awarded a commendation, for ‘original thinking’. The Kobayashi Maru wasn’t one for fancy semantic solutions. Nor was it for cheating on; that defeated the lesson to be learned. It was to prove a point. That you can’t win ’em all, champ.

What is it?” I asked, pasting a magazine photo of a football--found in an old Seventeen magazine spread--on my beloved’s collage. “Well, a bunch of cattle trucks just showed up,” he said, trying to talk over the symphonic mooing of cows all around him. “They were supposed to get here tomorrow night, but they showed up early…” “Oh, no…that’s a bummer,” I said, not quite sure what he was getting at. “So now I’ve got to work all these cattle tonight and get ’em shipped…and by the time I get done, the store in town will be closed,” he began. Our appointment with Father Johnson was at ten the next morning. “So I think I’m just going to have to come over there really early tomorrow morning and do the thing at your house,” Marlboro Man said. I could hardly hear him through the cattle. “Are you sure?” I asked. “What time were you thinking of coming over?” I braced myself for the worst. “I was thinking around six or so,” he said. “That would give me plenty of time to get it done before we go.” Six? In the morning? Ugh, I thought. I have only one more week of sleeping in. After we’re married, there’s no telling what time I’ll have to get out of bed. “Okay,” I said, my voice dripping with trepidation. “I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, and hey…if I don’t answer the door right away it probably means I’m doing some weight training or something.” “Gotcha,” Marlboro Man answered, humoring me. “And hey--don’t pull any muscles or strain yourself. We’re getting married in less than a week.” My stomach fluttered as I hung up the phone and resumed work on my collage.

It’s all right, I got off the ship okay. I’m alive,” he said again. But his voice sounded different now. “I said I’m alive, Camille. Open your eyes and look at me.” Camille’s heart shriveled as her eyelids fluttered open and she saw the ceiling of Monty’s shack. “Camille?” Oscar leaned over her, his calloused hand on her cheek. “Thank God. You’ve been delirious for nearly an hour.” Tears slipped down her cheeks as the truth stung her with renewed vigor. Her father wasn’t alive. He was truly gone. It had been nothing but a hallucination. “Why are you crying? Does something hurt?” Oscar asked, lightly prodding her arms and then checking her head. She was lying on a cot in front of the blazing stove, blankets covering her. They were scratchy and too heavy. She tried to push them away. “No.” Oscar blocked her arms. “Don’t do that.” “Why?” she asked, her throat dry and sore. Oscar looked apprehensive as he tucked the blankets tightly around her arms and neck. “Your clothes were soaked. You were shivering and flush with fever.” “Had to take ‘em off, love,” Ira said, coming to the foot of the cot. “You gave us quite a scare. That lump on the back of your head worked you over something nasty.” Camille stared at Ira, then Oscar. The crushed hope of her father being alive withered under the heat of embarrassment. “You…you removed my dress?” she whispered. Oscar backed away from her, as if he’d just slid his hand over an open flame. “No, no, I didn’t.” She looked to Ira. “Much as I’d been honored, the Irish bastard wouldn’t hear of it. Quite the prude.” Frustrated and head still piercing with pain, Camille felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Well, then, who?” “Nothin’ I ain’t seen before, woman,” Monty grumbled from his seat at the table as he sprinkled tobacco into a pipe. Camille gasped and pressed her lips together. She caught sight of her dress hanging on a rack by the fire.

DICAEOPOLIS Why, what has happened? AMPHITHEUS I was hurrying to bring your treaty of truce, but some old dotards from Acharnae(1) got scent of the thing; they are veterans of Marathon, tough as oak or maple, of which they are made for sure—rough and ruthless. They all started a-crying: "Wretch! you are the bearer of a treaty, and the enemy has only just cut our vines!" Meanwhile they were gathering stones in their cloaks, so I fled and they ran after me shouting. f(1) The deme of Acharnae was largely inhabited by charcoal-burners, who supplied the city with fuel. DICAEOPOLIS Let 'em shout as much as they please! But HAVE you brought me a treaty? AMPHITHEUS Most certainly, here are three samples to select from,(1) this one is five years old; take it and taste. f(1) He presents them in the form of wines contained in three separate skins. DICAEOPOLIS Faugh! AMPHITHEUS Well? DICAEOPOLIS It does not please me; it smells of pitch and of the ships they are fitting out.(1) f(1) Meaning, preparations for war. AMPHITHEUS Here is another, ten years old; taste it. DICAEOPOLIS It smells strongly of the delegates, who go around the towns to chide the allies for their slowness.(1) f(1) Meaning, securing allies for the continuance of the war. AMPHITHEUS This last is a truce of thirty years, both on sea and land. DICAEOPOLIS Oh! by Bacchus! what a bouquet! It has the aroma of nectar and ambrosia; this does not say to us, "Provision yourselves for three days." But it lisps the gentle numbers, "Go whither you will."(1) I accept it, ratify it, drink it at one draught and consign the Acharnians to limbo. Freed from the war and its ills, I shall keep the Dionysia(2) in the country. f(1) When Athens sent forth an army, the soldiers were usually ordered to assemble at some particular spot with provisions for three days. f(2) These feasts were also called the Anthesteria or Lenaea; the Lenaem was a temple to Bacchus, erected outside the city. They took place during the month Anthesterion (February).

Understandings on Tanna came about so often like the slow filtration of rainwater through rock. And nowhere did this happen more than in the realm of language. It was the white man’s desire to trade in sea-slugs – known by the French as bêche-de-mer – that had first necessitated the invention of a lingua franca pidgin, and Bislama, pronounced BISH-la-ma, became its name. The word is a pidgin form of ‘Beach-La-Mer’, itself a corruption of ‘bêche-de-mer’. And so many of Bislama’s terms sounded utterly foreign, until they’d been in my mouth long enough to lose the unfamiliar tang of Tanna. ‘Like’, for instance, was ‘olsem’ – from ‘all a same’. ‘What’ was ‘wanem’ – ‘what name’. And ‘just’ – I liked this best – was rendered in Bislama as ‘nomo’, which for me always evoked the scene of some hard-bitten sea-slug buyer bargaining down to just a shilling, no more. It was a simple language, encrusted with Melanesian habits of pronunciation, designed for commerce and work. Western visitors were tickled by terms like ‘rubba belong fak-fak’ for ‘condom’ and ‘bugarup’ for ‘broken’. Then there was the Olympian ‘bilak-bokis-we-i-gat-bilak-tut-mo-i-gat-waet–tut-sipos-yu-kilim-em-i-sing-aot’, which ensured nobody in the archipelago would ever bother referring to a piano, let alone shipping one in. But I often wondered if the stripped-down concepts of Bislama contributed to the disdainful Western view of the people who used it. Their language sounded charming, but daft, child-like even – just like the Prince Philip cult. No wonder people had trouble taking it seriously.

Dr. Adam Clarke, in his autobiography, records that when Mr. Wesley was returning to England by ship, considerable delay was caused by contrary winds. Wesley was reading, when he became aware of some confusion on board, and asking what was the matter, he was informed that the wind was contrary. “Then,” was his reply, “let us go to prayer.” After Dr. Clarke had prayed, Wesley broke out into fervent supplication which seemed to be more the offering of faith than of mere desire. “Almighty and everlasting God,” he prayed. “Thou hast sway everywhere, and all things serve the purpose of Thy will, Thou holdest the winds in Thy fists and sittest upon the water floods, and reignest a King for ever. Command these winds and these waves that they obey Thee, and take us speedily and safely to the haven whither we would go.” The power of this petition was felt by all. Wesley rose from his knees, made no remark, but took up his book and continued reading. Dr. Clarke went on deck, and to his surprise found the vessel under sail, standing on her right course. Nor did she change till she was safely at anchor. On the sudden and favourable change of wind, Wesley made no remark; so fully did he expect to be heard that he took it for granted that he was heard.

The heavy-hulled ship with its steel bow and iron-clad sides groaned, squeaked and crackled like a huge old wheelbarrow breaking under a load of big rocks.

Land sakes, I can’t make a speech,” she said. “Tell you what: I’ll recite a poem I composed while in jail.” And she began. “Although in jail in Centerboro, I do not fret or stew or worro. And confidently I confront The judge, because I’m innosunt. Tho I’m a cow, I am no coward I have not flinched when thunder rowered. When lightning flashed I’ve merely giggled Like one whose funnybone is tiggled. And I shall never give up hoping That soon the jail front door will oping And I’ll once more enjoy my freedom On Bean’s green fields. When last I seed ’em They were a fair and lovely vision And so for my return I’m wishun. I hope that Bismuth will get his’n And spend a good long time in prison.

Eu costumava beber 15 horas por dia, mas em geral era vinho e cerveja. Eu deveria estar morto. Vou estar morto. Nada mal, pensando nisso. Tive uma existência estranha e confusa, em grande parte horrível, baixaria total. Mas acho que foi a forma com que me arrastei pela merda que fez a diferença. Hoje, olhando pra trás, acho que exibi certa compostura e classe, independentemente do que estava acontecendo.

Não há nada que impeça um homem de escrever, a não ser que ele impeça a si mesmo. Se um homem quer realmente escrever, ele o fará. A rejeição e o ridículo apenas lhe darão mais força. E quanto mais for reprimido, mais forte ele se torna, como uma massa de água forçando um dique. Não há perdas em escrever; faz seus dedos do pé rirem enquanto você dorme; faz você andar como um tigre; ilumina seus olhos e coloca você frente a frente com a Morte. Você vai morrer como um lutador, será reverenciado no inferno. A sorte da palavra. Vá com ela, mande-a. Seja o Palhaço nas Trevas. É engraçado. É engraçado. Mais uma linha...

As a ship is made for the sea, so prayer is made for humility, and so humility is made for prayer.

As for mutinies in general,’ said Stephen, ‘I am all in favour of ’em. You take men from their homes or their chosen occupations, you confine them in insalubrious conditions upon a wholly inadequate diet, you subject them to the tyranny of bosun’s mates, you expose them to unimagined perils; what is more, you defraud them of their meagre food, pay and allowances – everything but this sacred rum of yours. Had I been at Spithead, I should certainly have joined the mutineers. Indeed, I am astonished at their moderation.’ ‘Pray, Stephen, do not speak like this, nattering about the service; it makes me so very low. I know things are not perfect, but I cannot reform the world and run a man-of-war. In any case, be candid, and think of the Sophie – think of any happy ship.’ ‘There are such things, sure; but they depend upon the whim, the digestion and the virtue of one or two men, and that is iniquitous. I am opposed to authority, that egg of misery and oppression; I am opposed to it largely for what it does to those who exercise it.’ ‘Well,’ said Jack, ‘it has done me no good. This afternoon I was savaged by a midshipman, and now I am harassed by my own surgeon. Come, Stephen, drink up, and let us have some music.

After dinner one night, me and the boys are on the edge of camp, tossing rocks over the barbed wire. There’s plenty to throw. Rocks are maybe the only thing that’s plentiful here besides dust and anger. For maybe the hundredth time, I think about leaping that fence. It’s only about three feet high, and kids like Yum-yum’s brother, Fred, sneak through all the time to catch scorpions in the desert. I could go running out there, out with the wild horses they say roam this part of Utah, free as the goddamn wind. But I’d never abandon Mas and the boys, or my uncle Yas, who took me in when my parents shipped me out to California. The whole camp’s buzzing with the news today. Everyone seventeen and up has gotta do this questionnaire to see who’s loyal and who’s not. If you’re loyal, you can volunteer for Roosevelt’s combat unit. It’s Nisei-only, which is a shit idea, if you ask me. If Uncle Sam sends ’em to the Pacific, the other battalions are gonna mistake them for the enemy. “They won’t get sent to the Pacific,” Mas says, pitching a stone so far into the desert, it disappears from sight.

Part Two: When St. Kari Met Darth Vader, Star Wars Dark Lord of the Sith  “What are those?” Kari shouted grasping Luke’s arm as her eyes jolted nervously into the air. “I’ve never seen such pretty planets before.” Luke tracked her line of vision and grimmed as he spotted three Corellian Imperial Star Destroyers coming out of hyperspace into the same vortex that his own damaged ship was whirlpooled into. They appeared to be stabilizing the vortex opening by their anti-gravity wells maintaining their relative positional orbit. “Hey’st, what are those white things? They look like men. Surely they are not ghosters, are they?” pawed Kari at Luke to get him to see. “Imperial troopers,” shot Luke, grabbing her arm back. “There’s too many of them C’mon, we got to hide.” “What’s does that mean? And what are those red light-thingy’s coming toward us?” Instantly Kari and Luke were inundated by a barrage of suppressing E-11 blaster rifle fire. Luke flinched out of reaction while Kari stood upright seemingly oblivious to the inherent danger. He was struck to see the girl-entity pluck a laser bolt out of the air and examine it with an other worldly look, as if it were a rare flower in a garden. “I like this,” she smiled. “I’ll pin it to my cloak.” And doing so she did, it maintaining its fiery penetrating redness that did nothing more than to adorn the girl’s wardrobe for quite some time momentarily puzzling Luke. Usually they burnt out quickly. “Can I get some more of these?” she politely asked Luke. “Not right now,” drawled Luke peering over a boulder. “If they capture us we’ve had it.” “Had what?” asked Kari naïvely. “Them ghost-men you mean’st? Oh, don’t worry, Walker of the Skies, just leave it to me,” and with that Kari pulled her blade and sashayed toward the Imperial clones humming her favorite Top 10 battle hymns. “Wait!” Luke shouted trying to snatch her back but it was too late. Luke never saw anything such as this. Like Han, he had seen a lot of strange galactic stuff in his time. Kari had become a misty blur and was skipping across the battlefield as some sort of sword-brandishing luminescence, hovering for a short time over those she slain. “Hey, Walkersky, these spirits don’t have any souls,” she yelled looking up from her blood soaked garments. What do you want me to do with the rest, kill ’em?” “I, uh ,” was all he managed to get out of his mouth as he rubbed his jaw. Kari shrugged and went back to work, picking off the whole brigade by herself. “See’st? I told’st thou not to worry” Kari said panting, coming up to Luke and sitting besides him. “What now?” “We gotta get outta here before more Imperials arrive.” “Untruth oats?” (Nether Trans. “art thou nuts?”) “Run from battle?—is that that what means?” “It means Vader’s coming—.” go to part ii con't

Well, Cook didn't want to tell 'em that he was doing it in the hope it would prevent scurvy-because they might mutiny and take over the ship if they thought that he was taking them on a voyage so long that scurvy was likely. So here's what he did: Officers ate at one place where the men could observe them. And for a long time, he served sauerkraut to the officers, but not to the men. And, then, finally, Captain Cook said, "Well, the men can have it one day a week."In due course, he had the whole crew eating sauerkraut.

The Arizona spent the ensuing years of World War I deployed along the Atlantic coast, mostly on training missions. After the Armistice in November 1918, Arizona crossed the Atlantic to England and then joined the flotilla of warships escorting President Woodrow Wilson to peace talks in France. A second Atlantic voyage to France and across the Mediterranean followed. By 1921, Arizona had made its first transit of the Panama Canal and first crossing of the equator, and came to be home-ported in San Pedro, California, not yet engulfed by greater Los Angeles. High morale and esprit de corps are essential components in any military command, but particularly so aboard ships at sea. BB-39’s can-do motto quickly became “At ’em Arizona” and a newsletter with that name—at first crudely typed but increasingly polished as the years went by—was, as its masthead proudly proclaimed, “Published daily aboard the U.S.S. Arizona wherever she may be.”6

As I said, the Esoli Na was damaged. It had been in orbit around one of their colony planets they call Camillus, when it was attacked by the Nineteenth. The Gar Rei had not joined in any significant conflict with the Nineteenth for some time leading up to the attack and were taken by surprise. Mistakes were made, and many ships were lost attempting to defend the colony.” “Oh yeah? Good. Fuck ’em,” Corbin replied.

A maioria das pessoas não está pronta para a morte, a sua ou a dos outros. Ela as choca, as apavora. É como uma grande surpresa. Diabos, não deveria ser nunca. Levo a morte em meu bolso esquerdo. Ás vezes, tiro-a do bolso e falo com ela: 'Oi, gata, como vai? Quando virá me buscar? Vou estar pronto'.

Na estrada, liguei o rádio e, por sorte, tocava Mozart. A vida pode ser boa em certos momentos, mas, ás vezes, isso depende de nós.

Nolan Bushnell: I figured out that I could build ’em for about 350 bucks. I priced them at $910. And I figured out this financing model where the manufacturing would self-fund. I negotiated thirty to sixty days from our vendors, and if we could build the machine and ship them in less than a week, the company would operate in positive cash flow. Because we had no capital. Venture capital? I didn’t even know what it was at the time. But we had the tiger by the tail: more orders than we could fill. I remember telling Alcorn and Dabney that we were going to move production up to a hundred a day and they looked at me like I was just stark raving mad.