Entourage Quotes

Marriage and its entourage of possession and jealousy enslave the spirit.

As the taxi entered the intersection, the two drivers in the attorney general’s entourage slammed on the brakes. Both Suburbans fishtailed out of control. Ducking in the back seat, Blake could smell the burning rubber from tires skidding on the asphalt and hear the pedestrians screaming and car horns sounding off in rebuke.

Alex and Carlos—the tag team from hell. They’re the last people I need shit from right now. If they decide to trail me, too, I’ll have an entire entourage. “I’m fine.” “Then sit up and talk to us.” “Okay, in that case I’m not fine. Go away.” I moan. “Unless you want me to puke all over you.

How did you know I was different?” “You mean besides the obvious obsidian, the alien entourage, and the branch?” He laughed. “You’re full of electricity. See?” He reached between the seats and placed his hand over mine. Static crackled, jolting us both. Daemon grabbed Blake’s hand and threw it back at him. “I do not like you.

I am helpless. I am stupid, and all I do is want and need things. My tiny life. My little shit job. My Swedish furniture. I never, no, never told anyone this, but before I met Tyler, I was planning to buy a dog and name it "Entourage." This is how bad your life can get.

There's nothing like a pack of mules to give one a sense of entourage.

I was planning to buy a dog and name it "Entourage.” This is how bad your life can get.

"Even with your face in such a state, I can see you are quite lovely. I'j used to certain...standards. You will look good traveling on my arem, as part of my entourage." His words make me want to hurl. "You may find I am not the monster you imagine." "Oh, no, " I say. "I bet you're a real prince." "King, actually," he says with a slow grin."

who needs an entourage of people when I only need one.

In medieval times, contrary to popular belief, most knights were bandits, mercenaries, lawless brigands, skinners, highwaymen, and thieves. The supposed chivalry of Charlemagne and Roland had as much to do with the majority of medieval knights as the historical Jesus with the temporal riches and hypocrisy of the Catholic Church, or any church for that matter. Generally accompanied by their immoral entourage or servants, priests, and whores, they went from tourney to tourney like a touring rock and roll band, sports team, or gang of South Sea pirates. Court to court, skirmish to skirmish, rape to rape. Fighting as the noble's substitution for work.

Dalinar took one step forward, then drove his Blade point-first into the middle of the blackened glyph on the stone. He took a step back. “For the bridgemen,” he said. Sadeas blinked. Muttering voices fell silent, and the people on the field seemed too stunned, even, to breathe. “What?”Sadeas asked. “The Blade,”Dalinar said, firm voice carrying in the air. “In exchange for your bridgemen. All of them. Every one you have in camp. They become mine, to do with as I please, never to be touched by you again. In exchange, you get the sword.” Sadeas looked down at the Blade, incredulous. “This weapon is worth fortunes. Cities, palaces, kingdoms.” “Do we have a deal?”Dalinar asked. “Father, no!”Adolin Kholin said, his own Blade appearing in his hand. “You—” Dalinar raised a hand, silencing the younger man. He kept his eyes on Sadeas. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, each word sharp. Kaladin stared, unable to move, unable to think. Sadeas looked at the Shardblade, eyes full of lust. He glanced at Kaladin, hesitated just briefly, then reached and grabbed the Blade by the hilt. “Take the storming creatures.” Dalinar nodded curtly, turning away from Sadeas. “Let’s go,”he said to his entourage. “They’re worthless, you know,”Sadeas said. “You’re of the ten fools, Dalinar Kholin! Don’t you see how mad you are? This will be remembered as the most ridiculous decision ever made by an Alethi highprince!” Dalinar didn’t look back. He walked up to Kaladin and the other members of Bridge Four. “Go,” Dalinar said to them, voice kindly. “Gather your things and the men you left behind. I will send troops with you to act as guards. Leave the bridges and come swiftly to my camp. You will be safe there. You have my word of honor on it.” He began to walk away. Kaladin shook off his numbness. He scrambled after the highprince, grabbing his armored arm. “Wait. You—That—What just happened?” Dalinar turned to him. Then, the highprince laid a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, the gauntlet gleaming blue, mismatched with the rest of his slate-grey armor. “I don’t know what has been done to you. I can only guess what your life has been like. But know this. You will not be bridgemen in my camp, nor will you be slaves.” “But…” “What is a man’s life worth?” Dalinar asked softly. “The slavemasters say one is worth about two emerald broams,” Kaladin said, frowning. “And what do you say?” “A life is priceless,” he said immediately, quoting his father. Dalinar smiled, wrinkle lines extending from the corners of his eyes. “Coincidentally, that is the exact value of a Shardblade. So today, you and your men sacrificed to buy me twenty-six hundred priceless lives. And all I had to repay you with was a single priceless sword. I call that a bargain.” “You really think it was a good trade, don’t you?” Kaladin said, amazed. Dalinar smiled in a way that seemed strikingly paternal.

People will judge me no matter what I do. I may as well do what I want.” “Words

Being part of his entourage was like the sun coming through a plate-glass window: golden, something to lift your face toward.

Henry of England had all the virtues and all the faults, and solved the contradiction by making scapegoats and sin-eaters of half his entourage.

Ye wanna steer clear o' 'im and 'is little friends. Ye shall come to a nasty end nosin' 'bout that gent." The Spy knew the refrain. He wondered aloud as to the nature of these little friends. "Ain't ever seen 'em, just 'eard of 'em. Cripples and deformed ones. Some ain't got no arms or legs is what I 'ear. they crawl along behind 'im, see? Wrigglin' in the dirt all ruddy worm-like." "He's got an entourage of folk without arms," the Spy said, raising his brows toward the brim of his cocked hat. "Or legs. Following him wherever he goes." "Some got arms, some don't. Some got legs, some don't. Some got neither. That's what I 'ear." The farmer shrugged, made the sign of warding again, and would say no more on the matter.

The staff did have a little difficulty adjusting to Mr. Churchill’s way of living. The first thing in the morning, he declined the customary orange juice and called for a drink of Scotch. His staff, a large entourage of aides and a valet, followed suit. The butlers wore a path in the carpet carrying trays laden with brandy to his suite. We got used to his “jumpsuit,” the extraordinary one-piece uniform he wore every day, but the servants never quite got over seeing him naked in his room when they’d go up to serve brandy. It was the jumpsuit or nothing. In his room, Mr. Churchill wore no clothes at all most of the time during the day.

So, how does this work?” He shoved a hand in his pocket and rocked to his toes. “Do you have an entourage or just the bodyguard you need to take with us?

La peur vient de vos parents et d'autres membres de votre entourage. Ce sont eux qui la construisent en vous. On est tellement innocent au début; on ne sait pas

Science 101,” Bolt said. “Nothing helps electricity move faster than metal, and you just sent your entire entourage into a steel structure.

You sure your bodyguards will let us? Forkle failed to mention your scary new entourage when he told me you were training. I don’t think they like us.

- Mais tu sais, l'alcool ne te guérira pas. Il ne faut pas que tu croies ça. Ça apaisera tes blessures, mais cela t'en donnera d'autres, peut-être pires. Tu ne pourras plus te passer de l'alcool, et même si, au début, tu éprouves une euphorie, un bonheur à boire, ça disparaîtra vite pour ne laisser place qu'à la tyrannie de la dépendance et du manque. Ta vie ne sera que brumes, états de sémi-conscience, hallucinations, paranoïa, crises de delirium tremens, violence contre ton entourage. Ta personnalité se désagrégera... - C'est ce que je veux ! martela Antoine en frappant le comptoir de son petit poing. Je n'ai plus la force d'être moi, plus le courage, plus l'envie d'avoir quelque chose comme une personnalité. Une personnalité, c'est un luxe qui me coûte cher. Je veux être un spectre banal. J'en ai assez de ma liberté de pensée, de toutes mes connaissances, de ma satanée conscience ! ("Comment je suis devenu stupide", p34)

sun had just cleared the tree line but wasn’t yet strong enough to burn away the fog seeping out of the woods. Although the air was chilly, the president and his entourage of agents didn’t seem

When we bring in our magical allies like herbs and oils, the difference is like walking into a party on your own where you know no one or walking into the same party with an entourage of friends.

My tiny life. My little shit job. My Swedish furniture. I never, no, never told anyone this, but before I met Tyler, I was planning to buy a dog and name it "Entourage." This is how bad your life can get.

Nevertheless, the youth’s character was sufficiently complex that by the time the entourage crossed the Shiokari Pass, he had given himself over to his incomprehensible fate, leading them northward, ever northward.

Yep, definitely promising.      Chapter Seventeen   The next night started with a formal meeting of all the Houses.  Of course Macallister wasn’t invited, and I couldn’t ask him along as part of my entourage as it was

Something that concerned the officers of the entourage, which they hid from the General in order not to complete his mortification, was that the hussars and grenadiers of the guard were sowing the fiery seed of an immortal gonorrhea.

No, you must let me say it. It's not a simple thing, you see. I loved you even before I met you. I loved the idea of you,'she said quietly. 'And to think you existed all this time. And it only took that horrid moment when everything went wrong for the both of us for our paths to finally cross. I would fall off that cliff again and again for the promise of you.

Current politicians barely bothered to read the bills they signed or voted into law. Senators and congressmen utilized entourages of poorly paid staffers or volunteers to sift through the nonsense that none of them seemed qualified to examine on their own.

There were American officials in Roosevelt’s entourage who were working for the Soviets, namely Alger Hiss of the US State Department and Assistant Treasury Secretary Harry Dexter White, but little indication that they significantly affected what was agreed.

Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded. "You?" she said. "No," Morrison blurted, "not me! I mean, yes, it's me, but I'm not the Toll, I mean." Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Scythe Anastasia. "What are you even doing here?" she asked. He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one. The other scythe in her entourage—Amazonian by the look of his robe—chimed in, several beats behind the curve. "You mean to say you two know each other?" But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder. "As usual, you're in the way, Morrison," he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation. Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them. He paused short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should. "Okay," said Scythe Anastasia. "Now I know I've lost my mind.

As is the Vermont way, our trips were pretty low-key. No entourage. No advance people. No communications director. No security. Just Phil and me flying in coach, renting cars, and showing up for meetings—trying to get a sense of the potential support that might exist.

He came from plebeian roots and had failed to distinguish himself in any way, not in war, not in work, not in art, though in this last domain he believed himself to have great talent. He was said to be indolent. He rose late, worked little, and surrounded himself with the lesser lights of the party with whom he felt most comfortable, an entourage of middlebrow souls that Putzi Hanfstaengl derisively nicknamed the “Chauffeureska,” consisting of bodyguards, adjutants, and a chauffeur. He loved movies—King Kong was a favorite—and he adored the music of Richard Wagner.

To find his successor, Yeltsin’s entourage organized a public opinion poll about favorite heroes in popular entertainment. The winner was Max Stierlitz, the hero of a series of Soviet novels that were adapted into a number of films, most famously the television serial Seventeen Moments of Spring in 1973.

None of the campers paid the ghosts much attention, but as Percy’s entourage walked by, with Reyna in the lead and Frank and Hazel on either side, all the spirits stopped what they were doing and stared at Percy. A few looked angry. The little boy ghost shrieked something like “Greggus!” and turned invisible.

the ancient Church of St Mary Axe.  The church was originally called St Mary, St Ursula and her 11,000 Virgins, a reference to an entourage including St Ursula and her handmaidens who were beheaded with axes in 451 AD.  Some thought the church itself was that old; others thought it was built a few hundred years later.

Let’s pass over to the really rich—how often the occasions they look just like the poor! When they travel abroad they must restrict their baggage, and when haste is necessary, they dismiss their entourage. And those who are in the army, how few of their possessions they get to keep . . .” —SENECA, ON CONSOLATION TO HELVIA, 12. 1.b–2

Hitler’s entourage quickly learned what he had in mind. On September 9 Colonel Eduard Wagner discussed the future of Poland with Hitler’s Army Chief of Staff, General Halder. ‘It is the Führer’s and Goering’s intention’, Wagner wrote in his diary, ‘to destroy and exterminate the Polish nation. More than that cannot even be hinted at in writing.

The Duke of Milan’s cavalcade was dazzling even to Florentines who were used to Medicean public spectacles. It included two thousand horses, six hundred soldiers, a thousand hunting hounds, falcons, falconers, trumpeters, pipers, barbers, dog trainers, musicians, and poets.33 It’s hard not to admire an entourage that travels with its own barbers and poets.

Dinner proceeded as if no raid were occurring. After the meal, Biddle told Churchill that he would like to see for himself “the strides which London had made in air-raid precautions.” At which point Churchill invited him and Harriman to accompany him to the roof. The raid was still in progress. Along the way, they put on steel helmets and collected John Colville and Eric Seal, so that they, too, as Colville put it, could “watch the fun.” Getting to the roof took effort. “A fantastic climb it was,” Seal said in a letter to his wife, “up ladders, a long circular stairway, & a tiny manhole right at the top of a tower.” Nearby, anti-aircraft guns blasted away. The night sky filled with spears of light as searchlight crews hunted the bombers above. Now and then aircraft appeared silhouetted against the moon and the starlit sky. Engines roared high overhead in a continuous thrum. Churchill and his helmeted entourage stayed on the roof for two hours. “All the while,” Biddle wrote, in a letter to President Roosevelt, “he received reports at various intervals from the different sections of the city hit by the bombs. It was intensely interesting.” Biddle was impressed by Churchill’s evident courage and energy. In the midst of it all, as guns fired and bombs erupted in the distance, Churchill quoted Tennyson—part of an 1842 monologue called Locksley Hall, in which the poet wrote, with prescience: Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain’d a ghastly dew From the nations’ airy navies grappling in the central blue.

A tall woman with ass-length, honey-blonde hair had entered the lobby and was barking orders at an entourage of men who toted her Gucci leather luggage. Her dog, a white Westie, was barking, adding to the commotion. “Justin!” the woman chastised the man who held the door open for her. “Icky snow on my feet. My Manolo Blahniks. Oh my God! These shoes are a work of art! Do somethinggg!

A politician and his entourage on the campaign trail were like a herd of elephants: they could travel nowhere lightly. They stomped the earth until it hurt with the weight of the guards, chiefs of staff, spokespersons, speechwriters, publicity folks, gofers and others. It was a spectacle that if it didn’t make you laugh would at least cause you considerable worry about the future of the country.

I froze when I caught sight of a young fighter standing in the center of a group of people. Two men in suits hovered close to him, flanking him like guardians, effectively and wordlessly establishing themselves as part of his entourage. A couple of women with press passes and cameras slung around their necks gazed at the fighter with a kind of rapture as he talked, and I couldn’t blame them. The

Elena opens the door and yanks me through the house, stopping only when we reach the backyard. She lets me go only to grab the microphone from the lead singer. "Paco!" she announces loudly. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to you," Elena says, pointing to Paco talking to a bunch of girls. "Next time you want to take a dump, do it in someone else's house." Paco's entourage of girls backs up and giggles, leaving him alone.

because I know I would do the best job. Maybe the only thing that’s important to you is money, but that matters the least to me. Leaders care about the common good, not the self-interest of one selfish man.

It was his Indianness that she saw, not his blackness. She saw it in the way he really looked at her, really saw her. With the calm, detached concentration of a shaman. He was stoned, but even so ... She had delivered many capes, shawls, headdresses, dresses, beaded and feathered headbands, sandals, and jeans to rock stars and their entourages, and in the excitement of trying on what she brought, they never saw her.

Comment l'Histoire pourrait-elle mieux servir la vie qu'en attachant à leur patrie et aux coutumes de leur patrie les races et les peuples moins favorisés, en leur donnant des goûts sédentaires, ce qui les empêche de chercher mieux à l'étranger, de rivaliser dans la lutte pour parvenir à ce mieux? Parfois cela paraît être de l'entêtement et de la déraison qui visse en quelque sorte l'individu à tels compagnons et à tel entourage, à telles habitudes laborieuses, à tels stérile coteau. Mais c'est la déraison la plus salutaire, celle qui profite le plus à la collectivité. Chacun le sait, qui s'est rendu compte des terribles effets de l'esprit d'aventure, de la fièvre d'émigration, quand ils s'emparent de peuplades entières, chacun le sait, qui a vu de près un peuple ayant perdu la fidélité à son passé, abandonné à une chasse fiévreuse de la nouveauté, à une recherche perpétuelle des éléments étrangers. Le sentiment contraire, le plaisir que l'arbre prend à ses racines, le bonheur que l'on éprouve à ne pas se sentir né de l'arbitraire et du hasard, mais sorti d'un passé — héritier, floraison, fruit — , ce qui excuserait et justifierait même l'existence : c'est là ce que l'on appelle aujourd'hui, avec une certaine prédilection, le sens historique. Deuxième Considération intempestive. ch. 3

Let us always remember that telescope and microscope in all the range of their discoveries have not uncovered the existence of anything greater than man himself. The most massive star of the Milky Way is not so wonderful as the smallest human child. Moreover man's present entourage of illimitable space and countless circling suns and planets cannot be said to have cost an omnipotent God more trouble, so to speak, than a universe a million times smaller.

In front of the reviewing stand, she presented Joseph with a twenty-six-star, handcrafted silk American flag, sewn for the occasion by the ladies of Nauvoo. Then the officers, the honored guests, and the twenty members of the Legion marching band assembled for the procession to the temple site. Joseph had assigned special places on the reviewing stand to the Sauk Indian chief Keokuk and his entourage, who had crossed over from Iowa to partake in the festivities.

Everest attempt at sixty-two, three weeks after undergoing surgery for kidney cancer, marathon des Sables six months after it was amputated fingers and toes, be measured by the diagonal of Fools four weeks after ablation of a metastasis to the lung, is this possible? Cancer does not stop your life, giving up your dreams or your goals, it is simply a parameter to manage, no more, no less than all the other parameters of life. How to ensure that the disease becomes transparent to you and your entourage, almost insignificant in terms of trip you want to accomplish? This is precisely the question that Gerard Bourrat tries to answer in this book. To make a sports performance, to live with her cancer, to live well with amputations, the path is always the same: a goal, the joy of effort, perseverance and faith. This book does not commit you to climb Everest, to run under a blazing sun, walking thousands of miles, it invites you to conquer your own Everest.

On this disorderly Thursday, Patton flew to Norfolk from Washington in a C-47 transport plane with his tin suitcase and an entourage of eight staff officers. In his slashing, runic handwriting he had written his will and a long treatise to his wife, Bea, on how to care for their horses in his absence. He also wrote several farewell letters. To his brother-in-law: “My proverbial luck will have to be working all out. All my life I have wanted to lead a lot of men in a desperate battle; I am going to do it.

The Jews sought refuge in their synagogues, but the Crusaders set them on fire. The Jews were burned alive, almost a climactic burnt offering in Christ’s name. Godfrey of Bouillon took off his sword and with a small entourage circled the city and prayed, before making his way to the Holy Sepulchre. Next morning, to Tancred’s fury, Raymond’s men nervously climbed onto the roof of al-Aqsa, surprised the huddled Muslims and beheaded the men and women in another spasm of killing. Some of the Muslims leaped to their deaths.

Patrice a vingt-quatre ans et, la première fois que je l’ai vu, il était dans son fauteuil incliné très en arrière. Il a eu un accident vasculaire cérébral. Physiquement, il est incapable du moindre mouvement, des pieds jusqu’à la racine des cheveux. Comme on le dit souvent d’une manière très laide, il a l’aspect d’un légume : bouche de travers, regard fixe. Tu peux lui parler, le toucher, il reste immobile, sans réaction, comme s’il était complètement coupé du monde. On appelle ça le locked in syndrome.Quand tu le vois comme ça, tu ne peux qu’imaginer que l’ensemble de son cerveau est dans le même état. Pourtant il entend, voit et comprend parfaitement tout ce qui se passe autour de lui. On le sait, car il est capable de communiquer à l’aide du seul muscle qui fonctionne encore chez lui : le muscle de la paupière. Il peut cligner de l’œil. Pour l’aider à s’exprimer, son interlocuteur lui propose oralement des lettres de l’alphabet et, quand la bonne lettre est prononcée, Patrice cligne de l’œil.  Lorsque j’étais en réanimation, que j’étais complètement paralysé et que j’avais des tuyaux plein la bouche, je procédais de la même manière avec mes proches pour pouvoir communiquer. Nous n’étions pas très au point et il nous fallait parfois un bon quart d’heure pour dicter trois pauvres mots. Au fil des mois, Patrice et son entourage ont perfectionné la technique. Une fois, il m’est arrivé d’assister à une discussion entre Patrice et sa mère. C’est très impressionnant.La mère demande d’abord : « Consonne ? » Patrice acquiesce d’un clignement de paupière. Elle lui propose différentes consonnes, pas forcément dans l’ordre alphabétique, mais dans l’ordre des consonnes les plus utilisées. Dès qu’elle cite la lettre que veut Patrice, il cligne de l’œil. La mère poursuit avec une voyelle et ainsi de suite. Souvent, au bout de deux ou trois lettres trouvées, elle anticipe le mot pour gagner du temps. Elle se trompe rarement. Cinq ou six mots sont ainsi trouvés chaque minute.  C’est avec cette technique que Patrice a écrit un texte, une sorte de longue lettre à tous ceux qui sont amenés à le croiser. J’ai eu la chance de lire ce texte où il raconte ce qui lui est arrivé et comment il se sent. À cette lecture, j’ai pris une énorme gifle. C’est un texte brillant, écrit dans un français subtil, léger malgré la tragédie du sujet, rempli d’humour et d’autodérision par rapport à l’état de son auteur. Il explique qu’il y a de la vie autour de lui, mais qu’il y en a aussi en lui. C’est juste la jonction entre les deux mondes qui est un peu compliquée.Jamais je n’aurais imaginé que ce texte si puissant ait été écrit par ce garçon immobile, au regard entièrement vide.  Avec l’expérience acquise ces derniers mois, je pensais être capable de diagnostiquer l’état des uns et des autres seulement en les croisant ; j’ai reçu une belle leçon grâce à Patrice.Une leçon de courage d’abord, étant donné la vitalité des propos que j’ai lus dans sa lettre, et, aussi, une leçon sur mes a priori. Plus jamais dorénavant je ne jugerai une personne handicapée à la vue seule de son physique. C’est jamais inintéressant de prendre une bonne claque sur ses propres idées reçues .

Although women participate in literary social life from the very beginning, they are not the centre of the courtly salons of the Renaissance; and later on, the age of the middle-class salon, they become the centre in quite a different sense than in the age of chivalry. Incidentally, the cultural importance of women is only another expression of the rationalism of the Renaissance. They are regarded as the intellectuals equals of men, but not as their superiors. "Everything that men can understand, can also be understood by women," to quote from the Cortegiano; but the gallantry which Castiglione demands of the courtier has no longer much in common with the woman-worship of the knights. The Renaissance is a masculine age; women like Lucrezia Borgia, who kept court in Nepi, or even Isabella dEste, who was the centre fo the court in Ferrara and Mantua and who not only had a stimulating influence on the poets of her entourage but also seems to have been a connoisseur of the plastic arts, are exceptions. Nearly everywhere the leading patrons and friends of art are men.

A reflection on Robert Lowell Robert Lowell knew I was not one of his devotees. I attended his famous “office hours” salon only a few times. Life Studies was not a book of central importance for me, though I respected it. I admired his writing, but not the way many of my Boston friends did. Among poets in his generation, poems by Elizabeth Bishop, Alan Dugan, and Allen Ginsberg meant more to me than Lowell’s. I think he probably sensed some of that. To his credit, Lowell nevertheless was generous to me (as he was to many other young poets) just the same. In that generosity, and a kind of open, omnivorous curiosity, he was different from my dear teacher at Stanford, Yvor Winters. Like Lowell, Winters attracted followers—but Lowell seemed almost dismayed or a little bewildered by imitators; Winters seemed to want disciples: “Wintersians,” they were called. A few years before I met Lowell, when I was still in California, I read his review of Winters’s Selected Poems. Lowell wrote that, for him, Winters’s poetry passed A. E. Housman’s test: he felt that if he recited it while he was shaving, he would cut himself. One thing Lowell and Winters shared, that I still revere in both of them, was a fiery devotion to the vocal essence of poetry: the work and interplay of sentences and lines, rhythm and pitch. The poetry in the sounds of the poetry, in a reader’s voice: neither page nor stage. Winters criticizing the violence of Lowell’s enjambments, or Lowell admiring a poem in pentameter for its “drill-sergeant quality”: they shared that way of thinking, not matters of opinion but the matter itself, passionately engaged in the art and its vocal—call it “technical”—materials. Lowell loved to talk about poetry and poems. His appetite for that kind of conversation seemed inexhaustible. It tended to be about historical poetry, mixed in with his contemporaries. When he asked you, what was Pope’s best work, it was as though he was talking about a living colleague . . . which in a way he was. He could be amusing about that same sort of thing. He described Julius Caesar’s entourage waiting in the street outside Cicero’s house while Caesar chatted up Cicero about writers. “They talked about poetry,” said Lowell in his peculiar drawl. “Caesar asked Cicero what he thought of Jim Dickey.” His considerable comic gift had to do with a humor of self and incongruity, rather than wit. More surreal than donnish. He had a memorable conversation with my daughter Caroline when she was six years old. A tall, bespectacled man with a fringe of long gray hair came into her living room, with a certain air. “You look like somebody famous,” she said to him, “but I can’t remember who.” “Do I?” “Yes . . . now I remember!— Benjamin Franklin.” “He was a terrible man, just awful.” “Or no, I don’t mean Benjamin Franklin. I mean you look like a Christmas ornament my friend Heather made out of Play-Doh, that looked like Benjamin Franklin.” That left Robert Lowell with nothing to do but repeat himself: “Well, he was a terrible man.” That silly conversation suggests the kind of social static or weirdness the man generated. It also happens to exemplify his peculiar largeness of mind . . . even, in a way, his engagement with the past. When he died, I realized that a large vacuum had appeared at the center of the world I knew.

The other element characterizing his administration was a presidential entourage that included hard-nosed, ideological zealots and operatives from the corporate world and the public opinion industry. These agents were intent on expanding the powers of the president, reducing governmental oversight of the economy, overriding environmental safeguards,23 and dismantling welfare programs; simultaneously they expended vast sums in order to build up a military sufficiently intimidating to stare down an “evil empire,” causing it to collapse, exhausted, unable to compete,

Then Lu Wing entered, no longer in chauffeur’s uniform but wearing a high-buttoned, deep blue silk tunic, an entourage of smooth, modern men of south China at his heels, ready, I heard him say, to do any further work required of them. The conversation turned to a more distant moment when his father died and he would claim the crown of the Wing emirates, to rule over a subcontinent and its colonies again. Sending his men off, he said, upon their errands and to visit their many relatives in Limehouse, Lu Wing leaned against the bar, as relaxed as he had probably been during his student days at Oxford.

Four military guards, real-life versions of Emmet and Brennan’s toys, sit eating some food. They’re strapping soldiers, dressed in black tunics with silver spheres marking their chests, with wands and swords at their sides. It has to be my aunt’s carriage—it can’t possibly be anyone else’s. My aunt is a member of our ruling High Mage Council, and she always travels with an armed entourage. A rush of excitement flashes through me, and I quicken my pace, wondering what on all of Erthia could have possibly brought my powerful aunt to remote Halfix, of all places. I haven’t seen her since I was five years old.

Though there were auspicious signs that preceded and accompanied his birth, preparing the world for the majestic and kingly, the birth of Jesus itself was of the humblest peasant parentage, in an unimportant town, and in the roughest of buildings. He made a career of rejecting marks of status or privilege: he touched lepers, washed the feet of his disciples, befriended little children, encouraged women to join his entourage, and, finally submitted to crucifixion by a foreign power. Everything about Jesus spoke of servitude: if Jesus is our model of leadership there can be no avoidance of the style by pastors.

The alley is a hundred yards from the stranded drop ship. It takes our gaggle of armor-clad troopers and entourage thirty seconds to cover the distance. When we reach the mouth of the alley, I look back over my shoulder. Sergeant Fallon and Stratton are dashing out of the rear hatch, and I drop to one knee and exchange the MARS launcher for the rifle to cover their run. Next to me, Hansen crouches down, rifle pointed downrange. Beyond the drop ship, on the other side of the intersection, there’s some movement in the shadows of the building overhangs as the local crowd advances on the drop ship again, more cautious than before.

And each day when Poseidon & his entourage of Goddesses & Nymphs arrived, Hera would come with them. And as the amphora began to be filled with Poseidon`s seed, Hera would report that her amphora would take much longer to fill, as Zeus, her husband, was not a willing donor. But she had in fact been cheating by instructing her daughters, Hebe & Eilithyia, to empty the amphora filled with their father`s seed into the rivers & streams, lakes & ponds, & the springs in the woods, so that the amphora would never be full, as this was the only way she could continue to keep her husband`s sex drive in check, & with good reason to do so.

In the year 1112, Cîteaux Abbey was still all wood and no stone. It had been established fifteen years earlier but the abbot, Stephen Harding, a flinty Englishman, had not received new novices for some time. He was overjoyed by this influx of humanity and he welcomed Bernard and his entourage with open arms. That first cold night in the lay dormitory, Bernard blissfully lay awake, the crowded room resonating with the snores of exhausted men. In the days and weeks to come, the harder the travails the greater his pleasure and in the future he would tell all novices at his gate: ‘If you desire to live in this house, leave your body behind; only spirits can enter here.

the notion that history could be swallowed up so completely, the same way the rich and loamy earth could soak up the rivers of blood that had once coursed through the streets; the way people could continue about their business beneath giant posters of the new president as if nothing had happened, a nation busy developing itself. As her circle of Indonesian friends widened, a few of them would be willing to tell her other stories—about the corruption that pervaded government agencies, the shakedowns by police and the military, entire industries carved out for the president’s family and entourage. And with each new story, she would go to Lolo in private and ask him: “Is it true?” He

Jealousy & Zeal were the split personalities of Zelos. Just as Eros & Himeros were uncoupled in the Big Bang, so were Jealousy & Zeal. Zelos[Jealousy] remained as part of Eros[Love] whilst Zelos[Zeal] found himself reborn through the descendants of Uranus & Gaea as a son of Styx & Pallas, & accordingly, as a brother of Nike[Victory], Cratos[Power & Strength] & Bia[Force & Violence], all four being in the entourage of Zeus. After Nike combined with Athena to form "Pallas Athena", Zelos[Zeal] merged with Zelos[Jealousy] as part of Eros[Love].Zelos[Jealousy], as part of Love was responsible for the relentless jealousy of Hera who zealously persecuted all her husband`s paramours & their children![GLOS]

The ship you promised would come from Africa with money and an entourage has not arrived. The legacy hunters, just about cleaned out, have diminished their giving. Either I am mistaken, or the bill for our rare good fortune is about to arrive with interest.” * All beneficiaries of my will, except for my freedmen, may inherit under this condition: that they cut my body into pieces and eat it with all the townspeople watching. * We know that certain nations maintain the custom of relatives devour­ing their dead. In fact, the sick are often scolded for the deterioration of their flesh. For these reasons, I admonish my dear friends not to deny my request, but to eat my body with the same eagerness with which they prayed for it to die

By half-past five Napoleon was on his way over to the village of Shevardino. It was getting light, and the sky had cleared. A solitary stormcloud lay in the eastern sky. The deserted camp-fires were going out in the pale light of morning. A single deep cannon-shot roared out on the right. The boom whooshed past and died away in the stillness. Several minutes passed. A second shot rang out, then a third, and the air shook. Then came the solemn boom of the fourth and a fifth, not far away on the right. The first shots had barely died away when another one came, then another and another, more and more, some blending into a single sound, others bursting in alone. Napoleon and his entourage continued their way to the Shevardino redoubt, where he got down from his horse. The game had begun.

Celles qui refusent la maternité sont aussi confrontées au préjugé selon lequel elles détestent les enfants, telles les sorcières dévorant à belles dents de petits corps rôtis durant le sabbat ou jetant un sort mortel au fils du voisin. C'est doublement exaspérant. D'abord, parce que c'est loin d'être toujours le cas : parfois, c'est même une forte empathie avec les enfants qui peut vous retenir d'en mettre au monde, alors que d'autres pourront choisir d'en avoir pour des motifs discutables. [...] Par ailleurs, on a le droit de ne pas rechercher la compagnie des enfants, voire de les détester franchement, quitte à dépouiller impitoyablement l'entourage de ses illusions en foulant aux pieds l'image de douceur et de dévouement qu'il associe à la Femme. Là encore, de toute façon, il n'y a pas de bon comportement possible.

He came from plebeian roots and had failed to distinguish himself in any way, not in war, not in work, not in art, though in this last domain he believed himself to have great talent. He was said to be indolent. He rose late, worked little, and surrounded himself with the lesser lights of the party with whom he felt most comfortable, an entourage of middlebrow souls that Putzi Hanfstaengl derisively nicknamed the “Chauffeureska,” consisting of bodyguards, adjutants, and a chauffeur. He loved movies—King Kong was a favorite—and he adored the music of Richard Wagner. He dressed badly. Apart from his mustache and his eyes, the features of his face were indistinct and unimpressive, as if begun in clay but never fired. Recalling his first impression of Hitler, Hanfstaengl wrote, “Hitler looked like a suburban hairdresser on his day off.

Though there were many auspicious signs that preceded and accompanied Jesus's birth that might have prepared us for something kingly and special, the birth of Jesus was of the humblest peasant parentage in an unimportant town and in the lowest conceivable of buildings, a stable. After his birth he moved from there to a despised portion of the country, Galilee, to an unsavory town, Nazareth. As he grew up, he took a blue-collar job as a carpenter. He achieved a measure of notice as an adult when he was a rabbi with several men and women following him, but even then he went out of his way to reject marks of status by touching lepers, washing the feet of his followers, befriending little children, letting women become prominent in his entourage, and finally being crucified under the most humiliating circumstances. Everything about Jesus spoke of servitude.

Omens" Her eyelids were painted blue. When she closed her eyes the sea rolled in like ten thousand fiery chariots, leaving behind silence above & below a thousand years old. He stood beneath a high arched window, gazing out at fishing boats beyond the dikes, their nets unfurled, their offshore gestures a dance of living in bluish entourage. He was only the court’s chief jester. What he said & did made them laugh, but lately what he sometimes thought he knew could cost him his polished tongue & royal wig. He was the masked fool unmasking the emperor. Forget the revelation. Forget the briny sea. He had seen the ravishing empress naked in a forbidden pose. Her blue eye shadow. Aquamarine shells crusted with wormy mud. Anyway, if he said half of what was foretold, the great one would become a weeping boy slumped beneath the Pillars of Hercules. Poetry Apr 2012, Vol. 200 Issue 1, p15

Wherever you go, you are accompanied by your posse—your mind, emotion, senses and body and you are always at the centre of those entities. Shaivism tells us in Spanda Karikas, I.6–8, that the senses are inert in themselves, like the chess pieces, and only derive energy from the Self. This image of the Lord or the Self at the centre surrounded by an entourage of Shaktis is a compelling one. In a sense Shaivism’s goal is to make us be aware of this position: the Self as the source is always the centre of all experience. Shaivism tells us that when we don’t hold ourselves at the centre we lose energy or, in terms of this image, we lose control of our own shaktis. I call this the Shiva position or the Shiva asana (seat or posture). This Shiva asana is not different from Douglas Harding’s headless one nor from Somananda’s Shiva drishti. It is easily expressed by the Shaiva mandala (see opposite).

The Louvre’s much restored three wings or pavilions, the Sully, Denon, and Richelieu, were once the galleries where courtiers enjoyed royal hospitality and entertainments (and The Princesse de Clèves her secret surges of immoral passion). On a quiet un-crowded evening visit to the Louvre, it’s easy to imagine the masked and dancing couples in these pavilions, the rustle of silk, the whisperings of lovers, the royal entourage. The Louvre’s art collection was the result of François I’s enterprising enthusiasm for Italian art. He imported masterpieces by Uccello, Titian, Giorgione, and, most notably, Leonardo da Vinci himself, whose Mona Lisa—La Joconde in French—was and remains the most valued painting in the royal collection. Montaigne does not mention the paintings or the Italian sculptor Benvenuto Cellini whom François also imported to help transform gloomy Paris into a city of bright and saucy opulence.

Moi qui ai eu la chance, malgré quelques grosses séquelles, de me relever et de retrouver une autonomie totale, je pense souvent à cette incroyable période de ma vie et surtout à tous mes compagnons d’infortune. À part Samia, peut-être, je sais pertinemment que les autres sont toujours dans leurfauteuil, qu’ils sont contraints à une assistance permanente, qu’ils ont toujours droit aux sondages urinaires, aux transferts, aux fauteuils-douches, aux séances de verticalisation… Ils sont pour toujours confrontés à ces mots qui ont été mon quotidien, cette année-là J’ai fait trois autres centres de rééducation par la suite, mais jamais je n’ai autant ressenti la violence de cette immersion dans le monde du handicap que lors de ces quelques mois. Jamais je n’ai retrouvé autant de malheur et autant d’envie de vivre réunis en un même lieu, jamais je n’ai croisé autant de souffrance et d’énergie, autant d’horreur et d’humour. Et jamais plus je n’ai ressenti autant d’intensité dans le rapport des êtres humains à l’incertitude de leur avenir .. Je ne connaissais rien de ce monde-là avant mon accident. Je me demande même si j’y avais déjà vraiment pensé. Bien sûr, cette expérience aussi difficile pour moi que pour mon entourage proche m’a beaucoup appris sur moi-même, sur la fragilité de l’existence (et celle des vertèbres cervicales). Personne d’autre ne sait mieux que moi aujourd’hui qu’une catastrophe n’arrive pas qu’aux autres, que la vie distribue ses drames sans regarder qui les mérite le plus . Mais, au-delà de ces lourds enseignements et de ces grandes considérations, ce qui me reste surtout de cette période, ce sont les visages et les regards que j’ai croisés dans ce centre. Ce sont les souvenirs de ces êtres qui, à l’heure où j’écris ces lignes, continuent chaque jour de mener un combat qu’ils n’ont jamais l’impression de gagner.Si cette épreuve m’a fait grandir et progresser, c’est surtout grâce aux rencontres qu’elle m’aura offertes.

I have always had a weakness for footnotes. For me a clever or a wicked footnote has redeemed many a text. And I see that I am now using a long footnote to open a serious subject - shifting in a quick move to Paris, to a penthouse in the Hotel Crillon. Early June. Breakfast time. The host is my good friend Professor Ravelstein, Abe Ravelstein. My wife and I, also staying at the Crillon, have a room below, on the sixth floor. She is still asleep. The entire floor below ours (this is not absolutely relevant but somehow I can't avoid mentioning it) is occupied just now by Michael Jackson and his entourage. He performs nightly in some vast Parisian auditorium. Very soon his French fans will arrive and a crowd of faces will be turned upward, shouting in unison, 'Miekell Jack-sown'. A police barrier holds the fans back. Inside, from the sixth floor, when you look down the marble stairwell you see Michael's bodyguards. One of them is doing the crossword puzzle in the 'Paris Herald'.

Qui vous le dit, qu’elle (la vie) ne vous attend pas ? Certes, elle continue, mais elle ne vous oblige pas à suivre le rythme. Vous pouvez bien vous mettre un peu entre parenthèses pour vivre ce deuil… accordez-vous le temps. *** Parce que ҫa me fait plaisir. Parce que je sais aussi que l’entourage peut se montrer très discret dans pareille situation, et que de se changer les idées de temps en temps fait du bien. Parce que je sais que vous aimez la montagne et que vous n’iriez pas toute seule. *** Oui. Si vous perdez une jambe, ҫa se voit, les gens sont conciliants. Et encore, pas tous. Mais quand c’est un morceau de votre cœur qui est arraché, ҫa ne se voit pas de l’extérieur, et c’est au moins aussi douloureux… Ce n’est pas de la faute des gens. Ils ne se fient qu’aux apparences. Il faut gratter pour voir ce qu’il y a au fond. Si vous jetez une grosse pierre dans une mare, elle va faire des remous à la surface. Des gros remous d'abord, qui vont gifler les rives, et puis des remous plus petits, qui vont finir par disparaître. Peu à peu, la surface redevient lisse et paisible. Mais la grosse pierre est quand même au fond. La grosse pierre est quand même au fond. *** La vie s’apparente à la mer. Il y a les bruit des vagues, quand elles s’abattent sur la plage, et puis le silence d’après, quand elles se retirent. Deux mouvement qui se croissent et s’entrecoupent sans discontinuer. L’un est rapide, violent, l’autre est doux et lent. Vous aimeriez vous retirer, dans le même silence des vagues, partir discrètement, vous faire oublier de la vie. Mais d’autres vague arrivent et arriveront encore et toujours. Parce que c’est ҫa la vie… C’est le mouvement, c’est le rythme, le fracas parfois, durant la tempête, et le doux clapotis quand tout est calme. Mais le clapotis quand même Un bord de mer n'est jamais silencieux, jamais. La vie non plus, ni la vôtre, ni la mienne. Il y a les grains de sables exposés aux remous et ceux protégés en haut de la plage. Lesquels envier? Ce n'est pas avec le sable d'en haut, sec et lisse, que l'on construit les châteaux de sable, c'est avec celui qui fraye avec les vagues car ses particules sont coalescentes. Vous arriverez à reconstruire votre château, vous le construirez avec des grains qui vous ressemblent, qui ont aussi connu les déferlantes de la vie, parce qu'avec eux, le ciment est solide.. *** « Tu ne sais jamais à quel point tu es fort jusqu’au jour où être fort reste la seule option. » C’est Bob Marley qui a dit ҫa. *** Manon ne referme pas violemment la carte du restaurant. Elle n’éprouve pas le besoin qu’il lui lise le menu pour qu’elle ne voie pas le prix, et elle trouvera égal que chaque bouchée vaille cinq euros. Manon profite de la vie. Elle accepte l’invitation avec simplicité. Elle défend la place des femmes sans être une féministe acharnée et cela ne lui viendrait même pas à l’idée de payer sa part. D’abord, parce qu’elle sait que Paul s’en offusquerait, ensuite, parce qu’elle aime ces petites marques de galanterie, qu’elle regrette de voir disparaître avec l’évolution d’une société en pertes de repères.

L'acculturation des femmes à des comportements humanistes et celle des hommes à la violence et aux comportements à risque sont donc le fruit d'un véritable système culturel qui se perpétue de génération en génération. Les parents en premier lieu, mais également l'entourage de l'enfant et la société dans son ensemble en sont acteurs. Concernant la virilité, l'éducation donnée aux garçons est la clé de voute de ce paradigme. Les conséquences négatives sont considérables et touchent tous les individus de façon plus ou moins dramatique, avec plus ou moins de gravité. L'organisation de notre société s'est faite en fonction de cette donnée, des conduites individuelles jusqu'au politique. Les femmes mettent par exemple en place des stratégies d'évitement de ces violences dès qu'elles sont dans l'espace public, et l'état, [...] consacre des moyens humains et financier colossaux pour enrayer le phénomène. Si tous les hommes ne sont pas des criminels et des délinquants, la quasi totalité des criminels et des délinquants sont des hommes.

The notion of finding “a body in the library” of a country house was another trope of the genre. Christie had fun with it in The Body in the Library, where the corpse is found in Gossington Hall, owned by Miss Marple’s cronies, Colonel Arthur Bantry and his wife Dolly. But profound changes were taking place in British society as war was followed by peace-time austerity, and high taxes made it impossible for many families to cling on to old houses that were cripplingly expensive to run. Country house parties fell out of fashion, and although traditional whodunits continued to be written and enjoyed, detective novelists could not altogether ignore the reality. The scale of upheaval is apparent in another Marple story, The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side, published twenty years after The Body in the Library. Gossington Hall has been sold off, and been run as a guest house, divided into flats, bought by a government body, and finally snapped up for use as a rich woman’s playground by a much-married film star. Her entourage provides a “closed circle” of suspects suited to the Sixties.

Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, as in revenge, have sucked up from the sea contagious fogs.…” Pestilential, a note in the text explains, next to the word contagious, in Kirsten’s favorite of the three versions of the text that the Symphony carries. Shakespeare was the third born to his parents, but the first to survive infancy. Four of his siblings died young. His son, Hamnet, died at eleven and left behind a twin. Plague closed the theaters again and again, death flickering over the landscape. And now in a twilight once more lit by candles, the age of electricity having come and gone, Titania turns to face her fairy king. “Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, pale in her anger, washes all the air, that rheumatic diseases do abound.” Oberon watches her with his entourage of fairies. Titania speaks as if to herself now, Oberon forgotten. Her voice carries high and clear over the silent audience, over the string section waiting for their cue on stage left. “And through this distemperature, we see the seasons alter.” All three caravans of the Traveling Symphony are labeled as such, THE TRAVELING SYMPHONY lettered in white on both sides, but the lead caravan carries an additional line of text: Because survival is insufficient.

In the meantime, he anxiously awaited visitors, and on occasion even attempted some visits of his own—including one to his nearby Bellevue neighbor, the charming and notorious courtesan Valtesse de la Bigne. Red-haired and beautiful, Valtesse de la Bigne had brought several rich and titled men to financial ruin. She had also captivated some of the most sophisticated men in town, including Manet, who referred to her as “la belle Valtesse” and had painted her the year before. Born Louise Emilie Delabigne, Valtesse de la Bigne was sufficiently intelligent and charming to draw an entourage of admiring writers and artists such as Manet. Zola also paid court to Valtesse—although in his case from a desire to get the characters and setting right for his upcoming novel Nana. Flattered by his journalistic interest, Valtesse even agreed to show him her bedroom—until then off-limits to all but her most highly paying patrons. Zola (who seems to have limited his visit to note taking) used her over-the-top boudoir as the model for Nana’s bedroom. Even if the fictional Nana was nowhere near the sophisticated creature that Valtesse had become, the bed said it all. It was “a bed such as had never existed before,” Zola wrote, “a throne, an altar, to which Paris would come in order to worship her sovereign nudity.

He rode into Vassy on March 1, 1562, accompanied by an entourage of two hundred armed knights and found the local Huguenot congregation, numbering some five or six hundred people, including many women and children, conducting its Sunday morning meeting not outside the city walls, as was specified in the Edict of Toleration, but right in town—and, worse, on his property in one of his very own buildings, which they had appropriated without his permission, an unimaginable insult. An altercation between the duke’s people and the Protestants promptly ensued. Being for the most part unarmed, the Huguenots had to improvise. Rocks were thrown. Members of the lower classes were not supposed to throw stones at their superiors from the upper classes. The duke’s soldiers retaliated by shooting and stabbing as many of the dissenters as they could (which was quite a few, as their opponents were trapped inside the building attending a church service), accompanied by rousing shouts of “Kill! Kill! By God’s death kill these Huguenots!” An hour later the Massacre of Vassy, as this infamous incident would later be dubbed, was over. Fifty Huguenots lay dead, another two hundred were wounded, and a flaming torch had been thrust into the tinderbox of religious controversy that would blaze up into the bonfire of the Wars of Religion.

I got back into my car and followed the trucks; at the end of the road, the Polizei unloaded the women and children, who rejoined the men arriving on foot. A number of Jews, as they walked, were singing religious songs; few tried to run away; the ones who did were soon stopped by the cordon or shot down. From the top, you could hear the gun bursts clearly, and the women especially were starting to panic. But there was nothing they could do. The condemned were divided into little groups and a noncom sitting at a table counted them; then our Askaris took them and led them over the brink of the ravine. After each volley, another group left, it went very quickly. I walked around the ravine by the west to join the other officers, who had taken up positions above the north slope. From there, the ravine stretched out in front of me: it must have been some fifty meters wide and maybe thirty meters deep, and went on for several kilometers; the little stream at the bottom ran into the Syrets, which gave its name to the neighborhood. Boards had been placed over this stream so the Jews and their shooters could cross easily; beyond, scattered pretty much everywhere on the bare sides of the ravine, the little white clusters were multiplying. The Ukrainian “packers” dragged their charges to these piles and forced them to lie down over them or next to them; the men from the firing squad then advanced and passed along the rows of people lying down almost naked, shooting each one with a submachine bullet in the neck; there were three firing squads in all. Between the executions some officers inspected the bodies and finished them off with a pistol. To one side, on a hill overlooking the scene, stood groups of officers from the SS and the Wehrmacht. Jeckeln was there with his entourage, flanked by Dr. Rasch; I also recognized some high-ranking officers of the Sixth Army. I saw Thomas, who noticed me but didn’t return my greeting. On the other side, the little groups tumbled down the flank of the ravine and joined the clusters of bodies that stretched farther and farther out. The cold was becoming biting, but some rum was being passed around, and I drank a little. Blobel emerged suddenly from a car on our side of the ravine, he must have driven around it; he was drinking from a little flask and shouting, complaining that things weren’t going fast enough. But the pace of the operations had been stepped up as much as possible. The shooters were relieved every hour, and those who weren’t shooting supplied them with rum and reloaded the clips. The officers weren’t talking much; some were trying to hide their distress. The Ortskommandantur had set up a field kitchen, and a military pastor was preparing some tea to warm up the Orpos and the members of the Sonderkommando. At lunchtime, the superior officers returned to the city, but the subalterns stayed to eat with the men. Since the executions had to continue without pause, the canteen had been set up farther down, in a hollow from which you couldn’t see the ravine. The Group was responsible for the food supplies; when the cases were broken open, the men, seeing rations of blood pudding, started raging and shouting violently. Häfner, who had just spent an hour administering deathshots, was yelling and throwing the open cans onto the ground: “What the hell is this shit?” Behind me, a Waffen-SS was noisily vomiting. I myself was livid, the sight of the pudding made my stomach turn. I went up to Hartl, the Group’s Verwaltungsführer, and asked him how he could have done that. But Hartl, standing there in his ridiculously wide riding breeches, remained indifferent. Then I shouted at him that it was a disgrace: “In this situation, we can do without such food!

En honorant l'école à l'excès, c'est toi [l'élève excellent] que tu flattes en douce, tu te poses plus ou moins consciemment en élève idéal. Ce faisant, tu masques les innombrables paramètres qui nous font tellement inégaux dans l'acquisition du savoir : circonstances, entourage, pathologies, tempérament… Ah ! l'énigme du tempérament ! « Je dois tout à l'école de la République ! » Serait-ce que tu voudrais faire passer tes aptitudes pour des vertus ? (Les unes et les autres n'étant d'ailleurs pas incompatibles…) Réduire ta réussite à une question de volonté, de ténacité, de sacrifice, c'est ça que tu veux ? Il est vrai que tu fus un élève travailleur et persévérant, et que le mérite t'en revient, mais c'est, aussi, pour avoir joui très tôt de ton aptitude à comprendre, éprouvé dès tes premières conforntations au travail scolaire la joie immense d'avoir compris, et que l'effort portait en lui-même la promesse de cette joie ! À l'heure où je m'asseyais à ma table écrasé par la conviction de mon idiotie, tu t'installais à la tienne vibrant d'impatience, impatience de passer à autre chose aussi, car ce problème de math sur lequel je m'endormais tu l'expédiais, toi, en un tournemain. Nos devoirs, qui étaient les tremplins de ton esprit, étaient les sables mouvants où s'enlisait le mien. Ils te laissaient libre comme l'air, avec la satisfaction du devoir accompli, et moi hébété d'ignorance, maquillant un vague brouillon en copie définitive, à grand renfort de traits soigneusement tirés qui ne trompaient personne. À l'arrivée, tu étais le travailleur, j'étais le paresseux. C'était donc ça, la paresse ? Cet enlisement en soi-même ? Et le travail, qu'était-ce donc ? Comment s'y prenaient-ils, ceux qui travaillaient bien ? Où puisaient-ils cette force ? Ce fut l'énigme de mon enfance. L'effort, où je m'anéantissais, te fut d'entrée de jeu un gage d'épanouissement. Nous ignorions toi et moi qu'« il faut réussir pour comprendre », selon le mot si clair de Piaget, et que nous étions, toi comme moi, la vivante illustration de cet axiome. (p. 271-272)

Another episode startled Trump’s advisers on the Asia trip. As the president and his entourage embarked on the journey, they stopped in Hawaii on November 3 to break up the long flight and allow Air Force One to refuel. White House aides arranged for the president and first lady to make a somber pilgrimage so many of their predecessors had made: to visit Pearl Harbor and honor the twenty-three hundred American sailors, soldiers, and marines who lost their lives there. The first couple was set to take a private tour of the USS Arizona Memorial, which sits just off the coast of Honolulu and straddles the hull of the battleship that sank into the Pacific during the Japanese surprise bombing attack in 1941. As a passenger boat ferried the Trumps to the stark white memorial, the president pulled Kelly aside for a quiet consult. “Hey, John, what’s this all about? What’s this a tour of?” Trump asked his chief of staff. Kelly was momentarily stunned. Trump had heard the phrase “Pearl Harbor” and appeared to understand that he was visiting the scene of a historic battle, but he did not seem to know much else. Kelly explained to him that the stealth Japanese attack here had devastated the U.S. Pacific Fleet and prompted the country’s entrance into World War II, eventually leading the United States to drop atom bombs on Japan. If Trump had learned about “a date which will live in infamy” in school, it hadn’t really pierced his consciousness or stuck with him. “He was at times dangerously uninformed,” said one senior former adviser. Trump’s lack of basic historical knowledge surprised some foreign leaders as well. When he met with President Emmanuel Macron of France at the United Nations back in September 2017, Trump complimented him on the spectacular Bastille Day military parade they had attended together that summer in Paris. Trump said he did not realize until seeing the parade that France had had such a rich history of military conquest. He told Macron something along the lines of “You know, I really didn’t know, but the French have won a lot of battles. I didn’t know.” A senior European official observed, “He’s totally ignorant of everything. But he doesn’t care. He’s not interested.” Tillerson developed a polite and self-effacing way to manage the gaps in Trump’s knowledge. If he saw the president was completely lost in the conversation with a foreign leader, other advisers noticed, the secretary of state would step in to ask a question. As Tillerson lodged his question, he would reframe the topic by explaining some of the basics at issue, giving Trump a little time to think. Over time, the president developed a tell that he would use to get out of a sticky conversation in which a world leader mentioned a topic that was totally foreign or unrecognizable to him. He would turn to McMaster, Tillerson

Speech to the Reichstag April 26, 1942 The British Jew, Lord Disraeli, once said that the race problem is the key to the history of the world. We National Socialists have become great in this knowledge. By devoting our attention to the existence of the race problem, we have found the solution for many problems which would have otherwise have seemed incomprehensible. The hidden forces which incited England already in 1914, in the first world war, were Jews. The force which paralyzed us at that time and finally forced us to surrender with the slogan that Germany was no longer able to bear homeward a victorious flag, came from the Jews. It was the Jews who fomented the revolution among our people and thus robbed us of every possibility at further resistance. Since 1939 the Jews have maneuvered the British Empire into the most perilous crisis it has ever known. The Jews were the carriers of that Bolshevist infection which once threatened to destroy Europe. It was also they who incited the ranks of the plutocracies to war, and it is the Jews who have driven America to war against all her own interests, simply and solely from the Jewish capitalistic point of view. And President Roosevelt, lacking ability himself, lends an ear to his brain trust, whose leading men I do not need to mention by name; they are Jews, nothing but Jews. And once again, as in the year 1915, she (America) will be incited by a Jewish President and his completely Jewish entourage to go to war without any reason or sense whatever, with nations which have never done anything to America, and with people from whom America can never win anything. For what is the sense of a war waged by a state having territory without people against people without territory. In the terms of the war it is no longer a question of the interests of individual nations; it is, rather, a question of conflict between nations which want to make the lives of their people secure on this earth, and nations which have become the helpless tools of an international world parasite. The German soldiers and the allies have had an opportunity to witness at first hand the actual work of this Jewish International-war mongers in that country in which Jewish dictatorship has exclusive power and in which it is being taught as the most ideal form of government in the world for future generations and to which low subjects of other nations have become inexplicably subservient just as this was the case with us at one time. And at this juncture this seemingly senile Europe has, as always in the course of its history, raised aloft the torch of its perception and today the men of Europe are marching as the representatives of a new and better order as the genuine youth of social and national liberty throughout the world. Gentlemen! In the course of this winter a decision has been reached in international struggle which as regards to problems involved far exceeds in scope those difficulties which must and can be solved in normal warfare; when in November 1918 the German nation being befogged by the hypocritical phraseology of the American President at that time, Wilson, laid down its arms, although undefeated, and withdrew from the field of battle it was acting under the influence of that Jewish race which hoped to succeed in establishing a secure bulwark of Bolshevism in the very heart of Europe. We know the theoretical principles and the cruel truth regarding the aims of this world-wide pestilence. It is called, "the Rule of the Proletariat," and it really is "Jewish Dictatorship," the extermination of national government and of the intelligent element among the nations, and the rule over the proletariat after it has thus deprived of its leaders and through its own fault ended defenseless by the concerted efforts of Jewish international criminals.

C'est drôle de constater que les gens en qui nous avons le plus confiance, ceux qui nous entourent, ne sont pas nécessairement ceux dont on a besoin. On peut passer des jours, voire des années avec ces personnes et ne rien recevoir en retour. Par contre, dans les instants les plus inattendus, un parfait inconnu peut nous accorder quelques minutes et nous dire quelques paroles qui ont le pouvoir de nous donner des ailes. En fin de compte, ces brèves minutes valent plus que tout le temps passé avec notre entourage. En fin de compte, ces minutes allument un feu brûlant au fond de nous. Ce feu brûlant, c'est l'espoir et avec l'espoir, tout est possible.

preservation. The pair of Golden Scorpions jumped into action, their stings flashing as they closed the gap and cut through three of the altivorc guards before their weapons even left their sheaths. The two survivors had managed to draw their own giant broadswords, but fell before taking a swing as the Scorpions slashed through them. Black blood sprayed on the floor and walls. They closed toward their final target, but the Altivorc King did not seem the least bit concerned. He leisurely shifted on his cushions as he withdrew a grey metal wand, pointed it at one of the Scorpions, and spoke a guttural syllable. A bolt of blue lighting sizzled from the tip, hurling the man back a dozen feet through the air with a scream of agony. In that split second, the other Scorpion reached him and stabbed. Dhananad barely registered the motion, but the final result stood out clearly. The Scorpion screamed and clawed at the King’s hand, which seized his wrist in a bone-crunching grip. Rising to his feet, the altivorc drove the would-be assailant down to his knees and plucked the weapon away. He threw it at Dhananad’s feet. “I am very forgiving, and will forget this reckless transgression.” He released his hold on the Scorpion’s wrist. “Your life is spared…for now. Go ahead and meet with the princess if you are still so thick-skulled. You will see I am right.” The Scorpion gasped, clutching his hand, which bent at a strange angle. He fared better than his companion, who lay in a smoldering heap near the entrance. Dhananad cringed, deciding once and for all he would never tempt the Altivorc King again. He turned on his heel and left, his entourage scurrying after him. Ambassador Piros watched Prince Dhananad storm out of the room. Once his angry

DOUG ELLIN, Writer and Director: When we went to sell Entourage to HBO, the character of Ari didn’t really exist. There was an agent, but at that point it was based on some version of Jeff Jacobs, my agent at the time. I first met Jeff when he was a counselor at the camp I went to when I was twelve, and he was what I knew best of as an agent. At the pitch meeting, it was me, Jeff, Steven Levinson, and Ari, who was there because he represented Mark Wahlberg. I had never even heard of Ari before this, but as soon as the meeting started, Ari said three or four things that just blew me away. The guy was unlike anyone I had ever met, and I remember I looked at Jeff right there and said, “This character is changing to Ari.

Let’s pass over to the really rich—how often the occasions they look just like the poor! When they travel abroad they must restrict their baggage, and when haste is necessary, they dismiss their entourage. And those who are in the army, how few of their possessions they get to keep …” —SENECA, ON CONSOLATION TO HELVIA, 12.1.b–2

Reading about Shelley and Byron I get awfully fed up, realizing that these men never did a day’s work in their lives; they lived off the system, were free to travel all around Europe with entourages if necessary, never wrote about a guy earning a living. That is not the world I knew, that is not the world I want to be a part of, and by and large it’s not a world I’m interested in. How

Why the man had to have an entourage of ten people everywhere he went was beyond his scope of understanding. Most things about the Senator were.

Cet enfant que je portais, n'a guère provoqué en moi un besoin d'attentions, de cajoleries supplémentaires, besoin en général suggéré par l'entourage pour faire naître cette régression affective que l'on remarque chez certaines femmes enceintes. On les enferme ainsi dans une espèce de vulnérabilité.

Repetition breeds reiteration.

Nous constatons chaque jour, autour de nous, dans nos entourages immédiats, les signes avant-coureurs d’une telle atrophie qui touche aux fonctions humaines les plus essentielles permettant d’entrer en contact avec l’autre.

September 20, 1378, with the full support of King Charles, Roberto Visconti, the so-called “bandit,” was elected as the Antipope Clement VII, with his court to be established in Avignon in June of the next year. There, he would live in the lap of luxury, accompanied by a regal entourage and pampered by obedient page boys and dozens of shapely mistresses.

In May of 1861, Brigham and his entourage stopped at Mountain Meadows and stopped at the rock cairn that had been built there by U.S. soldiers as a monument to the victims. Atop the peak of the cairn stood a heavy wooden cross engraved with “Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord.” Young regarded it for a moment, then read the inscription aloud with a slight change: “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord: I have repaid.” He gave a Danite signal by raising his right arm, fist to the sky. His men understood. A horseman lassoed the cross and pulled it down, dragging it until it splintered to pieces. The others set to work and five minutes later not a single stone was left of the memorial.

THERE WAS NO news. There were no letters. One monthly bleeding passed for Fire, with all its attendant aches and embarrassments. Everyone in her house, in Archer’s house, and in the town knew what it signified whenever she stepped outside with an entourage of guards. Eventually another passed like the first. Summer was near.

When I was giving birth to my son, I had a veritable entourage of attendees, including, but not limited to, my mother and sister. I brought two art cards of my mother’s work with me to give myself something to focus on during labour. I expected to use “Sister Moon” more than “Winter’s Cup” because to me it is my mother as a young woman. It is probably my favourite piece of hers and I wanted her with me on many levels for the grand event. However, to my surprise, it was the image of myself that I clung to. The one of me conveying utter determination and strength, clothed in old finery, raising a chalice above my head while I literally manifested and birthed good things from within. It became, in those trying hours, a vital source of power for me. I see the picture differently now. “Winter's Cup” as my mother created it has found a life of its own, far from the one she ever imagined. In the end, this is perhaps the greatest achievement of an artist, of a mother, that their work moves beyond them, becoming for the viewer a source of truth and beauty with new stories to tell….

The biggest practical decisions for a man to make in his life are twofold: first, whom to marry, if anyone at all, and secondly, what work to do for a living. Marriage ties a man to the finite world of mortgages, overstuffed furniture, doctor bills, college savings plan for children, and the worries of how to support a wife once a man no longer feels capable of working every day. If a man chooses not to marry, his life probably will be less rich emotionally, but his occupational choice is less crucial since he can fritter about through life. In contrast, a man whom wishes to marry has a limited opportunity to pick an occupation, before he casts his future in concrete boots. Once a man marries, the possibility of changing careers grows remote. The importance of remaining at a dependable job to ensure financial support for his growing entourage will trump any unhappiness that he feels in his occupation.

The Nigress From the river Arose the Nigress Magnificent Super naturally tall And full of grand splendor Gracefully poised Elegantly adorned Purposeful Beautiful, coffee black, fair and lovely In her right hand Glitters a golden symbol She signals in words unspoken Beckoning her huge entourage Her majestic gown swept the floor of the earth beneath Her long gold beaded braids sway With each purposeful stride As she moves She looked intently ahead Walking with grace and dignity As if she has walked this path before On feet, covered, by the length Of her long elegant gown Her face one could not see As she walked, never looking back She emerged with a purpose A command that must be done An order that must be fulfilled The Nigress... arose.. From the river...

Payé le mal pour le mal ne fait qu’initié non seulement la destruction d’autrui mais celle aussi de “soi même” et pire, de son entourage.