Ex Con Quotes

What are you gonna say?" Emma asked. " 'I'm not sure I want you back, but I'm sure I don't want your ex-con ex-girlfriend to have you, either'? Yeah. That'll start this little triangle off on the right foot.

I can't promise I'll never kill anyone again," he once said, strapping a refrigerator to his back. "It's unrealistic to live your life within such strict parameters

The whole family is a bunch of dangerous freaks...Most are ex-cons or junkies or deranged from inbreeding. Five have died violently, three are back in prison, two have gone insane from untreated venereal disease, and one writes book reviews.

Then his gaze shifted to the wild bush sprouting from her head. “Wow. Did I do that to your hair?” He looked oddly pleased at the thought. Rylann made a mental note to throw a flat iron in her purse the next time she had sex in the shower with a billionaire ex-con. Not that there was going to be a next time. “Not all of us are lucky enough to have freakishly perfect, shampoo-commercial hair. This is what happens when I get wet.” His expression turned wicked. “I know exactly what happens when you get wet, counselor.” Yep, she’d walked right into that one.

Wow. Clearly, I need to find myself an ex-con. Since prison is probably the only place in this city I haven’t looked for Mr. Right yet.

You can be a drunk. You can be a survivor of abuse. You can be an ex-con. You can be a homeless person. You can lose all your money or your job or a husband or a wife, or the worst thing imaginable, a child. You can lose your marbles. You can be standing inside your own failure, a small sad stone in your throat, and still you are beautiful, your story is worth hearing, because you--you rare and phenomenal misfit--are the only one in the world who can tell the story the way that only you can.

The oth­ers went up­stairs, a slow unwilling pro­ces­sion. If this had been an old house, with creak­ing wood, and dark shad­ows, and heav­ily pan­elled walls, there might have been an eerie feel­ing. But this house was the essence of moder­ni­ty. There were no dark corners - ​no pos­si­ble slid­ing pan­els - it was flood­ed with elec­tric light - every­thing was new and bright and shining. There was noth­ing hid­den in this house, noth­ing con­cealed. It had no at­mo­sphere about it. Some­how, that was the most fright­en­ing thing of all. They ex­changed good-​nights on the up­per land­ing. Each of them went in­to his or her own room, and each of them automatical­ly, al­most with­out con­scious thought, locked the door....

You need to fall in love with yourself before you can fall in love with someone else.

Robarle muertes al Destino es como quitarle cartas a un castillo de naipes en un día de viento... Cuidado con las mariposas, sus alas despiertan huracanes".

This thing we have, it hurts, he continued. But the pain is almost sweet because it means YOU happened. We happened. And I can't regret that, no matter how little or how long I get to tag along with you and pretend that I don't hate having people recognize me or take pictures or having people whisper about my record-- " Your record?" " My criminal record, Bonnie, Nothing platinum there. I'm an ex-con, and starting over and building a new life where I can put it behind me, I'm building a new life where it will never be behind me, and for you, its worth it. It's easy math.

Cuidado con las mariposas, sus alas despiertan huracanes…

Nothing so good as bein’ right with Jesus, my sister.” I was being evangelized by an ex-con.

Ten years ago, he was the hard­work­ing salt of the earth. All he want­ed was to go to Heav­en. Sit­ting here to­day, ev­ery­thing that he worked for in the world is lost. All his ex­ter­nal rules and con­trols are gone.

I thank God today she found the courage in her heart to love me enough so that someday I could tell you that even a black ex-con from Angola that stabbed a man could maybe someday do some good in the world if he gets a chance.

... Other students lived on campus and got drunk at parties. Other students dated and graduated and got married and led normal lives. She wanted to marry an ex-con and pretend being kidnapped had been a normal thing she could forget about. ...

You can find yourself a decent, honorable man, one to love you, respect you, cherish you. Someone with morals, with a decent job and a good future. That's what you think you want, isn't it? Not some white trash from Alabama. Not some ex-con who's running the scam of a lifetime. You're so good and decent, the very thought of me disgusts you, doesn't it?" His voice was low and seductive as he pushed the words at her. She met his gaze with what she hoped was a fearless one of her own. "Yes," she said. "Then tell me, Rachel," he said, letting his hand toy with the loose neckline of her tunic, "why aren't you out somewhere, fucking your little gentleman's brains out? Why are you here with me, quivering when I touch you?

Each new day in my life was always better than the one which preceded it. Always.

People aren’t really needed for anything else in the Griftopia, but since Americans require the illusion of self-government, we have elections. To make sure those elections are effectively meaningless as far as Wall Street is concerned, two things end up being true. One is that voters on both sides of the aisle are gradually weaned off that habit of having real expectations for their politicians, consuming the voting process entirely as culture-war entertainment. The other is that millions of tenuously middle-class voters are conned into pushing Wall Street’s own twisted greed ethos as though it were their own. The Tea Party, with its weirdly binary view of society as being split up cleanly into competing groups of producers and parasites—that’s just a cultural echo of the insane greed-is-good belief system on Wall Street that’s provided the foundation/excuse for a generation of brilliantly complex thievery. Those beliefs have trickled down to the ex-middle-class suckers struggling to stay on top of their mortgages and their credit card bills, and the real joke is that these voters listen to CNBC and Fox and they genuinely believe they’re the producers in this binary narrative. They don’t get that somewhere way up above, there’s a group of people who’ve been living the Atlas dream for real—and building a self-dealing financial bureaucracy in their own insane image.

Con: his ex-boyfriend was seriously hot, but right now he looked angry and intent on making him pay. Pro: his ex-boyfriend was seriously hot, and right now he looked angry and intent on making him pay. And all Memphis could think was about damn time.

Twitter Terrorist, billionaire heir, ex-con, computer geek, bad boy—none of those terms came close to describing Kyle Rhodes. He was, simply, a good person, and a confident, intelligent man to boot, and she found that combination absolutely irresistible.

Ex-boyfriend #29. Pros: built like a brick wall. Cons: brains like a brick wall.

It was safer in here, there were rules and regular meals, professional care. Mac was a floor you could not fall below. I supposed the ex-cons who kept going back to prison felt the same way. “You

È per questo che Paul è andato a letto con un altro uomo?" La sua domanda mi stese. Mi colpì come un camion. Isaac sapeva tutto del mio ex e sapeva esattamente come ero stato male per quello che Paul aveva fatto. Fu come se l'aria fosse stata risucchiata fuori dalla stanza. Riuscivo a malapena a parlare "Che cosa?" Isaac sogghignò "È per questo che ti ha tradito? Perché lo soffocavi? Stavo cercando di controllare i suoi amici, con chi poteva parlare? Così si è scolato qualcun altro nel vostro letto?" Il mio stomaco sprofondò ai miei piedi. Isaac aveva sempre saputo come usare parole cattive, sapeva come mirare per uccidere. E non mi mancò

Vamos a decirlo ya, chicas, todos los tios, cuando nos encontramos con una ex, pensamos en acostarnos con ella. Cuando te gusta una chica tienes que invitarla a salir, contarle mentiras de tu vida... aguantar un montón de charlas para poder llevártela a la cama. Con una ex todo ese camino coñazo ya está hecho. Es como el Monopoly. Vas directamente a la cama, sin pasar por la casilla de salida y sin pagar los 200 euros, que es lo mínimo que te gastas en cenas.

—¡Juchipila, cuna de la revolución de 1910, tierra bendita, tierra regada con sangre de mártires, con sangre de soñadores… de los únicos buenos!… —Porque no tuvieron tiempo de ser malos —completa la frase brutalmente un oficial ex federal que va pasando.

Odio que estas cosas sean así, tan escabrosas, los ex novios. Lo raro es, de un día para el otro, ya no saber nada de una persona con la que compartías todo y a la que conocías intimamente, compartir todo, de cada día, lo que le pasaba cada día y después, de repente, de un momento a otro, ya nunca más nada y ni siquiera tener derecho a llamarlo o sí, o llamarlo igual, pero todo se vuelve incómodo, hasta lo más básico se vuelve incómodo. Dejar de tener derecho al otro, perderlo por completo, tan así, como si tal cosa. Odio eso, esa muerte artificial, ese ensayo de una muerte: hacerte a la idea de que esa persona desaparece, desapareció, se fue de tu vida y ya no tenés derecho a saber más nada de él. De ella. De la persona. Es absurdo, violento. Si sigue viviendo y anda cerca, o no, querés saber como está, en qué anda, no sé, algo. ¿O no? ¿No sería eso lo lógico? Voy a ver, a lo mejor paso por su casa hoy a la tarde, por la casa de los viejos, a ver qué onda, a ver si toco el timbre, a ver si me entero de algo.

Anche se non è assolutamente affar mio ciò che Jane ha provato con il suo ex fidanzato, per qualche strana ragione mi sento inspiegabilmente soddisfatto per la sua affermazione di non aver mai amato quel pezzo di merda. E anche un po’ triste, perché Jane è il tipo di donna che dovrebbe sperimentare qualunque cosa ci sia in quei libri che le fa nascere un simile sorriso sul viso. Merita assolutamente qualcosa di buono. E visto che l’idea di poter essere io a dargli quel qualcosa non è nient’altro che una chimera, me lo tolgo fermamente dalla testa e torno a leggere il thriller.

La sensación de volver a tocar a un ex novio es siemple la misma, como descubrir un vestido viejo en el fondo del armanio: esáta ahí olvidado, y un día te lo encuentras y te entra la misma ilusión que la última vez que te lo puiste, aquella noche estrellada en la que te besaste con un chico guapo, alto y moreno.

Children love. It isn’t hard for them. They don’t see race or economic class, ex-con or homeless person. They only see people they love. It is a risk to take our children into the mess, and we think we are teaching them how to minister there, but in reality they are the ones who teach us to love because they are Love. And perfect Love casts out fear.

Not everything needs to be fixed, Liz. Some things just need to be taken care of.

Wars are never won, they’re only fought.

Nunca mezcles la magia con el vodka.

—¿Vas a pedirme permiso para besarme? Ahora fue él el que sonrió con todas sus ganas. —Voy a pedirte un montón de cosas más si me dejas.

I might be heading for trouble, but I couldn’t get the look of pleasure on Scottie’s face as he was coming off my mind. I wanted to own that look, for it to be all about me.

And maybe, just maybe, the ten hours of hot summer wind blowing past my face would dry the tears of pride which were beginning to roll down my cheeks.

As my mind swirled into a whirlwind of emotion, the unthinkable happened. My heart filled with hope.

As the engine warmed up to speed, I glanced down at my steadily rising jeans. And, in all honesty, I was ready.

I'm a park ranger. He's a Special Forces veteran, a SWAT sniper, and an ex-con. If he can't shoot this guy, he can beat the shit out of him in a hundred dirty ways you and I can't imagine.

Rea­sons Why I Loved Be­ing With Jen I love what a good friend you are. You’re re­ally en­gaged with the lives of the peo­ple you love. You or­ga­nize lovely ex­pe­ri­ences for them. You make an ef­fort with them, you’re pa­tient with them, even when they’re side­tracked by their chil­dren and can’t pri­or­i­tize you in the way you pri­or­i­tize them. You’ve got a gen­er­ous heart and it ex­tends to peo­ple you’ve never even met, whereas I think that ev­ery­one is out to get me. I used to say you were naive, but re­ally I was jeal­ous that you al­ways thought the best of peo­ple. You are a bit too anx­ious about be­ing seen to be a good per­son and you def­i­nitely go a bit over­board with your left-wing pol­i­tics to prove a point to ev­ery­one. But I know you re­ally do care. I know you’d sign pe­ti­tions and help peo­ple in need and vol­un­teer at the home­less shel­ter at Christ­mas even if no one knew about it. And that’s more than can be said for a lot of us. I love how quickly you read books and how ab­sorbed you get in a good story. I love watch­ing you lie on the sofa read­ing one from cover-to-cover. It’s like I’m in the room with you but you’re in a whole other gal­axy. I love that you’re al­ways try­ing to im­prove your­self. Whether it’s running marathons or set­ting your­self chal­lenges on an app to learn French or the fact you go to ther­apy ev­ery week. You work hard to be­come a bet­ter ver­sion of your­self. I think I prob­a­bly didn’t make my ad­mi­ra­tion for this known and in­stead it came off as ir­ri­ta­tion, which I don’t re­ally feel at all. I love how ded­i­cated you are to your fam­ily, even when they’re an­noy­ing you. Your loy­alty to them wound me up some­times, but it’s only be­cause I wish I came from a big fam­ily. I love that you al­ways know what to say in con­ver­sa­tion. You ask the right ques­tions and you know ex­actly when to talk and when to lis­ten. Ev­ery­one loves talk­ing to you be­cause you make ev­ery­one feel im­por­tant. I love your style. I know you think I prob­a­bly never no­ticed what you were wear­ing or how you did your hair, but I loved see­ing how you get ready, sit­ting in front of the full-length mir­ror in our bed­room while you did your make-up, even though there was a mir­ror on the dress­ing ta­ble. I love that you’re mad enough to swim in the English sea in No­vem­ber and that you’d pick up spi­ders in the bath with your bare hands. You’re brave in a way that I’m not. I love how free you are. You’re a very free per­son, and I never gave you the sat­is­fac­tion of say­ing it, which I should have done. No one knows it about you be­cause of your bor­ing, high-pres­sure job and your stuffy up­bring­ing, but I know what an ad­ven­turer you are un­der­neath all that. I love that you got drunk at Jack­son’s chris­ten­ing and you al­ways wanted to have one more drink at the pub and you never com­plained about get­ting up early to go to work with a hang­over. Other than Avi, you are the per­son I’ve had the most fun with in my life. And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. I’m sorry that I loved you so much more than I liked my­self, that must have been a lot to carry. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you the way you took care of me. And I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my­self, ei­ther. I need to work on it. I’m pleased that our break-up taught me that. I’m sorry I went so mental. I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

Fai ciao ciao al burocrate" rimane il film favorito di Mario tra tutti quelli di loro padre, forse per la sua serietà così poco di moda. Anche se a Mario ha sempre detto che è troppo mieloso, piace anche a Hal, la cartuccia, e gli piace proiettarsi con l'immaginazione nel personaggio dell'ex burocrate mentre guida piacevolmente verso casa e verso la cancellazione deontologica.

Se è da me che sei venuto, perché non mi hai salutato, ex esattore dei tributi?" proferì Woland severamente. "Perché non voglio la tua salute." "Dovrai fartene una ragione," ribatté Woland, e un sorriso di scherno gli torse la bocca. "Non hai fatto in tempo a comparire sul tetto, che già hai commesso uno sciocco errore, e ti dirò qual è: l'intonazione della tua voce. Hai pronunciato le tue parole come se non riconoscessi l'esistenza delle ombre, e nemmeno del male. Non vuoi invece essere così buono da riflettere sulla questione: che cosa avrebbe fatto il tuo bene, se non fosse esistito il male, e che aspetto avrebbe la terra se da lei scomparissero le ombre? Sono le cose e le persone che generano le ombre. Ecco l'ombra della mia spada. Ma ci sono anche le ombre degli alberi e degli esseri viventi. Non vorrai forse scorticare l'intera sfera terrestre, strappandole di dosso tutti gli alberi e tutto ciò che è vivo, per la tua fantasia di abbandonarti al godimento della nuda luce? Sei stupido." "Non starò a discutere con te, vecchio sofista," rispose Levi Matteo. "Non potresti comunque discutere con me, per la ragione che ti ho detto: sei stupido.

No differently than if I’d eaten the chicken a thousand times, I nonchalantly lifted a piece from my plate, shrugged my shoulders, and poked it past my lips. Oh. My. God. That’s fucking incredible.

—Habría merecido la pena —dijo él, dejando de sonreír, aunque el brillo en su mirada se volvió más cálido—. Estaba loco por ti, Vivienne — confesó en voz baja. Con total sinceridad—. Completamente loco.

-Son, pues, estos dos principios los que, en mi opi­nión, podríamos considerar como causas de que la divi­nidad haya otorgado a los hombres otras dos artes, la música y la gimnástica, no para el alma y el cuerpo, ex­cepto de una manera secundaria, sino para la fogosidad y filosofía respectivamente, con el fin de que estos princi­pios lleguen, mediante tensiones o relajaciones, al punto necesario de mutua armonía.

—Ya no sé cómo decir que esto es una mala idea —murmuró Vivienne contra sus labios. Rhys sonrió y le rozó la nariz con la suya. —Hemos cometido muchos errores —añadió él—, pero no creo que esto sea uno de ellos.

Es decir, que está debe ser la forma de hospitalidad de la gente verdaderamente elegante. Recibir al visitante y, a continuación, olvidarse de él. Y por añadidura, disponer de manera desordenada alrededor del visitante delicioso sake y exóticos manjares. No hay baile ni música preparados con la evidente finalidad de dar la bienvenida al visitante... Este, por su parte, no tiene necesidad de poner una cara especial para demostrar ex profeso su admiración.

—¿Seguro que te encuentras bien, putita? —insistió el pesado de Adrián. —Hoy estás demasiado atento conmigo. —Bueno, te has reencontrado después de tanto tiempo con tu ex... —¡No es mi ex! Al contrario que tú y tu hada oscura lo nuestro apenas duró una semana, no merece llamarse mi “ex”. —Siete efímeros, pero intensos días... Ya nos conocemos muy bien la historia —se burló el Joker—. Después quedasteis en reuniros otros tres días después, pero él nunca apareció. En lugar de eso se había ido con la reina Ellette... —Suena tan patético, ¿verdad?[...] —Bueno, a ti al menos te dejo por su reina. Es más patético lo de nuestro querido Adrián. —Muchas gracias, al menos a mí no me encerraron en una carta. (Joker, Maddie y Adrián)

Show me your friends, and I’ll show you your future. If you're wondering if a person has changed or not, look at their friends. Look at how they spend their time, too, because one spends their time on what they truly are connected to, good or bad.

Y allí en lo alto, contemplando aquella salvaje perspectiva, eligió A la siguiente mártir de la cruda causa De la concupiscencia. Una vez más, Con esa negra presteza innata, ató a su prisionera. Las hormigas —una fila de viajeras llegando y partiendo— Perseveraban en el rumbo marcado Sin inmutarse, sin el menor escrúpulo, Obedeciendo las órdenes de su instinto hasta ser barridas Del escenario e infamemente atadas, Liquidadas por aquel vigoroso deus Ex machina. Y ni siquiera eso parecía disuadirlas.

We’d have valet parking, too, but the attendants would be disguised as hostile schizophrenic street people who would squeegee-attack your windshield right as you pull up. Those in the know would have figured out by now that all our valets were ex-cons,

- Vivienne, lo siento, pero te dejo por la mujer que hace estas delicias. - Tiene noventa años. - Me da igual. [...probando tarta...] -Está bien, cásate con la señora Michaelson, pero prométeme que me invitarás a la boda e incluiréis esto dentro del menú, ¿de acuerdo?

Rhys sonrió y, como siempre, el gesto le hizo parecer más joven y tierno. Ojalá no le gustara tanto. Ojalá la Vivi de diecinueve años no lo hubiera visto de pie en aquel campo y le hubiera entregado su corazón con ambas manos. Pero las cosas no eran así. Y ella lo sabía.

That goddamn Louis, you see what he done? Put his cigarette butt in here. I’m gonna punch him right in his smokin’ mouth.” Max turned back to the form, glades mutual casualty printed across the top. He said, “I know how you feel. But when you hit an ex-con who’s done three falls, they say you better kill him.

Te sorprendes echando una mirada hacia atrás y preguntándote cuándo comenzaste a no permitir que nadie se te acercara, a decidir que en el fondo la gente no te importa nada. Y sorpresa: todo lo que logras recordar es una cadena de pequeños sinsabores. Ningún terremoto, ningún gigantesco acontecimiento traumático, como en las películas, donde un evento significativo explica toda una personalidad. Ningún papá o mamá que se largó de casa, ningún ex marido sorprendido en la cama con tu mejor amiga. Más bien: nimiedades de niños, si acaso. Minucias, algo que casi es motivo de risa. Pequeñísimos movimientos de indiferencia, de deriva continental, que en realidad no te movieron para nada el piso, pero que, milímetro tras milímetro, grabaron en tu interior la certeza de que es mejor no apoyarse nunca totalmente, porque el piso no es estable, y debes estar siempre lista para saltar antes de que se abra una grieta en el suelo. Y sólo ahora que, por una sola noche, te concediste una tregua, te dejaste llevar y te relajaste, sólo ahora que finalmente permitiste que alguien se acercara y -¡Qué increíble!- no sólo no te moriste, sino que te agradó más de lo que podías imaginar, sólo ahora que te das cuenta de que hasta este momento todo fue terriblemente agotador.

Let us, in our character of knowers, not be ungrateful towards such determined reversals of the ordinary perspectives and values, with which the mind had for too long raged against itself with an apparently futile sacrilege! In the same way the very seeing of another vista, the very wishing to see another vista, is no little training and preparation of the intellect for its eternal "Objectivity" — objectivity being understood not as "contemplation without interest" (for that is inconceivable and nonsensical), but as the ability to have the pros and cons in one's power and to switch them on and off, so as to get to know how to utilise, for the advancement of knowledge, the difference in the perspective and in the emotional interpretations. But let us, forsooth, my philosophic colleagues, henceforward guard ourselves more carefully against this mythology of dangerous ancient ideas, which has set up a "pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject of knowledge"; let us guard ourselves from the tentacles of such contradictory ideas as "pure reason," "absolute spirituality," "knowledge-in-itself": — in these theories an eye that cannot be thought of is required to think, an eye which ex hypothesi has no direction at all, an eye in which the active and interpreting functions are cramped, are absent; those functions, I say, by means of which "abstract" seeing first became seeing something; in these theories consequently the absurd and the nonsensical is always demanded of the eye. There is only a seeing from a perspective, only a "knowing" from a perspective, and the more emotions we express over a thing, the more eyes, different eyes, we train on the same thing, the more complete will be our "idea" of that thing, our "objectivity." But the elimination of the will altogether, the switching off of the emotions all and sundry, granted that we could do so, what! would not that be called intellectual castration?

No es fácil la maldad. Maldad -la maldad verdadera- no es pegarle a un chico, estafar a un amigo, matar a un ex amante, hundir con un soplo a un compañero de trabajo -cuyo puesto no necesito ni apetezco-: ésas son formas laboriosas del placer. La única maldad -la única violencia verdadera- es seriamente abandonarse. Un ejemplo -un ejemplo demasiado a propósito- sería volverme a casa, ahora: saber que este cuerpo -mi cuerpo- se está deshaciendo y dejarlo hacer, dejar que siga su camino de alejarse. Atacarse: so innúmeros pretextos atacarse. Sólo la destrucción de uno mismo califica como maldad cierta; el resto son poses para la galería, recovecos.

Poi", continuò Marguerite, "tu eri l'unica persona davanti alla quale avevo subito intuito che potevo pensare e parlare liberamente. Tutti coloro che stanno intorno alle donne come me analizzano tutto quello che diciamo, cercano di trarre delle conclusioni dalle nostre azioni più insignificanti. Per natura, non abbiamo amici. Abbiamo amanti egoisti, che dilapidano il patrimonio non certo per noi, come dicono, ma per la loro vanità. Per questi amanti, dobbiamo essere gaie quando sono allegri, in buona salute quando vogliono cenare, scettiche come loro. Ci è proibito avere un cuore, per non essere beffate e perdere il nostro credito. Noi non ci apparteniamo più. Non siamo più esseri umani, ma cose. Siamo le prime nel loro amor proprio, le ultime nella loro stima. Abbiamo amiche, ma sempre del genere di Prudence, ex mantenute, che hanno conservato il gusto dello scialo senza poterselo permettere, data l'età. Allora diventano le nostre amiche, o meglio, le nostre commensali. La loro amicizia arriva fino al servilismo, mai fino al disinteresse. Mai ci daranno un consiglio, se non venale. A loro poco importa se abbiamo dieci amanti, purché ci ricavino qualche vestito, o un braccialetto, e possano ogni tanto passeggiare nella nostra carrozza o andare al teatro nel nostro palco. Prendono i mazzi di fiori che abbiamo ricevuto il giorno prima, e si fanno prestare i nostri scialle di cachemire. Non ci fanno mai il minimo piacere senza farselo pagare il doppio di quello che vale. L'hai visto tu stesso, la sera in cui Prudence mi ha portato i seimila franchi che l'avevo pregata di chiedere da parte mia al duca: se n'è fatta prestare cinquecento che non mi restituirà mai, o che mi pagherà in cappelli che resteranno eternamente nelle loro scatole. Noi non possiamo avere, o meglio io non potevo avere che una gioia, triste come sono talvolta, sofferente come sono sempre: trovare un uomo abbastanza superiore da non chiedermi conto della mia vita, ed essere l'amante dei miei sentimenti molto più che del mio corpo. Un uomo così l'avevo trovato nel duce, ma il duca è vecchio, e la vecchiaia non protegge né consola. Avevo creduto di poter accettare la vita che mi offriva, ma che vuoi? morivo di noia, e per finire con l'uccidersi è meglio gettarsi in un incendio che asfissiarsi col carbone. Allora ho incontrato te, giovane, ardente, felice, e ho cercato di fare di te l'amante che avevo invocato nella mia rumorosa solitudine. Ciò che amavo in te non era l'uomo che eri, ma quello che dovevi essere. Tu non accetti questo ruolo, lo respingi come indegno di te, sei un amante volgare; fai come gli altri: pagami, e non ne parliamo più.

Soy sencillamente, o tal vez debo escribir que fui, un hombre solitario. Puedo pasarme la noche entera frente a un pocillo de café, y si a veces condesciendo a pedir una copita de caña de durazno o un cognac es para no despreciar a mis ocasionales compañeros de mesa. Para que no desconfíen de mí; para que me hablen. He conversado en esos bares con los personajes más extraordinarios de Buenos Aires. Actores fracasados, ex presidiarios, viejas putas en decadencia, infantiles putas en ascenso, poetas que se creían, o quizá eran, genios incomprendidos, tristes homosexuales que venían de una paliza descomunal, violeteras que juraban haber cantado con la Galli Curci o haber sido amantes de Perón.

Dios y la gente se solidarizan con las víctimas. Pero no con cualquier víctima, sino con las víctimas que se victimizan con éxito. Mi ex mujer, por ejemplo. Cuando nos divorciamos, la criolla se volvió poeta y víctima; la profeta de las víctimas divorciadas. Ella acaba de publicar un librito de poemas en prosa muy rencorosos, autogestionados y trilingües, en la editorial imaginaria de su mentora, una poeta gringa que dirige un taller de poesía que se llama Hijas Espirituales de Mina Loy (SDML, por sus siglas en inglés). Tiene la descortesía de invitarme a la presentación, que se celebra en su propio departamento. Como sé que le tengo que caer bien porque si no, no me presta a los niños nunca, tengo la cortesía de ir hasta Nueva York a verla.

[...] en Deus Ex encontramos una trama compleja, que se sitúa en el año 2050, cuando una nueva enfermedad amenaza a la humanidad. Esta puede ser combatida con Ambrosía, una droga de elevado precio a la que solo unos pocos pueden acceder mientras el resto de la humanidad perece lentamente. Este contexto provocará la aparición de grupos terroristas que intentarán cambiar la situación. Para combatirles el gobierno ha comenzado la creación de agentes especiales con ayuda de la nanotecnología: nosotros somos el segundo agente (el primero es nuestro hermano) y nuestra misión es acabar con los grupos terroristas, pero poco a poco iremos descubriendo un entramado de mentiras, corrupción política y un plan para dominar el mundo que hará que nuestra visión de la situación cambie.

—Pues claro, maldita sea. Yo también te amo, y lo sabes. Y que quede claro: no estoy diciéndolo con la idea de acostarme contigo. Este mundo no puede ser más cruel. Al comienzo de este día, mi Último Día, estaba pegándole una paliza al tipo que estaba saliendo con mi ex, pero ahora me encuentro en la cama con un chico maravilloso al que no hace ni veinticuatro horas que conozco... que conozco...

Inclinó la cabeza, acercándose a ella. ¡Dios! Olía tan bien... A algo dulce. Vainilla, quizá. Iba a probar cada centímetro de ella hasta dar con la procedencia de ese aroma. Vivienne cerró los ojos y dejó escapar un tembloroso suspiro. Y entonces se tensó, puso los brazos rígidos y lo empujó con tanta fuerza que llegó a tambalearse un poco. —¿De verdad me has traído a una cueva mágica sexual? —preguntó entre dientes.

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

Sei il ragazzo dell’ufficio postale? Mi sento superimbarazzato in questo momento, e non posso credere che sto facendo una cosa del genere, ma eccomi qua. Abbiamo parlato per pochi minuti all’ufficio postale sulla Lexington. Io ero il tizio con la cravatta con gli hot dog. Tu volevi spedire delle cose al tuo ex. Mi ha affascinato la tua risata. Vorrei averti chiesto il numero. Vuoi darmi una seconda possibilità, universo?

I hate that phrase "the real world." Why is an aircraft factory more real than a university? Is it? In universities I've had in my office ex-cons on parole, young people in tears racked with deep sexual problems, people recently released from mental hospitals, confused, bewildered, frightened, hoping, with more desperation than some of us will ever be unlucky enough to know, that they will remain stable enough to stay in school, and out of hospitals forever. I've seen people so lovelorn that I've sat there praying as only an unreligious man can pray that I don't say something wrong, that I can spare their feelings, that I might even say something that will make their lives easier if only for a few moments. Sad drug addicts too. Not people you usually meet in industrial offices. . . In some ways the university is a far more real world than business.

Confiaba en Rhys con todo su corazón. El imprudente y voluble Rhys, que iba por la vida despreocupado, pero que la amaba y se lo había demostrado una y otra vez. El Loco y la Estrella, tal y como Gwyn los había pintado en sus cartas. Saltando por los acantilados y resplandeciendo de forma constante, dos opuestos que no podían vivir el uno sin el otro. Y que tampoco tenían por qué hacerlo. Y eso, reconoció Vivi mientras Rhys la besaba, podría ser lo más maravilloso de todo.

—¡Jesús! Esto ha sido pan comido —murmuró en cuanto estuvieron en el pasillo. Luego miró las distintas puertas de madera—. ¿Sabes? Pensaba que íbamos a tardar mucho más, así que ahora nos sobra tiempo. Si quieres... —No. —Vivi le dio un golpe en el pecho—. No vamos a pedir ninguna habitación. Vamos a llevar esto directamente a la tía Elaine. Rhys soltó un sonoro suspiro, la agarró de la cara con una mano y bajó la cabeza para darle un beso en la boca. —Me encanta y odio cuando te muestras sensata, Vivienne.

Who says you have to be the best anyway?” “My dad.” Michael gave him a curious look. “Is it because you’ve done time that you think you’re not as good as anybody else?” “Oh, I think I’m as good. Other people are the problem.” “Because you’re an ex-con?” “And a carpenter. Not as much status in that as in what your dad does.” “But if you do it well, that’s all that counts. That’s what Mom always says. She says I can be whatever I want in life, as long as I do it with passion. Do you do your work with passion?

So we do go out to the San Jose highway to watch Cody recap tires—There he is wearing goggles working like Vulcan at his forge, throwing tires all over the place with fantastic strength, the good ones high up on a pile, “This one’s no good” down on another, bing, bang, talking all the time a long fantastic lecture on tire recapping which has Dave Wain marvel with amazement—(“My God he can do all that and even explain while he’s doing it”)—But I just mention in connection with the fact that Dave Wain now realizes why I’ve always loved Cody—Expecting to see a bitter ex con he sees instead a martyr of the American Night in goggles in some dreary tire shop at 2 A.M. making fellows laugh with joy with his funny explanations yet at the same time to a T performing every bit of the work he’s being paid for—Rushing up and ripping tires off car wheels with a jicklo, clang, throwing it on the machine, starting up big roaring steams but yelling explanations over that, darting, bending, flinging, flaying, till Dave Wain said he thought he was going to die laughing or crying right there on the spot.

«È solo... il fatto che tu non sia mai uscito con nessuno prima e non abbia mai baciato nessuno... Non lo so. E se io rovinassi tutto? Non voglio essere quello che rovina il tuo primo bacio.» «Non lo saresti.» «È che mi sento sotto pressione, capisci. Voglio che sia perfetto.» «Essere con te è già perfetto.» Lui ridacchia. «Voglio dire, a parte il fatto che sottovaluti drammaticamente la mia destrezza con la macchina pesca pupazzi, e che il sosia di Ansel Elgort ci ha provato con te, e le tue cinquantasei foto con il tuo ex e...» E lui mi bacia. Così, di punto in bianco. Le sue mani sono sulle mie guance, e lui mi sta baciando. Cristo santo. Voglio dire, non mi ero mai reso conto di quanto ti è vicina la faccia di una persona quando ti bacia. La sua testa è proprio qui. Leggermente inclinata per adattarsi alla mia. I suoi occhi sono chiusi e le sue labbra si muovono sulle mie, e WOW, non so quanto sia appropriato e in regola avere un’erezione in una situazione del genere, ma... ehm. Dovrei rispondere al bacio. Cerco di muovere le labbra come sta facendo lui, come se cercassi di mangiargli la bocca senza usare i denti. Ma mi sa che lo sto facendo nel modo sbagliato, perché lui si tira indietro di qualche centimetro e mi sorride.

ELDRIDGE CLEAVER (1953-I998) was a man who made a a significant imprint on our times, and not for the best. But I mourn his passing nonetheless. I first met Eldridge when he was Ramparts magazine's most famous and most bloodthirsty ex-con. 'I'm perfectly aware that I'm in prison, that I'm a Negro, that I've been a rapist," he wrote in a notorious epistle that Ramparts published. "My answer to all such thoughts lurking in their split-level heads, crouching behind their squinting bombardier eyes, is that the blood of Vietnamese peasants has paid off all my debts." This nihilism became an iconographic comment for the times, a ready excuse for all the destructive acts radicals like us went on to commit.

La signora Dambreuse stava vicino al fuoco, in mezzo a un semicerchio di una dozzina di persone. Con una parola cortese, gli fece cenno di sedere, ma senza parere meravigliata di non averlo veduto da un pezzo. Quand'egli entrò, stavano elogiando l'eloquenza dell'abate Coeur. Poi fu deplorata l'immoralità dei domestici, a proposito di un furto commesso da un cameriere; e i pettegolezzi si sgomitolarono. La vecchia signora di Sommer aveva un raffreddore, la signorina di Turvisot si maritava, i Montcharron non sarebbero tornati prima della fine di gennaio, e nemmeno i Bretancourt; era di moda trattenersi a lungo in campagna: e la miseria di quegli argomenti era come rinforzata dal lusso delle cose circostanti, ma ciò che si diceva era meno stupido del modo in cui si diceva, senza scopo, senza nesso, senza slancio. Eppure, c'erano uomini pratici della vita, un ex ministro, il curato di una grande parrocchia, due o tre alti funzionari del governo: ma si tenevano ai più triti luoghi comuni. Alcuni somigliavano a ricche vedove stanche, altri avevano modi da sensali, alcuni vegliardi accompagnavano mogli, delle quali avrebbero potuto farsi passare per nonni. La signora Dambreuse intratteneva tutti con grazia. Quando si parlava di un malato, aggrottava dolorosamente le sopracciglia; prendeva un'aria gioconda se si trattava di balli e di serate. Ella avrebbe dovuto presto privarsene, perché stava per far uscire di collegio una nipote di suo marito, un'orfana. Esaltarono il suo sacrificio: quello sì che era un condursi da madre di famiglia.

Inmates would overwhelmingly welcome segregation. As Lexy Good, a white prisoner in San Quentin State Prison explained, “I’d rather hang out with white people, and blacks would rather hang out with people of their own race.” He said it was the same outside of prison: “Look at suburbia. . . . People in society self-segregate.” Another white man, using the pen name John Doe, wrote that jail time in Texas had turned him against blacks: '[B]ecause of my prison experiences, I cannot stand being in the presence of blacks. I can’t even listen to my old, favorite Motown music anymore. The barbarous and/or retarded blacks in prison have ruined it for me. The black prison guards who comprise half the staff and who flaunt the dominance of African-American culture in prison and give favored treatment to their “brothers” have ruined it for me.' He went on: '[I]n the aftermath of the Byrd murder [the 1998 dragging death in Jasper, Texas] I read one commentator’s opinion in which he expressed disappointment that ex-cons could come out of prison with unresolved racial problems “despite the racial integration of the prisons.” Despite? Buddy, do I have news for you! How about because of racial integration?' (emphasis in the original) A man who served four years in a California prison wrote an article for the Los Angeles Times called “Why Prisons Can’t Integrate.” “California prisons separate blacks, whites, Latinos and ‘others’ because the truth is that mixing races and ethnic groups in cells would be extremely dangerous for inmates,” he wrote. He added that segregation “is looked on by no one—of any race—as oppressive or as a way of promoting racism.” He offered “Rule No. 1” for survival: “The various races and ethnic groups stick together.” There were no other rules. He added that racial taboos are so complex that only a person of the same race can be an effective guide.

Dear Jon, A real Dear Jon let­ter, how per­fect is that?! Who knew you’d get dumped twice in the same amount of months. See, I’m one para­graph in and I’ve al­ready fucked this. I’m writ­ing this be­cause I can’t say any of this to you face-to-face. I’ve spent the last few months ques­tion­ing a lot of my friend­ships and won­der­ing what their pur­pose is, if not to work through big emo­tional things to­gether. But I now re­al­ize: I don’t want that. And I know you’ve all been there for me in other ways. Maybe not in the lit­eral sense, but I know you all would have done any­thing to fix me other than lis­ten­ing to me talk and al­low­ing me to be sad with­out so­lu­tions. And now I am writ­ing this let­ter rather than pick­ing up the phone and talk­ing to you be­cause, de­spite every thing I know, I just don’t want to, and I don’t think you want me to ei­ther. I lost my mind when Jen broke up with me. I’m pretty sure it’s been the sub­ject of a few of your What­sApp con­ver­sa­tions and more power to you, be­cause I would need to vent about me if I’d been friends with me for the last six months. I don’t want it to have been in vain, and I wanted to tell you what I’ve learnt. If you do a high-fat, high-pro­tein, low-carb diet and join a gym, it will be a good dis­trac­tion for a while and you will lose fat and gain mus­cle, but you will run out of steam and eat nor­mally again and put all the weight back on. So maybe don’t bother. Drunk­en­ness is an­other idea. I was in black­out for most of the first two months and I think that’s fine, it got me through the evenings (and the oc­ca­sional af­ter­noon). You’ll have to do a lot of it on your own, though, be­cause no one is free to meet up any more. I think that’s fine for a bit. It was for me un­til some­one walked past me drink­ing from a whisky minia­ture while I waited for a night bus, put five quid in my hand and told me to keep warm. You’re the only per­son I’ve ever told this story. None of your mates will be ex­cited that you’re sin­gle again. I’m prob­a­bly your only sin­gle mate and even I’m not that ex­cited. Gen­er­ally the ex­pe­ri­ence of be­ing sin­gle at thirty-five will feel dif­fer­ent to any other time you’ve been sin­gle and that’s no bad thing. When your ex moves on, you might be­come ob­sessed with the bloke in a way that is al­most sex­ual. Don’t worry, you don’t want to fuck him, even though it will feel a bit like you do some­times. If you open up to me or one of the other boys, it will feel good in the mo­ment and then you’ll get an emo­tional hang­over the next day. You’ll wish you could take it all back. You may even feel like we’ve en­joyed see­ing you so low. Or that we feel smug be­cause we’re win­ning at some­thing and you’re los­ing. Re­member that none of us feel that. You may be­come ob­sessed with work­ing out why ex­actly she broke up with you and you are likely to go fully, fully nuts in your bid to find a sat­is­fy­ing an­swer. I can save you a lot of time by let­ting you know that you may well never work it out. And even if you did work it out, what’s the pur­pose of it? Soon enough, some girl is go­ing to be crazy about you for some un­de­fin­able rea­son and you’re not go­ing to be in­ter­ested in her for some un­de­fin­able rea­son. It’s all so ran­dom and un­fair – the peo­ple we want to be with don’t want to be with us and the peo­ple who want to be with us are not the peo­ple we want to be with. Re­ally, the thing that’s go­ing to hurt a lot is the fact that some­one doesn’t want to be with you any more. Feel­ing the ab­sence of some­one’s com­pany and the ab­sence of their love are two dif­fer­ent things. I wish I’d known that ear­lier. I wish I’d known that it isn’t any­body’s job to stay in a re­la­tion­ship they don’t want to be in just so some­one else doesn’t feel bad about them­selves. Any­way. That’s all. You’re go­ing to be okay, mate. Andy

He's like a little boy again now for the first time in years because he's like let out of school, no job, the bills paid, nothing to do but gratefully amuse me, his eyes are shining -- In fact ever since he's come out of San Quentin there's been something hauntedly boyish about him as tho prison walls had taken all the adult dark tenseness out of him -- In fact every evening after supper in the cell he shared with the quiet gunman he'd bent his serious head to a daily letter or at least every-other-day letter full of philosophical and religious musings to his mistress Billie... And when you're in bed in jail after lights out and you're not sleepy there's ample time to just remember the world and indeed savor its sweetness if any (altho it's always sweet to remember it in jail tho harder in prison, as Genet shows) with the result that he'd not only come to a chastisement of his bashing bitternesses (and of course it's always good to get away from alcohol and excessive smoking for two years) (and all that regular sleep) he was just like a kid again, but as I say that haunting kidlikeness I think all ex cons seem to have when they've just come out -- In seeking to severely penalize criminals society by putting the criminals away behind safe walls actually provide them with the means of greater strength for future atrocities glorious and otherwise -- "Well I'll be damned" he keeps saying as he sees those bluffs and cliffs and hanging vines and dead trees, "you mean to tell me you ben alone here for three weeks, why I wouldn't dare that... must be awful at night ... looka that old mule down there... man, dig the redwood country way back in... reminds me of old Colorady b'god when I used to steal a car every day and drive out to hills like this with a fresh little high school sumptin" -- "Yum Yum, " says Dave Wain emphatically turning that big goofy look to us from his driving wheel with his big mad feverish shining eyes full of yumyum and yabyum too --

La falsedad de un juicio no es para nosotros ya una objeción contra él; acaso sea en esto en lo que más ex- traño suene nuestro nuevo lenguaje. La cuestión está en saber hasta qué punto ese juicio favorece la vida, conserva la vida, conserva la especie, quizá incluso selecciona la especie; y nosotros estarnos inclinados por principio a afirmar que los juicios más falsos (de ellos forman parte los juicios sintéticos a priori) son los más imprescindibles para nosotros, que el hombre no podría vivir si no admitiese las ficciones lógicas, si no midiese la realidad con el metro del mundo puramente inventado de lo incondicionado, idéntico-a-sí- mismo, si no falsease permanentemente el mundo mediante el número, - que renunciar a los juicios falsos sería renunciar a la vida, negar la vida. Admitir que la no-verdad es condición de la vida: esto significa, desde luego, enfrentarse de modo peligroso a los sentimientos de valor habituales; y una filosofía que osa hacer esto se coloca, ya sólo con ello, más allá del bien y del mal.

Even if there is no connection between diversity and international influence, some people would argue that immigration brings cultural enrichment. This may seem to be an attractive argument, but the culture of Americans remains almost completely untouched by millions of Hispanic and Asian immigrants. They may have heard of Cinco de Mayo or Chinese New Year, but unless they have lived abroad or have studied foreign affairs, the white inhabitants of Los Angeles are likely to have only the most superficial knowledge of Mexico or China despite the presence of many foreigners. Nor is it immigrants who introduce us to Cervantes, Puccini, Alexander Dumas, or Octavio Paz. Real high culture crosses borders by itself, not in the back pockets of tomato pickers, refugees, or even the most accomplished immigrants. What has Yo-Yo Ma taught Americans about China? What have we learned from Seiji Ozawa or Ichiro about Japan? Immigration and the transmission of culture are hardly the same thing. Nearly every good-sized American city has an opera company, but that does not require Italian immigrants. Miami is now nearly 70 percent Hispanic, but what, in the way of authentic culture enrichment, has this brought the city? Are the art galleries, concerts, museums, and literature of Los Angeles improved by diversity? Has the culture of Detroit benefited from a majority-black population? If immigration and diversity bring cultural enrichment, why do whites move out of those very parts of the country that are being “enriched”? It is true that Latin American immigration has inspired more American school children to study Spanish, but fewer now study French, German, or Latin. If anything, Hispanic immigration reduces what little linguistic diversity is to be found among native-born Americans. [...] [M]any people study Spanish, not because they love Hispanic culture or Spanish literature but for fear they may not be able to work in America unless they speak the language of Mexico. Another argument in favor of diversity is that it is good for people—especially young people —to come into contact with people unlike themselves because they will come to understand and appreciate each other. Stereotyped and uncomplimentary views about other races or cultures are supposed to crumble upon contact. This, of course, is just another version of the “contact theory” that was supposed to justify school integration. Do ex-cons and the graduates—and numerous dropouts—of Los Angeles high schools come away with a deep appreciation of people of other races? More than half a century ago, George Orwell noted that: 'During the war of 1914-18 the English working class were in contact with foreigners to an extent that is rarely possible. The sole result was that they brought back a hatred of all Europeans, except the Germans, whose courage they admired.

«L’ultima foto è splendida» dice Arthur. «Io... non importa.» «Vai avanti.» Arthur si guarda le scarpe. «Io sembro molto più felice di te. Va bene se vuoi chiuderla qui. Se sei ancora preso dal tuo ex, lo capisco. Cioè, non lo capisco. Ma posso immaginare.» «No, è solo... mi sono divertito molto, ma so di non esserci stato al cento per cento.» È colpa mia. Ho portato Arthur in un posto dove venivo sempre con Hudson. Inoltre, non so quanto posso investire davvero in questa storia, dal momento che lui se ne andrà comunque alla fine dell’estate. Restiamo entrambi in silenzio. Vorrei tanto vedere Arthur nel modo in cui lui vede me. Potrebbe volerci del tempo, però, e il tempo non è proprio dalla nostra parte. Arthur sospira e fissa il pavimento. «Ho rovinato il mio primo appuntamento. Che bravo.» «No, non l’hai rovinato... sono io quello che ha fatto casino. Sono sempre pronto a distruggere tutto quello che di buono l’universo lancia nella mia direzione, dal momento che sono convinto che l’universo mi odi. Ma forse l’universo sta solo pianificando un gioco a lungo termine. E tutto quello che è sempre andato male è andato così per poter diventare giusto dopo. Non lo so.» «Per cui l’appuntamento è andato bene? O male?» «Non è andato male, ma penso che se è l’universo che ci sta mettendo insieme, la nostra storia merita un primo appuntamento più mitico. Vorrei tanto rivederti. Forse dovremmo provare con una replica di questo appuntamento»

Dalla parte opposta Antoine-Luois-Leon Florelle de Saint-Just, pallido, fronte bassa, profilo regolare, sguardo misterioso, tristezza profonda, ventitré anni; Merlin de Thionville, chiamato dai tedeschi Feuer-Teufel, diavolo di fuoco; Merlin de Douai, criminale autore della legge dei sospetti; Soubrany, che il popolo volle come generale al primo pratile; l'ex curato Lebon che maneggiava la spada con la mano un tempo benedicente; Billaud-Varennes che sognava una magistratura dell'avvenire senza giudici, affidata a soli arbitri; Fabre d'Eglantine, che ebbe una piacevole trovata , il calendario repubblicano, come Rouget de Lisle ebbe un'ispirazione sublime, La Marsigliese, ma l'uno come l'altro senza ritorni spirituali; Manuel, il procuratore della Comune, il quale sentenziò: «Un re morto non rappresenta un uomo di meno»; Goujon che era entrato nelle truppe a Trippe Lacroix, avvocato fattosi generale e creato cavaliere di San Luigi sei giorni prima del 12 agosto; Frèron Thersiste, figlio di Fréron-Zoile; Ruhl, inesorabile nell'esaminare il contenuto del famoso armadio di ferro, predestinato al suicidio, da perfetto repubblicano, il giorno in cui fosse caduta la repubblica; Fouché, anima demoniaca e viso cadaverico; Camboulas, l'amico di di Père Duchéne, che rimproverava a Guilliotin: «Tu appartieni al Club dei Foglianti, ma tua figlia al Club dei giacobini» Jagot, che obiettava a coloro che non approvavano la nudità dei carcerati. « Una prigione è pur sempre un abito di pietra»; Javagues, il macabro violatore di tombe di Saint-Denis; Osselin, proscrittore che concedeva asilo a una proscritta, Madame Charry; Bentabolle, il quale nelle funzioni di presidente, dava al pubblico il segnale degli applausi o delle imprecazioni; il giornalista Robert, marito di Kéralio, la quale scriveva: «Né Robespierre né Marta frequentano la mia casa, Robespierrre vi può venire quando vuole, Marat non vi metterà mai piede»; Garan Coulon, che a seguito dell'intervento della Spagna nel processo contro Luigi XVI aveva chiesto fieramente che l'assemblea non si degnasse di dar lettura della lettera di un re a favore di un altro re; Grégoire, vescovo degno della Chiesa primitiva, il quale sotto l'Impero, cancellò poi la sua fede repubblicana, assumendo il titolo di conte Grégoire; Amar, che affermava: «La terra intera condanna Luigi XVI. A chi appellarsi contro la condanna, ai pianeti?» Rouyer, il quale si era opposto all'impiego del cannone dal Pont – Neuf asserendo: «La testa di un re non deve, cadendo, far più rumore della testa di un uomo qualsiasi»; Chénier, fratello di André; Vadier, uno di quelli che posarono una pistola sulla tribuna; Tanis, che diceva a Momoro: «Voglio che Robespierre e Marat si riappacifichino alla mia tavola». «Dove abitate? A Charenton. «Mi sarei stupito che abitaste altrove»; Legendre, il macellaio della rivoluzione d'Inghilterra: « Vieni dunque che ti spacchi la testa», gridava a Lanjuinais; E costui rispondeva: «Devi ottenere prima un decreto che mi classifiche tra i buoi»; Collot d'Herbois, macabro commediante che portava sul viso l'antica maschera con due bocche, una per il sì e una per il no, uomo che approvava con l'una ciò che biasimava con l'alra, pronto ad accusare Carrier a Nantes e a deificare Châlier a Lione, a inviare Robespierre al patibolo e Marat al Pantheon; Génissieux, il quale chiedeva la pena di morte contro chiunque portasse su di sé la medaglia rappresentante Luigi XVI martirizzato; Leonard Bourdain, il maestro di scuola che aveva offerto la sua casa al vegliardo di Mont-Jura;Topsent, marinaio; Goupilleau, avvocato; Laurent Lecointre, commerciante; Duhem, medico; Sergent, scultore; David,pittore; Joseph Égalité, principe. Atri ancora: Lecointe-Piuraveau, il quale chiedeva che Marat «fosse riconosciuto in stato di demenza»;

We're in this together. You know as well as I do that control can be a heavy burden. So you'll share it, and I'll help. Okay?

Para ver claro, basta con cambiar la dirección de la mirada. ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY

In view of the possibilities listed, it is clear that there are several different points of view possible: (1) “The ideas of calculating space contradict some recognized concepts of present-day physics (for example, space isotropy); therefore, the fundamental basis must be false.” (2) “The laws of calculating space must he revised with the object of elim- inating the existing contradictions.” (3) “The possibilities arising from the ideas of calculating space are in themselves so interesting that it is worthwhile to reconsider those con- cepts of traditional physics which are called into question and to ex- amine their validity from new points of view.

I glanced at Pike, but Pike was staring out the front door. Intimidating the neighborhood. I said, “Maybe he mentioned a buddy who worked at a Shell Station or an ex-con he would have drinks with.

No te sientas “mala” o “malo” por actuar de manera coherente con lo que piensas y sientes.

Devil looks after his own.

ser tú mismo con la mayor intensidad posible,

Seriously. What’s with the face?” Jordan asked. “You’re scaring my cabernets with that scowl.” “I’m just working through some stuff,” he said vaguely. Jordan raised an eyebrow, studying him. “Prison stuff?” “More like post-prison stuff. Nothing we need to talk about.” The last thing he needed his super-perfect twin sister with her super-perfect FBI boyfriend knowing was that he was in another dispute, of sorts, with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He was cranky enough about the situation without Jordan laying into him about it. He’d left prison several weeks ago and was supposed to be moving on with his life, yet the vestiges of the place still clung to him. Like bad BO. He picked up four of the wine bottles Jordan had unpacked. “Where do you want these?” She pointed. “In the empty bin over there, with the other cabernets.” She looked over when Kyle came back to the bar. “So what kind of post-prison stuff?” Now he was getting suspicious. “What’s with the twenty questions?” “Sue me for trying to open a dialogue here. Geez. I’ve just been a little worried about you, since I’ve heard that it can sometimes be difficult for ex-inmates to reenter normal life.” Kyle shot her a look as he grabbed more wine bottles. “Where, exactly, did you hear that? Siblings of Ex-Cons Anonymous?” Jordan glared. “Yes, we have weekly meetings at the YMCA,” she retorted. Then she waved her hand vaguely. “I don’t know, it’s just…something I saw on TV this past weekend.” Ah. Kyle suddenly had a sneaking suspicion about the cause of his sister’s concern. “Jordo…by any chance were you watching The Shawshank Redemption again?” “Pfft. No.” She saw his knowing expression and caved. “Fine. I was flipping through the channels and it was on TNT. You try turning that movie off.” She looked at him matter-of-factly. “It’s very compelling.

Otra visita a la ex ESMA que también recuerdo con detalle es la del 21 de septiembre de 2005, cuando fui con Danielle Gouze, la esposa del ex presidente de Francia François Mitterrand. [...] Recorrimos juntas el sitio que todavía no estaba restaurado ni acondicionado como Museo de la Memoria, y recuerdo que cuanso salimos del casino de oficiales, inmediatamente nos topamos con las rejas, y detrás de ellas la enorme avenida Del Libertador repleta de autos y a sus costados, de edificios altísimos. Entonces yo, que le había contado todas las atrocidades que se habían cometido dentro de la ESMA, me quedé callada y ella, con sus ojos claros —eran casi transparentes—, levantó su cabeza y preguntó: "¿Esos edificios estaban acá cuando esto funcionaba como un centro clandestino?". "Sí, claro", le contesté. "Ah...", respondió y permaneció en silencio.

Wilson, “whose strange past is darkly troubled” (Radio Life), and Ray Brandon, a bitter ex-con on parole. By the early 1950s, the Bauer family had become the serial’s center: Bill and Bertha (Bert), their 11-year-old son, Michael, and Meta Bauer, Bill’s sister. Three decades later, the TV serial was still focused on the Bauer brothers and their careers in law and medicine. The Ruthledges and the Kranskys were fading memories, and the “guiding light” of the title was little more than symbolic. In its heyday, it was one of Phillips’s prime showpieces. She produced it independently, sold it to sponsors, and offered it to the network as a complete package. Phillips paid her own casts, announcers, production crews, and advisers (two doctors and a lawyer on retainer) and still earned $5,000 a week. She dared to depart from formula, even to the extent of occasionally turning over whole shows to Ruthledge sermons. Her organist, Bernice Yanocek, worked her other shows as well, and the music was sometimes incorporated into the storylines, as being played by Mary Ruthledge in her father’s church. A few episodes exist from the prime years. Of equal interest is an R-rated cast record, produced for Phillips when the show was moving to New York and the story was changing direction. It’s typical racy backstage stuff, full of lines like “When your bowels are in a bind, try new Duz with the hair-trigger formula.” It shows what uninhibited fun these radio people had together.

Bronnie Ware, una ex enfermera que cuidaba a enfermos terminales escribió un conmovedor articulo llamado “Los 5 lamentos antes de morir” basada en su experiencia al oír a pacientes moribundos revelar sus mayores lamentos. Estos son los 5 lamentos extraídos del artículo: Lamento 1: Ojalá hubiera tenido la valentía para vivir la vida que yo quería y no la que otros esperaban que viviera. Lamento 2: Desearía no haber trabajado tan duro. Lamento 3: Desearía haber tenido el coraje para expresar mis sentimientos. Lamento 4: Desearía no haber perdido el contacto con mis amigos. Lamento 5: Desearía haberme permitido ser feliz.

Las interfaces son procesos de filtrado y de unión con los que las ExO construyen puentes entre las externalidades SCALE y los marcos de control internos IDEAS.

Mas la primitiva cordura de la Idea, su estar, quieta y sosegadamente, en sí misma, era la cordura del inocente, del que cierra los ojos ante el error, la maldad y la culpa. La bondad de la Idea era, por así decirlo, la del que no se ha encontrado con el mal y, por tanto, no ha podido ni sucumbir a él ni vencerlo. La bondad y la pureza del inocente son siempre menos valiosas que la bondad y la pureza del que ha conocido el mal y, en vez de huir de él, ha iniciado con él un movido y dramático diálogo. Sólo el que ha vivido en medio del error y de la culpa, sólo el que ha tenido la experiencia del mal, es decir, sólo el que se ha vuelto una vez loco puede ser al final, cuando ha regresado sobre sí mismo, definitiva y plenamente cuerdo. Esta plenitud de ser, de serlo todo, sin ser al mismo tiempo nada más que sí mismo, es justamente lo que hace que la Idea, esto es, aquella realidad que de nada ajeno ne cesitaba, se decida a salir de ella y a proyectarse, como Hegel dice, en el elemento de lo contingente y finito. «La Idea es todo menos puritana»; quiere ex perimentarlo todo, crearse toda suerte de conflictos, porque solamente así alcanzará su plena verdad.

Hay una manera, una manera desesperada, de conocer el secreto: es el poder absoluto sobre otra persona; el poder que le hace hacer lo que queremos, sentir lo que queremos, pensar lo que queremos; que la transforma en una cosa, nuestra cosa, nuestra posesión. El grado más intenso de ese intento de conocer consiste en los extremos del sadismo, el deseo y la habilidad de hacer sufrir a un ser humano, de torturarlo, de obligarlo a traicionar su secreto en su sufrimiento. En ese anhelo de penetrar en el secreto del hombre, y por lo tanto, en el nuestro, reside una motivación esencial de la profundidad y la intensidad de la crueldad y la destructividad. Isaac Babel ha expresado tal idea en una forma muy sucinta. Recuerda a un oficial compañero suyo en la guerra civil rusa, quien acababa de matar a puntapiés a su ex amo: «Con un disparo —digamos así—, con un disparo, uno sólo, se libra uno de un tipo… Con un disparo nunca se llega al alma, a dónde está en el tipo y cómo se presenta. Pero yo no ahorro fuerzas, y más de una vez he pisoteado a un tipo durante más de una hora. Sabes, quiero llegar a saber qué es realmente la vida, cómo es la vida».

They each had the role of feeding into ExCom input from the outside world. They weren’t supposed to be just giving their own opinions. “Whenever you open your mouth, I want pros and cons; I want for and against. I want you to represent the voices who disagree with you as well as those who agree. If I think you aren’t, you don’t belong here, is that clear?” Carliotti told them in laying out her ground rules. “You are all experts on each other’s business in here. There is no patent on the truth. I chose some of you because I don’t necessarily agree with you. I don’t want groupthink here. We argue, we weigh the odds, then we decide. And if we can’t agree, I decide.

En otro artículo del New York Times, Erin Callan, ex directora de finanzas de Lehman Brothers, cuenta la historia de cómo “en una fiesta de la oficina, en 2005, una de mis colegas le preguntó al que entonces era mi marido qué hacía yo los fines de semana. Ella me consideraba una persona intensa y llena de energía. ‘¿Hace kayak, escala y luego corre medio maratón?’, dijo en broma. No, dijo él con simplicidad, ‘duerme’. Y era cierto. Cuando no estaba poniéndome al corriente con el trabajo, pasaba el fin de semana recargando las baterías para la semana siguiente.”[5

Pros and cons: What were they? Pros: They had fallen in with a group of pretty decent people, including two ex-Army Rangers. That was a major pro right there. Matt had been a good friend and a good partner, but Matt wasn’t an ex-Army Ranger. Or an ex-SWAT commando. Will and Danny were both. Cons: He couldn’t think of any at the moment. Conclusion: Things were looking up. Hell yeah.

Pros and cons: What were they? Pros: He was with Will. That was a hell of a pro right there. When there were men with guns around, he preferred to have the guy next to him be an ex-Army Ranger.

È così bello... eppure fa così male. Vorrei odiarlo, davvero, vorrei odiarlo con tutta me stessa, ma il tempo è passato inesorabile e l'odio pian piano ha lasciato il posto a una sottile rassegnazione: quella di non poterlo amare più.

La gran mayoría de los oficinistas despedidos se tragaron el sapo, como se suele decir, y aceptaron que les dieran pensamiento positivo en vez de la nómina mensual y la seguridad de antes. No tomaron las calles, no forzaron ningún cambio en la política, no se presentaron en su ex oficina con una pistola.

La peor herida moral: que los políticos de la Nueva Mayoría, que combatieron la dictadura, que tuvieron amigos y familiares muertos, y muchos exiliados, hayan estado siendo mayoritariamente financiados por el heredero político y financiero de Pinochet, el ex yernísimo Ponce Lerou, quien continúa como dueño de una empresa privatizada de manera trucha, y con dos directores que fueron ministros de un dictador sangriento y más encima ladrón. Eso, estética y éticamente, es impresentable. Es una forma sutil de cohecho político de la peor envergadura.