Fete Quotes

- Nu se poate să nu te mai văd, Diana. - De ce? am întrebat, curioasă și ironică. - Nu știu... ești altfel. N-aș putea să-ți spun cum ești. Nu m-aș pricepe. Îmi placi cum nu mi-a mai plăcut nimeni. Ești singura fată lângă care nu mă plictisesc. Poate că te iubesc... nu știu. N-am mai iubit niciodată. Și nu vreau să folosesc cuvinte pe care nu le înțeleg. Am avut câteva întâlniri cu fete... Aș fi vrut să întâlnesc o femeie. Înțelegi? Tu ești și femeie, și fată, și fetiță... și copil...

He's most likely robbing the bank as a paycheck on the world for winning the ugliness prize at his local fete three years running.

E atat de dificil sa fii si sensibila, si mandra. Ca sa nu suferi trebuie sa fii sau una, sau alta. Nu, in orice caz, si una, si alta.

In timp ce glumesti si razi,suferi.Si suferi cumplit.Totusi nimeni nu-si da seama ca razi albastru

Am căutat uitarea-n iubire: ce folos! Căci dragostea mi-e numai un pat cu spini, făcut Să dea acestor fete cumplite de băut!

Stiu ca orice tovarasie este o iluzie a anularii singuratatii,dar si asa traiesc pentru cele cateva iluzii,asa incat una in plus sau in minus...Si albastrul cerului e o iluzie,dar nu ma incanta mai putin din cauza asta.

Suddenly, in the space of a moment, I realized what it was that I loved about Britain - which is to say, all of it. Every last bit of it, good and bad - Marmite, village fetes, country lanes, people saying 'mustn't grumble' and 'I'm terribly sorry but', people apologizing to me when I conk them with a nameless elbow, milk in bottles, beans on toast, haymaking in June, stinging nettles, seaside piers, Ordnance Survey maps, crumpets, hot-water bottles as a necessity, drizzly Sundays - every bit of it. What a wondrous place this was - crazy as fuck, of course, but adorable to the tiniest degree. What other country, after all, could possibly have come up with place names like Tooting Bec and Farleigh Wallop, or a game like cricket that goes on for three days and never seems to start? Who else would think it not the least odd to make their judges wear little mops on their heads, compel the Speaker of the House of Commons to sit on something called the Woolsack, or take pride in a military hero whose dying wish was to be kissed by a fellow named Hardy? ('Please Hardy, full on the lips, with just a bit of tongue.') What other nation in the world could possibly have given us William Shakespeare, pork pies, Christopher Wren, Windsor Great Park, the Open University, Gardners' Question Time and the chocolate digestive biscuit? None, of course. How easily we lose sight of all this. What an enigma Britain will seem to historians when they look back on the second half of the twentieth century. Here is a country that fought and won a noble war, dismantled a mighty empire in a generally benign and enlightened way, created a far-seeing welfare state - in short, did nearly everything right - and then spent the rest of the century looking on itself as a chronic failure. The fact is that this is still the best place in the world for most things - to post a letter, go for a walk, watch television, buy a book, venture out for a drink, go to a museum, use the bank, get lost, seek help, or stand on a hillside and take in a view. All of this came to me in the space of a lingering moment. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I like it here. I like it more than I can tell you.

He had used only a drop of his perfume for his performance in Grasse. There was enough left to enslave the whole world. If he wanted, he could be feted in Paris, not by tens of thousands, but by hundreds of thousands of people; or could walk out to Versailles and have the King kiss his feet; write the Pope a perfumed letter and reveal himself as the new Messiah; be anointed in Notre-Dame as Supreme Emperor before kings, or even as God come to earth.

Simt tristetea pe care o raspandesc ochii mei mari deschisi in obscuritate. As dormi sa uit, as dormi.

Sunt nervoasă și par rea.În fond sunt foarte bună.Dacă nu eram atât de bună n-aș suferi pentru atâtea lucruri care nu mă privesc în niciun fel.„Bună” nu e cuvântul propriu.Eu nu sunt bună,sunt sensibilă.Sensibilă și fină:ar trebui un cuvânt nou care să le includa pe amândouă.

She has no name for that feeling of utter abandonment, nor the feeling that comes over her on fair days, when she stands in the courtyard from the photo, and the voice of the loudspeaker booms front behind the trees, and the music and commercials run together in an unintelligible blur. It is as if she were standing outside the fete, separated from some earlier thing.

White folks have controlled New Orleans with money and guns, black folks have controlled it with magic and music, and although there has been a steady undercurrent of mutual admiration, an intermingling of cultures unheard of in any other American city, South or North; although there has prevailed a most joyous and fascinating interface, black anger and white fear has persisted, providing the ongoing, ostensibly integrated fete champetre with volatile and sometimes violent idiosyncrasies.

So whatever you think of me, don't pity me. I had a beautiful life. I was loved, admired, feted, copied, mocked, treasured, and feared. I am one hundred years old and I am no longer afraid of anything.

Why was she doing this to herself? She was too young to be locked away in this grim castle, weighed down with responsibility that was not hers to shoulder. She should be at parties, being feted, dancing, and enjoying herself. Or be surrounded by bairns. My bairns, he thought fiercely.

În tristete, totul are doua fete. Nu poti fi nici în iad si nici în rai, nici în viata si nici în moarte, nici fericit si nici nefericit. Un plîns fara lacrimi, un echivoc fara sfîrsit. Caci nu te izgoneste ea în aceeasi masura din aceasta lume, ca si din cealalta? Esti trist de totdeauna, nu de acum. Si acest totdeauna e toata lumea înainte de nasterea ta. Nu-i tristetea amintirea vremii în care n-am fost?

Sunt ca un Stradivarius pe care ai cânta sârba țigănească

Muriseră în jurul une fete toate jucăriile. Lumina tinereții e un doliu alb.

But popularity and power, as he well knew, are separate entities. Often the most powerful men in a state can pass down a street unrecognised, while the most famous bask in feted impotence.

Our darling Roberta, No sorrow shall hurt her If we can prevent it Her whole life long. Her birthday's our fete day, We'll make it our great day, And give her our presents And sing her our song. May pleasures attend her And may the Fates send her The happiest journey Along her life's way. With skies bright above her And dear ones to love her! Dear Bob! Many happy Returns of the day!

Near the snow,near the sun , in the highest field See how those names are feted by the wavering grass, And by the streamers of white cloud, And whispers of wind in the listening sky; The names of those who in their lives have fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre. Born of the sun they traveled a short while towrads the sun. And left the vivid air signed with their honour.

Ne considera, pe mine si pe fete, imaturi si naivi, dar noi ne puteam dovedi de zece ori mai perfizi decat el, tocmai pentru ca eram englezi - nascuti pentru a purta masca si educati de mici sa mintim.

Viata multora se deapana si se consuma in divertismente.Oameni care spun stupiditati si rad,si fac si pe altii sa rada.Unii cred ca sunt spirituali nevoie mare si fac intruna glume,iar altii rad ca si cum ar fi niste glume reusite.Si zilele trec astfel,chipurile,amuzant.

Toata ziua vezi o multime de oameni.Vorbesti cu ei,razi cu ei,ai chiar prieteni,iubesti cateodata,crezi sa te intelegi,ba si comuniezi si nu pot zice ca uneori nu reusesti s-o faci.Dar toate acestea nu te impiedica sa fii singura,ingrozitor de singura.Esti legata de solitudinea ta pentru todeauna,de todeauna.Sunt eu si numai eu si tot timpul gandesc,deci ma schimb tot timpul,deci nimeni nu ma poate cunoaste cu adevarat.Eu ma stiu,ma inteleg si nu ma stiu si nu ma inteleg decat pe mine,pe nimeni altul decat mine.Eu ma iubesc si ma dispretuiesc si uneori as vrea sa ma bat-atat de dezgustator de imperfecta ma simt.

Tot ce doream și vreau e să am libertatea mea,nu atât cât să uzez de ea ci cât să știu că pot uza de ea.

Fakers Are Feted, Innovators Are Isolated

Det var gode tider, dagene blev længere og luften mere skjær, jeg rustet mig for to dager og drev tilfjælds, til fjældtinderne, jeg traf renlapper og fik ost av dem, små fete oster med urteagtig smak. Jeg var der mere end en gang.

E atât de dificil să fii și sensibilă, și mândră. Ca să nu suferi trebuie să fii sau una sau alta. Nu, în orice caz, și una, și alta.

I hated you,” she continued, “because you have done nothing more than abide by rules that every gentlewoman follows every day of her life. Yet for this prosaic feat, you are feted and cosseted as if you were a hero.” She felt nothing as she spoke, but still her voice shook. Her hands were trembling, too. “I hate that if a woman missteps once, she is condemned forever, and yet the men who follow you can tie a simple ribbon to their hats after years of debauchery, and pass themselves off as upright pillars of society.

Someone shouldn’t be feted either because their sex acts are very kinky or because their number of partners is very low. It is cause for celebration whenever anyone is, to the best of their ability, making their own choices free from pressure—and also working to change the social and political structures that will let everyone else have that same sexual freedom, and freedom of other kinds, too.

But you know, a wizard with black hair and a thick mustache put a curse on Moscow, and Petrograd, too, so that no one would be able to tell the truth without lying. If a novelist wrote a true story about how things really happened, no one would believe him, and he might even be punished for spreading propaganda. But if he wrote a book full of lies about things that could never really happen, with only a few true things hidden in it, well, he would be hailed as a hero of the People, given a seat at a writers' café, served wine and ukha, and not have to pay for any of it. He'd get a salaried summer on the dacha, and be feted. Even given a medal by the wizard with the thick mustache." The waiter whistled. "That's a good curse. I should like to shake that wizard's hand and buy him a vodka or two.

Just the minute another person is drawn into some one's life, there begin to arise undreamed-of complexities, and from such a simple beginning as sexual desire we find built up such alarming yet familiar phenomena as fetes, divertissements, telephone conversations, arrangements, plans, sacrifices, train arrivals, meetings, appointments, tardiness, delays, marriages, dinners, small pets and animals, calumny, children, music lessons, yellow shades for the windows, evasions, lethargy, cigarettes, candies, repetition of stories and anecdotes, infidelity, ineptitude, incompatibility, bronchial trouble, and many others, all of which are entirely foreign to the original urge and way off the subject.

RIH, we love you, Rih we are proud of you- Many go away and forget their roots- But you are not one of them at all-Every Crop over, you return to the island to fete-And meet up with fans you haven't already met. You travel the world-representing your country-Putting 246 down in World History...

To the horror of those who can genuinely claim to have suffered from its effects, alienation has proved a highly profitable commodity in the cultural marketplace. Modernist art with its dissonances and torments, to take one example, has become the staple diet of an increasingly voracious army of culture consumers who know good investments when they see them. The avant-garde, if indeed the term can still be used, has become an honored ornament of our cultural life, less to be feared than feted. The philosophy of existentialism, to cite another case, which scarcely a generation ago seemed like a breath of fresh air, has now degenerated into a set of easily manipulated clichés and sadly hollow gestures. This decline occurred, it should be noted, not because analytic philosophers exposed the meaninglessness of its categories, but rather as a result of our culture’s uncanny ability to absorb and defuse even its most uncompromising opponents.

A trăit întâmplări destul de triste,în general lucruri care-ţi taie cheful de pălăvrăgeală ordinară.Tatăl şi mama ei n-au fost fericiţi împreună.Ceea ce pe o fată oarecare o atrage,pe ea o lasă indiferentă.S-ar părea chiar să nu ştie care e rolul adevărat al unei fete.Poate că uneori îşi doreşte să nu fie fată,ci băiat.

At the end of ten minutes fifty thousand lights glittered, descending from the Palazzo di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the Piazzo del Popolo to the Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the fete of jack-o'-lanterns. It is impossible to form any idea of it without having seen it. Suppose that all the stars had descended from the sky and mingled in a wild dance on the face of the earth; the whole accompanied by cries that were never heard in any other part of the world.

Fra min Hytte kunde jeg se et Virvar av Øer og Holmer og Skjær, litt av Sjøen, nogen blaanende Fjældtinder, og bak Hytten laa Skogen, en uhyre Skog. Jeg blev fuld av Glæde og Tak ved Duften av Røtter og Løv, av den fete Os av Furuen, som minder om Lukten av Marv; først i Skogen kom alt indeni mig i Stilhet, min Sjæl blev egal og fuld av Magt.

Night. Rain. A livid sky pierces the lacework Of spires and towers, the silhouette of a Gothic Town dim in the gray distance.

Minunile încetează să fie interesante de îndată ce le explici.

Fiii au curioase pretenţii faţă de părinţi. (Fetele sunt mai lucide şi mai comprehensive.)

Dincolo de toate temerile, avertizările, Dincolo de toate, Greșelile unei femei sunt diferite de cele ale unei fete, Sunt scrise cu foc în piatră, Sunt o trăsătură, nu o eroare.

C'etait un jour de fete. Mais l'haine se repete. Laissez pas la peur dominer le coeur, Si on veut que l'amour soit vainqueur

Before their eventual divorce I was spoiled and coddled and feted and fed Frosted Flakes in front of the television like King Shit of Fuck Mountain.

A intra ca un vis în gândurile unei fete e o artă,a reuşi să-i ieşi din gând e o capodoperă

...what could be more vexing than to be feted on his birthday when he wants nothing so much as to retreat in solitude to ponder the approach of his own mortality?

Often the most powerful men in a state can pass down a street unrecognized, while the most famous bask in feted impotence

That day being Christmas Day, Ned Land seemed to regret sorely the non-celebration of "Christmas," the family fete of which Protestants are so fond.

the truly beautiful woman is so often feted and rewarded solely for her appearance that she neglects developing other parts of herself. Her confidence and feelings of success are only skin-deep, and once her beauty fades she realizes she has little to offer: she has developed neither the art of being an interesting person nor that of taking an interest in others.

As everyone knows, fame, especially sudden fame, is a hollow, shallow and dangerous thing, its dark, seductive powers no substitute for true love or real friendship. On the other hand, if you’re a terribly shy person, desperately in need of a confidence boost – someone who spent a lot of their childhood trying to be as invisible as possible so you didn’t provoke one of your mum’s moods or your dad’s rage – I can tell you for a fact that being hailed as the future of rock and roll in the LA Times and feted by a succession of your musical heroes will definitely do the trick.

Byron published the first two cantos of his epic poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, a romanticized account of his wanderings through Portugal, Malta, and Greece, and, as he later remarked, “awoke one morning and found myself famous.” Beautiful, seductive, troubled, brooding, and sexually adventurous, he was living the life of a Byronic hero while creating the archetype in his poetry. He became the toast of literary London and was feted at three parties each day, most memorably a lavish morning dance hosted by Lady Caroline Lamb. Lady Caroline, though married to a politically powerful aristocrat who was later prime minister, fell madly in love with Byron. He thought she was “too thin,” yet she had an unconventional sexual ambiguity (she liked to dress as a page boy) that he found enticing. They had a turbulent affair, and after it ended she stalked him obsessively. She famously declared him to be “mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” which he was. So was she.

I’d observed five of Mother’s gestations, and clearly this was her most difficult. She’d enlarged to mammoth proportions. Even her poor face appeared bloated. Nevertheless, she’d created an elaborate fete.

One encounters in the streets, late at night on the evenings of fetes, the most strange and bizarre passers-by. Do these nights of popular celebration cause ancient and forgotten avatars to stir in the depths of the human soul? This evening, in the movement of the sweaty and excited crowd, I am certain that I passed between the masks of the liberated Bythinians and encountered the courtesans of the Roman decadence. There emerged, this evening, from that swarming esplanade of Des Invalides - amid the crackle of fireworks, the shooting stars, the stink of frying, the hiccuping of drunkards and the reeking atmosphere of menageries - the wild effusions of one of Nero's festivals. It was like the odour of a May evening on the Basso-Porto of Naples. It was easy to believe that the faces in that crowd were Sicilian.

Satul se întindea cuminte printre grămezile de delușoare, împădurite încă pe alocuri, din care zâmbeau casuțe ticluite ca în poveștile de odinioară. Valea părea cufundată în neuitare, în timp ce doar ici și colo câte un firicel de fum se înălța îngândurat către cer. Cândva țâșneau cu sutele ca dintr-o înfrățire a poveștilor. Povești cu a fost odată ca niciodată, cu suflete adunate la gura sobei, depănând neajunsul zilei îmbrăcat în gânduri și întrebări, cu fete frumoase și flăcăi chipeși dansând horele dorului, cu bătrâni înțelepți legănând copilăria pruncilor. Cu mult farmec ca într-un basm în care zmeii piereau sub săbiile dreptății.

Aceasta este natura imperfectă a omului; asemenea fete pot fi găsite pe suprafaţa celei mai luminoase planete; şi ochi precum cei ai domnişoarei Scatcherd pot vedea doar aceste defecte mărunte, căci sunt orbi la strălucirea deplină a astrului.

SUMMER SHOWER. A drop fell on the apple tree, Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook, That went to help the sea. Myself conjectured, Were they pearls, What necklaces could be! The dust replaced in hoisted roads, The birds jocoser sung; The sunshine threw his hat away, The orchards spangles hung. The breezes brought dejected lutes, And bathed them in the glee; The East put out a single flag, And signed the fete away.

Here's a mystery for you. Renegade urban graffiti artist Banksy is clearly a guffhead of massive proportions, yet he's often feted as a genius straddling the bleeding edge of now. Why? Because his work looks dazzlingly clever to idiots. And apparently that'll do.

That's what this is about then? Some blasted grudge you harbor against my father?" She muttered something indecipherable beneath her breath in a language he suspected was not English. French, perhaps? Her words were too low for him to determine. "Has the world gone mad?" "Has it ever been sane?" he asked. He ahd decided the world a far from logical place long ago, when he'd been lost to the streets at the tender age of eight. "When you mull it over, you and I marrying is scarcely absurd. Fitting perhaps. Face it, neither of us is a feted blueblood.

I don't feel at home where I am, or where I spend time; only where, beyond counting, there's freedom and calm, that is, waves, that is, space where, when there, you consist of pure freedom, which, seen, turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone, to pebbles and sand . . . where life's mean- ing lies buried, that never let one come within cannon shot yet. From cloud-covered wells untold pour color and light, a fete of cupids and Ledas in gold. That is, silk and honey and sheen. That is, boon and quiver and call. That is, all that lives to be free, needing no words at all.

Dumnezeu,asa cum ne este El zugravit in crestinism,ma face sa ma gandesc la Xenofon-considerat de unii ca intemeietorul scolii eleate si cu,orice s-ar spune,un atat de clar ponuntat scepticism-,care spunea ca daca boii si caii si-ar zugravi zeii i-ar infatisa ca boii si caii cei mai alesi.Asa si oamenii,au inzestrat un om cu toate insusirile ce li se pareau lor mai grozave,fiecare din ele impinsa la perfectiune,si au zis:"asta e Dumnezeu".

Este un punct de vedere superficial (al unui om care probabil n-a văzut vreodată un om disperat, nici măcar pe sine însuşi) atunci când se spune despre un disperat, de parcă aceasta i-ar fi pedeapsa, că el se distruge pe sine. Căci tocmai aceasta vrea cu disperare şi, spre durerea sa, nu poate, fiindcă prin disperare a fost dat pradă flacărilor ceva ce nu poate arde sau nu poate să fie mistuit, sinele. O fetişcană disperă din dragoste, deci disperă pentru pierderea iubitului, care a murit sau i-a devenit infidel. Aceasta nu este o disperare care s-a manifestat, ci ea disperă pentru ea însăşi. Acest sine al ei, de care s-ar fi eliberat sau pe care l-ar fi pierdut la modul cel mai încântător cu putinţă dacă ar fi devenit iubita «lui». Acest sine este acum pentru ea o calamitate, pentru că trebuie să fie un sine fără «el»; acest sine care ar fi devenit comoara ei, deşi ar fi fost de altfel la fel de disperat, chiar dacă într-un alt sens, a devenit acum pentru ea respingător de gol, din moment ce «el» este mort sau i-a devenit odios, amintinu-şi că a înşelat-o. Încearcă acum să-i spui unei asemenea fete: «Te distrugi pe tine însăţi!» şi o vei auzi răspunzând: «O, nu, durerea mea este tocmai că nu o pot face.»

Din ce motiv o fată are temeri în prezenţa bărbatului?Din motivul care se numeşte intelect.Pentru că intelectul este negaţia însăşi a întregii existenţe feminine.Frumuseţea masculină,natura suprinzătoare a bărbatului etc,sunt mijloace bune pentru a face cuceriri,dar numai cu ele nu vei avea niciodată victoria totală.De ce?Pentru că te războieşti cu plinătatea forţelor unei fete tinere şi în acest domeniu ea este întodeauna cea mai tare.Acele mijloace pot s-o facă să roşească pe o fată,s-o facă să-şi plece ochii,dar niciodată să-i provoace acea angoasă indescriptibilă şi insidioasă care îi face frumuseţea atât de interesantă.

George Bernard Shaw, in a toast at a dinner feting Albert Einstein, proclaimed, “Science is always wrong. It never solves a problem without creating 10 more.” Isn’t that glorious? Science (and I think this applies to all kinds of research and scholarship) produces ignorance, possibly at a faster rate than it produces knowledge. Science, then, is not like the onion in the often used analogy of stripping away layer after layer to get at some core, central, fundamental truth. Rather it’s like the magic well: no matter how

Cat lovers take cover. Believe it or not, in the 15th century, there was a ‘sport’ involving the swinging of cats (by the tail) into the air where they would become moving targets for archers at fetes, fayres and country festivals. Crowded festivals would be described as having no room to ‘swing the cat’ as revellers would be in danger of being hit by stray arrows.   When

Doi oameni sunt prieteni chiar dacă, la un moment dat, unul are chef să se culce, iar celălalt să meargă la cinematograf. Nimic nu-l poate reține pe nici unul dintre ei să facă ce vrea şi cum vrea, când vrea. Între prieteni, nu există relații care-l obligă pe unul la o anumită atitudine, în anumite momente. Relațiile sunt naturale şi simple, şi numai astfel se poate înțelege prietenia.

La plecare m-a cunondus Dinu [Noica] (...) Și, cu toate că îi recunosc lui D. o anumită inteligență și încă alte câteva calități, este totuși un om pe care-l consider (...) străin de mine. De fapt, ceea ce mi-l face antipatic nu este faptul că judecă strâmb, nici faptul că are înclinare spre și credință în lucruri pe care eu le consider cu totul superficiale. Cunosc atâția oameni care au creierul construit alandala, atâția cu credințe primitive, dar care, indiferent de asta, îmi sunt foarte dragi. Îmi este antipatic pentru că simt în el o ipocrizie cum rar am mai întâlnit la o creatură umană, la acest nivel. N-are niciun grăunte de sinceritate, nici măcar față de el însuși. Mă gândesc uneori că poate să fie patologic... dar asta să fie oare o scuză? Poate cel mult o explicație.

(There was an idea much beloved and written about by this country’s philosophers that magic had to do with negotiating the balance between earth and air and water; which is to say that things with legs or wings were out of balance with their earth element by walking around on feet or, worse, flying above the earth in the thin substance of air, obviously entirely unsuitable for the support of solid flesh. The momentum all this inappropriate motion set up in their liquid element unbalanced them further. Spirit, in this system, was equated with the fourth element, fire. All this was generally felt to be a load of rubbish among the people who had to work in the ordinary world for a living, unlike philosophers living in academies. But it was true that a favourite magical trick at fetes was for theatrically-minded fairies to throw bits of chaff or seed-pods or conkers in the air and turn them into things before they struck the ground, and that the trick worked better if the bits of chaff or seed-pods or conkers were wet.) Slower creatures were less susceptible to the whims of wild magic than faster creatures, and creatures that flew were the most susceptible of all. Every sparrow had a delicious memory of having once been a hawk, and while magic didn’t take much interest in caterpillars, butterflies spent so much time being magicked that it was a rare event to see ordinary butterflies without at least an extra set of wings or a few extra frills and iridescences, or bodies like tiny human beings dressed in flower petals. (Fish, which flew through that most dangerous element, water, were believed not to exist. Fishy-looking beings in pools and streams were either hallucinations or other things under some kind of spell, and interfering with, catching, or—most especially—eating fish was strictly forbidden. All swimming was considered magical. Animals seen doing it were assumed to be favourites of a local water-sprite or dangerously insane; humans never tried.)

do want to write a good story. But I no longer trust the judgements of my age. The critic now assesses the writer’s life as much as her work. The judges award prizes according to a checklist of criteria created by corporations and bureaucrats. And we writers and artists acquiesce, fearful of a word that might be misconstrued or an image that might cause offence. I read many of the books nominated for the globalised book prizes; so many of them priggish and scolding, or contrite and chastened. I feel the same way about those films feted at global festivals and award ceremonies. It’s not even that it is dead art: it’s worse, it’s safe art. Most of them don’t even have the dignity of real decay and desiccation: like the puritan elect, they want to take their piety into the next world. Their books and their films don’t even have the power to raise a good stench. The safe is always antiseptic.

Ceea ce e neplăcut în viață e că ea urmează un curs. Lucrurile cele mai jinduite, odată devenite reale, pierd tocmai acel ceva insesizabil care a făcut ca ele să fie dorite. Şi asta, prin realizarea lor exact aşa cum au fost visate.

Mi-e greu să mă obişnuiesc cu ideea (mai bine zis, cu faptul) că sunt un om făcut să hoinăresc toată viața. Numai atunci am frumusețe şi un fel de armonie. Un fel. Totuşi, hotărâtă să nu hoinăresc. Asta, probabil, pentru că nu se poate altfel

Amorul propriu, mândria (sau poate mai bine zis orgoliul) au fost și vor constitui fondul caracterului meu. Acest defect (căci trebuie să recunosc sincer că e un defect), asociat unei excesive sensibilități, poate să mă facă nenorocită. Nu e nimic de făcut.

Le soir venu, ces humains ont tout oublié. Et, sous le ciel étoilé qui les recouvre, sans avoir, toutefois, l'intention de leur tomber sur la tête, nos gaulois se sont réunis pour un de leurs traditionnels banquets, qui célèbre, entre autres, la fin de la zizanie.

Hi ha ciutats secundàries que ja no són les ames del seu destí però amaguen en els seus carrers el tresor d’un gegant vençut. València és una d’elles. Amb el pas del temps el desdeny propi i alié les reduïx a tòpic. El tòpic preval com a mantra i sosté interpretacions fal·laces. Hi ha una resposta majoritària, la de propagar frases fetes. Era i és tan comú que mai va ser la meua. Les ruïnes no eren un decorat de ficció. El veïnat fugia, callava, mirava cap a un altre costat. Contràriament, les pedres exhalaven l’empremta d’una derrota per incompareixença.

The practice of giving uniforms to soldiers, which hadn’t been the case before, began at that time in France. Toledo gave us half-Spanish, half-French costumes. We wore scarlet habits, black breastplates with the Maltese cross at the middle, ruffs and Spanish hats. This costume suited us very well. Wherever we appeared, women never left their windows and duennas came running to us with love-letters, often delivered to the wrong person. Such confusion led to the most amusing incidents. We visited all the ports in the Mediterranean and were feted everywhere.

Pavele, cred c-ai băgat de seamă că multe fete, pe la opșpe-noușpe ani, câți aveam eu atunci, și, de multe ori, și femei în toată firea, adoptă-n fața bărbaților fie o atitudine de mare experiență și de mare emancipare, vrând să facă pe grozavele și să pară trecute prin ciur și prin dârmon, cum se spune pe la noi pe la țară, fie o atitudine de mironosițe, pure, neștiutoare, „nevăzătoare”, „neauzitoare” - coborâte dintre heruvimi - care-n „nepătarea” lor, nici măcar un banc mai decoltat nu „pricep”. Puține fete și femei se poartă firesc în fața bărbaților și nu vor să pară ce nu sunt.

Dacă-ai crezut c-ar fi putut să fie Ceva mai mult decât ce-a fost, te-ai înşelat!... N-a fost decât un început de nebunie, De care-ntâmplător ne-am vindecat!... N-a fost decât un zbor de triolete Pe care un poet le-a scris în vis, În cinstea celei mai frumoase fete, Şi-a-nnebunit de'ndată ce le-a scris!... N-a fost decât ce nu se poate spune Decât cu ochii-nchişi şi pe-nnoptat, În ritmul unui început de rugăciune Pentru iertarea primului păcat!... N-a fost decât ce-a trebuit să fie, Şi, dac-a fost cu-adevărat ceva, N-a fost decât un strop de veşnicie Desprins dintr-un meschin "et caetera!"...

Within a year or two of Partition – despite all the massacres that had attended it – Hindu–Muslim relations appeared, almost miraculously, to have returned to normal in India. This was highlighted by Pakistan’s maiden Test tour of India, in 1952. It was by far the most prominent interaction between the two countries since their bloody separation. It was also less than five years since their inaugural war, over the former princely state of Kashmir, which was divided in the process. Yet the visiting Pakistanis were feted by India’s government in Delhi (where they also visited the shrine in Nizamuddin) and by rapturous crowds.

I know the call, sister. I am fairy. Really? I haven't seen you at any of the midseason fetes, or the blossom gatherings, or the acorn hunts, or... I don't like crowds. You don't seem to like much of what it means to be fairy. More and more was revealed about Wendy's temperamental little friend! Fairies were apparently gregarious- social creatures, like people. Or horses. Not the lonely solitary haunters of hills and isolated groves Wendy had imagined, who came together for the rare dance around a ring of mushrooms. But Tinker Bell obviously shunned the company of others like herself, preferring the company of a few giant humans like Peter Pan.

We are about to part. Yes, I myself am detached from the convent, to live for a time in the crater of a volcano. I am to be a clerk in a great manufactory, where the workmen are infected with communistic doctrines, and dream of social destruction, the abolishment of masters, — not knowing that that would be the death of industry, of commerce, of manufactures. I shall stay there goodness knows how long, — perhaps a year, — keeping the books and paying the wages. This will give me an entrance into a hundred or a hundred and twenty homes of working-men, misled, no doubt, by poverty, even before the pamphlets of the day misled them. But you and I can see each other on Sundays and fete-days.

Cincispreze ani tematoare, mama imi aranjeaza fusta proaspat scrobita sperand ca diseara sa nu fiu o ispita tematoare, mama ma lasa la party pana la un'spe jumate numarand secundele peste cu ferocitate tematoare, mama imi explica ce si cum despre sex alegand cu grija doar cuvinte din dex tematoare, mama imi face cadou numai carti obiecte de recuzita si harti tematoare, mama schimba canalul cand e un film mai asa si evita sa-mi explice ce-i je ne sais quoi tematoare, mama a ascuns pozele ei sexy din tinerete si cand le-am gasit a facut fete-fete tematoare, mama evita sa-l sarute pe tata pe gura si nu scapa nicicand vreo injuratura asa ca eu cu primul baiat pe care il plac o sa fac tot ce mi-a zis sa nu fac.

Se penchant a l'oreille d'Antoine: Et ils vivent toujours! L'empereur Constantin adore Apollon. Tu retrouveras la Trinite dans les mysteres de Samothrace, le bapteme chez Isis, la redemption chez Mithra, le martyr d'un Dieu aux fetes de Bacchus. Proserpine est la Vierge!... Aristee, Jesus! ANTOINE reste les yeux baisses; puis tout a coup il repete le symbole de Jerusalem,--comme il s'en souvient,--en poussant a chaque phrase un long soupir: Je crois en un seul Dieu, le Pere,--et en un seul Seigneur, Jesus-Christ,--fils premier-ne de Dieu,--qui s'est incarne et fait homme,--qui a ete crucifie--et enseveli,--qui est monte au ciel,--qui viendra pour juger les vivants et les morts--dont le royaume n'aura pas de fin;--et a un seul

When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning...he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of little curl papers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream. Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a clothespin on her nose, to uplift the offending feature. It was one of the kind artists use to hold their paper on the drawing boards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose to which it was now put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up, and roused the girls with a hearty laugh at Amy's ornament.

Washington is a city of spectacles. Every four years, imposing Presidential inaugurations attract the great and the mighty. Kings, prime ministers, heroes and celebrities of every description have been feted there for more than 150 years. But in its entire glittering history, Washington had never seen a spectacle of the size and grandeur that assembled there on August 28, 1963. Among the nearly 250,000 people who journeyed that day to the capital, there were many dignitaries and many celebrities, but the stirring emotion came from the mass of ordinary people who stood in majestic dignity as witnesses to their single-minded determination to achieve democracy in their time. They came from almost every state in the union; they came in every form of transportation; they gave up from one to three days' pay plus the cost of transportation, which for many was a heavy financial sacrifice. They were good-humored and relaxed, yet disciplined and thoughtful. They applauded their leaders generously, but the leaders, in their own hearts, applauded their audience. Many a Negro speaker that day had his respect for his own people deepened as he felt the strength of their dedication. The enormous multitude was the living, beating heart of an infinitely noble movement. It was an army without guns, but not without strength. It was an army into which no one had to be drafted. It was white and Negro, and of all ages. It had adherents of every faith, members of every class, every profession, every political party, united by a single ideal. It was a fighting army, but no one could mistake that its most powerful weapon was love.

Până și cea mai neînsemnată speranță, simpla continuare a existenței sunt suficiente pentru a reprezenta viitorul unui antierou. Să fie lăsat, spune epoca noastră, să fie lăsat acolo unde omenirea se zbate în propria sa istorie, la o răscruce, într-o dilemă, având totul de pierdut și prea puțin de câștigat. Lăsați-l să supraviețuiască, dar nu-i dați nici o îndrumare, nu-i promiteți nici o recompensă; pentru că și noi așteptăm, în camerele noastre solitare, unde telefonul nu sună niciodată, așteptăm întoarcerea unei fete, întoarcerea acestui adevăr, a acestui cristal de umanitate, a acestei realități pierdute în imaginația noastră; să spui că fata se va întoarce e o minciună. Dar labirintul nu are centru. Sfârșitul nu este decât un punct printre alte puncte înșirate pe o ață, o tăietură de foarfecă făcută la întâmplare.

Există cimitire singure, morminte pline cu oase fără sunet, inimi trecând printr-un tunel întunecat, întunecat, întunecat ; murim ca într-un naufragiu ce se petrece-n noi, ca şi când ne-am îneca în propria inimă, ca şi când ne-am duce căzând dinspre piele înspre suflet. Există cadavre, există tălpi lipite pe lespedea rece, există moarte în oase, ca un sunet pur, ca un lătrat fără de câine, moarte ce iese din anumite clopote, din anumite morminte, crescând în umezeală ca ploaia ori ca plânsul. Eu singur am văzut uneori sicrie cu lumânări desprinzându-se din oră, cu defuncţi palizi, cu femei cu pletele moarte, cu brutari albi ca îngerii, cu fete visătoare căsătorite cu notari, sicrie urcând râul vertical al celor morţi, râul cenuşiu, în sus, cu lumânări umflate de sunetul morţii, umflate de sunetul tăcut al morţii. Sunetul este cel în care soseşte moartea, ca un pantof fără picior, ca o haină fără om, vine şi ciocăneşte cu un inel fără piatră, fără deget, vine şi strigă fără gură, fără limbă, fără gâtlej. Şi totuşi, paşii ei s-aud, veşmintele ei sună tăcut, ca un copac. Eu nu ştiu, cunosc prea puţine, abia văd, dar cântecul ei cred că are culoarea violetelor umede, violetelor obişnuite cu ţărâna, pentru că faţa morţii e verde, pentru că privirea ei e verde, ca ascuţita umezeală a unei frunze de violetă în sobra ei culoare de iarnă exasperantă. Uneori moartea trece prin lume ca o mătură, linge ţărâna căutând defuncţii, e chiar în mătură, în limba morţii căutând morţii, în acul morţii căutând firul. Moartea-i pe laviţă : în saltea, în pernele cernite ; trăieşte întinsă şi deodată suflă : suflă un sunet întunecat care umflă cearşafurile. Există paturi care plutesc spre portul unde-i aşteaptă moartea îmbrăcată în amiral (Pablo Neruda, Numai moartea)

My father was a constable and died while performing his duty. My brother-in-law and partner died while performing his duty. I saw the effects those deaths had on my mother and sister, and I cannot, in good conscience, do that to a woman I . . .” Her spirits sank as he trailed off. “What a shame, Detective. I suppose that such a woman would then marry a factory worker, or other laborer, or a man in any one of a number of dangerous professions. Or perhaps a banker, who is accidently trampled in the street by a runaway carriage. Or a farmer who contracts consumption at the village autumn fete and succumbs to it weeks later.” She shook her head and pulled back. He released her, remaining silent, watching her. She shrugged, stuffing the pen and notebook into her reticule. “We are all going to die someday, and what a pity it would be to lose the possibility for happy opportunities because of fear.

But just let the masters of the world -- princes, kings, emperors, powerful majesties, invincible conquerors -- let them only try to make the people dance on a certain day each year in a set place. This is not much to ask, but I dare swear that they will not succeed, whereas, if the humblest missionary comes to such a spot, he will make himself obeyed two thousand years after his death. Every year the people meet together around a rustic church in the name of St. John, St. Martin, St. Benedict, and so on; they come filled with boisterous yet innocent cheerfulness; religion sanctifies this joy and the joy embellishes religion: they forget their sorrows; at night, they think of the pleasure to come on the same day next year, and this date is stamped on their memory. By the side of this picture put that of the French leaders who have been vested with every power by a shameful Revolution and yet cannot organize a simple fete.

Did you bring money with you, or shall we play for markers?" She flipped the stack of cards to the table with a professional twist of her wrist. "I don't play for less than a guinea a hand." His lips twitched. "The question is not if I have money. The question is, do you?" "I don't need funds, as I don't plan on losing," she said, her gaze mocking. For a moment, he thought he'd heard her incorrectly. Slowly, he said, "I beg your pardon, but are you saying you could beat me at a game of chance?" A dismissive smile rested on her lips. "Please, Dougal, let's speak frankly," she drawled softly. "Naturally, I expect to win; I was taught by a master." Dougal was entranced. He'd been challenged to many things before, but no one had so blatantly dismissed his chances of winning. "A giunea a hand?" "At least." "I didn't realize I'd need a note from my banker, or I'd have brought one with me." Her eyes sparkled with pure mischief, which inflamed him more. "If you've no money with you, then perhaps there are other things we can play for." The words hung in the room, as thick as the smoke that seeped from the fireplace. Like a blinding bolt of light from a storm-black sky, everything fell into place. This was why she and her minions had worked so hard to convince him that the house was worthless. If he thought it of low value, he'd be eager to wager the deed. Of all the devious plots! Yet Dougal found himself fighting a grin. He'd been feted and petted, fawned upon and sought out, but until now, no one had gone to such lengths to fleece him. Dugal couldn't look away from Sophia. He knew his own worth; women had paid attention to him for so long that he took it for granted. He'd dallied and toyed, taken and enjoyed. But never, in all of his years, had he so desired any woman as he did this one. The irony of it was that she desired him,too-but only for the contents of his pocket. Dougal didn't know whether to laugh or fume. He should be insulted, but instead he found himself watching her with new appreciation.

Holul corpului central al Hotelului Okura era spaţios, întunecat, cu tavanul înalt şi te ducea cu gândul la o uriaşă şi elegantă peşteră. Glasurile oamenilor care stăteau de vorbă aşezaţi pe canapele rezonau gol, ca suspinul unei vietăţi eviscerate. Mocheta era groasă şi moale, aidoma unui covor de muşchi antic care îmbracă o insulă de la Polul Nord, absorbind paşii tuturor oamenilor care se perindaseră pe acolo de-a lungul timpului. Bărbaţii şi femeile care treceau prin hol arătau ca nişte fantome care îşi jucau rolul iar şi iar, legate din vremuri străvechi de acel loc printr-un blestem. Bărbaţi ferecaţi în costumele lor ca într-o armură, fete subţirele în rochii negre, şic, gătite ca pentru o ceremonie din sala de recepţii. Bijuteriile lor mititele dar scumpe tânjeau după un ochi de lumină care să le dea strălucire, aidoma unor lilieci însetaţi de sânge. Într-un colţ, doi străini în vârstă, mari de statură, ca un rege şi o regină trecuţi de mult de prima tinereţe, îşi odihneau pe tron trupurile obosite.

Enjoy a drink at the Hôtel Scribe (6; 1 rue Scribe), where Cartier-Bresson feted the liberation of Paris

The first event, which looked back but also forward like a kind of historical hinge, was the centennial of the birth of Albert Hofmann, the Swiss chemist who, in 1943, accidentally found that he had discovered (five years earlier) the psychoactive molecule that came to be known as LSD. This was an unusual centennial in that the man being feted was very much in attendance. Entering his second century, Hofmann appeared in remarkably good shape, physically spry and mentally sharp, and he was able to take an active part in the festivities, which included a birthday ceremony followed by a three-day symposium. The symposium’s opening ceremony was on January 13, two days after Hofmann’s 100th birthday (he would live to be 102). Two thousand people packed the hall at the Basel Congress Center, rising to applaud as a stooped stick of a man in a dark suit and a necktie, barely five feet tall, slowly crossed the stage and took his seat. Two hundred journalists from around the world were in attendance, along with more than a thousand healers, seekers, mystics, psychiatrists, pharmacologists, consciousness researchers, and neuroscientists, most of them people whose lives had been profoundly altered by the remarkable molecule that this man had derived from a fungus half a century before. They had come to celebrate him and what his friend the Swiss poet and physician Walter Vogt called “the only joyous invention of the twentieth century.

Oh, Matthew," she whispered, moved to tears. "I called it Grace. I hope you don't mind." For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence. Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. "It's your rose." "No, it's your rose." A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she'd ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom. "It's perfect," she whispered. "It's a miracle." He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination? The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she'd reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting. "I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy." An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She'd read of the string of honors he'd received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies. Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin. "I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn't get it right." He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. "This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign." "And you brought it to me," she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn't occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart. Then she noticed something else. "My glove," she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. "Have you kept it all this time?" "Of course." He wasn't smiling anymore and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber. "You make me want to cry." Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn't sound like herself. She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove? Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady's favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.

She looked strangely out of place here on a naval ship full of rough tars, her fine clothes and proud bearing reminding him that he had plucked her from a world he had never known, would never know, a world that was as different from anything he had ever inhabited—even when he was the Irish Pirate and celebrated, feted and entertained by some of the most influential leaders of patriot Boston—as ice was from flame. She was English quality. High-born and haughty, her father and now her brother, only one step down from a prince. Whereas he was just a poor Irishman trying to make a fresh start in a new and emerging country. She was, in short, unreachable. Untouchable. Unobtainable. No matter how heavily she invaded his thoughts, no matter how much he enjoyed needling her, no matter how hard his damned cock pushed against his breeches at the very sight of her.

Uite, cineva mi-a oferit țigări, altcineva ziarul, am fost întrebat cum mi se pare acum țara și oamenii au dat din cap la toate prostiile pe care le-am spus. Cînd au coborît în Zagreb, una din fete, care nu se uitase la mine deloc, doar își scutura părul din cînd în cînd, mi-a lăsat două caise pe o farfurie de plastic, privindu-mă ca și cînd ar urma să ne revedem mîine. Am spus mulțumesc. Aș fi în poziția să-ți trimit o caisă prin poștă.

Descoperea această slăbiciune, îi era ciudă pe ea însăși, dar nu părea să-i reziste. Dragostea se hrănea așadar din aceste himere, sentimentul acesta putea fi atât de impur? Uneori avea impresia că era o jucărie, jucăria iluziilor ei sau jucăria acelei fete care alterna tristețea cu batjocura, cinismul cu naivitatea.

By then Franklin was a world-renowned scientific and political figure, feted for taming lightning and tyrants; that such a mundane improvement as fire prevention gave him such pleasure reflected his solid grounding in the affairs of ordinary life.

For 200 years pessimists have had all the headlines, even though optimists have far more often been right. Archpessimists are feted, showered with honours and rarely challenged, let alone confronted with their past mistakes. Should you ever listen to pessimists? Certainly. In the case of the ozone layer, a briefly fashionable scare of the early 1990s, the human race probably did itself and its environment a favour by banning chlorofluorocarbons, even though the excess ultraviolet light getting through the ozone layer in the polar regions never even approached one-five-hundredth of the level that is normally experienced by somebody living in the tropics – and even though a new theory suggests that cosmic rays are a bigger cause of the Antarctic ozone hole than chlorine is. Still, I should stop carping: in this case, getting chlorine out of the atmosphere was on balance the wise course of action and the costs to human welfare, though not negligible, were small.

Ada skipped lightly over the seven little chimney post in her elegant black tightrope-walking slippers.

Who were we to tell Roz to stick with teaching - that she was already living her best life? But it was dismal to imagine the Brownswood kids going to school and not being taught by Mrs. Gill anymore. Mrs. Gill, who sent Em home every week with essays covered in glowing comments, which in turn made Em glow. Mrs. Gill, who'd bullied and enlightened me, restored my confidence and made me feel that anything was possible. Teachers like her and Sarah Boleyn were precious, should be feted and put in magazines like Hollywood stars. Maybe then they wouldn't want to do other things.

As a whole, a village fete in Russia is a saddening spectacle. It affords a new proof—where, alas! no new proof was required—that we northern nations, who know so well how to work, have not yet learned the art of amusing ourselves.

It occurs to me that Cyrus is having the best time of all. Jules and Gaby are worrying about things like runway, and I’m building the platform brick by brick, but Cyrus is just being Cyrus—feted by Rupert, making decisions about the color of the banner on our website, interviewing people who will then go on to beg us to hire them. I’m trying to enjoy the fact that Cyrus is having a grand time, that I’ve been able to give him something he might have been looking for without knowing it, but a part of me is also a tiny bit envious, wondering how I’ve managed to set up a situation where I’m doing all the work and he’s having all the fun. Never mind, I tell myself, I’m having fun too. I must have been a Spartan in my previous life, because nothing pleases me more than work.

Much to the slaveholders' delight, the degradation of slave life increased the social distance between plantation slaves and urban free people of color. Nothing seemed to be further from the cosmopolitan world of New Orleans and the other Gulf ports than the narrow alternatives of the plantation, with its isolation, machine-like regimentation, and harsh discipline. As free people of color strove to establish themselves in the urban marketplace and master the etiquette of a multilingual society, they drew back from the horrors of plantation life and from the men and women forced to live that nightmare. The repulsion may have been mutual. Plantation slaves, many of them newly arrived Africans, little appreciated the intricacies of urban life and had neither the desire nor the ability to meet its complex conventions. Rather than embrace European-American standards, planation slaves sought to escape them. Their cultural practices pointed toward Africa - as did their filed teeth and tribal markings. While free people of color embraced Christianity and identified with the Catholic Church, the trappings of the white man's religions were not to be found in the quarter. Planters, ever eager to divide the black majority, labored to enlarge differences between city-bound free people of color and plantation slaves. Rewarding with freedom those men and women who displayed the physical and cultural attributes of European Americans fit their purpose exactly, as did employing free colored militiamen against maroons or feting white gentlemen and colored ladies at quadroon balls. It was no accident that the privileges afforded to free people of color expanded when the danger of slave rebellion was greatest. Nor was it mysterious that the free colored population grew physically lighter as the slave population - much of it just arrived from Africa - grew darker. But somatic coding was just one means of dividing slave and free blacks. Every time black militiamen took to the field against the maroons or a young white gentlemen took a colored mistress, the distance between slaves and free people of color widened.