Fjord Quotes

I was walking along a path with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

There is no more sagacious animal than the Icelandic horse. He is stopped by neither snow, nor storm, nor impassable roads, nor rocks, glaciers, or anything. He is courageous, sober, and surefooted. He never makes a false step, never shies. If there is a river or fjord to cross (and we shall meet with many) you will see him plunge in at once, just as if he were amphibious, and gain the opposite bank.

We're not obsessed by anything, you see," insisted Ford. "..." "And that's the deciding factor. We can't win against obsession. They care, we don't. They win." "I care about lots of things," said Slartibartfast, his voice trembling partly with annoyance, but partly also with uncertainty. "Such as?" "Well," said the old man, "life, the Universe. Everything, really. Fjords." "Would you die for them?" "Fjords?" blinked Slartibartfast in surprise. "No." "Well then." "Wouldn't see the point, to be honest.

Dole tablete za ljubav, seksualne statistike, lažne ispovesti po novinama, traume i izmene partnera! Dole alijenacija vatačine! Dole kožni divani! Ua, libido! Ua, frustaracije! Čitajte čika Frojda samo kao strip! Kada vas neko upita da li znate šta o njemu, kažite da je on, u stvari, norveški naučnik i da se zove Fjord, a da je poz¬ nat po tome što je otkrio najveći kompleks zemljišta i izmislio auto marke »Ford«! Živeli normalni poljupci, na čelu sa poljupcem u čelo!

Bonnie who had never hurt a - a harmless thing for malice. Bonnie who was like a kitten making airy pounces at no prey at all. Bonnie with her hair that was called something strawberry but that looked simply as if it was on fire. Bonnie of the translucent skin with the delicate violet fjords and estuaries of veins all over her throat and inner arms. Bonnie who had lately taken to looking at him sideways with her large childlike eyes big and brown under lashes like stars...

I WAS DONE. No. That wasn’t quite right. I was a hundred miles past done, cresting into the Fjords of Nope, heading for Fuck-That-Ville.

Here in the corner attic of America, two hours’ drive from a rain forest, a desert, a foreign country, an empty island, a hidden fjord, a raging river, a glacier, and a volcano is a place where the inhabitants sense they can do no better, nor do they want to.

I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

Out in the fjord I dragged myself up at once, wet with fever and exhaustion, and gazed landwards, and bade farewell for the present to the town – to Christiania, where the windows gleamed so brightly in all the homes.

And the view was suddenly clear to me. The world opened out to its grim beyonds and I realized that, at forty, one must learn the rigors of acceptance. Capitalize it: Acceptance. I needed to accept what was put before me--be it a watery grave in Ireland's only natural fjord, or a return to the city and its grayer intensities, or a wordless exile in some steaming Cambodian swamp hole, or poems or no poems, or children or not, lovers or not, illness or otherwise, success or its absence. I would accept all that was put in my way, from here on through until I breathed my last.

Below, the fjord was an impossible icy volcano erupting the baleful fire of the swallowed sun.

Take the rudder, will you? Just stay in the middle of the fjord and watch out for krakens." "Krakens?" I protested. Halfborn nodded absently and went below, maybe to check on dinner, or Mallory and T.J., or simply because I smelled bad. By full dark we'd reached the open sea. I didn't crash the ship or release any krakens, which was good. I did not want to be that guy.

What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier, returning to the range, admire? Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level: its vastness in the ocean of Mercator's projection: its unplumbed profundity in the Sundam trench of the Pacific exceeding 8000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves and surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its hydrostatic quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides: its subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the circumpolar icecaps, arctic and antarctic: its climatic and commercial significance: its preponderance of 3 to 1 over the dry land of the globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in square leagues over all the region below the subequatorial tropic of Capricorn: the multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous bed: its capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances including millions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow erosions of peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of homothetic islands, peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents, gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes, waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the well by the hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon.

Next year he would suggest they hire a chalet on the edge of an icy fjord in Norway, as far away from the Jacobs family as possible.

A Norðfjörður rövid fjord, alig egy habozásnyi, viszont ezer méternél is magasabb hegyek veszik körül, némelyikük pereme borotvaéles, és hasadékaik kiáltáshoz hasonlatosak.

Loving him came to her the way snow melts into creeks, then rivers, then oceans. Time has engraved him into her heart the way the rivers have carved canyons and glaciers have cut fjords.

I felt the sun before I saw it. I was dislodging a stubborn ice clump when suddenly my vision snapped off and a sizzling feeling filled my skin. In another instant I could see again, and the landscape—the frozen fjord, the mountains behind the school—caught like a candlewick and exploded around me in a blaze of white fire. The dogs fell still and my throat choked shut, and then they were howling and I was laughing, and in another minute the day was over and the sun sank back down as if it had never been. My ecstasy was illogical, uncontrollable; I felt as if I’d been slipped a drug, and could no more control its chemical effects than I could force the sun to resurface.

This landscape of clouds and sky. At first glance you might think that the depths are there where it is darkest; but then you realize that the darkness and softness are only the clouds and that the depths of the universe begin only at the fringes and fjords of this mountain range of clouds—solemn and supreme symbols of clarity and orderliness. The depths and the mysteries of the universe lie not where the clouds and blackness are; the depths are to be found in the spaces of clarity and serenity. Please, just before going to sleep look up for a while at these bays and straits again, with all their stars, and don’t reject the ideas or dreams that come to you from them.

The boat was a type called an Optimist dinghy. It is a beginner's boat. If that little boat had been able to speak, no one would have believed all the stories it could have told: tales of victory and defeat, tales of oceans and islands and fjords it had brought its occupants to.

My clansmen said to me, 'You are not such a good fighter bu you are very good-looking, so your task is to swim across the fjord to flirt with the beautiful woman throwing fish. With her distracted, we will be safe to attack." He sighed. "It was my sole task, and already I have failed miserably.

The following spring was a time of calving. Great icebergs calved from the vast glaciers which stretched down to our fjords from distant mountains. The heifers and cows of Kaupangen gave birth to over one hundred calves that spring. Most survived. Gudrod, the master shepherd, had seventy-five new lambkins skipping after their mothers. Ten sets of lamb twins were born in the city that year. Bitches had pups suckling at their breasts. The mountain goats that stood watch over the fjord, indifferently chewing on the wild grasses between the rocks, had kids following them on their steep paths. The residents of the city, too, gave birth. Twenty-one new healthy babies were born within thirty days of the spring equinox; boys and girls with thick blonde, brown, black, or red hair; others with smooth bald heads. Olaf, my third father, my king, had a son, stillborn. Olaf wept. Kenna wept. I wept as the boy was buried inside the casket with his mother in our graveyard by the church.

In Antartica, The Wright and half a dozen other valleys in the Central Transantarctic Mountains are collectively referred to as the dry valleys. It has not rained here in two million years. No animal abides, no plant grows. A persistent, sometimes ferocious wind has stripped the country to stone and gravel, to streamers of sand. The huge valleys stand stark as empty fjords. You look in vain for any conventional sign of human history- the vestige of a protective wall, a bit of charcoal, a discarded arrowhead. Nothing. There is no history, until you bore into the layers of rock or until the balls of your fingertips run the rim of a partially exposed fossil. At the height of the austral summer, in December, you smell nothing but the sunbeaten stone. In a silence dense as water, your eye picks up no movement but the sloughing of sand, seeking its angle of repose. On the flight in from New Zealand it had occurred to me, from what I had read and heard, that Antarctica retained Earth’s primitive link, however tenuous, with space, with the void that stretched out to Jupiter and Uranus. At the seabird rookeries of the Canadian Arctic or on the grasslands of the Serengeti, you can feel the vitality of the original creation; in the dry valleys you sense sharply what came before. The Archeozoic is like fresh spoor here.

The Greenland fjords are peculiar for the spells of completely quiet weather, when there is not enough wind to blow out a match and the water is like a sheet of glass. The kayak hunter must sit in his boat without stirring a finger so as not to scare the shy seals away. Actually, he can only move his eyes, as even the slightest move otherwise might mean game lost. The sun, low in the sky, sends a glare into his eyes, and the landscape around moves into the realm of the unreal. The reflex from the mirror-like water hypnotizes him, he seems to be unable to move, and all of a sudden it is as if he were floating in a bottomless void, sinking, sinking, and sinking.... Horror-stricken, he tries to stir, to cry out, but he cannot, he is completely paralyzed, he just falls and falls.

The mage leaned both hands on the table, scanning the charts splayed out on its surface. There was a map there, showing a land he could not recognize: a ragged coastline of fjords studded with cursory sketches of pine trees. Inland was a faint whitewash, as of ice or snow. A course had been plotted, striking east from the jagged shoreline, then southward across a vast ocean. The Malazan Empire purported to have world maps, but they showed nothing like the land he saw here. The Empire's claim to dominance suddenly seemed pathetic.

Alma knelt in the tall grass and brought her face as near as she could to the stone. And there, rising no more than an inch above the surface of the boulder, she saw a great and tiny forest. Nothing moved within this mossy world. She peered at it so closely that she could smell it- dank and rich and old. Gently, Alma pressed her hand into this tight little timberland. It compacted itself under her palm and then sprang back to form without complaint. There was something stirring about its response to her. The moss felt warm and spongy, several degrees warmer than the air around it, and far more damp than she had expected. It appeared to have its own weather. Alma put the magnifying lens to her eye and looked again. Now the miniature forest below her gaze sprang into majestic detail. She felt her breath catch. This was a stupefying kingdom. This was the Amazon jungle as seen from the back of a harpy eagle. She rode her eye above the surprising landscape, following its paths in every direction. Here were rich, abundant valleys filled with tiny trees of braided mermaid hair and minuscule, tangled vines. Here were barely visible tributaries running through that jungle, and here was a miniature ocean in a depression in the center of the boulder, where all the water pooled. Just across this ocean- which was half the size of Alma's shawl- she found another continent of moss altogether. On this new continent, everything was different. This corner of the boulder must receive more sunlight than the other, she surmised. Or slightly less rain? In any case, this was a new climate entirely. Here, the moss grew in mountain ranges the length of Alma's arms, in elegant, pine tree-shaped clusters of darker, more somber green. On another quadrant of the same boulder still, she found patches of infinitesimally small deserts, inhabited by some kind of sturdy, dry, flaking moss that had the appearance of cactus. Elsewhere, she found deep, diminutive fjords- so deep that, incredibly, even now in the month of June- the mosses within were still chilled by lingering traces of winter ice. But she also found warm estuaries, miniature cathedrals, and limestone caves the size of her thumb. Then Alma lifted her face and saw what was before her- dozens more such boulders, more than she could count, each one similarly carpeted, each one subtly different. She felt herself growing breathless. 'This was the entire world.' This was bigger than a world. This was the firmament of the universe, as seen through one of William Herschel's mighty telescopes. This was planetary and vast. These were ancient, unexplored galaxies, rolling forth in front of her- and it was all right here!

he said something enormously charged and meaningful about death, the tone was resigned and laconic, but not without irony, and I thought I will have to remember this, this is important, I’ll have to remember this for the rest of my life, but by the time we were in the car on our way home along the Hardanger fjord I had forgotten.

The day is impossibly bright: the sort of crystalline clarity that comes when winter still sits in the air. They have already entered at the narrow mouth of the fjord, and the cliffs rise sheerly either side, a clean hundred feet, the black rock raked with lines of lighter grey. The sea is green and glitters with chips of ice, and as soon as the wind bites at her face and brings up its blood, chilling her lungs, she feels better than she has since she left home. ‘They are magnificent, are they not?’ ‘They are,’ she breathes, and is embarrassed by the keenness in her voice. ‘Though you must have seen mightier, captain?’ ‘I take each sight for itself alone, Mistress Cornet.

Our home villages with the hills, mountains and forests, the lakes and ponds, rivers and streams, waterfall and fjords. The smell of new hay in summer, of birches in spring, of the sea, and the big forest, and even the biting winter cold. Everything . . . Norwegian songs and music and so much, much more. That’s our Fatherland and that’s what we have to struggle to get back.

Her mother and Russell now lived in the same neighborhood of her mind, which felt like a remote Norwegian fjord, or Fiji, a place that it would take so long to travel to that she would never go in person, and so hard to imagine the time difference that it was never convenient to telephone. They were both there, still, inside her brain, and sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night and think, Now, now, if I could just pick up the phone right now, maybe I could catch them.

She was too compelling to look at directly. Bright like the sun, bright and terrible. Only one other being could look upon her, and that was Death. And so…they became lovers.” He said the word like a caress, like velvet again, and my face began to heat. “Together they forged great and hellish things,” Jesse murmured. “Lightning and waterfalls that churned into clouds off the tip of the world. Chasms so winding deep that daylight never traced their endings. They dreamed through golden days and silvered nights. All the other creatures envied or adored them, because Death and the Elemental were destruction and creation joined as One. In the natural order of things, they should not have been stronger joined. And yet they were.” He shifted, coming closer to me. A hand settled lightly atop my chest, directly over my heart. At our feet the seawater splashed a little, as if disturbed by something rolling over in the dark, distant deep. “Centuries passed, and mankind began to devour the earth, even the wildest places. They had tools to invent and wars to fight and grubby, short lives. Nothing about them dwelled in the magic of the ancient spirits. So although Death, the Great Hunter, prospered as he sieved through their villages, the Elemental, strong as she once was, thinned into a web of gossamer. Human lives simply tore her apart.” His hand was so warm. Warmer than I, warmer than the air, and still just barely touching me. The light behind my lids never lifted, so I knew he wasn’t glowing, but it felt as if he held a tame coal to my skin. It felt like something painless and ablaze, drawing my heart upward into it. “The time had come for them to divide. Like all the rest of her kind, the goddess would cease to exist; she had no other course. So Death and the Elemental severed their joined hearts. For a few generations more, she drifted alone through the last of the sacred places, deserts, and fjords, lands so savage no human had yet desecrated them.” Jesse’s voice dropped to a whisper. Without moving his hand, he bent down, his breath in my ear. “And Death, who had tasted her brightness, who would never cease to crave it-who knew her better than all the collected souls of all mankind’s weeping dead-became her Hunter.” I was hot and strange. I was light and lighter, and curiously my breath came so slow. “Until at last, one starry night beneath the desert moon, she surrendered to him. She allowed him to come to her, to make love to her. To unravel her…” It was happening. He sat next to her and bore witness to her change, her pulse slowing, her skin blanching, the fans of her lashes stark against the contours of her face. He kept his palm there against her chest, up and down with her respiration, and watched the smoke begin to curl around his fingers. “And by his hand, in the bliss of her unraveling, she touched the stars…” Lora’s breath hitched. Her heart skipped-then stopped. If I could take this from you, Jesse thought fiercely. If I could take this one moment away from you and keep the agony for myself- Her eyes opened, went instantly to his. Panic lit her gaze. Then she was gone. His fingers sank to the floor through her empty blouse, and the blue dragon smoke that was all of Eleanore Jones rose into strands above him.

The snow was dancing like cotton wool in the light of the street lamps. Aimlessly, unable to decide whether it wanted to fall up or down, just letting itself be driven by the hellish, ice-cold wind that was sweeping in from the great darkness covering the Oslo fjord. Together they swirled, wind and snow, round and round in the darkness between the warehouses on the quayside that were all shut up for the night. Until the wind got fed up and dumped it's dance partner beside the wall. And there the dry, windswept snow was settling around the shoes of the man I had just shot I the chest and the neck.

It wasn’t until Clay felt the sand under his talons and heard the roaring of the dragons in the stands that he realized he hadn’t quite thought this plan through. He had no idea what his fighting skills would be like against an unknown dragon. His mind went blank as the SkyWing guards dropped a hissing IceWing onto the ground opposite him. Did he know anything about IceWings? The sun was high in the sky, and it was much warmer in the arena than up on their prison spires. Clay could see beads of silvery liquid dripping through the IceWing’s glacier-blue scales. Above them, Queen Scarlet smirked from her balcony, with Glory sleeping serenely beside her. The same SkyWing announcer from the day before strutted to the center of the arena and bellowed at the crowd. “After last month’s battle with Blaze’s army, our queen’s dungeons were stuffed with IceWing prisoners of war. Only nine have survived. After two wins, I give you — Fjord of the IceWings!” Fjord lashed his tail and snarled at Clay. “And in this corner, an unusual case — a MudWing, but not one of our allies. No, this dragonet was found hiding under our mountains, protected by the Talons of Peace. Is he one of the dragonets of destiny? Not if he loses this battle!” A murmur of laughter rippled around the seats, but in the closest faces Clay could see expressions of uneasiness and, he thought, concern. He spotted a large MudWing in one of the balconies, frowning down at him. Try to stop this, Clay thought at him, praying hard. Do something! I’m one of you! But the MudWing shifted his gaze away, as if he didn’t want to watch but couldn’t afford to leave. The SkyWing announcer went on. “If these prophesied dragonets are as wonderful and legendary as they’re supposed to be, this should be a showdown to remember. I hope you’re prepared to impress us, dragon of the mud. I present to you … Clay of the MudWings! Claws up, teeth ready! Fight!” Clay

My breaths stuttered over each other and I stuck my hands down between my thighs to try to pull the heat to the center of my body. I shook. It wasn’t just the cold. It was the Herja. It was Hylli. It was the wondering what I’d find at the fjord. The dirt in front of me shifted and I opened my eyes. Fiske was looking over his shoulder, his eyes running over my blanket, and he slid himself back, into the space between us. I waited for his breaths to slow before I scooted closer to him, letting the line of my body fit to his and feeling the heat come off his skin. I pushed my face into the warm place where his back met the bearskin and stared at the woven leather of his armor vest, following its pattern with my eyes until they were so heavy I couldn’t hold them open. I fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, his back rising and falling against me, like the sound of seawater kissing the fjord.

When we were little, I almost drowned in the fjord. I fell through the ice.” I looked at myself in the reflection. “Iri and I were trying to see how far out we could make it and when I heard the crack, I looked up and saw his face just before it gave way beneath me.” He took a step toward me. “It was so dark. I could hardly see. And then his hands had me, yanking me up and throwing me back onto the ice.” I remembered the way it looked. The water was a darker blue than I’d ever seen. “I don’t know how he didn’t fall in. I was so angry with him for coming to the edge like that.” My words trailed off. Once, he’d loved me enough to jump into the frozen water for me. But then he left. “We do things we have to do.” Fiske broke the thin silence between us. “If he hadn’t jumped in, you would have died.” He paused. “If I hadn’t taken you that night in Aurvanger, that Riki would have killed you.” I stood to face him. “I know.” “If I hadn’t put the arrow into your shoulder, someone else would have put one in your heart. If I hadn’t taken you as a dýr, you’d be in one of those other burned villages on the mountain.” “I know,” I said again. “I would do it again,” he said. “All of it.

He mailed me a Christmas card every year, one of those newsletters that foreigners send to their friends with domestic news and photos of triumphant families. They only tell of their successes in these collective missives: travels, births and marriages. No one ever goes bankrupt, is sent to prison, or has cancer, no one commits suicide or gets divorced. Luckily that stupid tradition doesn’t exist in our culture. Harald Fiske’s newsletters were even worse than the idyllic families’: birds, birds, and more birds, birds from Borneo, birds from Guatemala, birds from the Arctic. Yes, apparently there are even birds in the Arctic. I think I already told you that the man was in love with our country, which he said was the most beautiful place in the world since we had every type of landscape: a lunar desert, long coastline, tall mountains, pristine lakes, valleys of orchards and vineyards, fjords and glaciers. He thought we were friendly and welcoming people because he judged us with his romantic heart and little real-life experience. However odd his reasons, he decided he was going to live out his final days here. I never understood it, Camilo, because if you can live legally in Norway, you’d have to be demented to move to this catastrophic country.

At noontime in midsummer, when the sun is at its highest and everything is in a state of embroiled repose, flashes may be seen in the southern sky. Into the radiance of daylight come bursts of light even more radiant. Exactly half a year later, when the fjord is frozen over and the land buried in snow, the very same spirit taunts creation. At night cracks in the ice race from one end of the fjord to the other, resounding like gunshots or like the roaring of a mad demon. The peasants dig tunnels from their door through the drifts over to the cow shed. Where are the trolls and the elves now, and where are the sounds of nature? Even the Beast may well be dead and forgotten. Life itself hangs in suspension - existence has shrunk to nothingness. Now it is only a question of survival. The fox thrashes around in a blizzard in the oak thicket and fights his way out, mortally terrified. It is a time of stillness. Hoarfrost lies in a timeless shroud over the fjord. All day long a strange, sighing sound is heard from out on the ice. It is a fisherman, standing alone at his hole and spearing eel. One night it snows again. The air is sheer snow and the wind a frigid blast. No living creature is stirring. Then a rider comes to the crossing at Hvalpsund. There is no difficulty in getting over­ - he does not even slacken his speed, but rides at a brisk trot from the shore out onto the ice. The hoofbeats thunder beneath him and the ice roars for miles around. He reaches the other side and rides up onto the land. The horse — a mighty steed not afraid to shake its shanks - cleaves the storm with neck outstretched. The blizzard blows the rider's ashen cape back and he sits naked, with his bare bones sticking out and the snow whistling about his ribs. It is Death that is out riding. His crown sits on three hairs and his scythe points triumphantly backward. Death has his whims. He takes it into his head to dis­mount when he sees a light in the winter night. He gives his horse a slap on the haunch and it leaps into the air and is gone. For the rest of the way Death walks like a carefree man, sauntering absentmindedly along. In the snow-streaked night a crow is sitting on a wayside branch. Its head is much too large for its body. Its beady eyes sparkle when it sees the wanderer's familiar face, and its cawing turns into silent laughter as it throws its beak wide open, with its spear-like tongue sticking far out. It seems almost ready to fall off the branch with its laughter, but it keeps on looking at Death with consuming merriment. Death moves on. Suddenly he finds himself beside a man. He raps the man on the back with his fingers and leaves him lying there. There is a light. Death keeps his eye on the light and walks toward it. He moves into the shaft of light and labors his way over a frozen field. But when he comes close enough to make out the house a strange fervor grips him. He has finally come home - yes, this has been his true home from the beginning. Thank goodness he has now found it again after so much difficulty. He goes in, and a solitary old couple make him welcome. They cannot know that he is anything more than a traveling tradesman, spent and sick. He lies down quickly on the bed without a word. They can see that he is really far gone. He lies on his back while they move about the room with the candle and chat. He forgets them. For a long time he lies there, quiet but awake. Finally there are a few low moans, faltering and tentative. He begins to cry, and then quickly stops. But now the moans continue, becoming louder, and then going over to tearless sobs. His body arches up, resting only on head and heels. He stares in anguish at the ceiling and screams, screams like a woman in labor. Finally he collapses, and his cries begin to subside. Little by little he falls silent and lies quiet.

I watch a squirrel get run over by a car on my walk to work. She is lying dead in the street and still has an acorn in her little hands. I am amazed at how she is able to hold on to her acorn after being tumbled like that, after bouncing so high off the street. I walk over to the squirrel and see that her face is blown to bits and looks like uncased sausage spilling onto the asphalt. But that acorn is still so tight in her hands. I pick her up by her tail, take off my dress shirt and swaddle her in it, then put her in my bag. I know right where she is as I walk into work, everybody looking at me, everybody asking me about my shirtlessness. The world is as steady as if it were sewn into the skin of the universe.

Building of Unseen Cats" When I woke up, it was the middle of the night and my building was on fire. The hallway was not filled with smoke, and then quickly it was. I rescued a few older men from their bathtubs, a few babies from their cribs. Outside, the air was filled with hair. Everyone but me was holding a plastic cage with a cat in it. We weren't supposed to have cats in my building, but there they all were, an invisible nation suddenly uncurtained into a blinding and brutal world. Everyone looked at me with a face that said let's never speak o f this. Let's not look directly at what is meant to be loved in secret. Let's, for example, imagine the sea is always, constantly, and forever spilling toward us, that our screaming building is something worth escaping.

À celle qui s'en va Tu crois que ce fut un amour vrai… Moi je crois que ce fut une brève folie… Mais ce qu'au juste ce fut, Ce que nous voulions que ce fût, Nous ne le saurons peut-être jamais… Ce fut un rêve vécu au rivage d'une mer, Un chant triste amené d'autres terres Par de blancs oiseaux voyageurs, Sur l'azur insurgé d'autres mers au loin, Un chant triste amené par les marins Arrivés de Boston Norfolk Et New York, Un chant triste que souvent chantent les pêcheurs Quand ils prennent le large et ne reviennent plus. Et se fut le refrain de triolets qu'un poète Jadis imagina en les pays du Nord Sur les bords de quelque blanc fjord, Mendiant l'amour des blondes coquettes... Ce fut un rêve Un vers Une mélodie Que nous n'avons chantée peut-être jamais... ...................... Tu crois que ce fut un amour vrai ? Moi je crois que ce fut une brève folie ! * Tu crezi c-a fost iubire-adevărată... Eu cred c-a fost o scurtă nebunie... Dar ce anume-a fost, Ce-am vrut să fie Noi nu vom şti-o poate niciodată... A fost un vis trăit pe-un ţărm de mare. Un cântec trist, adus din alte ţări De nişte pasări albe - călătoare Pe-albastrul răzvrătit al altor mări Un cântec trist, adus de marinarii Sosiţi din Boston, Norfolk Şi New York, Un cântec trist, ce-l cântă-ades pescarii Când pleacă-n larg şi nu se mai întorc. Şi-a fost refrenul unor triolete Cu care-alt'dată un poet din Nord, Pe marginile albului fiord, Cerşea iubirea blondelor cochete... A fost un vis, Un vers, O melodie, Ce n-am cântat-o, poate, niciodată... ...................... Tu crezi c-a fost iubire-adevărată?... Eu cred c-a fost o scurtă nebunie! [Celei care pleacă, traduction en français d’Aurel George Boeșteanu]

Lucifer Sansfoi Varlet Sansfoi Omer Perdiu I.B.Perdie Billy Perdy I'll unwind your guts from Durham to Dover and bury em in Clover-- Your psalms I'll 'ave engraved in your toothbone-- Your victories nilled-- You jailed under under a woman's skirt of stone-- Stone blind woman with no guts and only a scale-- Your thoughts & letters Shandy'd about in Beth (Gaelic for grave) Your philosophies run up your nose again-- Your confidences and essays bandied in ballrooms from switchblade to switchblade --Your final duel with sledge hammers-- Your essential secret twinned to buttercups & dying-- Your guide to 32 European cities scabbed in Isaiah --Your red beard snobbed in Dolmen ruins in the editions of the Bleak-- Your saints and Consolations bereft --Your handy volume rolled into an urn-- And your father And mother besmeared at thought of you th'unspent begotless crop of worms --You lay there, you queen for a day, wait for the "fun- sucked frogs" to carp at you Your sweety beauty discovered by No Name in its hidingplace till burrs Part from you from lack of issue, sinew, all the rest-- Gibbering quiver graveryard Hoo! The hospital that buries you be Baal, the digger Yorick, & the shoveler groom-- My rosy tomatoes pop squirting from your awful rotten grave-- Your profile, erstwhile Garboesque, mistook by earth- eels for some fjord to Sheol-- And your timid voice box strangled by lie-hating earth forever. May the plighted Noah-clouds dissolve in grief of you-- May Red clay be your center, & woven into necks, of hogs, boars, booters & pilferers & burned down with Stalin, Hitler & the rest-- May you bite your lip that you cannot meet with God-- or Beat me to a pub --Amen The Almoner, his cup hat no bottom, nor I a brim. Devil, get thee back to the russet caves.

We ran back, he first and I following him, between the beds and downstairs, and we picked up an armful of wood from the pile by the wall and the knife for whittling and ran up again, we couldn’t be quick enough. He knelt down in front of the stove, and it wasn’t long before he had done the trick again. Outside the window it was night now, and the wind blew vaporous white milk against the panes, milk over the forest and the fjord, but in here there were just the two of us and the stoves and the sound of wood burning behind the black iron and sending waves of heat out into the rooms and into the walls and timbers that sucked it in. I smelt the scent of wood growing warm, and it made me as white in my head as the whirling night outside, and hungry. We stood in the kitchen with our coats on eating the contents of two tins with one spoon we took it in turns to use, and we laughed, I didn’t even notice what I was eating. Soon it was warm enough for us to take off some clothes, his overcoat and my coat, and while he hung his on a hook, I let mine fall to the floor. I took off the sweater I wore underneath and dropped that on the floor too, I unbuttoned my blouse and still felt the cold against my neck. But the heat rose to the ceiling and up to the first floor and there was another stove there. Then I calmly walked across the room and upstairs with his eyes on my back, and at first he stood still, and then he followed, and when he got to the top my blouse was off and my stockings on the floor. I slowly turned round and stood there, me inside my skin, while he was fully clothed, and I cleared my head of every thought I had ever had and let them sink out into my skin till it was painfully taut and shinning all over my body, and he saw it and did not know what it was he saw. I put my arms round my back and unfastened my bra and slid the straps over my shoulders, and I thought he might be going to weep, but his voice sounded hoarse as he whispered: “You’re lovely,” and I answered “Yes”, and didn’t know if that was true. But it did not matter, for I knew what I wanted and what to say, and his hands were as I’d thought they would be, his skins as soft and his body as hard, and it was so warm around us, and the whole time I smelt the dampness of the bedclothes like the ones at Vrangbæk, and then I just shut my eyes and floated away.

Two men were advancing towards the car along the cross track. One man carried a short wooden bench on his back, the other a big wooden object about the size of an upright piano. Richard hailed them, they greeted him with every sign of pleasure. Richard produced cigarettes and a cheerful party spirit seemed to be developing. Then Richard turned to her. “Fond of the cinema? Then you shall see a performance.” He spoke to the two men and they smiled with pleasure. They set up the bench and motioned to Victoria and Richard to sit on it. Then they set up the round contrivance on a stand of some kind. It had two eye-holes in it and as she looked at it, Victoria cried: “It’s like things on piers. What the butler saw.” “That’s it,” said Richard. “It’s a primitive form of same.” Victoria applied her eyes to the glass-fronted peephole, one man began slowly to turn a crank or handle, and the other began a monotonous kind of chant. “What is he saying?” Victoria asked. Richard translated as the singsong chant continued: “Draw near and prepare yourself for much wonder and delight. Prepare to behold the wonders of antiquity.” A crudely coloured picture of Negroes reaping wheat swam into Victoria’s gaze. “Fellahin in America,” announced Richard, translating. Then came: “The wife of the great Shah of the Western world,” and the Empress Eugénie simpered and fingered a long ringlet. A picture of the King’s Palace in Montenegro, another of the Great Exhibition. An odd and varied collection of pictures followed each other, all completely unrelated and sometimes announced in the strangest terms. The Prince Consort, Disraeli, Norwegian Fjords and Skaters in Switzerland completed this strange glimpse of olden far-off days. The showman ended his exposition with the following words: “And so we bring to you the wonders and marvels of antiquity in other lands and far-off places. Let your donation be generous to match the marvels you have seen, for all these things are true.” It was over. Victoria beamed with delight. “That really was marvellous!” she said. “I wouldn’t have believed it.” The proprietors of the travelling cinema were smiling proudly. Victoria got up from the bench and Richard who was sitting on the other end of it was thrown to the ground in a somewhat undignified posture. Victoria apologized but was not ill pleased. Richard rewarded the cinema men and with courteous farewells and expressions of concern for each other’s welfare, and invoking the blessing of God on each other, they parted company. Richard and Victoria got into the car again and the men trudged away into the desert. “Where are they going?” asked Victoria. “They travel all over the country. I met them first in Transjordan coming up the road from the Dead Sea to Amman. Actually they’re bound now for Kerbela, going of course by unfrequented routes so as to give shows in remote villages.” “Perhaps someone will give them a lift?

The masses of dense foliage all round became prison walls, impassable circular green ice-walls, surging towards her; just before they closed in, I caught the terrified glint of her eyes. On a winter day she was in the studio, posing for him in the nude, her arms raised in a graceful position. To hold it for any length of time must have been a strain, I wondered how she managed to keep so still; until I saw the cords attached to her wrists and ankles. Instead of the darkness, she faced a stupendous sky-conflagration, an incredible glacial dream-scene. Cold coruscations of rainbow fire pulsed overhead, shot through by shafts of pure incandescence thrown out by mountains of solid ice towering all round. Closer, the trees round the house, sheathed in ice, dripped and sparkled with weird prismatic jewels, reflecting the vivid changing cascades above. Instead of the familiar night sky, the aurora borealis formed a blazing, vibrating roof of intense cold and colour, beneath which the earth was trapped with all its inhabitants, walled in by those impassable glittering ice-cliffs. The world had become an arctic prison from which no escape was possible, all its creatures trapped as securely as were the trees, already lifeless inside their deadly resplendent armour. Frozen by the deathly cold emanating from the ice, dazzled by the blaze of crystalline ice-light, she felt herself becoming part of the polar vision, her structure becoming one with the structure of ice and snow. As her fate, she accepted the world of ice, shining, shimmering, dead; she resigned herself to the triumph of glaciers and the death of her world. Fear was the climate she lived in; if she had ever known kindness it would have been different. The trees seemed to obstruct her with deliberate malice. All her life she had thought of herself as a foredoomed victim, and now the forest had become the malign force that would destroy her. In desperation she tried to run, but a hidden root tripped her, she almost fell. Branches caught in her hair, tugged her back, lashed out viciously when they were disentangled. The silver hairs torn from her head glittered among black needles; they were the clues her pursuers would follow, leading them to their victim. She escaped from the forest at length only to see the fjord waiting for her. An evil effluence rose from the water, something primitive, savage, demanding victims, hungry for a human victim. It had been night overhead all along, but below it was still daylight. There were no clouds. I saw islands scattered over the sea, a normal aerial view. Then something extraordinary, out of this world: a wall of rainbow ice jutting up from the sea, cutting right across, pushing a ridge of water ahead of it as it moved, as if the flat pale surface of sea was a carpet being rolled up. It was a sinister, fascinating sight, which did not seem intended for human eyes. I stared down at it, seeing other things at the same time. The ice world spreading over our world. Mountainous walls of ice surrounding the girl. Her moonwhite skin, her hair sparkling with diamond prisms under the moon. The moon’s dead eye watching the death of our world.

I was standing lost, sunk, my hands in my pockets, gazing toward Tinker Mountain and feeling the earth reel down. All at once, I saw what looked like a Martian spaceship whirling towards me in the air. It flashed borrowed light like a propeller. Its forward motion greatly outran its fall. As I watched, transfixed, it rose, just before it would have touched a thistle, and hovered pirouetting in one spot, then twirled on and finally came to rest. I found it in the grass; it was a maple key…Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world’s rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit that bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down. O maple key, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers. And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath. That breath never ceases to kindle, exuberant, abandoned; frayed splinters spatter in every direction and burgeon into flame. And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from outer space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes, I will think two maple keys. If I am maple key falling, at least I can twirl. Thomas Merton wrote, “There is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues.” There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It’s no self-conscious, so apparently moral, simple to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won’t have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus. Ezekiel excoriates false prophets who have “not gone up into the gaps.” The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit’s one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time like a once blind man unbound. The gaps are the cliffs in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fjords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock- more than a maple- a universe. This is how you spend the afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.

The fact is,” said Van Gogh, “the fact is that we are painters in real life, and the important thing is to breathe as hard as ever we can breathe.” So I breathe. I breathe at the open window above my desk, and a moist fragrance assails me from the gnawed leaves of the growing mock orange. This air is as intricate as the light that filters through forested mountain ridges and into my kitchen window; this sweet air is the breath of leafy lungs more rotted than mine; it has sifted through the serrations of many teeth. I have to love these tatters. And I must confess that the thought of this old yard breathing alone in the dark turns my mind to something else. I cannot in all honesty call the world old when I’ve seen it new. On the other hand, neither will honesty permit me suddenly to invoke certain experiences of newness and beauty as binding, sweeping away all knowledge. But I am thinking now of the tree with the lights in it, the cedar in the yard by the creek I saw transfigured. That the world is old and frayed is no surprise; that the world could ever become new and whole beyond uncertainty was, and is, such a surprise that I find myself referring all subsequent kinds of knowledge to it. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder: were the twigs of the cedar I saw really bloated with galls? They probably were; they almost surely were. I have seen these “cedar apples” swell from that cedar’s green before and since: reddish gray, rank, malignant. All right then. But knowledge does not vanquish mystery, or obscure its distant lights. I still now and will tomorrow steer by what happened that day, when some undeniably new spirit roared down the air, bowled me over, and turned on the lights. I stood on grass like air, air like lightning coursed in my blood, floated my bones, swam in my teeth. I’ve been there, seen it, been done by it. I know what happened to the cedar tree, I saw the cells in the cedar tree pulse charged like wings beating praise. Now, it would be too facile to pull everything out of the hat and say that mystery vanquishes knowledge. Although my vision of the world of the spirit would not be altered a jot if the cedar had been purulent with galls, those galls actually do matter to my understanding of this world. Can I say then that corruption is one of beauty’s deep-blue speckles, that the frayed and nibbled fringe of the world is a tallith, a prayer shawl, the intricate garment of beauty? It is very tempting, but I cannot. But I can, however, affirm that corruption is not beauty’s very heart and I can I think call the vision of the cedar and the knowledge of these wormy quarryings twin fjords cutting into the granite cliffs of mystery and say the new is always present simultaneously with the old, however hidden. The tree with the lights in it does not go out; that light still shines on an old world, now feebly, now bright. I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down.

Hunter set up his easel outside across the road and began to try to paint the place, though microscopic droplets of salt fog inevitably got folded though not mixed in with the Payne’s gray and Naples yellow, and in years to come, as the small canvases from this period traveled the world increasing in value, this introduced modelings, shadows, redefinitions of space, which, though they were physically there, Hunter had not seen at the time—would have to wait for his later “Venice” and “London” phases even to recognize. All night, out in the great fjord, they heard the ice, they woke, they dozed again, the voices of the ice entered their dreams, dictated what they would see, what would happen to each dreaming eye as, helpless, it gazed. Just to the north loomed a far-spreading glacier, the only one in this entire domain of ice that had never been named, as if in fearful acknowledgment of its ancient nobility, its seemingly conscious pursuit of a project. . . .

Norwegian fjords As amazing as it might sound, you can travel the Norwegian coast, viewing astounding scenery, all on public transport – it simply takes planning. By flying into Bergen – an airport bus will take you downtown – you can start a journey that will take you as far as the Arctic Circle. Trains, ferries and buses connect most Norwegian towns and villages. In fact, Norway has one of the best public transport systems in the world. It will take preparation, and it won’t be cheap, although there are bus, train and ferry passes on offer to tourists – usually for packages of five days or ten. Norwegians are polite and some may consider the natives to be a little cold, but they will never harass you or overwhelm you with questions. You will be able to dine alone without a curious stare in your direction. Downside: The ferries can face some wild weather, stick to land transport if you are likely to suffer from seasickness. To read: Norway is famous for its Nordic Noir brand of crime fiction. King here is Jo Nesbo but other great Norwegian crime writers are Anne Holt and Karin Fossum.

I am Sebastiano, and your name?” he asks. “Violet,” I say as we step over the threshold. “Violetta!” he says, throwing his arms wide. “English girl, Italian name!” And across the room, I see a dark head turn in our direction. That much taller than the rest of the boys, he stands out, his straight black silky hair falling over his face, his blue eyes as bright and cold as the water of the fjord next to my grandmother’s summer rental cottage. I was looking for him before and couldn’t see him anywhere; now that I’ve been distracted by dancing and a Chianti-drinking donkey, he’s spotted me. His gaze flicks like a knife between me and the boy, who’s at the gigantic wine bottle now, filling cups and handing me one. “Salute!” Sebastiano says, touching his cup to mine, and I glance up at Luca, seeing that he’s taking this in, too. A rush of confusion fills me as I toast. I’m glad that Luca’s seen me with someone else, that I haven’t been a wallflower at this party, that I’ve proved him wrong, even a little bit, because there’s a boy here who seems to like me, who’s talking to me, anyway, getting me a drink. In films, in books, flirting with a boy is a surefire way to get the one you actually like interested in you, draw him over to your side. They’re supposed to like competition, the challenge of going after a girl who’s popular. But maybe real life doesn’t quite work that way. Because Luca arches one black eyebrow, his mouth quirks up on one side in a sneer, and he turns pointedly away sliding a cigarette into his mouth, and lighting it with a flip of his Zippo. Disgusting habit, I think as firmly as I can. I’m glad he’s not coming over, smoking a nasty stinking cancer stick. It’s awful when you lie to yourself. I do think smoking is foul, but I’m also more than aware that if Luca strolled over to talk to me, with that cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, I wouldn’t walk away, complaining about the smoke; I’d stand there staring up at him, trying not to grin as widely as a five-year-old meeting Cinderella at Disneyland.

Sitting up in the saddle, with Daryn and the guys watching me, I was feeling pretty big-time, but my first instinct was to play everything down. Just a regular morning, tearing around a fjord on my gigantic fiery steed. It didn’t work. I felt a grin coming on and I couldn’t hold it back for anything. I knew I looked amazing up there, with my armor and horse. All burning. I mean, how often did you see that? “What’s up, guys?” I said, and reached down to pat Riot’s neck. I heard someone snicker, and I peered at them. “What?” Marcus scratched his jaw. I could tell he was trying not to smile. “Your horse, man. It’s the way he moves.” “It’s called knee action,” Daryn said. “Riot’s is quite high,” Jode added. He frowned and pressed his lips together, but I could hear him sputtering. “It’s cool, G,” Bas said. “He sort of … prances. Reminds me of those Irish river dancers. You know, the ones that—” He couldn’t even finish. He started howling. Suddenly they were falling all over themselves. “It’s ’cause he’s so big, you idiots,” I said. “He’s like a tank. And look at all this mud. He has to have permanent four-wheel drive.” I shut myself up, because I was only making it worse. Riot and I had to just wait it out. But I didn’t really care. I knew we were the best.

In a grassy valley next to a deep fjord, the castle of Arendelle lay silent in the night. The bright luster of the northern lights danced across the windows, waking a small girl. She sat up and grinned to see the wonderful green light. The girl jumped out of bed and

When I was on a trip to Iceland about ten years ago, I remember standing on the harbourfront in Reykjavik, and looking at the blue fjord north of the city. Across the choppy blue waves was a glacier, maybe twelve or twenty miles away - a big, dirty white tongue of ice crashing down from the bald black mountains with infinite slowness. Intrigued, I asked some hungover local about the glacier, its name and whereabouts. He told me the name of the glacier. The he told me the name of the sea-channel: Faxafloi. But then he addded that the glacier wasn't twenty miles away, it was two hundred miles away. The air in Iceland, he explained, is so clear and unpolluted, things look nearer than they are. I turned and looked again at the glacier, framed by the imperial blue waters of the fjord. I felt a bloodrush in my heart. The scenary was so breathtaking, and so majestic - I was moved and gratified - and yet I was obscurely troubled at the same time. The sense of unexpected distance was dizzying and confusing as well as exhillarating. This may seem far-fetched as an analogy, but it's the best I can do. The feeling I had by that fjord is, somehow, the same weak and head-spinning feeling I get when I look at a truly beautiful woman.

And Kjartan sold the land, every single blade of grass, every tussock and hill above the house and the hiding places of his childhood and the view over the broad fjord with all its islands, all its rocky islets, he sold the animals, the machinery, the buildings, and then they left, moved away, but how does one bid farewell to a mountain, how does one bid farewell to a tussock and blades of grass and the rocks in the farmyard?

Nothing stopped the water. You could follow it from the mountain to the fjord, from the snow that fell from the clouds and settled on the peaks, to the mist that rose above the ocean and again became clouds.

Just because I cannot breathe doesn’t mean I cannot fight as good as any man this side of the fjord, Nikros. You know my father raised me in the ways of the warrior, as everyone in this clan is taught.

BARTON CENTRE, 912, 9th Floor, Mahatma Gandhi Rd, Bengaluru, Karnataka - 560 001 +91 8884400919 Introduction to the Bangalore-Surfnxt Tour Package Welcome to the exclusive New Zealand Tour Package From Bangalore -Surfnxt Tour Package, an unforgettable journey through New Zealand's hidden treasures. You will be taken on a virtual tour of the breathtaking landscapes, cultural treasures, and thrilling adventures that await you on this immersive tour by the author of this article. Prepare to embark on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure in the land of the Long White Cloud, where you'll find treasures off the beaten path, culinary delights, and unforgettable experiences. On the Bangalore-Surfnxt tour package, we'll show you the beauty and charm of New Zealand's hidden gems. Join us as we do so. 1. Introduction to the Bangalore-Surfnxt Tour Package Have you ever wanted to see New Zealand's breathtaking landscapes while enjoying the old-fashioned charm of Bangalore? The Bangalore-Surfnxt tour package is here to fulfill your dreams, so buckle up! Travelers will have an unforgettable time on this one-of-a-kind tour because it combines the excitement of India with the excitement of New Zealand. Overview of the Tour Itinerary This tour promises an exciting journey filled with picturesque landscapes, thrilling activities, and cultural discoveries from the bustling streets of Bangalore to the tranquil shores of New Zealand. Prepare yourself for a once-in-a-lifetime adventure that will leave you with lasting memories. Highlights of the New Zealand Experience Get ready to be mesmerized by New Zealand's breathtaking beauty as you discover its hidden gems, meet welcoming locals, and immerse yourself in its rich Maori culture. This tour has something for everyone, whether you're a nature lover, an adventurer, or a culture buff. 2. Exploring New Zealand's Unspoiled Beauty Are you ready to immerse yourself in the unspoiled beauty of New Zealand while escaping the bustle of everyday life? Prepare to be awestruck by the country's stunning scenery, which includes pristine beaches, snow-capped mountains, and natural wonders that will take your breath away. New Zealand's diverse landscapes, which include imposing fjords, lush forests, and crystal-clear lakes, offer a magical experience. Nature's wonders will surround you at every turn, whether you're hiking through Mount Cook National Park or sailing through Milford Sound. Unique Flora and Fauna Experiencings Get up close and personal with the unique flora and fauna of New Zealand, including curious kiwi birds and ancient kauri trees. Be prepared to encounter some of the most fascinating plant and animal species in the world as you explore the country's wilderness. 3. Exploring Undiscovered Treasures Are you sick of crowded tourist attractions and experiences that are the same every time? It's time to discover New Zealand's off-the-beaten-path treasures, where you can meet real people, see lesser-known sights, and connect with the country's soul. Lesser-Known Attractions and Hidden Spots Go off the beaten path to discover hidden beaches and charming small towns that will surprise and delight you. You'll feel like you're finding a well-kept secret when you discover a local treasure or a hidden waterfall. Connecting with the locals and immersing yourself in their way of life is one of the best ways to truly experience a destination. The Bangalore-Surfnxt tour gives you authentic opportunities to learn traditional dances and eat dinner with a Maori family. These opportunities will make you appreciate New Zealand more. 4. Immersing Oneself in the Rich Tapestry of Maori Culture and Traditions No trip to New Zealand is complete without experiencing the local culture and traditions. Get ready to interact with the locals, take part in traditional activities, and learn more about the country's history.

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Dvi mažosios sesės skrupulingai vengia pažiūrėti į jo langą, kur jis skaito atsisėdęs ant palangės. Iš to, kad jos niekad nepažvelgia į viršų, galima suprasti, kad visą laiką jaučia jo buvimą šalia.

That which the mind in some hidden cove of a Norwegian fjord, or on some lonely island—far out where the mighty sea booms eternally—through centuries had conceived of religious mysticism, and there shaped so as to fit the conditions of life, now sought a natural expression on the open reaches of the prairies.… With these people the feeling of strangeness in this alien land and the utter impossibility of striking new roots here gave to their testimony the tone of deep, rich spiritual experience.

And anyone can enjoy nature. Thanks to “Right of Every Man”, a law that guarantees people to access any part of Norway that isn’t farmed or within meters from a residential house. You can even put your tent in fields and forests, pick berries or mushrooms on mountains and islands or paddle on fjords and rivers, all year around, all for free. Norway will take your breath away. If for no other reason than being

small town with only three hundred and ninety-four inhabitants. The area around Arnakke had been inhabited since the Stone Age. The name meant “eagle’s neck” since there used to be a lot of eagles fishing in the fjord that was called Isefjorden. You could still spot them occasionally, I was told, but it was rare now. I looked up at the sky between the trees but saw only crows. The road was slippery from the wet snow. The trees covered in the white powder. We had packed the car with sledges and winter clothing. I looked forward to tumbling in the snow with Julie and building a huge snowman or a snow cabin. I inhaled the icy air deeply into my lungs. The kids complained that it was getting cold in the car so I rolled up the window. I looked at Sune. This was going to be great, I thought. Just me and the people I loved in a small cabin

The fjord was frozen solid,

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery. The surface of mystery is not smooth, any more than the planet is smooth; not even a single hydrogen atom is smooth, let alone a pine. Nor does it fit together; not even the chlorophyll and hemoglobin molecules are a perfect match, for, even after the atom of iron replaces the magnesium, long streamers of disparate atoms trail disjointedly from the rims of the molecule’s loops. Freedom cuts both ways. Mystery itself is as fringed and intricate at the shape of the air at times. Forays into mystery cut bays and fine fjords, but the forested mainland itself is implacable both in its bulk and in its most filigreed fringe of detail.

To pass the time they invented a number of games including Knattleik, a ball game similar to hockey, which attracted both large crowds and frequent injuries. Several less violent board games did exist, but the Vikings primarily valued physical fitness.8 Their most popular activities were usually tests of strength – wrestling, sword fighting, and trying to dunk each other; endurance – climbing fjords, skiing, skating and distance swimming; or agility – throwing spears with both hands at the same time, or leaping from oar to oar outside the railing of a ship while it was being rowed.

Sentii la pace invadermi. Una pace assoluta. Forse non è possibile descrivere gli assoluti. Tutto quello che potrei dire semplicemente non è abbastanza importante. Si percepisce come l'unica cosa, come se tutto il resto non avesse importanza.

Entire countries are reduced to their metonyms. Kenya is a safari, Norway is fjords. And Switzerland is mountains. This is an exaggeration, but the truth in it is worth thinking about: it is a country built largely in the lee of the Alps, the towns and cities formed from old human migrations that came to rest in valleys, on lakeshores, and, sometimes, in higher regions. I had a notion: if I could understand the mountains, I could understand the country." (from "Known and Strange Things" by Teju Cole)

Patagonia brings to mind, as we once wrote in a catalog introduction, “romantic visions of glaciers tumbling into fjords, jagged windswept peaks, gauchos and condors.” Our intent was to make clothing for those rugged southern Andes/Cape Horn conditions. It’s been a good name for us, and it can be pronounced in every language.

I said skraeling the same way I would have said the name of any foreign race, for I was raised to distrust those from outside my native fjord.

On the coast the mild climate meant that cattle and sheep could stay outside all the year round and find their own food. If food supplies such as heather were plentiful, considerable numbers of animals could be supported. In other places on the coast and on the islands, fishing was the main source of food, supplemented by a few animals and a little grain. Settlements along the fjords would also exploit the mountain pastures during the summer and build up supplies of winter fodder from there.

On the first day of operation Weser-Uebung, the Oslo garrison ignominiously dispatched Germany's newest heavy cruiser, the Bluecher, with an ancient coastal battery bought second-hand from Krupp. Then the Royal Navy sank the entire fleet of ten modern destroyers that had delivered the German landing party to the Narvik fjords. Finally, Raeder sent two more heavy cruisers into Norwegian waters, the Gneisenau and the Scharnhorst, only for them to be disabled by British torpedoes.

heavy with glucose and fat.

She is a character in a novel, he says. The product of a male author’s imagination. This Defoe, is he French? No, I believe he is English. The edition I gave you is translated into German from that language.

In the year 0982, Gunnbjorn Ulfsson reported that he had journeyed to another land having fertile green fields, about 200 miles to the west of Iceland. Out of duress, Eric the Red now 32 years old, decided to uproot his family and move there. Eric and his family sailed the treacherous distance between the two landmasses safely and named the new location Greenland. He chose this name because it reflected the grassy, valleys he discovered during this warm period of the island’s history. Three years later when he could return to Iceland, he told astounding stories about where he and his family had settled. His stories must have sounded inviting since they encouraged many other settlers to join them there, especially considering that a famine had devastated Iceland. Not knowing any better, they had severely overworked the cold soil in Iceland, putting their very existence into jeopardy. Knowing that they could not survive another winter, 980 people on 25 boats left for the arduous journey to Greenland. It must have been a cold, rough crossing because only 14 boats succeeded in making it. However, Eric later learned that some of the boats had survived and had managed to return safely to Iceland. In time, there were about 5,000 settlers in Greenland. The official records indicate that two sizable Norse settlements had been founded in fjords on the southwestern coast of the island. Other smaller ones were located on the same coast as far north as present day Nuuk. Most of the settlements which were founded in about the year 1,000, remained inhabited until well into “The Little Ice Age,” which started in 1350 and lasted for approximately 500 years. In the beginning when the weather was considerably warmer, about 400 farms were started by the Viking farmers. However later, the extreme cold and glacial ice made farming nearly impossible in these frigid northern latitudes. Recently, archaeologists discovered a Viking village that was radiocarbon dated back to circa 1430.

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You don’t need the Canadian fjords, the Grand Canyon, a newborn baby, although these can be helpful. You don’t need to go to Senegal. Immediacy and inspiration can be found in the dairy aisle at Safeway. It probably looks like people saying hello, making eye contact, letting others go first. Ordinary human daily ways, but moving more slowly. It looks like me with a few free minutes, deciding not to fill something in. Instead, I may close my eyes, drop to a quieter plane, or look up into a tree or the sky. Even a moment’s transcendence changes us. Everything is different afterward because we deep-dove, were there in downward, inward, higher places. So we know now. We remember.

En dan, heel onverwachts, zo onverwachts dat het bijna een schok is, voelt hij dat hij iets mist, zelfs ontzettend mist. Hij moet blijven staan, staat doodstil en zet zich schrap tegen de oprukkende wind. Moest hij dan de hele weg hierheen afleggen, over de sombere fjord in een bootje met een doodsbenauwde mederoeier, over twee hoogvlaktes en dan verdwalen in een sneeuwjacht zonder zicht met een goddeloze gletsjer achter de storm om erachter te komen dat hij zich in het huis van Geirthrud eigenlijk haast prettig voelde? In elk geval zo goed dat hij kan voelen dat hij het mist. Voor hem een totaal nieuwe ervaring iets te missen wat niet voor eeuwig is verdwenen. Dit nieuwe gemis is veel natuurlijker en het is licht erbinnen.

If you were expecting a warm welcome from one such as Eyda, you were mistaken.” “Clearly.” The Lady of Kovalinn still stood the walls, staring out into the long craggy jaws of the fjord, toward the Glorysea. “She seems to be made of stone.” “She is Glorianborn.” Kesar’s joyful air faded a little, and a grim shadow Ridha recognized passed over her face. “We are graver than you children of the Ward.” Ridha tasted bitterness on her own tongue. The light of different stars, she thought, remembering her mother and how she used to glare at the sky, as if she could will the stars of Glorian to replace the stars of the Ward. “I know that more than most.

I have four pets,’ Bjørnar Nicolaisen tells me at 69.31°N, ‘two cats and two sea eagles. I feed them all together on the shore, there by the throne, with the best fish in the world!’ He gives a huge laugh, and points east through the window of his living room: snow-filled fields sloping away to a rocky beach that borders a fjord several miles in width. Steel-blue water in the fjord, choppy where the currents are running. Far across the fjord, ranks of smooth-snowed peaks gleam in the late sunlight. They are shaped more wildly than any mountains I have ever seen before. Witches’ hats and shark fins and jabbing fingers, all polished white as porcelain. I cannot see a throne on the shore, though. ‘Here, try these.’ He hands me a pair of binoculars. Black leather-clad barrels, weathered in places to brown. Polished eye-pieces – and a Nazi eagle engraved into the left-hand barrel-back. ‘Wehrmacht-issue,’ says Bjørnar. ‘Beautiful lenses. An officer’s. When my father was dying, he asked me what I wanted from his possessions. “One thing only,” I told him, “the binoculars you took from the Germans.”‘ I lift the binoculars and the shoreline leaps to my eyes, close enough to touch. Calibrated cross-hairs float in my vision. I pan right along the beach. Nothing. I switch back left. Yes, there, a chair of some kind – but six or seven feet tall, built from driftwood lashed and nailed together. It looks like something the ironborn of Westeros might have made. ‘I take the eagles a cod or a saithe whenever I come back from a good day’s fishing. I feed them by my chair, there.’ ‘Bjørnar, you are the only person I know who counts sea eagles among his pets.’ ‘I am more of a cat person,’ Bjørnar replies. ‘Than a dog person or than an eagle person?’ ‘Than a people person!’ Bjørnar laughs and laughs – a deep, explosive laugh coming from far inside his chest.

RÊVERIE Quand le ciel en moi demeure désert et peut-être muet un pleur comme d’une icône il me semble entendre seul le fjord nacré orchestre encore, nacré, où tu te caches et ne peux plus répliquer ? Est-ce peut-être l’impuissance dans le rêve d’un dahlia ? La colonne de lumière érige des vitraux en un Gloria.

The dirt trails that wound around the village like river inlets. The way things looked crisp when the sun was overhead. The bird that flew over the fjord, swooping down with their wings spread and their talons outstretched to pull fish from the water.

The haunting bellow of the sentry horns sounded across the Greenland Fjords as the night mists settled between the jagged, rocky, half-frozen shores. Ifar the Shepherd hurried from his flock. Beyond the coast skirted by his grazing land he could see the shadowy shape of the incoming knarr as it pushed through the deepening fog. Slowly the masts emerged above it. Ifar turned toward the hilltop. There stood the magnificent earthen Mead Hall of King Lief, son of Eirik the Red. Though the karls who worked the lands already came running from the fishing houses and the farms and the lumber sites, Ifar could not pass up the opportunity. He gathered his horn from hip and blew with all his might.

L'eau chaude du jacuzzi ruisselle sur son corps et sur mon diamant ses tatouages semblent plus foncés on discerne la forme de son sexe. Il se retourne et je vois deux courbes de falaises je vois la route empruntée pour se rendre ici : tout le paysage repose sur les fesses d'un garçon.

RELOCATION Spy School Satellite Facility Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska July 17 1000 hours Erica Hale dangled from her climbing rope on the cliff face, five hundred feet above the ground, and asked, “What do you smell?” I paused in the midst of rappelling beside her, quite sure that I hadn’t heard the question correctly. “Did you just say, ‘What do you smell?’ ” “Yes.

Someday…I will know that a new world has come into being, the world we dream could set us all free of tyranny, lies, injustice, prejudice, fear and sorrow. “When truth triumphs over all secrecy, we will all sail the silver ships, we will all know the joyful beauty of the Fjord of Tears in autumn, we will choose our families and loves and friends and no evil but only natural process will sunder us.

Knud Ulfson did not like those words; but he knew that Harald Sigurdson never spoke unless he meant what he said. Indeed, along the fjord there was a fire-saying which went: ‘Thunder threatens but may not strike; Rain threatens but may blow over; Wolf snarls but may not bite; When Harald snarls, your life is over.

Winter was my favorite time of year on the fjord, when everything was dusted in a sparkling crust of ice. Each blade of grass glistened in the sunlight.

Desperately, he looked out over the fjord. Far below, on the other side of the frozen strait, his village huddled in the snow. Firnstayn: four longhouses and a handful of huts, all ringed by a laughably weak palisade. The wooden wall, built from the trunks of fir trees, was meant to keep wolves at bay and to be an obstacle to plunderers. The palisade would never stop the manboar.

I need to get to Kristoff.” “Why?” Olaf asked, unaware of the impact his words had had on Anna. She smiled and shrugged sheepishly. Olaf’s eyes lit up and he clasped his hands together. “Oh! I know why!” he cried happily. He began to hop around the room excitedly. Then he pointed out the window. “There’s your act of true love! Right there! Riding across the fjords like a valiant, pungent reindeer king!

Let’s not look directly at what is meant to be loved in secret. Let’s, for example, imagine the sea is always, constantly, and forever spilling toward us, that our screaming building is something worth escaping. — Zachary Schomburg, from “Building of Unseen Cats,” Fjords Vol. 1. (Black Ocean; 1st edition March 6, 2012)

We passed fjords where people were swimming despite the unthinkable cold, and I began to absorb the connection between beauty and hardiness that existed in this freezing place, the way that these people worked hard to maintain their contract with the sublime.

unsaid

She remembered being enthralled by an article about Svalbard, the Norwegian archipelago in the Arctic Ocean. She’d never seen a place that looked so far away. She’d read about scientists doing research among glaciers and frozen fjords and puffins. Then, prompted by Mrs Elm, she’d decided she wanted to be a glaciologist.

I fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, his back rising and falling against me, like the sound of seawater kissing the fjord.

The sky was a dome of pale blue streaked with alabaster. Crossing the Stephansplatz, he was nearly toppled by the wind. It was an Arctic wind, chilled by the fjords and glaciers of Norway, strengthened by the icy plains of Poland, and now it was hammering against the gates of Vienna like a barbarian horde.

Death and soul?” Brid asked.   The girl tapped her foot, impatient. She pointed to herself. “Dead. As in a doornail. I took a dirt nap, pushed up some daisies, reached room temperature, pined for the fjords—”   “Pined for the fjords?” Brid said.   “Monty Python,” the girl and I both said at the same time.   “Oh.” Brid gave her a sympathetic look. “Sorry.”   She hit some more buttons on her BlackBerry. “Yeah, well, cancer’s a bitch.”   “Well said,” Brid responded solemnly.   The girl smiled. “Sorry if that came off snarky, but when you’ve been dead awhile, the self-pity thing gets old quick, the horror wears off, and you sort of get over yourself. At least, I did anyway.

La pâte des nuages se modelait comme une cire au gré des courants, poussant une série continuelle d'ébauches et de maquettes, de vagues tentatives vers un ordre et une harmonie jamais atteints. Une espèce de chaos élémentaire, où toutes les formes existaient encore en puissance et cherchaient désespérément à se réaliser. Ainsi le plus petit nuage tâchait de devenir dragon. Et vite, il commençait de pousser une queue et des pattes admirablement crochues... (C'était merveille de voir comme tout cela "faisait" dragon...) Mais, quand il en venait à la tête, cette maudite queue se détachait sans crier gare. Alors il décidait d'être cheval... non, bateau, aéronef, Iles Britannique, Louis XIV... n'importe quoi, quelque chose enfin! Las! A peine suggérées, les formes fuyaient le regard comme des nymphes et s'anéantissaient l'une l'autre. L'enchanteur invisible qui présidait à la fête sortait une locomotive d'un œuf avec une aisance déconcertante, puis, fendant du haut en bas, d'un coup de baguette magique, le rideau des brumes, entrebâillait pour nous seuls d'éblouissantes perspective pleines de décors à trompe-l'œil et de mirages. D'insidieuses invitations au voyage retentissaient à nos oreilles parmi les molles steppes de l'espace, les Arcadies triomphales semées de colonnades, de palais et de dômes, tous construits par le Bramante. Puis ces mondes atteignaient une perfection inquiétante et commençaient à chanceler. Les glorieuses coupoles s'effondraient sur elles-mêmes avec langueur, accumulaient des décombres informes d'où naissaient à leur tour les portiques et minarets d'une Bagdad fabuleuse... Sur quoi les brumes exécutaient, pour clore la parade, un fondu d'apothéose. Un dernier nuage s'entrouvrit enfin sur quelque chose de fixe, de dur, de réel. Une longue digue cimentée de neige s'allongea tout d'un coup cent mètres plus bas, entre deux lacs de brumes houleuses, joignant d'un bord à l'autre les escarpements du fjord. Et vers le milieu de cette digue, un peu en contrebas sur le versant ouest, tour à tour émergée ou noyée d'écume, il y avait une boite carrée, miroitante, espèce de piège à rats qu'Alain nous désigna de son piolet tendu: "La cabane, dit-il. Col du Miage...

fjord

Vårherre skuer alt og derfor også en gamling i yderste nød. For stengt er det bak, og foran er det svart som dauen. En gammel båt duver på en sommerblank fjord.

The first thing that caught her eye was one of J.C. Dahl’s huge paintings of fjord light and water. She stood before it and her restlessness dropped away. She became as still as the deep dark of the fjord. I know if I put my hands on her shoulders, they would be soft and relaxed. This was a Julia I had not seen before: distant, analytical, expert.

All the things that make you you, your clarity and solidity and certainty, come from this. You can actually reach out and touch your past. It’s in the wood, in the cold, clear water of the fjord and the hard rock of the mountain. And the wood and the fjord and the mountain are in you, clear and strong and massive.” She looked at me then, reached out to trace the line of my cheekbone, my nose, my jaw. “Aud, Aud, Aud.

Systematic bullying when she was most vulnerable had distorted the structure of her personality, made a victim of her, to be destroyed, either by things or by human beings, people or fjords and forests; it made no difference, in any case she could not escape. The irreparable damage inflicted had long ago rendered her fate inevitable.