Front Ensemble Quotes

I reached our building only to find a wide-eyed Southern belle wearing a Civil Way-era dress blocking the front door. A silk parasol and a full hoopskirt completed her ensemble. I wore something like it to a costume party once, but hers was an original. Frustration was back, and now it was in my way. In the form of freaking Scarlatt O'Hara. Sighing, I stuck my hand through her stomach to turn the knob, meeting no resistance. I rolled my eyes as she gasped, fluttered her eyelashes, and disappeared in a puff of air. "You know, Scarlett, Rhett didn't give a dang, and frankly, I don't either.

Cormac supposed he must be nearing his mid-thirties by now – but he had retained his good looks and he carried himself proudly as he disappeared around the corner. Cormac resumed his waiting. His patience was rewarded when, after half an hour had passed, the front door opened again and Miss Davison emerged with Emily by her side; they made their way across the street and vanished into the gardens. This was what he had been hoping for. Now there was nobody left in the house but Bridget and her servants. He tucked the newspaper inside his coat, crossed the street, and was approaching the building when the door opened once more and Bridget herself came out onto the top step. Anticipation mounted within him. Strangely, she was wearing a rather drab ensemble consisting

As far as the eye could see, one could perceive nothing but the abattoirs, the city wall, and the fronts of a few factories, resembling barracks or monasteries; everywhere about stood hovels, rubbish, ancient walls blackened like cerecloths, new white walls like winding-sheets; everywhere parallel rows of trees, buildings erected on a line, flat constructions, long, cold rows, and the melancholy sadness of right angles. Not an unevenness of the ground, not a caprice in the architecture, not a fold. The ensemble was glacial, regular, hideous. Nothing oppresses the heart like symmetry. It is because symmetry is ennui, and ennui is at the very foundation of grief. Despair yawns. Something more terrible than a hell where one suffers may be imagined, and that is a hell where one is bored. If such a hell existed, that bit of the Boulevard de l'Hopital might have formed the entrance to it.

When one thinks of 'matrices' and 'codes' it is sometimes helpful to bear these figures in mind. The matrix is the pattern before you, representing the ensemble of permissible moves. The code which governs the matrix can be put into simple mathematical equations which contain the essence of the pattern in a compressed, 'coded' form; or it can be expressed by the word 'diagonals'. The code is the fixed, invariable factor in a skill or habit; the matrix its variable aspect. The two words do not refer to different entities, they refer to different aspects of the same activity. When you sit in front of the chessboard your code is the rule of the game determining which moves are permitted, your matrix is the total of possible choices before you. Lastly, the choice of the actual move among the variety of permissible moves is a matter of strategy, guided by the lie of the land-the 'environment' of other chessmen on the board. We have seen that comic effects are produced by the sudden clash of incompatible matrices: to the experienced chess player a rook moving bishopwise is decidedly 'funny'.

I opened the front door of my parents’ house the next evening. His starched blue denim shirt caught my eye only seconds before his equally blue eyes did. “Hello,” he said, smiling. Those eyes. They were fixed on mine, and mine on his, for more seconds than is customary at the very beginning of a first date. My knees--the knees that had turned to rubber bands that night four months earlier in a temporary fit of illogical lust--were once again as firm as cooked spaghetti. “Hello,” I answered. I was wearing sleek black pants, a violet V-necked sweater, and spiked black boots--a glaring contrast to the natural, faded denim ensemble he’d chosen. Fashionwise, we were hilariously mismatched. I could sense that he noticed this, too, as my skinny heels obnoxiously clomped along the pavement of my parents’ driveway. We talked through dinner; if I ate, I wasn’t aware of it. We talked about my childhood on the golf course; about his upbringing in the country. About my dad, the doctor; about his dad, the rancher. About my lifelong commitment to ballet; about his lifelong passion for football. About my brother Mike; about his older brother, Todd, who had died when he was a teenager. About Los Angeles and celebrities; cows and agriculture. By the end of the evening, I had no idea what exactly I’d even said. All I knew was, I was riding in a Ford F250 diesel pickup with a cowboy--and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.

Thai prostitution was a haven for the men and a nuisance for the women. The streets of Phuket were outlined with bars ready to nourish thirsty sailors with euphoric intoxication to smother their pinched nerves from their personal lives deteriorating in their six-month absence. Thailand truly lived up to its port reputation. Hundreds of bikini-clad prostitutes littered the strip. Slim and petite, their narrow hips and flat chests appeared to be the appropriate age for the pink plaid schoolgirl skirts, dress shirts, ties, and pigtails intended to entice pedophilic eroticism. They wore heavy coats of pastel liquid shadow that clashed against their yellow tinted tans. They awkwardly wiggled to a nauseating blend of techno and Reggaeton as cotton-haired granddaddies lustfully gawked at them. Any Caucasian male cannot trek a block without the treatment of a pop culture heartthrob with a trail of Thai teens at his heels. “Wan hunnet baaht!” they taunt in a nasal screech. “Wan hunnet baht and I suck yo cock!” The oriental beauties cup their fists and hold them to their mouths as they wiggle their tongues against their cheeks to provide a clear visual for their performance skills. It’s easy to dismiss the humanity in Thai prostitutes. Their splotchy, heavily accented English allows the language barrier to muffle signs of intellect. They’re overtly sexual in their crotch bearing ensembles, loud and vulgar invitations, and provocative dancing that makes even corner butcher shops feel like Vegas strip clubs. Swarms of them linger in front of bars holding cardboard signs scribbled with magic marker that offer a blow job with the first beer purchased. Their eyes burn into passing tourists, with acute radar for creamy, sun-flushed complexions and potbellies - signals of the deep pockets of white male privilege.

Good luck. For most of my generation, it would just go to student debt and cocktails. If anything came to me (an impossibility), I would dump it into a poorly managed career in edgy luxury items. You can’t make opera money on perfume that smells like cunts and gasoline. At any rate, I didn’t usually make an appearance beyond the gala. Or, I hadn’t until recently. But Joseph Eisner had promised me a fortune, and now he wouldn’t take my calls. He did, however, like his chamber music. It had been an acquired taste for me. In my distant undergraduate past, when circumstance sat me in front of an ensemble, I spent the first five minutes of each concert deciding which musician I would fuck if I had the chance, and the rest shifting minutely in my seat. I still couldn’t stand Chanel. And while I had learned to appreciate—indeed, enjoy—chamber ensembles, orchestras, and on occasion even the opera, I retained my former habit as a dirty amusement to add some private savor to the proceedings. Tonight, it was the violist, weaving and bobbing his way through Dvořák’s Terzetto in C Major like a sinuous dancer. I prefer the romantics—fewer hair-raising harmonies than modern fare, and certainly more engaging than funereal baroque. The intriguing arrangement of the terzetto kept me engaged, in that slightly detached and floating manner engendered by instrumental performance. Moreover, the woman to my left, one row ahead, was wearing Salome by Papillon. The simple fact of anyone wearing such a scent in public pleased me. So few people dared wear anything at all these days, and when they did, it was inevitably staid: an inoffensive classic or antiseptic citrus-and-powder. But this perfume was one I might have worn myself. Jasmine, yes, but more indolic than your average floral. People sometimes say it smells like dirty panties. As the trio wrapped up for intermission, I took a steadying breath of musk and straightened my lapels. The music was only a means to an end, after all.

JULIETTE.—Oh! manque, mon coeur! Pauvre banqueroutier, manque pour toujours; emprisonnez-vous, mes yeux; ne jetez plus un seul regard sur la liberté. Terre vile, rends-toi à la terre; que tout mouvement s’arrête, et qu’une même bière presse de son poids et Roméo et toi. LA NOURRICE.—O Tybalt, Tybalt! le meilleur ami que j’eusse! O aimable Tybalt, honnête cavalier, faut-il que j’aie vécu pour te voir mort! JULIETTE.—Quelle est donc cette tempête qui souffle ainsi dans les deux sens contraires? Roméo est-il tué, et Tybalt est-il mort? Mon cousin chéri et mon époux plus cher encore? Que la terrible trompette sonne donc le jugement universel. Qui donc est encore en vie, si ces deux-là sont morts? LA NOURRICE.—Tybalt est mort, et Roméo est banni: Roméo, qui l’a tué, est banni. JULIETTE.—O Dieu! la main de Roméo a-t-elle versé le sang de Tybalt? LA NOURRICE.—Il l’a fait, il l’a fait! O jour de malheur! il l’a fait! JULIETTE.—O coeur de serpent caché sous un visage semblable à une fleur! jamais dragon a-t-il choisi un si charmant repaire? Beau tyran, angélique démon, corbeau couvert des plumes d’une colombe, agneau transporté de la rage du loup, méprisable substance de la plus divine apparence, toi, justement le contraire de ce que tu paraissais à juste titre, damnable saint, traître plein d’honneur! O nature, qu’allais-tu donc chercher en enfer, lorsque de ce corps charmant, paradis sur la terre, tu fis le berceau de l’âme d’un démon? Jamais livre contenant une aussi infâme histoire porta-t-il une si belle couverture? et se peut-il que la trahison habite un si brillant palais? LA NOURRICE.—Il n’y a plus ni sincérité, ni foi, ni honneur dans les hommes; tous sont parjures, corrompus, hypocrites. Ah! où est mon valet? Donnez-moi un peu d’aqua vitæ….. Tous ces chagrins, tous ces maux, toutes ces peines me vieillissent. Honte soit à Roméo! JULIETTE.—Maudite soit ta langue pour un pareil souhait! Il n’est pas né pour la honte: la honte rougirait de s’asseoir sur son front; c’est un trône où on peut couronner l’honneur, unique souverain de la terre entière. Oh! quelle brutalité me l’a fait maltraiter ainsi? LA NOURRICE.—Quoi! vous direz du bien de celui qui a tué votre cousin? JULIETTE.—Eh! dirai-je du mal de celui qui est mon mari? Ah! mon pauvre époux, quelle langue soignera ton nom, lorsque moi, ta femme depuis trois heures, je l’ai ainsi déchiré? Mais pourquoi, traître, as-tu tué mon cousin? Ah! ce traître de cousin a voulu tuer mon époux.—Rentrez, larmes insensées, rentrez dans votre source; c’est au malheur qu’appartient ce tribut que par méprise vous offrez à la joie. Mon époux vit, lui que Tybalt aurait voulu tuer; et Tybalt est mort, lui qui aurait voulu tuer mon époux. Tout ceci est consolant, pourquoi donc pleuré-je? Ah! c’est qu’il y a là un mot, plus fatal que la mort de Tybalt, qui m’a assassinée.—Je voudrais bien l’oublier; mais, ô ciel! il pèse sur ma mémoire comme une offense digne de la damnation sur l’âme du pécheur. Tybalt est mort, et Roméo est….. banni! Ce banni, ce seul mot banni, a tué pour moi dix mille Tybalt. La mort de Tybalt était un assez grand malheur, tout eût-il fini là; ou si les cruelles douleurs se plaisent à marcher ensemble, et qu’il faille nécessairement que d’autres peines les accompagnent, pourquoi, après m’avoir dit: «Tybalt est mort,» n’a-t-elle pas continué: «ton père aussi, ou ta mère, ou tous les deux?» cela eût excité en moi les douleurs ordinaires. Mais par cette arrière-garde qui a suivi la mort de Tybalt, Roméo est banni; par ce seul mot, père, mère, Tybalt, Roméo, Juliette, tous sont assassinés, tous morts. Roméo banni! Il n’y a ni fin, ni terme, ni borne, ni mesure dans la mort qu’apporte avec lui ce mot, aucune parole ne peut sonder ce malheur.

Jasmine dressed carefully the next morning, choosing her clothes like they were her armor. She paired a regal purple waistcoat and blouse with matching wide-legged trousers gathered at the ankle and bordered in gold thread, while Nadia dressed her hair with a diamond-studded tiara inherited from Jasmine's mother. As she surveyed herself in front of the mirror, the ensemble had just the effect she'd hoped for. There was nothing delicate about Princess Jasmine today. She looked the picture of power. Now it was time for her to claim it.

Aujourd’hui j’ai fait un malaise dans le tram 21 une torpeur s’est comme ça emparée de moi et ce mal(être) m’a cloué débout. là-bas à mi-chemin du tram 21. où se scinde en deux la vie. là-bas tandis que je prenais appui sur la barre latérale de moi s’est emparé ce mal(être). si je me souviens bien c’était à mi-chemin du tram où se tiennent les petits balanciers. les grands balanciers sont plus proches du conducteur. nul besoin d’avoir un certain âge pour les balanciers on peut même n’être qu’un enfant si l’on veut, pour les balanciers. ceux qui passent dans l’autre moitié du tram reçoivent gracieusement un balancier pour s’y balancer. et tandis que je comptais les arrêts jusqu’à piața obor. c’est comme ça qu’un mal(être) s’est emparé de moi et m’a ramolli les genoux. le noir devant mes yeux. petit ou grand mal(être) je n’en sais rien puisque je ne suis pas encore mort tout à fait. juste la mollesse de mes genoux et la voix familière criant emil emil. étendez-le par terre il a quelque chose comme un mal(être). et laissez-le respirer tout seul. criaient les voyageurs. forts aimables les passagers du tram 21. l’un m’a offert sa place. un autre a ouvert la fenêtre. fort aimables les voyageurs après tout j’étais l’un des leurs. juste mon front en sueur et mes mains moites et froides. seul le mal(être) s’amenuisait lentement et ma colère noire dans le tram 21 ne me lâchait plus. de ma prière vers dieu je ne me souviens plus guère. seule de la voix féminine attendue toute ma vie à l’arrêt perla pour prendre ensemble le tram 21 qui était en fait le tram 46. je m’en souviens. qu’il nous emmène qu’il nous emmène à ce marché obor pour l’agneau de Pâques. (traduit du roumain par Gabrielle Danoux)

He was an older gentleman with a brown suit on, and I guess no one told him jerry curls were out of style because he looked down at his ensemble, wondering what could be throwing his game off. And that gold tooth shining in front of his mouth made him less attractive. Everything

En 1884, on adopta L'Acte de l'avancement des Sauvages, qui devait faire en sorte de familiariser les Indiens au système de gouvernement municipal en les obligeant à élire leurs chefs de bande à date de tous les trois ans à la majorité des voix. L'introduction de cette démocratie parlementaire heurta de front les habitudes autochtones. L'acte était fondé sur la règle de la majorité et non du consensus. Il excluait des groupes sur la base de l'âge au lieu de répondre de l'ensemble de la communauté. Il ne demandait pas la participation des électeurs, sinon une fois tous les trois ans. Il rendait la voix de l'ancien et celle du jeune homme équivalentes. La présence des femmes était officiellement effacée au profit d'un pouvoir masculin. La démocratie canadienne qu'on tentait de mettre en place répondait à des valeurs individualistes qui, cassant les anciens liens de solidarité et entérinant l'existence de factions au sein des bandes indiennes, s'écartaient de la circulation généralisées des sociétés du don et du contre-don.

As impressed as I was with Elvis, I was even more impressed by Scotty Moore and the band. It was the same with Ricky Nelson. I never bought a Ricky Nelson record, I bought a James Burton record. It was the bands behind them that impressed me just as much as the front men. Little Richard’s band, which was basically the same as Fats Domino’s band, was actually Dave Bartholomew’s band. I knew all this. I was just impressed by ensemble playing. It was how guys interacted with one another, natural exuberance and seemingly effortless delivery. There was a beautiful flippancy, it seemed to me. And of course that goes even more for Chuck Berry’s band. But from the start it wasn’t just the singer. What had to impress me behind the singer would be the band.