Graham Brown Quotes

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

I'm so fucking tired of black women always being described by their skin tones! Honey-colored this! Dark-chocolate that! My paternal grandmother was mocha-tinged, café-au-lait, graham-fucking-cracker brown! How come they never describe the white characters in relation to foodstuffs and hot liquids? Why aren't there any yogurt-colored, egg-shell-toned, string-cheese-skinned, low-fat-milk white protagonists in these racist, no-third-act-having books? That's why black literature sucks!

Life is about choices. Some we regret, some we're proud of. Some will haunt us forever. The message - we are what we chose to be.

I hate the telephone. I think the lowest circle of hell is reserved for Alexander Graham Bell.

Elizabeth and Darcy merely looked at one another in awkward silence, until the latter reached both arms around her. She was frozen-"What does he mean to do?" she thought. But his intentions were respectable, for Darcy merely meant to retrieve his Brown Bess, which Elizabeth had affixed to her back during her walk. She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. "Your balls, Mr. Darcy?" He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, "They belong to you, Miss Bennet." Upon this, their colour changed, and they were forced to look away from one another, lest they laugh.

This is a roll call! SEAN BELL! Then she followed with “Absent again today! OSCAR GRANT! Absent again today! REKIA BOYD! Absent again today! RAMARLEY GRAHAM!” She paused, and at that point the rest of us knew exactly what to do. “Absent again today!” “AIYANA JONES!” “Absent again today!” “FREDDIE GRAY!” “Absent again today!” “MICHAEL BROWN!” “Absent again today!” “TAMIR RICE!” “Absent again today!” “ERIC GARNER!” “Absent again today!” “TARIKA WILSON!” “Absent again today!” And Spoony kept feeding Berry the papers, one after another, as she continued to read down the list of unarmed black people killed by the police.

There was a silence. Then: ‘What you are saying,’ said Philippa slowly, ‘is that the child Khaireddin would be better unfound?’ The Dame de Doubtance said nothing. ‘Or are you saying,’ pursued Philippa, inimical from the reedy brown crown of her head to her mud-caked cloth stockings, ‘that you and I and Lymond and Lymond’s mother and Lymond’s brother and Graham Malett would be better off if he weren’t discovered?’ ‘Now that,’ said the Dame de Doubtance with satisfaction, ‘is precisely what I was saying.’ ‘How can I find him?’ said Philippa.

praised by James Patterson, Dean Koontz, Michael Connelly, Lee Child, Tess Gerritsen, Jeffery Deaver, Sandra Brown, James Rollins, Brad Thor, Nick Stone, David Morrell, Allison Brennan, Heather Graham, Linwood Barclay, Peter Robinson, Håkan

Elisabeth and Darcy merely looked at one another in awkward silence, until the latter reached both arms around her. She was frozen. "What does he mean to do?" she thought. But his intentions were respectable, for Darcy merely meant to retrieve his Brown Bess, which Elisabeth had affixed to her back during her walk. She rememberd the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. "Your balls, Mr. Darcy?" He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, "They belong to you, Miss Bennet.

When does the mastery end? How many things do I need to be good at to feel good about myself? Could Dan Brown really teach me how to write a thriller as well as he does? Do I even want to try? Or has the access to geniuses of various types simply made us feel bad that we aren't enough just being interested in what we're interested in and accomplishing the less-than-genius-level things we already accomplish? Do I need to be good at more things or simply find more enjoyment in what I'm already pretty good at?

She climbed out of the car and walked across the farmyard with her raincoat collar turned up. Liam was standing by the open grave with his hands in the pockets of his long brown

Me: It’s the PERFECT name. We can even buy a dark brown one and a tan one and name them Graham Cracker and Milk Chocolate. Zach: Did you just create a s’more out of my future goats? Me: …maybe.

All Summer in a Day” by Ray Bradbury Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo Big Nate series by Lincoln Peirce The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Book Thief  by Markus Zusak Brian’s Hunt by Gary Paulsen Brian’s Winter by Gary Paulsen Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis The Call of the Wild by Jack London The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis Diary of a Wimpy Kid series by Jeff Kinney Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury The Giver by Lois Lowry Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling Hatchet by Gary Paulsen The High King (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien Holes by Louis Sachar The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins I Am LeBron James by Grace Norwich I Am Stephen Curry by Jon Fishman Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell Johnny Tremain by Esther Hoskins Forbes Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson LeBron’s Dream Team: How Five Friends Made History by LeBron James and Buzz Bissinger The Lightning Thief  (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) by Rick Riordan A Long Walk to Water by Linda Sue Park The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle Number the Stars by Lois Lowry The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton The River by Gary Paulsen The Sailor Dog by Margaret Wise Brown Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor “A Sound of Thunder” by Ray Bradbury Star Wars Expanded Universe novels (written by many authors) Star Wars series (written by many authors) The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann D. Wyss Tales from a Not-So-Graceful Ice Princess (Dork Diaries) by Rachel Renée Russell Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt Under the Blood-Red Sun by Graham Salisbury The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

I have now come to the conclusion never again to think of marrying, and for this reason; I can never be satisfied with anyone who would be blockhead enough to have me. —Abraham Lincoln, in a letter to Mrs. Orville H. Browning April 1st, 1838

Graham and the undertaker's assistants strapped the body to a wide board with a rope that crossed under his right shoulder and again over his groin, then they tilted the man until he was nearly vertical and let the camera lens accept the scene for a minute. The man's eyes were shut, the skin around them was slightly green, and the sockets themselves seemed so cavernous that photographic copies were later repainted with two blue eyes looking serenely at some vista in the middle distance. Likewise missing in the keepsake photographs was the mean contusion over his left eyebrow that wound convince some reporters that it was the gunshot's exit wound and others that it showed the incidence of Bob Ford's smashing the stricken man with a timber. The body's cheeks and chest and belly were somewhat inflated with preservatives, necessitating the removal of the man's thirty-two-inch brown leather belt, and making his weight seem closer to one hundred eighty-five pounds than the one hundred sixty it was. His height was misjudged by four inches, being recorded as six feet or more by those who wrote about him.

A black boy brought Wilson's gin and he sipped it very slowly because he had nothing else to do except to return to his hot and squalid room and read a novel - or a poem. Wilson liked poetry, but he absorbed it secretly, like a drug. The Golden Treasury accompanied him wherever he went, but it was taken at night in small doses - a finger of Longfellow, Macaulay, Mangan: 'Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love...' His taste was romantic. For public exhibition he has his Wallace. He wanted passionately to be indistinguishable on the surface from other men: he wore his moustache like a club tie - it was his highest common factor, but his eyes betrayed him - brown dog's eyes, a setter's eyes, pointing mournfully towards Bond Street.

The way whitetails got that white ring around their mouth and nose, according to him, it was because they were always sneaking into Browning to drink from the bowls of milk everybody used to leave out, from back when there weren’t any reservation dogs, only reservation cats. That was why the whitetail could come into town like that: no barking. But the cats were too good, they got the mice all so scared that the mice got smart, started living so deep in the walls of the houses that the cats couldn’t get to them, so one day all the cats just left. It was two, maybe three days after that the first dog trotted into town with a stupid grin on its face, looked around for what it could pee on. Denorah hates that she’d believed that, once upon a time. And she wants to cry for not getting to believe it anymore. Yes, the deer drank milk, and that left their mouths ringed white. Fuck it. Run, run.

Of course one’s sense of identification with the nation is inflected by all kinds of particulars, including one’s class, race, gender, and sexual identification. … But [regarding] national character …, aside from references to a national aesthetic — literary, musical, and choreographic, there are two poles I reference: minimalist and maximalist. I love them both — the cryptic poems of Emily Dickinson folded up in tiny packets and hidden away in a box, the sparse, understated choreographies of Merce; but also the “trashy, profane and obscene” poems of Whitman and Ginsberg, [and] Martha Graham’s expressionism. I am, myself, a minimalist. But I love distortion guitar and the wild exhibitionism of so many American artists. Also, these divisions are false. Emily Dickinson, in fact, can be as trashy and obscene as the best of them! Anyway, Dickinson and Whitman are at the heart of this narrative. They are the Dancing Queen and the Guitar Hero.

Incest is a form of sexual violence that is primarily directed at female children by adult male perpetrators (Finkelhor 1908; Herman, with Hirshman, 1977). Herman and Hirschman found that 92 percent of the incest victims are females and 97 percent of the offenders are male. On the average, incest begins when the victim is between 6 and 11 years of age (Browning and Boatman 1977; Giarretto 1976; Maisch 1972), and most cases last for one to five years (Tormes 1968). Herman (with Hirschman 1981) found that the daughters, not the fathers, ended the incest, whether by running away, marrying early, or getting pregnant at a young age. However, once incest has occurred, even if it does not recur, the victim harbors the fear that it will recur at any time and thus is never again able to feel safe from abuse. Therefore, in a sense, for the victim, once begun, incest never ends.

I cooked with so many of the greats: Tom Colicchio, Eric Ripert, Wylie Dufresne, Grant Achatz. Rick Bayless taught me not one but two amazing mole sauces, the whole time bemoaning that he never seemed to know what to cook for his teenage daughter. Jose Andres made me a classic Spanish tortilla, shocking me with the sheer volume of viridian olive oil he put into that simple dish of potatoes, onions, and eggs. Graham Elliot Bowles and I made gourmet Jell-O shots together, and ate leftover cheddar risotto with Cheez-Its crumbled on top right out of the pan. Lucky for me, Maria still includes me in special evenings like this, usually giving me the option of joining the guests at table, or helping in the kitchen. I always choose the kitchen, because passing up the opportunity to see these chefs in action is something only an idiot would do. Susan Spicer flew up from New Orleans shortly after the BP oil spill to do an extraordinary menu of all Gulf seafood for a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner Maria hosted to help the families of Gulf fishermen. Local geniuses Gil Langlois and Top Chef winner Stephanie Izard joined forces with Gale Gand for a seven-course dinner none of us will ever forget, due in no small part to Gil's hoisin oxtail with smoked Gouda mac 'n' cheese, Stephanie's roasted cauliflower with pine nuts and light-as-air chickpea fritters, and Gale's honey panna cotta with rhubarb compote and insane little chocolate cookies. Stephanie and I bonded over hair products, since we have the same thick brown curls with a tendency to frizz, and the general dumbness of boys, and ended up giggling over glasses of bourbon till nearly two in the morning. She is even more awesome, funny, sweet, and genuine in person than she was on her rock-star winning season on Bravo. Plus, her food is spectacular all day. I sort of wish she would go into food television and steal me from Patrick. Allen Sternweiler did a game menu with all local proteins he had hunted himself, including a pheasant breast over caramelized brussels sprouts and mushrooms that melted in your mouth (despite the occasional bit of buckshot). Michelle Bernstein came up from Miami and taught me her white gazpacho, which I have since made a gajillion times, as it is probably one of the world's perfect foods.

That night, the tent that I had been alone in for so long was suddenly heaving with bodies, and piles of rope and kit--with Neil, Geoffrey, and Graham squeezed in beside me. I tried to drink as much boiled water as I could get down. I knew that I would need to be as hydrated as I could possibly be to tackle what lay ahead. So I drank and I peed. But still my pee was dark brown. It was almost impossible to hydrate at this altitude. The ritual of peeing into a water bottle had become second nature to us all, even in the dark, and even with someone’s head inches away from the bottle. We each had two bottles: one for pee, one for water. It was worth having a good system to remember which was which. At 10:00 P.M. I needed to pee--again. I grabbed my bottle, crouched over and filled it. I screwed it shut--or so I thought--then settled back into my bag to try and find some elusive sleep. Soon I felt the dampness creeping through my clothes. You have got to be joking. I swore to myself as I scrambled to the crouch position again. I looked down. The cap was hanging loosely off the pee bottle. Dark, stinking brown pee had soaked through all my clothes and sleeping bag. I obviously hadn’t done it up properly. Brute of a mistake. Maybe an omen for what lay ahead. On that note I fell asleep.

hurt is not the same as harm

limp spring onion draped itself over the edge of the wicker basket that displayed the fresh produce in the O’Driscolls’ shop, café and post office. It shared the space with a shrivelled red pepper, while the basket above it held a few sweaty-looking bags of carrots. On the ground was a large sack of potatoes. Brown paper bags dangled from string to allow eager shoppers to make their own selection from the enticing display.

The sun starts to sink lower over the ocean, and Zach somehow magics up a fire from driftwood and kindling. And then he brings out the marshmallows. Not a bag of mass-produced, uniform white cylinders of sugar. But two not-quite-square, hand-made, artisanal marshmallows. I look up at him. “Are you kidding me right now?” The right side of his mouth kicks up in a smirk that says I gave him exactly the reaction he was looking for. “Nope,” he says. “I asked the baker and she made these special for us. After all, I did promise you.” He grabs a forked stick and roasts them for us. When they’re perfectly golden brown and sagging off the stick, he slides it onto a graham cracker, and adds a square of chocolate. I put the entire thing in my mouth. “Ohmigod!” I murmur. “This is amazing!” “Transcendent?” he teases. “Absolutely.” I agree, licking some of the sugar off my fingers. He grabs my wrist and the next thing I know, he’s licking the sugar off my fingers. Oh God, and now I’m thinking of last night and what else he licked. As I watch, his eyes get intense; he’s thinking the same. “We can’t have sex on the beach,” I say breathlessly. “Too sandy.” “You have a one-track mind, don’t you?” he teases. “I only brought you here for the sunset.” Aaaand now I feel like an idiot. “Right,” I cough, blushing. “Well, thank you.” “But …” He adds, his mouth curving into that sexy smile that kills me. “That doesn’t mean we can’t … kiss.” His hand comes up to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I nod because resistance is futile. The best I can do is make light of it so he can’t see the emotion coursing through me. “I’m pretty sure it’s the law that when you drink wine and eat artisanal marshmallows on the beach, you have to kiss.” I wave vaguely toward where we left the car. “I saw it on the sign by the parking lot.” “Well, if it’s a law,” he grins. A second later, his lips find mine. He tastes like wine and sugar, and pure Zach. I sigh in pleasure. This picnic, the marshmallows—everything—just might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. But that perfect sunset? We totally miss it. After all, there are better things to do.

Choices have consequences, Rita. You chose to leave and not look back. Now you have to live with that decision. Like my grandpa used to say, ‘Sometimes it’s too late to do what you should’ve been doin’ all along.’ Anything else you want to talk about?” Graham

I felt the same sense of squeamishness on behalf of Frankie Howerd. In life, the great comedian was always embarrassed by his baldness, so took to wearing a singularly ill-fitting toupee. ‘He was the only one convinced that it was practically impossible to see the join,’ observed his biographer, Graham McCann.

It tasted as beer had always tasted the few times she’d drunk it, like brown autumn leaves.

P&R acquired Union Underwear for $15 million. The deal was a big swing for P&R, with the purchase price equal to 35% of its beginning-of-the-year assets. But beneath the big headline number, there were several factors that reduced risk. The deal was done at a salivating valuation: Union was earning $3 million in pre-tax profits—one-fifth of the purchase price—that would be partially sheltered by P&R’s tax loss. Moreover, P&R structured the compensation of Union’s management in an attractive manner: The company provided Goldfarb with a five-year management contract as well as a bonus of 10% of the subsidiary’s operating profits (subject to both a minimum and a cap), ensuring he stayed on and incentivizing him to grow the business.160 Finally, the deal’s consideration was also interesting, which Buffett later reminisced about in the 2001 Berkshire Hathaway chairman’s letter: The [Union Underwear] company possessed $5 million in cash—$2.5 million of which P&R used for the purchase—and was earning about $3 million pre-tax, earnings that could be sheltered by the tax position of P&R. And, oh yes: Fully $9 million of the remaining $12.5 million due was satisfied by non-interest-bearing notes, payable from 50% of any earnings Union had in excess of $1 million. (Those were the days; I get goosebumps just thinking about such deals.)161 Although the P&R board had approved the Union acquisition, Ben Graham was angered by its conservatism and pushed to add more directors. The other members obliged, ceding five additional seats to Graham allies. Jack Goldfarb and Louis Green of Stryker & Brown—the same Louis Green from the Marshall-Wells chapter—were among those added.

• Rather than asking, “how do engage youth?” we should be asking, “how do we break down the walls that prevent youth from engaging us?

Browning. The encampment of the dead. Of the dead's children, and those children's children. And they'd been here for more generations than that, the Indian Agent could tell. Worse still, he belonged among them. Could feel it in the pit of his stomach, the base of his jaw. He knew this place, had been walking it in his sleep for weeks, stalking it even as he woke, letting it haunt his every movement, as if he could feel it pulling at him, as if it were somehow shaping him, or…or— Like it already had. He'd grown up here. Somehow. Knew what was here now and what had been here before.

One more story, again involving Billy Graham, illustrates the dilemma. At the beginning of the Gulf War in January of 1991, Graham went to the White House to pray with President George Bush as he launched the Desert Storm attack on Iraq. Only hours earlier, however, Edmond Browning, the presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church—Bush’s own denomination—had joined an ecumenical group of Christians in a candlelight vigil outside the White House fence, praying for peace rather than success in war. Which group of Christians, those inside the White House or those outside the fence, had rightly discerned the Word of God?

hand toward a red button on the desk. “I touch this button and they lock this place down, and I don’t care how store-bought they are,

stiff enough to drop from a spoon. Drop mixture, size of a walnut, into boiling fat. Serve warm, with maple syrup. =Boston Brown Bread= 1 Cupful of Rye Meal 1 Cupful of Graham Meal 1 Cupful of Indian Meal 1 Cupful

Odjednom me strah umiranja, a istodobno sam svjestan vlastite smrtnosti. I umjesto da me to natjera da živim, ta mi spoznaja crpi svu radost iz života i, zapravo, više se ne osjećam živim.

Noah." Grace sounded as though she was strangling. "Why don't you just paint a big red A on my forehead, for heaven's sake?" He grinned. Grace was more prickly than usual, and Noah hoped part of that mood was caused by sexual frustration. She wanted him, but he'd deliberately kept her from knowing what he'd ask of her. He'd hoped to heighten her anticipation, and help her forget some of her nervousness. "Gracie, you're the one who announced to all and sundry that you'd taken advantage of me. What difference does it make if Graham knows your intent?" She mumbled again and punched the elevator button. Making no attempt to hide his good humor, Noah asked, "What was that, Grace?" The elevator doors slid open and he allowed Grace to yank him inside. As the doors shut behind them, she glared, and her brown eyes smoldered. Indicating her clothes, she said, "I'd at least like to look presentable while ruining my reputation.

A big fly came down also and settled on a leaf close to her face; he had two round brown knobs on his head and at that range looked enormous, a prehistoric animal that had roamed the jungles of a forgotten world. First he stood on four front legs and rubbed the two back ones with sinuous ease up and down his wings, then he stood on the four back and rubbed the two front ones like an obsequious shopkeeper.

I pulled my hair up in a messy ponytail upon leaving the bedroom and didn’t change from my blue and white shorts and red tank top I wore to bed the night before (Go, USA!). The shirt is tight and the shorts are short, but I'm completely comfortable. Graham is presently glaring at me like he doesn’t like me too much, so I'm thinking he is not comfortable with my outfit—or he still isn't over last night. I don't think he's ever been so angry with me before—well, except for maybe that time I accidentally put salt in his girlfriend's coffee instead of sugar. I pour myself a cup of coffee, showing him my back. And I wait. He doesn't make me wait long. His voice is brittle as he snaps, “Do you have to dress like that?” “I always dress like this. You never seemed to care before.” I give my behind an extra wiggle just to irritate him. I know I've succeeded when something thumps loudly against the tabletop. “I think you should dress like that more often,” Blake immediately replies. “Did anyone ask you?” is Graham's hotheaded comeback. “In fact, I think you’re wearing too many clothes. You should remove some.” A low growl leaves Graham. When I finally face the Malone boys, it is to find them staring one another down from across the small table. Graham’s wearing a white t-shirt and black shorts; his brother is in jeans and a brown shirt. Their coloring is so different, as are their features, but they are both striking in appearance, and their expressions currently mimic one another’s. “Graham, you're being an ass,” I calmly inform him. He grabs a piece of toast off his plate and whips it at me. I duck and it lands in the sink. To say I’m surprised would be an understatement. Toast throwing now? This is what our friendship has resorted to? “I will not live with someone who throws toast at me in anger,” I announce, setting my untouched cup of coffee on the counter. Blake snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he turns his attention to the world beyond the sliding glass patio doors. Graham blinks at me, like he doesn’t understand what I just said or maybe he doesn’t understand what he just did. Either way, I grab my mug and stride out of the room and down the hall to my bedroom. I’ll drink my coffee in peace, away from the toast throwing. Only peace is not to be mine. The door immediately opens after I close it, and there is Graham, staring at me, his head cocked, his expression unnamable. “This coffee is hot,” I warn, holding the white mug out. “You wanna be a toast thrower then I can be a coffee thrower. Just saying.” “Put the coffee down.” “No.” He takes a step toward me. “Come on. Please.” “You threw toast at me,” I point out, in case he forgot. “I don’t know why I did that,” he mumbles, looking down. When he lifts his eyes to me, they are pleading. “Please?” With a sigh, I comply. I am putty in his hands—or I could be. I keep the mug within reach on the dresser, should I need it as backup. As soon as I let the cup go, I’m pulled against his hard chest, his strong arms wrapping around me, his chin on the crown of my head. His scent cocoons me; a mixture of soap and Graham, and I inwardly sigh. He should throw toast more often if this is the end result. “I’m sorry—for last night, for the toast.

Graham of Claverhouse, you know, who persecuted the Covenanters and had a black horse that could ride straight up a precipice. Don’t you know he could only be shot with a silver bullet, because he had sold himself to the Devil? That’s one comfort about you; at least you know enough to believe in the Devil.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Father Brown, ‘I believe in the Devil. What I don’t believe in is the Dundee. I mean the Dundee of Covenanting legends, with his nightmare of a horse. John Graham was simply a seventeenth-century professional soldier, rather better than most. If he dragooned them it was because he was a dragoon, but not a dragon. Now my experience is that it’s not that sort of swaggering blade who sells himself to the Devil. The devil-worshippers I’ve known were quite different. Not to mention names, which might cause a social flutter, I’ll take a man in Dundee’s own day. Have you ever heard of Dalrymple of Stair?’ ‘No,’ replied the other gruffly. ‘You’ve heard of what he did,’ said Father Brown, ‘and it was worse than anything Dundee ever did; yet he escapes the infamy by oblivion. He was the man who made the Massacre of Glencoe. He was a very learned man and lucid lawyer, a statesman with very serious and enlarged ideas of statesmanship, a quiet man with a very refined and intellectual face. That’s the sort of man who sells himself to the Devil.’ Aylmer

You cannot find comfort in ducks. Stoop to look into those beady brown eyes, and they will tell you nothing. - The Bridge, St. James's Park

Graham. These three men took away my virginity

Attract women like that. I’ve got the hot new bod. And yet that girl’s not coming after me.” Zoe eyed his plate warily. “Maybe it’s because you’re eating s’mores with bacon in them.” Murray had, in fact, combined bacon with chocolate, marshmallow, and graham crackers. And then he’d sprinkled gummy bears on top. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said. He attempted to take a bite, but the entire concoction collapsed in his hand, leaving him with a huge brown smear down the front of his Farkle Fiesta T-shirt. “Yeah, it’s hard to see why the girls aren’t beating your door down,” Zoe said sarcastically. “It looks like you wiped your butt with your shirt.” Murray didn’t bother to argue—or to clean his shirt off. Instead, he returned to the dessert bar to rebuild his sandwich.

The Times celebration of Brown as confirming constitutional color blindness was widely shared in America. In the debates over the Kennedy-Johnson civil rights bill in 1963 and 1964, the bipartisan congressional leadership appealed to the classical liberal model of color-blind justice, leaning over backwards to deny charges by southern opponents that the law could lead to quotas or other forms of preference for minorities. Indeed, the legislative history of the Civil Rights Act shows what John David Skrentny, author of The Ironies of Affirmative Action, called “an almost obsessive concern” for maintaining fidelity to a color-blind concept of equal individual rights. Senator Hubert Humphrey of Minnesota, the majority (Democratic) whip behind the bill, explained simply: “Race, religion and national origin are not to be used as the basis for hiring and firing.” Title VII required employers to treat citizens differing in race, sex, national origin, or religion equally, as abstract citizens differing only in merit. Section 703(j) of the Civil Rights Act states: “Nothing contained in this title shall be interpreted to require any employer… to grant preferential treatment to any individual or to any group because of the race, color, religion, sex, or national origin of such individual or group on account of an imbalance which my exist with respect to the total number or percentage of persons of any race, color, religion, sex, or national origin employed by an employer.” The syntax was classic legalese, but the meaning was unambiguous. The Senate’s floor managers for Title VII, Joseph S. Clark (D-Pa.) and Clifford P. Case (R-N.J.), told their colleagues, “The concept of discrimination… is clear and simple and has no hidden meanings. …To discriminate means to make a distinction, to make a difference in treatment or favor, which is based on any five of the forbidden criteria: race, color, religion, sex, or nation origin.” They continued: There is no requirement in Title VII that an employer maintain a balance in his work force. On the contrary, any deliberate attempt to maintain a racial balance, whatever such a balance may be, would involve a violation of Title VII because maintaining such a balance would require an employer to hire or refuse to hire on the basis of race. It must be emphasized that discrimination is prohibited to any individual. Humphrey, trying to lay to rest what he called the “bugaboo” of racial quotas raised by filibustering southerners in his own party and by some conservative Republicans as well, reaffirmed the bill’s color-blind legislative intent: “That bugaboo has been brought up a dozen times; but it is nonexistent. In fact the very opposite is true. Title VII prohibits discrimination. In effect, it sways that race, religion, and national origin are not to be used as the basis for hiring and firing.” Humphrey even famously pledged on the Senate floor that if any wording could be found in Title VII “which provides that an employer will have to hire on the basis of percentage or quota related to color, … I will start eating the pages [of the bill] one after another.

The coffee made by the six-year-old drip filter machine in the break room was as black as tar. The DI who made it every morning had the tolerance of a bull and the neck of one too. His name was James Graham, and Jamie had seen him take a cup of coffee out of the jug when it was made by someone else, and then add a spoon full of instant coffee to it. More than once.  When that happened, he did nothing but complain about how weak it was.  It just so happened that Graham bought good coffee as well as making it strong, so it was easier — and tastier — for everyone to just let him make a pot, half fill a cup, and then top it up with water and milk until it was the right shade.  That morning Jamie didn’t add any water, and took a russet-brown cup back to her desk. She sat down and Roper eyed her, flicking through the files from the shelter. She’d laid it all out for him and he’d regaled her with the particulars of the conversation he’d had with Mary. She was

I’m so fucking tired of black women always being described by their skin tones! Honey-colored this! Dark-chocolate that! My paternal grandmother was mocha-tinged, café-au-lait, graham-fucking-cracker brown! How come they never describe the white characters in relation to foodstuffs and hot liquids? Why aren’t there any yogurt-colored, egg-shell-toned, string-cheese-skinned, low-fat-milk white protagonists in these racist, no-third-act-having books? That’s why black literature sucks!

Anything green or coffee brown?” “Are you bullshitting me?” “What?” I held my hands out. “Those are my frat colors.” “Frat colors,” Graham muttered under his breath. “You’ll wear what I throw your way. You’ve been around Lanore too long, posing in the mirror like a woman, and color coordinating your outfits with other men.

Piña Colada Cheesecake This tropical twist on my mother’s old-fashioned cheesecake was a hit at cruiser gatherings. For the crust 1 cup graham cracker crumbs 1⁄2 cup sweetened shredded coconut 1⁄3 cup melted butter For the filling 11⁄2 pounds cream cheese, softened 2⁄3 cup sugar 4 eggs 3 tablespoons dark rum 1 cup sour cream 3⁄4 cup cream of coconut (see Tips, below) 2⁄3 cup well-drained crushed pineapple (about 1 19-oz can) 1. Preheat oven to 350°F. 2. To make the crust, combine graham cracker crumbs and coconut with melted butter. Press into the bottom of a 10-inch springform pan. Bake for 10 minutes until lightly browned. Set aside to cool while you make the filling. 3. To make the filling, beat cream cheese and sugar until smooth. Add eggs one at a time, beating until blended. Mix in rum, sour cream, cream of coconut, and well-drained pineapple. 4. Spread evenly on prepared crust and bake about 50–60 minutes on middle rack of preheated oven, until edges are set and center moves just slightly when you shake the pan. 5. Run a knife around the inside of pan to loosen cheesecake. Allow cake to cool completely on a wire rack. Cover and refrigerate until well chilled or overnight. Remove from springform pan before serving. Serves 16 Tips • Garnish the cheesecake with slices of tropical fruit, such as fresh pineapple or mango. • Don’t confuse cream of coconut with coconut milk or coconut cream. Used to make drinks (such as piña coladas) and desserts, cream of coconut is thick, syrupy, heavily sweetened coconut milk. Coco Lopez is one popular brand.

Čini se da stvaramo svijet koji je pogodniji za druge oblike života, nego za nas same.

Right at the summit of the pass it lies, nothing above it but the sky. On every side the billowing heather-clad hills engirdle it about. Flat stones encircle it, and on its surface water spiders walk. Red persicaria, with its wax-like stalks and ragged leaves, grows by its edge. Below it stretches out a vast brown moss, honeycombed here and there with black peat hags., and a dark lake spreads out, ringed on one side by moss, and on the other set like a jewel in a pine wood, with a white stretch of silver sand. On it are islands with great sycamores and chestnuts, stag-headed but still vigorous, and round their shores the bulrushes keep watch like sentinels. Mists rise from the moss and lake and creep about the corries of the hills, blending the woods and rocks into steamy chaos, vast and unfathomable, through which a little burn unseen, but musical, runs tinkling through the stones. So at the little bealach the well lies open to the sky, too high for the lake mists to touch it, as it looks up at the stars.

He had always wanted to be a policeman, loved being a policeman, would never wish to be anything else. But there were times when the carping, the paper work, the brown nosing and double-declutch handshakes, the soft attitudes of outsiders who never had to scrape up the mess, the political in-fighting, the need to button your lip if you wanted to get on and a thousand other day-to-day irritations all coalesced and threatened to overwhelm him.