Hays Travel Quotes

The human life cycle no less than evolves around the box; from the open-topped box called a bassinet, to the pine box we call a coffin, the box is our past and, just as assuredly, our future. It should not surprise us then that the lowly box plays such a significant role in the first Christmas story. For Christmas began in a humble, hay-filled box of splintered wood. The Magi, wise men who had traveled far to see the infant king, laid treasure-filled boxes at the feet of that holy child. And in the end, when He had ransomed our sins with His blood, the Lord of Christmas was laid down in a box of stone. How fitting that each Christmas season brightly wrapped boxes skirt the pine boughs of Christmas trees around the world.

Charlotte: Giordano is terribly afraid Gwyneth will get everything wrong tomorrow that she can get wrong. Gideon: Pass the olive oil, please. Charlotte: Politics and history are a closed book to Gwyneth. She can’t even remember names—they go in at one ear and straight out of the other. She can’t help it, her brain doesn’t have the capacity. It’s stuffed with the names of boy bands and long, long cast lists of actors in soppy romantic films. Raphael: Gwyneth is your time-traveling cousin, right? I saw her yesterday in school. Isn’t she the one with long dark hair and blue eyes? Charlotte: Yes, and that birthmark on her temple, the one that looks like a little banana. Gideon: Like a little crescent moon. Raphael: What’s that friend of hers called? The blonde with freckles? Lily? Charlotte: Lesley Hay. Rather brighter than Gwyneth, but she’s a wonderful example of the way people get to look like their dogs. Hers is a shaggy golden retriever crossbreed called Bertie. Raphael: That’s cute! Charlotte: You like dogs? Raphael: Especially golden retriever crossbreeds with freckles. Charlotte: I see. Well, you can try your luck. You won’t find it particularly difficult. Lesley gets through even more boys than Gwyneth. Gideon: Really? How many . . . er, boyfriends has Gwyneth had? Charlotte: Oh, my God! This is kind of embarrassing. I don’t want to speak ill of her, it’s just that she’s not very discriminating. Particularly when she’s had a drink. She’s done the rounds of almost all the boys in our class and the class above us . . . I guess I lost track at some point. I’d rather not repeat what they call her. Raphael: The school mattress? Gideon: Pass the salt, please.

I also turn to homeopathic remedies for the treatment of indigestion, travel sickness, insomnia and hay fever just to name a few. Homeopathy offers a safe, natural alternative that causes no side effects or drug interactions.

The faster we travel, the less there is to see.

When you travel alone, no one knows who you are, there's no predetermined idea about how you should act, you are free, and you can be your true self. Every morning you are liberated to create your identity as you truly want it to be.

How could I tell him that I now wanted what he had once wanted----to travel on trains and fall in love with girls with dark eyes and extravagant lips? It didn't matter to me if at the end of it I had nothing to show but sore thighs. It wasn't my fault that the life of the wanderer, the wayfarer, had fallen out of favor with the world. So what if it was no longer acceptable to drift with the wind, asking for bread and a roof, sleeping on bales of hay and enjoying dalliances with barefooted farmgirls, then running away before the harvest? This was the life I wanted, blowing around like a leaf with appetites.

Ante la muerte no hay nada que podamos hacer, es algo que está fuera de nuestro alcance. Mientras seguimos vivos lo único que podemos hacer es vivir.

The story is that Odin travelled from home and came to a place where nine slaves were cutting hay. He asked if they wanted him to sharpen their scythes. They agreed. Then he took a whetstone from his belt and sharpened the scythes. To them it seemed that the scythes now cut much better, and they wanted to buy the whetstone. Odin set this price on the stone: he asked that whoever wanted to buy it should give what he thought was reasonable. They all said they wanted it and each asked to buy it, but instead he threw it into the air. They all scrambled to catch it with the result that they slit each other’s throats with their scythes.

I wanted to see the places he brought home in books from the Penrose Library—the campaniles of Italy, the windswept coastline of Morocco, the twinkling skyscrapers of Manhattan. Places I could only afford to travel to on the page.

Tôi không đặt mua vé máy bay khi tôi đang thất vọng hay bế tắc. Tôi không tin một chuyến đi có thể cứu rỗi tôi. Không ai hay điều gì trên đời này có thể cứu tôi khỏi nỗi thất vọng hay bế tắc, ngoài chính bản thân tôi. Tôi chỉ đặt mua vé máy bay khi có giá rẻ.

How Finite Minds Most Want To Be You are the living marrow. The rest is hay, and dead grass does not nourish a human being. When you are not here, this desire we feel has no traveling companion. When the sun is gone, the soul's clarity fades. There is nothing but idiocy and mistakes. We are half-dead, inanimate, exhausted. The way finite minds most want to be is an ocean with a soul swimming in it. No one can describe that. These words do not touch you. Metaphors mentioning the moon have no effect on the moon. My soul, you are a master, a Moses, a Jesus. Why do I stay blind in your presence? You are Joseph at the bottom of his well. Constantly working, but you do not get paid, because what you do seems trivial, like play. Now silence. Unless these words fill with nourishment from the unseen, they will stay empty, and why would I serve my friends bowls with no food in them?

A horse was hag-ridden. Its owners filled a bottle with its urine, stopped it with a cork, and buried it: the witch could not piece and died in agony. The air hummed with flies when the travellers approached the cattle - rich odors of dung and hay. They heard an ouzel's ringing tew tew tew; the peasants cupped their ears. Farmers tilled their small fields to the limit. Women carded and combed, clouted and washed, and peeled rushes as in Lynn. One woman became a man when he jumped over an irrigation ditch and his cunt dropped inside out: gender is the extent we go to in order to be loved. His mittens were made of rags.

The thing is, if you travel enough and meet enough people from different walks of life, you begin to understand a more universal language.

Remind me in countless ways, as I walk the sunlit hours of this day, that I am on a sacred journey along with the stars traveling through space, that I am on a pilgrim path.

No hay nada que disimular. Tiene usted derecho a sus propios sentimientos.

Two signs predicted by the Hebrew prophet Daniel for “the time of the end” should be obvious to all—the increase in travel and the increase in knowledge.

hay farms, scrub forest, and some bald-looking areas of

When I'm at home, surrounded by people I know, and this holds true for most of us, I play my part in a role I’ve created for myself. I fulfill my social obligations, and conform to the rules of society, acting in what I’ve determined is an acceptable way. Don’t we all do this? Deciding each day when we look in the mirror whether or not to continue acting out our role we’ve created?  This is why it is paramount to travel alone. When you travel alone, you’re instantly set free from this character you’ve assumed. When you travel alone, no one knows who you are, there’s no predetermined idea about how you should act, you are free, and you can be your true self. Every morning you are liberated to create your identity as you truly want it to be.

We were singing for Dr. Du Bois' spirit, for the invaluable contributions he made, for his shining intellect and his courage. To many of us he was the first American Negro intellectual. We knew about Jack Johnson and Jesse Owens and Joe Louis. We were proud of Louis Armstrong and Marian Anderson and Roland Hayes. We memorized the verses of James Weldon Johnson, Langston Hughes, Paul Laurence Dunbar and Countee Cullen, but they were athletes, musicians and poets, and White folks thought all those talents came naturally to Negroes. So, while we survived because of those contributors and their contributions, the powerful White world didn't stand in awe of them. Sadly, we also tended to take those brilliances for granted. But W.E.B. Du Bois and of course Paul Robeson were different, held on a higher or at least on a different plateau than the others.

Có một lằn ranh: một bên là những người làm ra sách, bên kia là những người đọc sách. Em muốn mãi là một trong những người đọc sách, cho nên em luôn luôn cẩn thận giữ mình bên phía của mình. Nếu không niềm vui đọc vô tư lự sẽ chấm dứt, hay ít nhất là biến thành cái khác, không phải những gì em muốn. Lằn ranh ấy, nó mơ hồ, dễ bị xóa đi: Thế giới những người dính dáng tới sách theo nghĩa chuyên nghiệp ngày càng đông và có xu hướng tự nhập vào làm một với thế giới những người đọc sách. Dĩ nhiên độc giả cũng ngày càng đông hơn, song dường như những kẻ dùng sách này đặng làm ra sách khác đang ngày càng đông hơn những ai chỉ thích đọc sách và chỉ thế thôi. Em biết rằng nếu vượt qua ranh giới đó, dù chỉ như một ngoại lệ, do tình cờ, em tất có nguy cơ hòa lẫn vào cơn triều đang dâng này; vì vậy em từ chối bước chân vào một nhà xuất bản, dù chỉ trong vài phút.

If you've ever taken a sub, you'll know they have available every luxury item the weary traveller could ever wish to purchase. Drinks, food, perfumes, clothes, blankets, anything. These compartments weren't empty, but I doubt the weary traveller was really in the market for a selection of low and high powered pistols, assault rifles, armour piercing rounds and the variety of explosive devices on offer. Unless they were on the way to a Christmas family get-together.

Caminante, son tus huellas el camino y nada más; Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace el camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino sino estelas en la mar.” Traveler, your footprints are the only road, nothing else. Traveler, there is no road; you make your own path as you walk. As you walk, you make your own road, and when you look back you see the path you will never travel again. Traveler, there is no road; only a ship's wake on the sea. Translated by Mary G. Berg and Dennis Maloney

Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from the town, burrowing among the dwellings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into the meadows for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, booming on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so bright and wide; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, through the fields, through the woods, through the corn, through the hay, through the chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the rock, among objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying from the traveller, and a deceitful distance ever moving slowly with him: like as in the track of the remorseless monster, Death!

Since we’re being literal now, have you felt clear and sensible at other times during your travels?’ The question startled Tess into thinking. ‘While turning hay. Swimming in the river, crawling through caves… once I was lying under a cattle guard, eating bread, and the sky was blue and there was a bee—’ She cut off, embarrassed. It was hard to explain about the bee.

THE MEETING" "Scant rain had fallen and the summer sun Had scorched with waves of heat the ripening corn, That August nightfall, as I crossed the down Work-weary, half in dream. Beside a fence Skirting a penning’s edge, an old man waited Motionless in the mist, with downcast head And clothing weather-worn. I asked his name And why he lingered at so lonely a place. “I was a shepherd here. Two hundred seasons I roamed these windswept downlands with my flock. No fences barred our progress and we’d travel Wherever the bite grew deep. In summer drought I’d climb from flower-banked combe to barrow’d hill-top To find a missing straggler or set snares By wood or turmon-patch. In gales of March I’d crouch nightlong tending my suckling lambs. “I was a ploughman, too. Year upon year I trudged half-doubled, hands clenched to my shafts, Guiding my turning furrow. Overhead, Cloud-patterns built and faded, many a song Of lark and pewit melodied my toil. I durst not pause to heed them, rising at dawn To groom and dress my team: by daylight’s end My boots hung heavy, clodded with chalk and flint. “And then I was a carter. With my skill I built the reeded dew-pond, sliced out hay From the dense-matted rick. At harvest time, My wain piled high with sheaves, I urged the horses Back to the master’s barn with shouts and curses Before the scurrying storm. Through sunlit days On this same slope where you now stand, my friend, I stood till dusk scything the poppied fields. “My cob-built home has crumbled. Hereabouts Few folk remember me: and though you stare Till time’s conclusion you’ll not glimpse me striding The broad, bare down with flock or toiling team. Yet in this landscape still my spirit lingers: Down the long bottom where the tractors rumble, On the steep hanging where wild grasses murmur, In the sparse covert where the dog-fox patters.” My comrade turned aside. From the damp sward Drifted a scent of melilot and thyme; From far across the down a barn owl shouted, Circling the silence of that summer evening: But in an instant, as I stepped towards him Striving to view his face, his contour altered. Before me, in the vaporous gloaming, stood Nothing of flesh, only a post of wood.

Pero lo más auténtico, lo que no confesaba a nadie, era que salía a buscar lo desconocido. Se preguntó si los hombres hacen alguna vez algo diferente. - Deben existir marineros que descubren islas - se dijo. Quedaba más allá de toda duda que si los niños y jóvenes se empeñan en aventuras, ello sucede porque en la rosa de los vientos hay una dirección fundamental, a más de los puntos cardinales. Y esa dirección tiene su propio nombre: el misterio.

In the middle of my depression, somebody told me about a self-help group for people who wanted to persue personal visions, and I thought that might be just the thing for me, since I no longer had any. So I went to this Goals Meeting. It was in an Episcopal church in the leafy suburbs, and when I walked inside, a nice lady was explaing that her Goal was to get out of debt and buy a pony for her little daughter. Then this other fellow got up to share. He was a white boy in a dashiki. He said, "My name is Ira and I have a Goal. Right now I'm unemployed and in debt and I'm living with my parents, who don't understand me at all. But my faith in this program is so huge that I know that one year from today I'm going to be traveling across the United States with my Spirit Guide. My Spirit Guide is going to be a while malamute dog named Isis. I mean, I know this as clearly as I've known anything in my life. My Goal is for Isis to guide me to the homes of my favorite self-help authoers. Isis is going to take me to meet John Bradshaw and Louise Hay and M. Scott Peck, and I'm going to get them to mentor me!" He kind of bellowed this. And I wasn't sure whether Ira was exactly what John Bradshaw and Louise Hay and M. Scott Peck deserved or whether I hoped they kept shotguns in their homes. I was honestly torn.

Gardening Work There was a man breaking up the ground, getting ready to plant, when another man came by, "Why are you ruining this land?" "Don't interfere. Nothing can grow here until the earth is turned over and crumbled. There can be no roses and no orchard without first this devastation. You must lance an ulcer to heal. You must tear down parts of an old building to restore it." So it is with the sensual life that has no spirit. A person must face the dragon of his or her appetites with another dragon, the life energy of the soul. When that's not strong, everyone seems to be full of fear and wanting, as one thinks the room is spinning when one's whirling around. If your love has contracted into anger, the atmosphere itself feels threatening, but when you're expansive and clear, no matter what the weather, you're in an open windy field with friends. Many people travel as far as Syria and Iraq and meet only hypocrites. Others go all the way to India and see only people buying and selling. Others travel to Turkestan and China to discover those countries are full of cheats and sneak thieves. You always see the qualities that live in you. A cow may walk through the amazing city of Baghdad and notice only a watermelon rind and a tuft of hay that fell off a wagon. Don't repeatedly keep doing what your lowest self wants. That's like deciding to be a strip of meat nailed to dry on a board in the sun.

After the Grand Perhaps” After vespers, after the first snow has fallen to its squalls, after New Wave, after the anorexics have curled into their geometric forms, after the man with the apparition in his one bad eye has done red things behind the curtain of the lid & sleeps, after the fallout shelter in the elementary school has been packed with tins & other tangibles, after the barn boys have woken, startled by foxes & fire, warm in their hay, every part of them blithe & smooth & touchable, after the little vandals have tilted toward the impossible seduction to smash glass in the dark, getting away with the most lethal pieces, leaving the shards which travel most easily through flesh as message on the bathroom floor, the parking lots, the irresistible debris of the neighbor’s yard where he’s been constructing all winter long. After the pain has become an old known friend, repeating itself, you can hold on to it. The power of fright, I think, is as much as magnetic heat or gravity. After what is boundless: wind chimes, fertile patches of the land, the ochre symmetry of fields in fall, the end of breath, the beginning of shadow, the shadow of heat as it moves the way the night heads west, I take this road to arrive at its end where the toll taker passes the night, reading. I feel the cupped heat of his left hand as he inherits change; on the road that is not his road anymore I belong to whatever it is which will happen to me. When I left this city I gave back the metallic waking in the night, the signals of barges moving coal up a slow river north, the movement of trains, each whistle like a woodwind song of another age passing, each ambulance would split a night in two, lying in bed as a little girl, a fear of being taken with the sirens as they lit the neighborhood in neon, quick as the fire as it takes fire & our house goes up in night. After what is arbitrary: the hand grazing something too sharp or fine, the word spoken out of sleep, the buckling of the knees to cold, the melting of the parts to want, the design of the moon to cast unfriendly light, the dazed shadow of the self as it follows the self, the toll taker’s sorrow that we couldn’t have been more intimate. Which leads me back to the land, the old wolves which used to roam on it, the one light left on the small far hill where someone must be living still. After life there must be life.

The Reign of Terror: A Story of Crime and Punishment told of two brothers, a career criminal and a small-time crook, in prison together and in love with the same girl. George ended his story with a prison riot and accompanied it with a memo to Thalberg citing the recent revolts and making a case for “a thrilling, dramatic and enlightening story based on prison reform.” --- Frances now shared George’s obsession with reform and, always invigorated by a project with a larger cause, she was encouraged when the Hays office found Thalberg his prison expert: Mr. P. W. Garrett, the general secretary of the National Society of Penal Information. Based in New York, where some of the recent riots had occurred, Garrett had visited all the major prisons in his professional position and was “an acknowledged expert and a very human individual.” He agreed to come to California to work with Frances for several weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas for a total of kr 4,470.62 plus expenses. Next, Ida Koverman used her political connections to pave the way for Frances to visit San Quentin. Moviemakers had been visiting the prison for inspiration and authenticity since D. W. Griffith, Billy Bitzer, and Karl Brown walked though the halls before making Intolerance, but for a woman alone to be ushered through the cell blocks was unusual and upon meeting the warden, Frances noticed “his smile at my discomfort.” Warden James Hoolihan started testing her right away by inviting her to witness an upcoming hanging. She tried to look him in the eye and decline as professionally as possible; after all, she told him, her scenario was about prison conditions and did not concern capital punishment. Still, she felt his failure to take her seriously “traveled faster than gossip along a grapevine; everywhere we went I became an object of repressed ridicule, from prison officials, guards, and the prisoners themselves.” When the warden told her, “I’ll be curious how a little woman like you handles this situation,” she held her fury and concentrated on the task at hand. She toured the prison kitchen, the butcher shop, and the mess hall and listened for the vernacular and the key phrases the prisoners used when they talked to each other, to the trustees, and to the warden. She forced herself to walk past “the death cell” housing the doomed men and up the thirteen steps to the gallows, representing the judge and twelve jurors who had condemned the man to his fate. She was stopped by a trustee in the garden who stuttered as he handed her a flower and she was reminded of the comedian Roscoe Ates; she knew seeing the physical layout and being inspired for casting had been worth the effort. --- Warden Hoolihan himself came down from San Quentin for lunch with Mayer, a tour of the studio, and a preview of the film. Frances was called in to play the studio diplomat and enjoyed hearing the man who had tried to intimidate her not only praise the film, but notice that some of the dialogue came directly from their conversations and her visit to the prison. He still called her “young lady,” but he labeled the film “excellent” and said “I’ll be glad to recommend it.” ---- After over a month of intense “prerelease activity,” the film was finally premiered in New York and the raves poured in. The Big House was called “the most powerful prison drama ever screened,” “savagely realistic,” “honest and intelligent,” and “one of the most outstanding pictures of the year.

To think, when I was working I thought that owning possessions was a reflection of success. Little did I realize that I was happier with less stuff. In college I was enjoying some of the best moments of my life, and the things that mattered the most were the experiences and interactions that were shaping my future. And it's these new experiences that keep your life exciting. Maybe it's the reason people lose inspiration as they grow older: living a life with fewer surprises. I believe travel can take you back to that intoxicating place. The place where tasting a strange fruit or looking out at a remarkable vista makes you feel energized once again.

If you are willing to let some things go, you'll be pleasantly surprised by the incredible gifts that will take their place.

By eliminating the clutter from my life, I was able to make more room for new experiences. I became more appreciative of the beauty right in front of me and less stuck on old habits of accumulating useless items. I also became much more aware of how much I take from this world. It's nice to recognize how little I really need to be happy. Sometimes you need to strip apart your life to uncover what was there all along.

Someone once said that time is God's currency. If that's the case, then Costa Rica may be one of the richest countries in the world.

give weight to all the great experiences and let the unpleasant ones roll away like coconuts down an embankment.

No hay nada como viajar solo, sin amigos ni compañeros que influyan en las opiniones de uno. La soledad es la que hace que un viaje merezca la pena: estar a solas con fuerzas históricas con paisajes y libros como únicos guías.

Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but memories, kill nothing but time.

Hay días en los que cada cosa que veo parece cargada de significados: mensajes que me sería difícil comunicar a otros, definir, traducir a palabras, pero que por eso mismo se me presentan como decisivos. Son anuncios o presagios que se refieren a mí y al mundo a un tiempo: y de mi no a los acontecimientos externos de la existencia sino a lo que ocurre dentro, en el fondo; y del mundo no a algún hecho particular sino al modo de ser general de todo. Comprenderéis pues mi dificultad para hablar de ello, salvo por alusiones.

It would distort markets. Besides, if I bought a load of gold when I thought the price was going up, then it would drive up the price at that point. When I came to sell in the future it would depress the price. Thus, I wouldn't make the killing I thought I would, would I?" "Yeah, but futures contracts." "Same thing, dear boy." "Art, then." "If I bought Constable's Hay Wain direct from the artist it wouldn't have the same cachet as it does today. The absence of that piece from the market might mean that all of his work was devalued." "Yeah, but you could bring another piece back." "Ah, then the paint and canvas wouldn't age correctly. For older objets d'art, the carbon dating would show it was younger than it should be. Sorry, Kevin. You're not going to get rich by temporal smuggling or speculation.

Los lugares por los que paso pasan a través de mí; me colman con su gravedad, con su inercia; me dan el vacío, la mudez o la locuacidad, o, en el peor de los casos, la verborrea, que me deja triste. En el fondo sólo hay dos preguntas: ¿qué son los lugares? y ¿quién soy yo en este, en ese, en aquel lugar?

For weeks, as his mission had moved closer to completion, he had increasingly thought about what he would do then—he had no desire to stay in Germany and no reason to return to Lebanon. Within days, he knew, a modern plague—the black pox was how he thought of it—would burst into the public consciousness. Its presence would start slow, like a match in straw, but it would rapidly become what scientists call a self-amplifying process—an explosion—and the whole barn would be on fire. America—the great infidel—would be ground zero, the kill rate astronomical. Deprived of its protector, Israel’s belly would be exposed and at last it would be left to the mercy of its near enemies. As economic activity fell off a cliff, the price of oil would collapse and the ruling Saudi elite—unable to buy off its own people any longer or fall back on the support of the United States—would invoke a fearful repression and in doing so, sow the seeds of its own destruction. In the short term, the world would close down and travel be rendered impossible, as nations sought safety in quarantine and isolation. Some would be more successful than others and though a billion people had died from smallpox in the hundred years before its eradication, nothing like it had ever happened in the modern world—not even AIDS—and nobody could predict where the rivers of infection would flood and where they would turn.

And now that mulch of dead imaginings beneath the feet of Temperance ladies, union-affiliated Vaudevillians and maimed men home from Europe has contaminated the groundwater of the upstart country's nightmares. Immigrants in their illimitable difference come to seem a separate species, taciturn and fish-eyed as though risen from the ocean waves that bore them in their transport, monstrous in their self-contained communities with bitter scents and indecipherable ululations, names, unsettlingly unpronounceable ensconced at isolated farms where beaten track is naught save idle rumour stagnant families nurse grievance, dreadful secrets and deformity in solitude; pools of declined humanity entirely unconnected to society by any tributary where ancestral prejudice or misconception may become the plaint of generations. Fabled and forbidden works of Arab alchemy are handed down across years cruel and volatile, trafficked between austere and colonial homes by charitable fellowships with ancient affectations or conveyed by fevered sea-captains, fugitive Huguenots or elderly hysterics formally accused of witchcraft. Young America, a sapling power grown suddenly so tall upon its diet of nickelodeons and motorcars, has sunk unwitting roots into an underworld of grotesque notions and archaic creeds, their feaful pull discernible below the weed-cracked sidewalk. Buried and forgotten, ominous philosophies await their day with hideous patience. Well! I think that's pretty darned good for a first attempt. A little over-wrought, perhaps, and I'm not sure about the style - I can't decide if its too modern of it's too old fashioned, but perhaps that's a good sign. Of course, I guess I'll have to introduce a plot and characters at some point, but I'll wrestle with that minor nuisance when I get to it. Perhaps I could contrive to have some hobo, maybe literally a hoe-boy or travelling itinerant farm labourer who's wandering from place to place around New England in the search for work; somebody who might reasonably become involved with all the various characters I'm hoping to investigate. Being a labourer, while it would lend a feasibility to any action or exertion that I wanted in the story, wouldn't mean that my protagonist was lacking in intelligence of education: this is often economically a far from certain country for a lot of people, and there's plenty of smart fellows - maybe even an aspiring writer like myself - who've found themselves leaving their homes and families to mooch around from farm to farm in hope of some hay-baling or fruit-picking that's unlikely to materialise. Perhaps a character like that, a rugged man who is sufficiently well read to justifiably allow me a few literary flourishes (and I can't help thinking that I'll probably end up casting some imagined variant of Tom Malone) would be the kind of of sympathetic hero and the kind of voice I'm looking for. Meanwhile I yawned a moment or two back, and while I'm not yet quite exhausted to the point where I can guarantee a deep and dreamless sleep, perhaps another six or seven vague ideas for stories might just do the soporific job.

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. (Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking.)1 —Antonio Machado (1875–1939) This

John Hay, traveling principally as an aide to Lincoln, doubled as a correspondent, filing reports for the Missouri Democrat and the Illinois Daily State Journal, often grandly signing his dispatches “Ecarte”—after écarté, the popular card game favored by Rawdon Crawley in Vanity Fair. Over the next eleven days, these reporters would provide a colorful, though sometimes contradictory, account of Lincoln’s trip: a traveling Vanity Fair that would have inspired Thackeray himself.

Sounds from the city fill my ears with uncommon musical notes. Laughter sounds different, the cars honk constantly, there is no English, but at the same time I notice my senses are excited. This is why I love traveling.

<< Los sonidos van y vienen, pero el silencio permanece.>> En cierta ocasión, ta vez cuarenta años atrás, en un hotel mugriento y anónimo al borde del Sahara en la frontera de Mauritania, me depertó el silencio al que se refería el anciano. Pero no fue el silencio, sino la angustia que había adoptado la forma de silencio la que me despertó. No sé cómo explicarlo, yo mismo me transformé, como un animal, en agustia. No sentía miedo de nada, porque me encontraba al límite. Recuerdo el suelo de adobe, el ruido de algo o alguien moviéndose y cómo salí afuera al encuentro del cielo oscuro y la resplandeciente quietud de todas las estrellas. Aquella noche ha quedado escrita en mí con una palabra que ya no soy capaz de leer. A partir de aquel momento opté por una vida que hoy llamo la mía, la existencia del que escribe y describe en el mundo de las apariencias, pero ¿cuántas palabras hay que escribir para ser capaz de leer la única palabra?

RESISTANCE TO CHANGE? “The canal system of this country is being threatened by the spread of a new form of transportation known as ’railroads’ and the federal government must preserve the canals. . . . If canal boats are supplanted by ’railroads,’ serious unemployment will result. Captains, cooks, drivers, hostlers, repairmen, and lock tenders will be left without means of livelihood, not to mention the numerous farmers now employed growing hay for the horses. . . . As you may well know, Mr. President, ’railroad’ carriages are pulled at the enormous speed of 15 miles per hour by ’engines’ which, in addition to endanging life and limb of passengers, roar and snort their way through the countryside, setting fire to crops, scaring the livestock and frightening women and children. The Almighty certainly never intended that people should travel at such breakneck speed.” The above communication was from Martin Van Buren, then governor of New York, to President Andrew Jackson on January 21, 1829. In 1832 Van Buren was elected vice president of the United States under Andrew Jackson’s second term. In 1836 Van Buren was elected president of the United States. It is also interesting that the first railroad into Washington, DC, was completed in time to bring visitors from Philadelphia and New York to Van Buren’s inauguration. Sources: Janet E. Lapp, “Ride the Horse in the Direction It’s Going,” American Salesman, October 1998, pp. 26–29; and The World Book Encyclopedia, Volume 20 (Chicago: World Book—Childcraft International, Inc.), 1979, p. 214. 2

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Traveler, there is no path, the path must be forged as you walk.

Sled dogs love new trails. The drive to explore unknown ground, to huge distances with pack mates, is genetic. In the wild, it is necessary for food gathering and survival. All canine senses come into play in this vital game of life. But, by far and away, the most important is the dog's astounding sense of smell, a million or more times that of a human, we are told. A canine’s innate desire to travel, to sniff out new ground, and thig inborn compulsion to run with its kind, provides a key answer to the often-asked question: “What makes Iditarod racing dogs run a hundred or more miles per day?” In truth, nothing or no one really makes them run. They are, in fact, by their very nature, compelled to run. They were born that way. Selective breeding for those wondrous, wild instincts—in the case of the Seavey kennels, some twenty sled dog generations to date—simply brings to the top the very best of what hay been there for centuries unnumbered.

Y Lícides, sencillamente, ha olvidado que hay una guerra en curso, y cuando hay guerra todas las libertades democráticas, la de expresión entre ellas, quedan suspendidas. Pues la guerra se rige por sus propias leyes, muy diferentes, reduciendo todo el código de principios a una sola regla, fundamental y única: ¡vencer a cualquier precio!

Sự rung động và lãng mạn mà điểm du lịch mang lại cũng giống với cảm giác mà tình yêu mang đến. Không ai có thể đưa ra được nhận định một cách chính xác rằng mình yêu phong cảnh và bầu không khí hiện hữu này, hay là mình yêu con người ngay trước mắt mình đây.

Sự rung động và lãng mạn mà điểm du lịch mang lại cũng giống với cảm giác mà tình yêu mang đến. Không ai có thể đưa ra được nhận định một cách chính xác rằng mình yêu phong cảnh và bầu không khí hiện hữu này, hay là mình yêu con người ngay trước mắt mình đây.

And now that mulch of dead imaginings beneath the feet of Temperance ladies, union-affiliated Vaudevillians and maimed men home from Europe has contaminated the groundwater of the upstart country's nightmares. Immigrants in their illimitable difference come to seem a separate species, taciturn and fish-eyed as though risen from the ocean waves that bore them in their transport, monstrous in their self-contained communities with bitter scents and indecipherable ululations, names, unsettlingly unpronounceable ensconced at isolated farms where beaten track is naught save idle rumour stagnant families nurse grievance, dreadful secrets and deformity in solitude; pools of declined humanity entirely unconnected to society by any tributary where ancestral prejudice or misconception may become the plaint of generations. Fabled and forbidden works of Arab alchemy are handed down across years cruel and volatile, trafficked between austere and colonial homes by charitable fellowships with ancient affectations or conveyed by fevered sea-captains, fugitive Huguenots or elderly hysterics formally accused of witchcraft. Young America, a sapling power grown suddenly so tall upon its diet of nickelodeons and motorcars, has sunk unwitting roots into an underworld of grotesque notions and archaic creeds, their feaful pull discernible below the weed-cracked sidewalk. Buried and forgotten, ominous philosophies await their day with hideous patience. Well! I think that's pretty darned good for a first attempt. A little over-wrought, perhaps, and I'm not sure about the style - I can't decide if its too modern of it's too old-fashioned, but perhaps that's a good sign. Of course, I guess I'll have to introduce a plot and characters at some point, but I'll wrestle with that minor nuisance when I get to it. Perhaps I could contrive to have some hobo, maybe literally a hoe-boy or travelling itinerant farm labourer who's wandering from place to place around New England in the search for work; somebody who might reasonably become involved with all the various characters I'm hoping to investigate. Being a labourer, while it would lend a feasibility to any action or exertion that I wanted in the story, wouldn't mean that my protagonist was lacking in intelligence or education: this is often economically a far from certain country for a lot of people, and there's plenty of smart fellows - maybe even an aspiring writer like myself - who've found themselves leaving their homes and families to mooch around from farm to farm in hope of some hay-baling or fruit-picking that's unlikely to materialise. Perhaps a character like that, a rugged man who is sufficiently well read to justifiably allow me a few literary flourishes (and I can't help thinking that I'll probably end up casting some imagined variant of Tom Malone) would be the kind of of sympathetic hero and the kind of voice I'm looking for. Meanwhile I yawned a moment or two back, and while I'm not yet quite exhausted to the point where I can guarantee a deep and dreamless sleep, perhaps another six or seven vague ideas for stories might just do the soporific job.

Systemic symptoms–both branches (figures 4.2 and 4.3). A sixth group of symptoms from sternocleidomastoid trigger points can include disturbed perception of the amount of weight carried in the hands, cold sweat on the forehead, and the generation of excess mucus in the sinuses, nasal cavities, and throat. They can be the simple explanation for your sinus congestion, sinus drainage, phlegm in the throat, chronic cough, and continual hay fever or cold symptoms. A persistent dry cough can often be stopped with massage to the sternal branch near its attachment to the breastbone (Simons, Travell, and Simons 1999). Causes

When the road was first built, a store and school were put up where Beacon Street crossed Harvard Street, the road to Allston and Roxbury. The store (later the site of the S.S. Pierce store) was owned by a man named Coolidge, and the intersection became known as “Coolidge’s Corner.” It had the town pump and hay scales out front. It would become one of the most-traveled parts of Brookline.

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Traveler, there is no path, the path must be forged as you walk. This line from the Spanish poet Antonio Machado

I long for time," he lamented in his journal, "to study agricultural chemistry and make experiments with soils and forces." Garfield finally got his wish during his presidential campaign. Although he argued that he should "take the stump and bear a fighting share in the campaign," traveling from town to town and asking for votes was considered undignified for a presidential candidate. Abraham Lincoln had not given a single speech on his own behalf during either of his campaigns, and Rutherford B. Hayes advised Garfield to do the same. "Sit crosslegged," he said, "and look wise." Happily left to his own devices, Garfield poured his time and energy into his farm.

¿quién es ese Dios para el padre Arrupe? El realizador del programa televisivo selecciona un primer plano. El piloto rojo se ilumina sobre la cámara, que realiza un travelling de acercamiento sobre el General de la Compañía de Jesús. En la mirada de Arrupe hay entusiasmo. –Para mí lo es todo, ¿no? Para mí lo es todo; por lo tanto, el rostro de Dios no sabría describirlo; no me lo imagino con un rostro, pero es algo que llena completamente mi vida y que aparece en la fisonomía de Jesucristo, en el Jesucristo oculto, naturalmente, en la eucaristía, y después en mis hermanos, en los hombres, que son imagen de Dios; de modo que creo que esto, para mí, lo resume todo. ¿Quién es Dios para usted? La respuesta, pues, es muy sencilla: todo.

Mùa hè năm nay đến cũng đúng dịp kết thúc những ngày cách ly xã hội vì dịch bệnh. Do đó, một kỳ nghỉ mới để gắn kết gia đình, bạn bè hay các thành viên trong mỗi cơ quan, doanh nghiệp là một lựa chọn lý tưởng nhằm nâng cao chất lượng cuộc sống cũng như tăng cường sức sáng tạo trong mỗi cá nhân, tạo hiệu quả tối đa trong công việc. Hãy cùng Du lịch khát vọng Việt lên ngay một kế hoạch trải nghiệm những chuyến du lịch biển để nạp thêm năng lượng tươi trẻ.

Trong tiếng Tây Ban Nha có một từ mà tôi không tìm ra từ tương ứng trong tiếng Anh. Đó là động từ vacilar, hiện tại phân từ là vacilando. Nó hoàn toàn không có nghĩa là lắc lư, vacillating. Khi ai đó đang vacilando thi có nghĩa là người đó đang đi đâu đấy nhưng không quan tâm lắm đến việc mình có đến được nơi nào đó hay không, mặc dù cũng có hướng đi hẳn hoi.

there were spirits who traveled ahead of you in time, doing the things you’d do next. Alone in the house, she stood still to remember their name. Not a doppelgänger. Not an alter ego. Vardøger: that was it. It was Norwegian. She’d typed a paper for someone once—a professor in London, who specialized in Norse mythology—and she’d liked the sound of these creatures. “They never threaten, never frighten,” he told her. “Some people hear the vardøger; some people see them. Perhaps you hear something busily going about its business and doing whatever it does. And then, a short while later, the person themself arrives, and does all those things. It’s like a premonition, a future self.

Dr. Joseph Webb, the regimental surgeon and brother of Hayes’s wife, Lucy, released the tourniquet and treated the wound while providing the colonel with some brandy and opium. Hayes was later taken by ambulance to Middletown, where in the weeks ahead he recuperated in the home of Jacob Rudy, cared for by Lucy, who had traveled from their Ohio home. With Hayes’s departure, Major James Comly assumed command of the 23rd Ohio.56

A few years ago Stan was studying the Mayan codices in the British Museum Library when he spotted a glyph that a Christian scholar had identified as a “night light” (i.e., the artificial light of candles or paraffin), but which he believed was actually a cross section of the yage vine, a component of ayahuasca. Finding it curious that there were carvings of kings from separate generations sitting together eating, he translated a codex that gave what he interpreted as a recipe for time travel, using the yage.

The air is full of happiness molecules

I was overreacting. I tend to do that when imagining someone wearing my skin as a cape.

Travelling Storm - 1894-1972 The sky, above us here, is open again. The sun comes hotter, and the shingles steam. The trees are done with dripping, and the hens Bustle among bright pools to pick and drink. . . . But east and south are black with speeding storm. That thunder, low and far, remembering nothing, Gathers a new world under it and growls, Worries, strikes, and is gone. Children at windows Cry at the rain, it pours so heavily down, Drifting across the yard till the sheds are grey. . . . A county father on, the wind is all— A swift dark wind that turns the maples pale, Ruffles the hay, and spreads the swallows’ wings. Horses, suddenly restless, are unhitched, And men, with glances upward, hurry in; Their overalls blow full and cool; they shout; Soon they will lie in barns and laugh at the lightning. . . . Another county yet, and the sky is still; The air is fainting; women sit with fans And wonder when a rain will come that way.

Actually, despite his earlier vow to one day raid Eastham, Clyde Barrow tried to go straight when he was paroled. He first helped his father make preparations to put an addition onto the service station, then traveled to Framingham, Massachusetts, to take a job and get away from his past in Texas. However, he quickly grew homesick and returned to Dallas to work for United Glass and Mirror, one of his former employers. It was then that local authorities began picking Barrow up almost daily, often taking him away from his job. There was a standing policy at the time to basically harass excons. Barrow was never charged with anything, but he soon lost his job. He told his mother, in the presence of Blanche Barrow and Ralph Fults, 'Mama, I'm never gonna work again. And I'll never stand arrest, either. I'm not ever going back to that Eastham hell hole. I'll die first! I swear it, they're gonna have to kill me.' ... Mrs. J. W. Hays, wife of former Dallas County Sheriff's Deputy John W. “Preacher” Hays, said, 'if the Dallas police had left that boy [Clyde Barrow] alone, we wouldn't be talking about him today.

Mientras sé que en el mundo hay alguien que hace juegos de prestidigitación solo por amor al juego, mientras sé que hay una mujer que ama la lectura por la lectura, puedo convencerme de que el mundo continúa.

At last she reached the foot of the slope and crouched beside the Thunderpath. The stench of monsters caught in her throat and made her eyes water, but there were few of the noisy beasts around this early. She only had to wait a few moments before silence fell heavily in the valley and she was able to dart across the hard black stone. On the other side, she plunged through the long soft grass and into a hedge. She recalled passing a Twoleg den with cows and a dark, hay-scented barn where she and the other apprentices had paused to hunt. She decided to stay well clear this time, in case she ran into any of the other medicine cats traveling early to the Moonstone. After crossing a broad expanse of grass and pushing through another hedge, Mapleshade saw the dark brown tops of some Twoleg dens that looked like the barn. She swerved to the far side of the next stretch of grass and trotted through a row of trees to where the ground started to slope steeply up. Tilting back her head, she stared at the jagged rocks that marked the top of the ridge. The sun was striking them, turning them rosy and warm-looking, but their outlines still looked like teeth against the pale sky. Mapleshade’s belly rumbled and she realized that if she didn’t eat now, she would be hungry for the rest of the day up on the hillside. She ducked back under the trees and quickly picked up the scent of a mole snuffling in the sunshine. Not her favorite fresh-kill but too easy to miss. She struck the flattened black body with her front paw and tucked in for a meal.