Ho Ho Ho Quotes

Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go To heal my heart and drown my woe Rain may fall, and wind may blow And many miles be still to go But under a tall tree will I lie And let the clouds go sailing by

All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

What ho!" I said. "What ho!" said Motty. "What ho! What ho!" "What ho! What ho! What ho!" After that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation.

You look lousy,' he said. Jace blinked. 'Seems an odd time to start an insult contest, but if you insist, I could probably think up something good.' 'No I mean it. You don't look good.' 'This is from a guy ho has all the sex appeal of a penguin. Look, I realize you may be jealous that the good Lord didn't deal you the same chiseled hand he dealt me, but that's no reason to-' 'I am not trying to insult you.' Simon snapped.

I believe in everything; nothing is sacred. I believe in nothing; everything is sacred. Ha Ha Ho Ho Hee Hee.

Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?' I grumble. 'Bros before hos, dude.' 'Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won't have a bro.

One of them is knowing the difference between Morality and Wisdom. Morality is temporary, Wisdom is permanent… Ho ho. Take that one to bed with you tonight.

Hobey-Ho, let's go.

Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

It was missing a piece. And it was not happy. So it set off in search of its missing piece. And as it rolled it sang this song - "Oh I'm lookin' for my missin' piece I'm lookin' for my missin' piece Hi-dee-ho, here I go, Lookin' for my missin' piece.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.

Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.

Allah Pe Jab Tawakal Hota Hai Na, Tou Mushkil Kaam Bhi Ahsaan Ho Jata Hai.

Gussie, a glutton for punishment, stared at himself in the mirror.

Nafs. Nafs Insaan Ko Janwar Bana Deti Hai. Jab Insaan Nafs Ka Ghulam Ho Jata Ha tou Janwar Ban Jata Hai!

Emma: Whoa. Whoa ho ho. Cristina: Did you just say "whoa ho ho"? Emma: I did. So is this like a high-five-slash-chest-bump- situation or an oh-my-God-what-are-we-going-to-do-situation?

It can be exhausting eating a meal cooked by a man. With a woman, it's, Ho hum, pass the beans. A guy, you have to act like he just built the Taj Mahal.

Seaward ho! Hang the treasure! It's the glory of the sea that has turned my head.

To reap a return in ten years, plant trees. To reap a return in 100, cultivate the people.

Oliver liked to play the part of disaffected youth, but he liked shopping in SoHo even more.

Let me get this straight. First you decide I'm a demon because of a power I didn't ask for and don't even understand. Then when that falls through you label me a fallen sybil and a ho. Am I missing something or do you just not like me

Oh, gods, you’re mated! I really hope it’s to Aimee. (Bride) Thankfully so. Otherwise I’d have had to kill me some ho and then beat Fang senseless. (Aimee)

yo ho ho and a bottle of rum

You need to modulate that unwarranted ire, buddy. I'm not your 'ho and you ain't my pimp

En la vida siempre buscamos explicaciones. Perdemos el tiempo buscando un porqué. Pero a veces no existe. Y por triste que parezca, esa es precisamente la explicación.

It isn't often that Aunt Dahlia lets her angry passions rise, but when she does, strong men climb trees and pull them up after them.

He is quiet for a minute, then turns his head to look at me. "Where were you when I was twelve?" "Well, I was nine." I cut my eyes over to him. "And probably locked in the back of a Ho-Ho truck, eating my way to freedom. Yeah, that really happened.

Un lettore di professione è in primo luogo chi sa quali libri non leggere; è colui che sa dire, come scrisse una volta mirabilmente Scheiwiller, «non l’ho letto e non mi piace».

Io sono uno che ama e non ho trovato la cosa da amare.

I've tried to get the angel to watch MTV so I can learn the vocabulary of your music, but even with the gift of tongues, I'm having trouble learning to speak hip-hop. Why is it that one can busta rhyme or busta move anywhere but you must busta cap in someone's ass? Is "ho" always feminine, and "muthafucka" always masculine, while "bitch" can be either? How many peeps in a posse, how much booty before baby got back, do you have to be all that to get all up in that, and do I need to be dope and phat to be da bomb or can I just be "stupid"? I'll not be singing over any dead mothers until I understand.

Perhaps some people really are born unhappy. I surely hope not. Speaking for my sister and myself: We were born with the capacity and determination to be utterly happy all the time. Perhaps even in this we were freaks. Hi ho.

What you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two very different things.

I don't want to wrong anybody, so I won't go so far as to say that she actually wrote poetry, but her conversation, to my mind, was of a nature calculated to excite the liveliest of suspicions. Well, I mean to say, when a girl suddenly asks you out of a blue sky if you don't sometimes feel that the stars are God's daisy-chain, you begin to think a bit.

Love? Sodding, bloody, tossing, bloody, sodding, bloody love? Irrelevant, superfluous, bloody, ruddy, rotten, sodding love? What ho? Wherefore? What the f*ck? Love?

It was patriotism, not communism, that inspired me.

Il più bello dei mari / è quello che non navigammo. / Il più bello dei nostri figli / non è ancora cresciuto. / I più belli dei nostri giorni / non li abbiamo ancora vissuti. / E quello / che vorrei dirti di più bello / non te l'ho ancora detto.

Nguyen said, “Ho and I shall return to our positions on the deck, where we are keeping watches of two people on duty for two hours at a time.” He then continued, he said, “Cung, from what you have told me, you appear to be a loyal citizen of Vietnam. Yet, you are being hunted by the Vietnamese security organisations!” (A Gracious Enemy & After the War Volume Two)

...when you put on your shortest dress, please leave some mystery in it. That's the difference between a miniskirt and a ho-skirt. A ho-skirt shows your Frisbee. A miniskirt shows just enough to cause some mystery. What these young women lack is mystery.

Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo! By water, wood and hill, by reed and willow, By fire, sun and moon, harken now and hear us! Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!

When once a man is launched on such an adventure as this, he must bid farewell to hopes and fears, otherwise death or deliverance will both come too late to save his honor and his reason. Ho, my beauties!

Righty ho, biker boss,” I muttered quickly and Shy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be fuckin’ cute and, honest to God, if you lick your lip, I’ll lose my mind. Next time you lick your lip you do it when we are nowhere near a public place and I can let loose the reaction I’ve had half a million fuckin’ times over four fuckin’ years every time I’ve seen you do it.

Megan was an old pro at tipping the scales in her favour. "Introduce me to your girlfriend" Megan said, smiling. She knew damn good and well Abby wasn't my girlfriend. HO 101: If the man in your sights is on a date or with a female friend, force him to admit to lack of commitment. Creates insecurity and instability.

You will kill ten of us, we will kill one of you, but in the end, you will tire of it first.

Oh I'm lookin' for my missin' piece I'm lookin' for my missin' piece Hi-dee-ho, here I go, Lookin' for my missin' piece

HO. HO. HO.

Ahoj, jak ses dnes vyspal? Dneska bych si dala jen toast, díky. Jo, kafe taky. Hezký tričko. Nechceš si ho svlíknout?

She looked like a tomato struggling for self-expression.

You take the bad with the good, Rise up through it. Live in the mist of it. It's the bad that lets you know ho good the good really is. Don't let the bad leave you thinking like there ain't any good. There is, and lots of it, too.

Who are you writing to, Linus?" "This is the time of year to write to the Great Pumpkin. On Halloween Night, the Great Pumpkin rises out of his pumpkin patch and flies through the air with his bag of toys for all the children!" "You must be crazy! When are you going to stop believing in something that isn't true?" "When *you* stop believing in that fellow with a red suit and the white beard who goes, 'Ho, ho, ho!'" "We're obviously separated by denominational differences.

Beautiful princesses and beautiful, strong queens are brainwashed into thinking ho’s and B****’s are virtuous titles.

Amami, per Dio. Ho bisogno d'amore, amore, amore, fuoco, entusiasmo, vita

Jeeves, I'm engaged." "I hope you will be very happy, sir." "Don't be an ass. I'm engaged to Miss Bassett.

Jessica swallowed. "I think you had better stick to English." "But Italian is so moving," Dain said. "To ho voluto dal primo che ti vedi." I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you. "Mi tormenti ancora." You've tormented me ever since.

I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.

You know how it is with some girls. They seem to take the stuffing right out of you. I mean to say, there is something about their personality that paralyses the vocal cords and reduces the contents of the brain to cauliflower.

To be born again,' sang Gibreal Farishta tumbling from the heaveans, 'first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly Tat-taa! Takatun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love mister, without a sigh?

La sintonía es algo que tiene que ver con la música. O peor aún, con los circuítos. El amor, en cambio, es cuando no respiras, cuando es absurdo, cuando echas de menos, cuando es bonito aunque esté desafinado, cuando es locura...

HO. LEE. SHIT. I feel sorry for all the girls in the world that never get to experience a Jake Andrews at least once in their lifetime.

Friends don’t let friends act like ho-bags.

Hi ho

Cuando pierdes el tiempo al teléfono, cuando los minutos pasan sin que te des cuenta, cuando las palabras no tinen sentido, cuando piensas que si alguien te escuchara creería que estás loco, cuando ninguno de los dos tiene ganas de colgar, cuando después de que ella ha colgado compruebas que lo haya hecho de verdad, entonces estás perdido. O mejor dicho, estás enamorado, lo que, en realidad, es lo mismo...

I sat in my brown-belted gi at the painted metal table outside of Einstein’s and Peet’s with Mr. Ho, my Kenpo Karate instructor in his black-belted gi, and my bronze, canine psychologist, wearing his/her Lacoste eyeglasses.

Nothing good will come out with lying.

what ho, apothecary!

The thought of being engaged to a girl who talked openly about fairies being born because stars blew their noses, or whatever it was, frankly appalled me.

Così adesso,volendo riassumere volendo, il problema è questo,che ho tante strade intorno e nessuna dentro.

What Hamlet suffers from is a lack of zombies. Let us say Rosencrantz and Guildenstern show up—Ho-HO! Now you’ve got something that stirs the, um, something that stirs things that are stirrable. BOOM! A pack of ravenous flesh-eaters breaks open their heads and sucks out their eyeballs. No need for iambic pentameter because they are grunting, groaning annihilators of humanity with no time for meter. You’re not asleep in the back of English class anymore, are you? This is what I’m talking about. Zombies. Learn it, live it, love it.

I don't want to seem always to be criticizing your methods of voice production, Jeeves, I said, but I must inform you that that 'Well, sir' of yours is in many respects fully as unpleasant as your 'Indeed, sir?

Clap! Snap! the black crack! Grip, grab! Pinch, nab! And down down to Goblin-town You go, my lad! Clash, crash! Crush, smash! Hammer and tongs! Knocker and gongs! Pound, pound, far underground! Ho, ho! my lad! Swish, smack! Whip crack! Batter and beat! Yammer and bleat! Work, work! Nor dare to shirk, While Goblins quaff, and Goblins laugh, Round and round far underground Below, my lad!

You, my dear, are a stupid ho.

Bertie, do you read Tennyson?" "Not if I can help.

If you don't give up your hopes and dreams, then there will be a good ending,

Magnus hoped if he ever went mad like that himself, so mad that he poisoned the very air round him and hurt everyone he came into contact with, that there would be someone ho loved him enough to stop him. To kill him, if it came to that.

Podívala jsem se na Mikeeho, který se usmíval. "Co je?" "Mám pindíka!" křikl. "Máš," přikývla jsem. Doufala jsem, že ho to za chvíli přestane bavit, ale spíš jsem byla smířená s tím, že se tomu tématu bude věnovat celý den. "Paige?" Najednou se tvářil vážně. "Jo?! "Máš taky pindíka?" Zavřela jsem oči a zhluboka se nadechla. Tohle bude dlouhý den.

Tutto quello che c'era io l'ho visto guardando te. E sono stata ovunque, stando con te. E' una cosa che non riuscirò mai a spiegare a nessuno, ma è così. Me la porterò dietro e sarà il mio segreto più bello.

It's a secret code," said Calvin. "Girls are not not like boys. If a boy wants to kill you, he says 'I'm going to kill you.' If a girl wants to kill you, she says, 'We need to talk.' That's the code." I gasped. "Has a girl ever wanted to talk to you?" I asked. "Yup," said Calvin. "How come you're still alive?" I asked. "I vomited," said Calvin.

Tidak peduli kita tidak punya kesamaan darah, DNA, fisik, sifat, atau apapun itu, aku sudah menganggapmu adik semenjak kita bertemu. Dan kau tetap akan jadi adikku sampai kapanpun. Aku adalah hyeong-mu dan kau adalah dongsaeng-ku. Tidak akan ada yang berubah. (Jang Min Ho)

Then I said, “Matt’s got a big mouth.” “They all got big mouths, girl, learn that quick. These boys talk more than a pack of women. I lost fifty bucks on you.” I was stunned speechless again, this time it didn’t last as long. “What?” “See, Lee nailed Indy the first night they were together. Not nailed her nailed her but she was in his bed. Eddie, with Jet, it took a few days. Hank and Roxie, like, a day. Vance, like three, but Jules was a virgin and he had to interrupt the festivities once to go out and shoot someone.” I was blinking rapidly and feeling kind of faint at the amount and sensitivity of information Shirleen was imparting, not to mention what it might mean to me. “So we had a pool. Everyone threw down money on when they thought Luke would nail you. Mace won five hundred dollars.” Ho-ly crap. “So,” she went on. “Did he nail you nail you or did you two just sleep?” For some reason, I answered her unbelievably nosy question. “We just slept.” “New pool!” she shouted.

Genet raised his hand, and I squeezed my eyes shut, sure I would be receiving the worst backhanded slap of my life. Genet froze and whimpered, but didn't back away. "Oh, ho," said a familiar voice. "That was close !" I opened my eyes as North's free hand - the one that hadn't caught Genet's wrist - gently pulled my arm free. I pushed myself away from both of them. "You interrupt my business ?" Genet sputtered. "Do you know what this wench just accused me of being ?" "A filthy pig," North said good-naturedly. "But there's only one filthy pig allowed in her life, and the position's been filled.

Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scale e ora che non ci sei è il vuoto ad ogni gradino. Anche così è stato breve il nostro lungo viaggio. Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi occorrono le coincidenze, le prenotazioni, le trappole, gli scorni di chi crede che la realtà sia quella che si vede. Ho sceso milioni di scale dandoti il braccio non già perché con quattr'occhi forse si vede di più. Con te le ho scese perché sapevo che di noi due le sole vere pupille, sebbene tanto offuscate, erano le tue.

Beginning with a critique of my own limbs, which she said, justly enough, were nothing to write home about, this girl went on to dissect my manners, morals, intellect, general physique, and method of eating asparagus with such acerbity that by the time she had finished the best you could say of Bertram was that, so far as was known, he had never actually committed murder or set fire to an orphan asylum.

Fundamentalist Christianity: fascinating. These people actually believe that the world is twelve thousand years old. Swear to God. Based on what? I asked them. "Well, we looked at all the people in the Bible and we added 'em up all the way back to Adam and Eve, their ages? Twelve thousand years." "Well, how fucking scientific, OK. I didn't know that you'd gone to so much trouble there. That's good. You believe the world's twelve thousand years old?" "That's right." "OK, I got one word to ask you, a one word question, ready?" "Uh huh." "Dinosaurs." You know, the world's twelve thousand years old and dinosaurs existed, and existed in that time, you'd think it would been mentioned in the fucking Bible at some point: And O, Jesus and the disciples walked to Nazareth. But the trail was blocked by a giant brontosaurus... with a splinter in its paw. And the disciples did run a-screamin'. "What a big fucking lizard, Lord!" "I'm sure gonna mention this in my book," Luke said. "Well, I'm sure gonna mention it in my book," Matthew said. But Jesus was unafraid. And he took the splinter from the brontosaurus paw, and the brontosaurus became his friend. And Jesus sent him to Scotland where he lived in a loch, O so many years, attracting fat American families with their fat fuckin' dollars to look for the Loch Ness Monster. And O the Scots did praise the Lord: "Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!" Twelve thousand years old. But I actually asked this guy, "OK, dinosaur fossils-- how does that fit into your scheme of life? What's the deal?" He goes: "God put those here to test our faith." "I think God put you here to test my faith, dude. I think I've figured this out." Does that-- That's what this guy said. Does that bother anyone here? The idea that God might be fucking with our heads? Anyone have trouble sleeping restfully with that thought in their head? God's running around burying fossils: "Ho ho! We'll see who believes in me now, ha ha! I'm a prankster God. I am killing me, ho ho ho!" You know? You die, you go to St. Peter: "Did you believe in dinosaurs?" "Well, yeah. There were fossils everywhere. (trapdoor opens) Aaaaarhhh!" "You fuckin' idiot! Flying lizards? You're a moron. God was fuckin' with you!" "It seemed so plausible, aaaaaahh!" "Enjoy the lake of fire, fucker!" They believe this. But you ever notice how people who believe in Creationism usually look pretty unevolved. Eyes really close together, big furry hands and feet? "I believe God created me in one day." Yeah, looks like he rushed it. Such a weird belief. Lots of Christians wear crosses around their necks. You think when Jesus comes back he's gonna want to see a fucking cross, man? "Ow." Might be why he hasn't shown up yet. "Man, they're still wearing crosses. Fuck it, I'm not goin' back, Dad. No, they totally missed the point. When they start wearing fishes, I might show up again, but... let me bury fossils with you, Dad. Fuck 'em, let's fuck with 'em! Hand me that brontosaurus head, Dad.

And then I remember this morning and I wonder if it really happened or if I dreamed it. It was nice. And weird. And tender. I'm not used to tender. It's a fossil, that word. Conditions changed and it died out. Like the woolly mammoth. It just couldn't live in the same world as dick box. Ho dog. Or wiener cousins.

Sissy: You really don't believe in political solutions do you? The Chink: I believe in political solutions to political problems. But man's primary problems aren't political; they're philosophical. Until humans can solve their philosophical problems, they're condemned to solve their political problems over and over and over again. It's a cruel, repetitious bore. Sissy: Well, then, what are the philosophical solutions? The Chink: Ha ha ho ho and hee hee. That's for you to find out. I'll say this much and no more: there's got to be poetry. And magic. At every level. If civilization is ever going to be anything but a grandiose pratfall, anything more than a can of deodorizer in the shithouse of existence, then statesmen are going to have to concern themselves with magic and poetry. Bankers are going to have to concern themselves with magic and poetry. Time magazine is going to have to write about magic and poetry. Factory workers and housewives are going to have to get their lives entangled in magic and poetry. Sissy: Do you think such a thing can ever happen? The Chink: If you understood poetry and magic, you'd know that it doesn't matter.

La vigilia di Natale, Harry andò a letto pregustando le leccornie e i divertimenti dell'indomani, ma senza aspettarsi nessun regalo. Ma al suo risveglio, il mattino seguente di buon'ora, la prima cosa che vide ai piedi del suo letto fu un un mucchio di pacchetti. "Buon natale" gli fece Ron ancora assonnato, mentre Harry si buttava giù dal letto e si infilava la vestaglia. "Anche a te" gli rispose "Ma... Hai visto che roba? Ho ricevuto dei regali!" "E che cosa ti aspettavi, un mazzo di rape?" disse Ron.

I’ve found that it’s of some help to think of one’s moods and feelings about the world as being similar to weather. Here are some obvious things about the weather: It's real. You can't change it by wishing it away. If it's dark and rainy, it really is dark and rainy, and you can't alter it. It might be dark and rainy for two weeks in a row. BUT it will be sunny one day. It isn't under one's control when the sun comes out, but come out it will. One day. It really is the same with one's moods, I think. The wrong approach is to believe that they are illusions. Depression, anxiety, listlessness - these are all are real as the weather - AND EQUALLY NOT UNDER ONE'S CONTROL. Not one's fault. BUT They will pass: really they will. In the same way that one really has to accept the weather, one has to accept how one feels about life sometimes, "Today is a really crap day," is a perfectly realistic approach. It's all about finding a kind of mental umbrella. "Hey-ho, it's raining inside; it isn't my fault and there's nothing I can do about it, but sit it out. But the sun may well come out tomorrow, and when it does I shall take full advantage.

I don't even know what this is, Kenji." I meet his eyes. "That's the problem. I don't know ho to explain it, and I'm not sure I understand the depth of it yet. All I know is that whatever this is, I never felt it with Adam." Kenji's eyes pull together, surprised and scared. He says nothing for a second. Blows out a breath. "Seriously?" I nod. "Seriously, seriously?" "Yeah," I say. "I feel so... light. Like I could just... I don't know..." I trail off. "It's like I feel like, for the first time in my life, I'm going to be okay. Like I'm going to be strong.

«Io ho pochissimi amici, forse nessuno di veramente intimo. Ho delle conoscenze, dei ragazzi e delle ragazze come me, la mia amica che ti parlò ieri al telefono, per esempio, con i quali scherzo, ballo, studio, faccio i pettegolezzi, ci scambiamo le idee, facciamo gli scemi e le persone serie a seconda delle circostanze, ma dentro, dentro è diverso. Ci sono dei tasti che toccati una volta per conoscersi quali siamo, non si toccano più, non si va a fondo. Si resta amici, ma si sa che certi argomenti non si debbono più toccare. Ci si sopporta e stima a vicenda. Papà diceva: ci si aiuta a vivere. Guai se così non fosse. Ma l'amicizia, diceva papà, l'amicizia vera è un sentimento forte. È un volersi bene spietato, un guardarsi continuamente negli occhi...»

Well, well, well,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, little boy.” This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around. “I’m not really a little boy,” I pointed out. “Get on my lap, then, big boy.” I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his belly. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his crotch. “Ho ho ho!” he chortled. I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it. “Have you been a good little boy this year?” he asked. I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes. He actually wobbled with joy. “Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?” I thought it was obvious. “A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.” “So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a little something for you”—he shifted a little in his seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’ll have to rub Santa’s belly.” “What?” I asked. He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.” I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat. “You know you want it,” he whispered. The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was. Fuck off, Lily. You can’t intimidate me. I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, Geshy, hairy … and his belly was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hell!” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa. And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pulling some of his white belly hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o1 his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The letter was in my hand, damp but intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.

IT'S MORNING, TIME to get up, so get up, Arturo, and look for a job. Get out there and look for what you'll never find. You're a thief and you're a crab-killer and a lover of women in clothes closets. You'll never find a job! Every morning I got up feeling like that. Now I've got to find a job, damn it to hell. I ate breakfast, put a book under my arm, pencils in my pocket, and started out. Down the stairs I went, down the street, sometimes hot and sometimes cold, sometimes foggy and sometimes clear. It never mattered, with a book under my arm, looking for a job. What job, Arturo? Ho ho! A job for you? Think of what you are, my boy! A crab-killer. A thief. You look at naked women in clothes closets. And you expect to get a job! How funny! But there he goes, the idiot, with a big book. Where the devil are you going, Arturo? Why do you go up this street and not that? Why go east - why not go west? Answer me, you thief! Who'll give you a job, you swine - who? But there's a park across town, Arturo. It's called Banning Park. There are a lot of beautiful eucalyptus trees in it, and green lawns. What a place to read! Go there, Arturo. Read Nietzsche. Read Schopenhauer. Get into the company of the mighty. A job? fooey! Go sit under a eucalyptus tree reading a book looking for a job.

then things got even stranger. Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand. "What ho, Percy!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air. Mrs. Dodds lunged at me. With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword-Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always used on tourement day. Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes. My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword. She snarled, "Die, honey!" And she flew straight at me. Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally:I swung the sword. The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed through her body as if she were made made of water. Hisss! Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me.

Cosa farei senza libri? Ne ho la casa piena, eppure non mi bastano mai. Vorrei avere una giornata di trentasei ore per poter leggere a mio piacere. Tengo libri di tutte le dimensioni: da tasca, da borsa, da valigia, da taschino, da scaffale, da tavolo. E ne porto sempre uno con me. Non si sa mai: se trovo un momento di tempo, se mi fanno aspettare in un ufficio, che sia alla posta o dal medico, tiro fuori il mio libro e leggo. Quando ho il naso su una pagina non sento la fatica dell'attesa. E, come dice Ortega y Gasset, in un libro mi "impaeso", a tal punto che mi è difficile spaesarmi. Esco dai libri con le pupille dilatate. Lo considero il piacere più grande, più sicuro, più profondo della mia vita.

Cuando estás mal, cuando lo ves todo negro, cuando no tienes futuro, cuando no tienes nada que perder, cuando...cada instante es un peso enorme, insostenible. Y resoplas todo el tiempo. Y querrías liberarte como sea. De cualquier forma. De la más simple, de la más cobarde, sin dejar de nuevo para mañana este pensamiento: <>. Ya no está. Y entonces, simplemente, querrías no estar tampoco tú. Desaparecer. Paf. Sin demasiados problemas, sin molestar.

I watched them tearing a building down, A gang of men in a busy town. With a ho-heave-ho and a lusty yell, They swung a beam, and the side wall fell. I asked the foreman: "Are these skilled-- And the men you'd hire if you had to build?" He gave me a laugh and said: "No, indeed! Just common labor is all I need. I can wreck in a day or two What builders have taken a year to do." And I thought to myself as I went my way, Which of these roles have I tried to play? Am I a builder who works with care Measuring life by a rule and square? Am I shaping my deeds to a well made Plan, Patiently doing the best I can? Or am I a wrecker, who walks the town Content with the labor of tearing down?

This "sir, yes sir" business, which would probably sound like horseshit to any civilian in his right mind, makes sense to Shaftoe and to the officers in a deep and important way. Like a lot of others, Shaftoe had trouble with military etiquette at first. He soaked up quite a bit of it growing up in a military family, but living the life was a different matter. Having now experienced all the phases of military existence except for the terminal ones (violent death, court-martial, retirement), he has come to understand the culture for what it is: a system of etiquette within which it becomes possible for groups of men to live together for years, travel to the ends of the earth, and do all kinds of incredibly weird shit without killing each other or completely losing their minds in the process. The extreme formality with which he addresses these officers carries an important subtext: your problem, sir, is deciding what you want me to do, and my problem, sir, is doing it. My gung-ho posture says that once you give the order I'm not going to bother you with any of the details--and your half of the bargain is you had better stay on your side of the line, sir, and not bother me with any of the chickenshit politics that you have to deal with for a living. The implied responsibility placed upon the officer's shoulders by the subordinate's unhesitating willingness to follow orders is a withering burden to any officer with half a brain, and Shaftoe has more than once seen seasoned noncoms reduce green lieutenants to quivering blobs simply by standing before them and agreeing, cheerfully, to carry out their orders.

Con te sarò nuovo. Ti dico queste parole nel periodo migliore della mia vita, nel periodo in cui sto bene, in cui ho capito tante cose. Nel periodo in cui mi sono finalmente ricongiunto con la mia gioia. In questo periodo la mia vita è piena, ho tante cose intorno a me che mi piacciono, che mi affascinano. Sto molto bene da solo, e la mia vita senza di te è meravigliosa. Lo so che detto così suona male, ma non fraintendermi, intendo dire che ti chiedo di stare con me non perché senza di te io sia infelice: sarei egoista, bisognoso e interessato alla mia sola felicità, e così tu saresti la mia salvezza. Io ti chiedo di stare con me perché la mia vita in questo momento è veramente meravigliosa, ma con te lo sarebbe ancora di più. Se senza di te vivessi una vita squallida, vuota, misera non avrebbe alcun valore rinunciarci per te. Che valore avresti se tu fossi l'alternativa al nulla, al vuoto, alla tristezza? Più una persona sta bene da sola, e più acquista valore la persona con cui decide di stare. Spero tu possa capire quello che cerco di dirti. Io sto bene da solo ma quando ti ho incontrato è come se in ogni parola che dico nella mia vita ci fosse una lettera del tuo nome, perché alla fine di ogni discorso compari sempre tu. Ho imparato ad amarmi. E visto che stando insieme a te ti donerò me stesso, cercherò di rendere il mio regalo più bello possibile ogni giorno. Mi costringerai ad essere attento. Degno dell'amore che provo per te. Da questo momento mi tolgo ogni armatura, ogni protezione... non sono solo innamorato di te, io ti amo. Per questo sono sicuro. Nell'amare ci può essere anche una fase di innamoramento, ma non sempre nell'innamoramento c'è vero amore. Io ti amo. Come non ho mai amato nessuno prima...

Gunaah ka bojh kiya hota hai aur aadmi apnay gunaah kay bojh ko kiss tarah qayaamat kay din apni pusht say utaar phainkna chahay ga kiss tarah uss say door bhaagna chahay ga kiss tarah doosray kay kandhay per daal dena chahay ga,yeh uss ki samajh mai Haram Shareef mai pohanch kar aya tha.Wahan kharay ho kar woh apnay paas mojood aur anay wali saari zindagi ki daulat kay aiwaz bhi kisi ko woh guna ah baichna chahta tu koi yeh tijarat na karta.Kaash aadmi kisi maal kay aiwaz apnay gunaah baich sakta.Kisi ujrat kay taur per doosron ki naikiyaan mangnay ka haq rakhta.Laakhon loagon kay iss hujoom mai 2 sufaid chaadarain orhay,kaun janta tha kay Salaar Sikandar kaun tha?Uss ka I.Q Level kiya tha.Kissay parwah thi?Uss kay paas kaun kaunsi aur kahan ki Degree thi.Kissay hosh tha?Uss nay zindagi kay Maidaan mai kitnay taleemi record toray aur banaye thay.Kissay khabar thi woh apnay zehan kay kaun say maidaan taskheer karnay wala tha.Kaun rashk karnay wala tha?Woh wahan uss hujoom mai thokar kha kar girta,Bhagdar mai ronda jata.Uss kay ooper say guzarnay wali khalqat mai say koi bhi yeh nahin sochta kay unhone kaisay dimaagh ko kho diya hai.Kiss I.Q Level kay nayaab aadmi ko kis tarah khatam kar diya tha.Ussay duniya mai apni auqaat,apni ahmiyat ka pata chal gaya tha.Agar kuch mughaalita reh bhi gaya tha tu ab khatam hogaya tha.Agar kuch shubah baaqi tha,tu ab door hogaya tha.Fakhar,takabbur,rashk,ana,khudpasandi,khud sataayishi kay her bachay hue tukray ko nichor kar uss nay andar say phaink diya tha.Woh in hi alaaishon ko door karwanay kay liye wahan aya tha.

E cosa c'è di bello nella coppia scusa?" "La complicità, il senso di appartenenza. A me, per esempio, piace conoscere una persona a memoria" "Come ti piace conoscere una persona a memoria? E la routine? La monotonia? Che cos'hanno de bello?" "No, non parlo di routine o monotonia, ma di sapere a memoria una persona. Non so come spiegartelo, è come quando studi le poesie a scuola, in quel senso intendo a memoria" "Questa non l'ho capita" "Ma si dai, come una poesia. Sai come si dice in inglese studiare a memoria? By heart, col cuore. Anche in francese si dice par coeur... ecco, in questo senso intendo. Conoscere una persona a memoria, significa, come quando ripeti una poesia, prendere anche un po' di quel ritmo che le appartiene. Una poesia, come una persona, ha dei tempi suoi. Per cui conoscere una persona a memoria significa sincronizzare i battiti del proprio cuore con i suoi, farsi penetrare dal suo ritmo. Ecco, questo mi piace. Mi piace stare con una persona intimamente perché vuol dire correre il rischio di diventare leggermente diversi da se stessi. Alterarsi un po'. Perché non è essere se stessi che mi affascina in un rapporto a due, ma avere il coraggio di essere anche altro da sé. Che poi è quel te stesso che non conoscerai mai. A me piace amare una persona e conoscerla a memoria come una poesia, perché come una poesia non la si può comprendere mai fino in fondo. Infatti ho capito che amando non conoscerai altro che te stesso. Il massimo che puoi capire dell'altro è il massimo che puoi capire di te stesso. Per questo entrare intimamente in relazione con una persona è importante, perché diventa un viaggio conoscitivo esistenziale".

Tutta quella città… non se ne vedeva la fine… / La fine, per cortesia, si potrebbe vedere la fine? / E il rumore / Su quella maledettissima scaletta… era molto bello, tutto… e io ero grande con quel cappotto, facevo il mio figurone, e non avevo dubbi, era garantito che sarei sceso, non c’era problema / Col mio cappello blu / Primo gradino, secondo gradino, terzo gradino / Primo gradino, secondo gradino, terzo gradino / Primo gradino, secondo / Non è quel che vidi che mi fermò / È quel che non vidi / Puoi capirlo, fratello?, è quel che non vidi… lo cercai ma non c’era, in tutta quella sterminata città c’era tutto tranne / C’era tutto / Ma non c’era una fine. Quel che non vidi è dove finiva tutto quello. La fine del mondo / Ora tu pensa: un pianoforte. I tasti iniziano. I tasti finiscono. Tu sai che sono 88, su questo nessuno può fregarti. Non sono infiniti, loro. Tu, sei infinito, e dentro quei tasti, infinita è la musica che puoi fare. Loro sono 88. Tu sei infinito. Questo a me piace. Questo lo si può vivere. Ma se tu / Ma se io salgo su quella scaletta, e davanti a me / Ma se io salgo su quella scaletta e davanti a me si srotola una tastiera di milioni di tasti, milioni e miliardi / Milioni e miliardi di tasti, che non finiscono mai e questa è la vera verità, che non finiscono mai e quella tastiera è infinita / Se quella tastiera è infinita, allora / Su quella tastiera non c’è musica che puoi suonare. Ti sei seduto su un seggiolino sbagliato: quello è il pianoforte su cui suona Dio / Cristo, ma le vedevi le strade? / Anche solo le strade, ce n’era a migliaia, come fate voi laggiù a sceglierne una / A scegliere una donna / Una casa, una terra che sia la vostra, un paesaggio da guardare, un modo di morire / Tutto quel mondo / Quel mondo addosso che nemmeno sai dove finisce / E quanto ce n’è / Non avete mai paura, voi, di finire in mille pezzi solo a pensarla, quell’enormità, solo a pensarla? A viverla… / Io sono nato su questa nave. E qui il mondo passava, ma a duemila persone per volta. E di desideri ce n’erano anche qui, ma non più di quelli che ci potevano stare tra una prua e una poppa. Suonavi la tua felicità, su una tastiera che non era infinita. Io ho imparato così. La terra, quella è una nave troppo grande per me. È un viaggio troppo lungo. È una donna troppo bella. È un profumo troppo forte. È una musica che non so suonare.

What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult? Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he says helpfully. “Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme insensitive with sensitive. Gold star for you.” On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.” “I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done. Dead silence crashes over the kitchen. Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list. That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it... “I just have one question,” Garrett starts. “Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.” Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.” Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.” “It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth. My best friend nods solemnly. Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing. “What are you doing?” I demand. “Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.” “I hate you.” I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.” “Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?” “The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.” Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.” He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it. “Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.” “Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.” I ponder the next line. “How sweet…” “Your ass,” Tucker supplies. Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again. “Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.” “Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.” Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?” “Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.” That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?” “None of your fucking business.” “Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!” I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.” Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes.