Hobi Quotes

I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers--hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark--and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet--for me, anyway--all that's worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are. Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart." Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

Hobie’s reassuring hand on my shoulder, a strong, comforting pressure, like an anchor letting me know that everything was okay. I hadn’t felt a touch like that since my mother died—friendly, steadying in the midst of confusing events—and, like a stray dog hungry for affection, I felt some profound shift in allegiance, blood-deep, a sudden, humiliating, eyewatering conviction of this place is good, this person is safe, I can trust him, nobody will hurt me here.

By happy contrast, Hobie's whole day revolved around dinner.

Bagi saya membaca dan menulis itu bukan hobi, tapi kebutuhan.

By contrast Hobie lived and wafted like some great sea mammal in his own mild atmosphere, the dark brown of tea stains and tobacco, where every clock in the house said something different and time didn’t actually correspond to the standard measure but instead meandered along at its own sedate tick-tock, obeying the pace of his antique-crowded backwater, far from the factory-built, epoxy-glued version of the world.

Abang Borno tahu, ada sebuah rahasia kecil di antara para gadis. Jika dia memberikan hadiah sebuah buku pada seorang laki-laki, terlebih buku kesukaan dan hobi laki-laki itu, maka laki-laki itu amat penting bagi gadis itu. Bukan sekadar teman.

A goodbye at the gate," said Hobie. He seemed to be talking partly to himself. "That's what he would have wanted. The parting glimpse, the death haiku - he wouldn't have liked to leave without stopping to speak to someone along the way. 'A teahouse amid the cherry blossoms on the way to death.

I've been thinking a lot about what Hobie said: about those images that strike the heart and set it blooming like a flower, images that open up some much, much larger beauty that you can spend your whole life looking for and never find.

Hobie's presence below stairs was an anchor, a friendly weight...

[Hobie]“Theo.” His hug was strong and parental, and so fierce that it made me cry even harder. Then his hand was on my shoulder, heavy anchoring hand that was security and authority itself; he was leading me in, into the workshop, dim gilt and rich wood smells I’d dreamed of, up the stairs into the long-lost parlor, with its velvets and urns and bronzes.

I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful.

If you don't have a catcher, the ball goes to the backstop. Casey Stengel explaining why the Mets selected mediocre catcher Hobie Landrith first in the expansion draft.

And yes—scholars might care about the innovative brushwork and use of light, the historical influence and the unique significance in Dutch art. But not me. As my mother said all those years ago, my mother who loved the painting only from seeing it in a book she borrowed from the Comanche County Library as a child: the significance doesn’t matter. The historical significance deadens it. Across those unbridgeable distances—between bird and painter, painting and viewer—I hear only too well what’s being said to me, a psst from an alleyway as Hobie put it, across four hundred years of time, and it’s really very personal and specific. It’s there in the light-rinsed atmosphere, the brush strokes he permits us to see, up close, for exactly what they are—hand worked flashes of pigment, the very passage of the bristles visible—and then, at a distance, the miracle, or the joke as Horst called it, although really it’s both, the slide of transubstantiation where paint is paint and yet also feather and bone. It’s the place where reality strikes the ideal, where a joke becomes serious and anything serious is a joke. The magic point where every idea and its opposite are equally true.

Momsen was 15 when she joined Gossip Girl. Does she feel older and wiser at 17? "You get more insight as you get older, on everything. I kind of woke up one morning and I was like, 'Oh, I see what's happening, I get everything.'" Then she stops abruptly. So what is it she gets exactly? "Well, I kind of woke up and was like, 'Oh, I get it, I'm a product.'" Which might be the saddest words ever to pass a 17-year-old girl's lips. But, with typical Momsen nonchalance, they're delivered with a shrug.

I’d yearned for the darkness and repose of Hobie’s house, its crowded rooms and old-wood smell, tea leaves and tobacco smoke, bowls of oranges on the sideboard and candlesticks scalloped with puddled beeswax.

Where’s the nobility in patching up a bunch of old tables and chairs? Corrosive to the soul, quite possibly. I’ve seen too many estates not to know that. Idolatry! Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only—if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t the whole point of things—beautiful things—that they connect you to some larger beauty? Those first images that crack your heart wide open and you spend the rest of your life chasing, or trying to recapture, in one way or another? Because, I mean—mending old things, preserving them, looking after them—on some level there’s no rational grounds for it— … fateful objects. Every dealer and antiquaire recognizes them. The pieces that occur and recur. Maybe for someone else, not a dealer, it wouldn’t be an object. It’d be a city, a color, a time of day. The nail where your fate is liable to catch and snag.” — Hobie, The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Speaking anything out loud ... seemed like an audacity. Lately, she could think the words fine, could sense their calm gray delineations in her mind, neutral and precise, but when she began to say them, to actually shape them into sounds to propel out of her mouth, the whole project seemed to fail.

By contrast Hobie lived and wafted like some great sea mammal in his own mild atmosphere, the dark brown of tea stains and tobacco, where every clock in the house said something different and time didn’t actually correspond to the standard measure but instead meandered along at its own sedate tick-tock, obeying the pace of his antique-crowded backwater, far from the factory-built, epoxy-glued version of the world. Though he enjoyed going out to the movies, there was no television; he read old novels with marbled end papers; he didn’t own a cell phone; his computer, a prehistoric IBM, was the size of a suitcase and useless.

From my chair I had a clear view of Hobie’s Noah’s Ark: paired elephants, zebras, carven beasts marching two by two, clear down to tiny hen and rooster and the bunnies and mice bringing up the rear. And the memory was located there, beyond words, a coded message from that first afternoon: rain streaming down the skylights, the homely file of creatures lined on the kitchen counter waiting to be saved. Noah: the great conservator, the great caretaker. “And—” he’d gotten up to make some coffee—“I

Teşekkürler, Lordum," dedi fahişe.Etrafına bakındı."Burası sefil bir yer," dedi, sesinde kesin bir teslimiyet vardı."Eğer sokaklarda çalışmaktan hoşlansaydım buraya hiç gelmezdim." İçini çekti. "Biliyor musunuz?" dedi, "ayaklarım ağrıyor.Oysa benim mesleğimdeki birinin sırtından şikayetçi olması gerekirdi.Tekrar teşekkürler, Lordum." Döndü ve oturduğu masaya doğru ayaklarını sürüye sürüye geri gitti. "Fahişelerle konuşmayı seviyorum," dedi Kalten."Hayata karşı hoş, sade bir bakışları var." "Bir kilise şövalyesi için ilginç bir hobi." "Tanrı beni savaşçı olarak kiraladı Sparhawk, keşiş olarak değil.Bana söylediğinde savaşırım ama diğer zamanlarım bana ait.

other means) claiming to Hobie that I’d already sold the

Well, a change of scenery may be good for you," said Hobie when I went down to see him before I left. "Even if the scene isn't what you'd choose.

and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality.

moral of the story is, who knows where it all will take you?" -Hobie

By quarter of ten I was sitting on the floor of my room at Hobie’s house with my mind reeling like a spun-down top wobbling and veering from side to side.

Imala je cudan hobi, skupljala je dobre ljude

membaca membuatkan miera rasa happpy tenag/syok/qalet/ mcam2 lagi la.. sbb membaca ni adalah hobi paling utama ar...

Hobie had an iron constitution. Whenever he came down with something himself, he drank a Fernet-Branca and kept going.

I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers--hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark--and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful.

In my light-headedness and fatigue, which made me feel drastically cut off from myself and as if I were observing it all at a remove, I walked past candy shops and coffee shops and shops with antique toys and Delft tiles from the 1800s, old mirrors and silver glinting in the rich, cognac-colored light, inlaid French cabinets and tables in the French court style with garlanded carvings and veneerwork that would have made Hobie gasp with admiration—in fact the entire foggy, friendly, cultivated city with its florists and bakeries and antiekhandels reminded me of Hobie, not just for its antique-crowded richness but because there was a Hobie-like wholesomeness to the place, like a children’s picture book where aproned tradespeople swept the floors and tabby cats napped in sunny windows. But there was much too much to see, and

Pa kthyer kokёn Do iki dhe kokën nuk do ta kthej të shikoj Dajtin plak të trishtuar, të shoh kafetë mbushur me pleq, të shoh gazetat në rrugë shtruar. Pse ta kthej kokën? Këtu çdo cep një gjë të hidhur më kujton. Një fëmini që iku për lesh, sa për rininë, si erdhi shkoi! Do iki! Borxhe më kujt s’i kam. Të lehtë në trup e kam ndërgjegjen. Dhe që mos kthehem më kurrë pas do marr me vete vetëm vdekjen. Ndoshta do ketë për mua globi një pëllëmbë vend me paqe, jetë, një pëllëmbë vend ku nuk është hobi mos lesh njeri të jetë i qetë. Një Zot e di në do kem fat, por, sidoqoftë, do jetë më mirë. Një zë më thotë: “Mbathja me vrap!”, dhe tjetri shton: “Ik me dëshirë!

My grandest boyhood ambition was to be a professor of history at Notre Dame. Although what I do now is just a different way of working with history, I suppose.”) He told me about his blind-in-one-eye canary rescued from a Woolworth’s who woke him singing every morning of his boyhood; the bout of rheumatic fever that kept him in bed for six months; and the queer little antique neighborhood library with frescoed ceilings (“torn down now, alas”) where he’d gone to get away from his house. About Mrs. De Peyster, the lonely old heiress he’d visited after school, a former Belle of Albany and local historian who clucked over Hobie and fed him Dundee cake ordered from England in tins, who was happy to stand for hours explaining to Hobie every single item in her china cabinet and who had owned, among other things, the mahogany sofa—rumored to have belonged to General Herkimer—that got him interested in furniture in the first place.

Across those unbridgeable distances—between bird and painter, painting and viewer—I hear only too well what’s being said to me, a psst from an alleyway as Hobie put it, across four hundred years of time, and it’s really very personal and specific.

Are you going somewhere?” I said, regarding him timidly. The suit made him seem a different person, less melancholy and distracted, more capable—unlike the Hobie of my first visit, with his bedraggled aspect of an elegant but mistreated polar bear.

I'd given up trying to explain Hobie to Boris: the house, the workshop, his thoughtful way of listening (...) but more than anything a sort of pleasing atmosphere of mind: foggy, autumnal, a mild and welcoming micro-climate that made me feel safe and comfortable in his company.

A goodbye at the gate,” said Hobie. He seemed to be talking partly to himself. “That’s what he would have wanted. The parting glimpse, the death haiku—he wouldn’t have liked to leave without stopping to speak to someone along the way. ‘A teahouse amid the cherry blossoms, on the way to death.

whatever reason, an evening nodding and unconscious in my bedroom at Hobie’s had begun to seem like a perfectly reasonable response to the holiday lights, the holiday crowds, the incessant Christmas bells with their morbid funeral note, Kitsey’s candy-pink notebook from Kate’s Paperie with tabs

A goodbye at the gate,” said Hobie. He seemed to be talking partly to himself. “That’s what he would have wanted. The parting glimpse, the death haiku—he wouldn’t have liked to leave without stopping to speak to someone along the way. ‘A teahouse amid the cherry blossoms, on the way to death.’ ” He

White noise, impersonal roar. Deadening incandescence of the boarding terminals. But even these soul-free, sealed-off places are drenched with meaning, spangled and thundering with it. Sky Mall. Portable stereo systems. Mirrored isles of Drambuie and Tanqueray and Chanel No. 5. I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers—hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark—and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that’s worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are. Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.

Yet even in death, my dad was ineradicable, no matter how hard I tried to wish him out of the picture– for there he always was, in my hands and my voice and my walk, in my darting sideways glance as I left the restaurant with Hobie, the very set of my head recalling his old, preening habit of checking himself out in any mirror-like surface.

It's never love, as soon as you feel the next love. Because isn't that a prerequisite of the condition? That you tell yourself everything that came before wasn't really it.

Looks and words may be, and oftentimes are, false witnesses.

...Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only-- if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn't it? And isn't the whole point of things--beautiful things--that they connect you to come larger beauty? Those first images that crack your heart wide open and you spend the rest of your life chasing, or trying to recapture, in one way or another?...

and among the many, many things I’ve had time to think about (such as what’s worth living for? what’s worth dying for? what’s completely foolish to pursue?) I’ve been thinking a lot about what Hobie said: about those images that strike the heart and set it blooming like a flower, images that open up some much, much larger beauty that you can spend your whole life looking for and never find.

Wanting to sleep with him? Yes. Wanting to hold him and care about him? No thanks. Nico was a proven flight risk. An angry, surly man who had a history of choosing himself over others. The kind of person who could pawn off his own niece onto a pair of strangers so he could go back to his own self-centered life. He wasn’t a kind, sweet man but an instigator with a chip on his shoulder against all things Hobie.

By contrast Hobie lived and wafted like some great sea mammal in his own mild atmosphere, the dark brown of tea stains and tobacco, where every clock in the house said something different and time didn't actually correspond to the standard measure but instead meandered along at its own sedate tick-tock obeying the pace of his antique-crowded backwater, far from the factory-built, epoxy-glued version of the world.

...for Hobie, who sorrowed over these elegant old remnants as if they were underfed children or mistreated cats, it was a point of duty to rescue what he could and then with his gifts as carpenter and joiner to recombine them into beautiful young Frankensteins that were in some cases plainly fanciful but in others such faithful models of the period that they were all but indistinguishable from the real thing. p452

There be also many wicked men that have the comeliness of a beautiful countenance, and it seemeth that nature hath so shaped them because they may be the readier to deceive, and that this amiable look were like a bait that covereth the hook.

He didn’t tell her about the waking fucking hell that was the deterioration of a marriage, the bottomless black hole that was the love of your life turning into a stranger, the heartbreak, mind-break, body-break, everything-break of a breakup of that kind, that all that agony was far more intense, dense, and crushingly huge an experience than was the love that had preceded it. Unrequited love, that was a walk in the park. Or, rather, a delicious itch to scratch. Who cares if the itch worsens the more you scratch? Keep on scratching, deliciously.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’t like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

The tapping of her foot seemed less like agitation and more like an expression of optimism and energy, a hunger for things. Its regularity seemed almost practical, as though this foot pedaled the engine that powered the girl’s world and she was simply keeping it going, pushing it forward, an impatient maintenance.

It was all very different from the crowded, complicated, and overly formal atmosphere of the Barbours’, where everything was rehearsed and scheduled like a Broadway production, an airless perfection from which Andy had been in constant retreat, scuttling to his bedroom like a frightened squid. By contrast Hobie lived and wafted like some great sea mammal in his own mild atmosphere, the dark brown of tea stains and tobacco, where every clock in the house said something different and time didn’t actually correspond to the standard measure but instead meandered along at its own sedate tick-tock, obeying the pace of his antique-crowded backwater, far from the factory-built, epoxy-glued version of the world.

I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that’s worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are.

Yeah, he's nice.” I've given up trying to explain Hobie to Boris: the house, the workshop, thoughtful way of listening so different from my father's, but more than anything a sort of pleasing atmosphere of mind: foggy, autumnal, a mild and welcoming micro-climate that made me feel safe and comfortable in his company. Boris stuck his finger in the open jar of peanut butter on the table between us, and licked it off. He had grown to love peanut butter, which (like marshmallow fluff, another favorite) was unavailable in Russia. “Old poofter?” he asked. I was taken aback. “No,” I said swiftly; and then: “I don’t know.” “Doesn’t matter,” said Boris, offering me the jar. “I've known some sweet old poofters.” “I don't think he is,” I said uncertainly. Boris shrugged. “Who cares? if he is good to you? None of us ever find enough kindness in the world, do we?” (pg. 282)

their records. Then you killed an orderly and got away. You said I’m not going back, because you knew as soon as you arrived anywhere somebody would realize you weren’t Hobie. They’d find out who you were, and you’d be back in the shit. So you just disappeared. A new life, a new name. A clean slate. You want to deny anything yet?” Allen tightened his grip on Jodie. “It’s all bullshit" he said. Reacher shook his head. Pain flashed in his eye like a camera. “No, it’s all true" he said. “Nash Newman just identified Victor Hobie’s skeleton. It’s lying in a casket in Hawaii with your dog tags around its neck.” “Bullshit" Allen said again. “It was the teeth" Reacher said. “Mr. and Mrs. Hobie sent their boy to the dentist thirty-five times, to give him perfect teeth. Newman says they’re definitive. He spent an hour with the X rays, programming the computer. Then he recognized the exact same skull when he walked back past the casket. Definitive match.” Allen

We’d been expending heroic effort searching for an apartment, a frustrating process which we’d borne in mostly good humor although the bare spaces and empty rooms haunted with other people’s abandoned lives kicked up (for me) a lot of ugly echoes from childhood, moving boxes and kitchen smells and shadowed bedrooms with the life gone out of them all but more than this, pulsing throughout, a sort of ominous mechanical hum audible (apparently) only to me, heavily-breathing apprehensions which the voices of the brokers, ringing cheerfully against the polished surfaces as they walked around switching on the lights and pointing out the stainless-steel appliances, did little to dispel. And why was this? Not every apartment we saw had been vacated for reasons of tragedy, as I somehow believed. The fact that I smelled divorce, bankruptcy, illness and death in almost every space we viewed was clearly delusional—and, besides, how could the troubles of these previous tenants, real or imagined, harm Kitsey or me? “Don’t lose heart,” said Hobie (who, like me, was overly sensitive to the souls of rooms and objects, the emanations left by time)

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.” We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

It was nothing I hadn't thought of, plenty, and in far less taxing circumstances; the urge shook me grandly and unpredictably, a poisonous whisper that never wholly left me, that on some days lingered just on the threshold of my hearing but on others roared up uncontrollably into a sort of lurid visionary frenzy, why I wasn't sure, sometimes even a bad movie or a gruesome dinner party could trigger it, short term boredom and long term pain, temporary panic and permanent desperation striking all at once and flaring up in such an ashen desolate light that I saw, really saw, looking back down the years and with all clear-headed and articulate despair, that the world and everything in it was intolerably and permanently fucked and nothing had ever been good or okay, unbearable claustrophobia of the soul, the windowless room, no way out, waves of shame and horror, leave me alone, my mother dead on a marble floor, stop it stop it, muttering aloud to myself in elevators, in cabs, leave me alone, I want to die, a cold, intelligent, self-immolating fury that had-- more than once-- driven me upstairs in a resolute fog to swallow indiscriminate combos of whatever booze and pills I happened to have on hand: only tolerance and ineptitude that I'd botched it, unpleasantly surprised when I woke up though relieved for Hobie that he hadn't had to find me.

Svi u Beču, pa čak i mala djeca, znaju da nije uputno po mraku se približavati ovom mjestu; oni koji ovamo zalaze, dolaze odvojeno: lijevo dečki, desno cure. Ovdje ćete naići na starije gospode na kraju svoga poziva i života. Još se češće mogu naći njihovi izrešetani posmrtni ostaci koje je netko izbacio iz auta u punoj brzini. Policijske su istrage besmislene, jer je počinitelj došao iz savršene tišine i u njoj opet nestao. Ili je to bio svodnik koji uvijek ima alibi. Ovdje je izumljen i prvi put iskorišten pokretni madrac. Onaj tko za one stvari nema stan, sobu, novac za hotelsku sobu ili jeftino svratiše, tko nema auto, mora barem imati prenosivu podlogu koja će ga grijati i ublažiti mu pad kada ga užitak obori na tlo. Ovdje možete upoznati najljepše cvjetove beskrajnog bečkog zla: spretnog Jugoslavena ili brzog bravara iz Funfhausena što juri parkom, a za njim uz najstrašnije psovke trči profesionalka koju su prevarili za njenu nadnicu. Ali bravar iz Funfhausena ništa ne želi toliko koliko nove prozorske kapke na prozorima svoga i zaručničina stana, iza kojih će moći sakriti svinjarije svog privatnog života. Ondje mogu daleko od radoznalih promatrača na sigurnom pohraniti knjige, stereouredaje s pločama i zvučnicima, televizor, radio, zbirku leptira, akvarij, alat za hobi itd. Promatrač vidi jedino prozorske kapke od palisan-dera, ali ne i zbrku koja iza njih vlada. Ponekad može vidjeti — i poželjno je da to vidi — kućni mini bar sa šarenim bocama likera i čaše prikladnih boja, toliko izglancane da bliješte gotovo luđačkim sjajem. Barem prvih godina braka. Kasnije ih razbiju djeca ili ih žena više ne želi glancati jer muž sve češće loče vani i vraća se kući sve kasnije.

Penso a ciò che mi disse Hobie: la bellezza cambia la venatura della realtà. E continuo a pensare anche a una verità più convenzionale: ovvero, che la ricerca della bellezza pura è una trappola, una scorciatoia per l’amarezza e il dolore, che la bellezza dev’essere sempre associata a qualcosa di più profondo. Ma cos’è quel qualcosa? Perché sono fatto così? Perché tengo alle cose sbagliate, e non mi curo di quelle giuste? O, per metterla in un altro modo: come è possibile che, pur rendendomi conto che tutto quel che amo o che m’interessa è un’illusione, io continui a sentire che tutto ciò per cui vale la pena vivere risiede proprio in quell’illusione? Un grande dolore, che comincio a comprendere solo adesso: il cuore non si sceglie. Non possiamo obbligarci a desiderare ciò che è bene per noi o per gli altri. Non siamo noi a determinare il tipo di persone che siamo. Perché – non ci martellano forse fin dall’infanzia con l’idea opposta, un luogo comune profondamente radicato nella nostra cultura, da William Blake a Lady Gaga, da Rousseau a Rumi alla Tosca a Mister Rogers, un messaggio curiosamente uniforme, trasversale: se sei in dubbio, cosa fai? Come fai a sapere cosa è giusto per te? Ogni psicologo, ogni consulente del lavoro, ogni principessa Disney conosce la risposta: «Sii te stesso». «Segui il tuo cuore.» Ma ecco ciò che vorrei davvero che qualcuno mi spiegasse. Cosa succede se ti ritrovi con un cuore inaffidabile? Se questo cuore, per ragioni imperscrutabili, ti porta ostinatamente, avvolto in una nube di indicibile fulgore, lontano da tutto ciò che è sano, dal conforto dei piaceri domestici, dal senso civico e dai legami sociali e da tutte quelle che vengono comunemente considerate virtù per trascinarti invece verso uno stupendo falò di rovina, immolazione e disastro? […] Se il tuo io più profondo ti conduce cantando dritto verso il fuoco, devi voltargli le spalle? Tapparti le orecchie con la cera? Ignorare il perverso splendore che il cuore ti grida contro? […] O è meglio tuffarsi di testa e con una risata nel sacro fuoco che chiama il tuo nome?

Bekerja keras dan tidak efektif itu melelahkan lahir dan bathin. Hobi positif yang ditekuni menghasilkan rezeki dan kebahagiaan.

Hobi mengutip perkataan bijak orang itu gak buruk. Bagusnya kamu aja yang jadi kutipan orang.

Di mata masyarakat, hobi bukanlah hobi selama kau belum dipandang membuang waktu untuknya, dan pekerjaan bukanlah pekerjaan selama kau belum dipandang mendulang uang darinya.

Ben, tesettüre karşı yapılan bu çirkin saldırıları ve paranoyak tavırları garipsemiyorum aslında. Çünkü bu saldırıların hangi marazi dürtülerle yapıldığını çok iyi biliyorum. İslamî bir vecibe olan tesettüre karşı topyekun taarruza geçen insanlık düşmanlarının, gerçekte başörtüsünün şahsında insanımızın imanına saldırdığını cümle alem biliyor. Benim asıl garipsediğim şey, medya ve basında köşe kapmış kimi haddini bilmezlerin, bir Müslümana yapılmaması gereken ahlâksız bir teklifi, ''örtünü aç'' teklifini yapabilmiş, buna cür'et gösterebilmiş olmalarıdır. Ahlâksız teklif sahibi bu cür'etkârlar, kim ve ne olduklarını kendileri daha iyi bilirler, işin bu tarafını geçiyorum. Kesin olan bir şey var ki, efendileri onlardan memnundurlar ve kendilerine verilen rolü iyi oynamaktadırlar. Ancak bu cür'etin bir de Müslümanları ilgilendiren boyutu var ki, asıl üzerinde durulması gereken nokta işte burasıdır. İman, Hobi değil. İnanmış bir kadın ya da erkeğe, inandığı değerlerden birini terk etmesini telkin eden biri, bunu gerçekten de ''normal'' bir davranış olarak yapıyorsa, o kişi, ''inançlarla'' ''hobileri'' birbirinden ayıramayacak kadar cahil ve kimliksiz bir tip olmalıdır. Bu tipin eğer yücelttiği ya da inandığı herhangi bir değer olsaydı, ''değer'' ve ''inanç'' sahibine böylesine ''âhlaksız bir teklif'' yapmayı aklına dahi getirmez, yüzü kızarırdı.

Tahun itu Aku masih dalam euforia lulus dari penjara sekolah. Dengan lepas dari sekolah, Aku tak perlu lagi sering meninggalkan pelajaran sekadar untuk melanglang buana dan luwes mengembangkan hobi menulis catatan perjalananku.

So much you could forget — the sequence of your own life. Maybe humans weren't meant to live this long, maybe brains couldn't retain this much life, maybe the natural way of things was to die at thirty, when you could still remember it all, or most of it.

+Her şeyi yerli yerine koymanın tadına doyum olmuyor. Bu “hobi”nin zevki nereden gelir, bilir misin? -Hayır efendim. +Bilmezsin elbette. Bak sana söyleyeyim: yararsızlığından gelir. Bir işe yaramaz, tuhaf olan da budur işte. Herhangi bir amacı olaydı, bütün çekiciliğini yitirirdi.

To extend your horizons, try some of the popular internet games we used to play as kids, l

Očajavala je, često joj se činilo da je njezin život pravi pakao, ali nije znala kako da si pomogne. Dugo je krivila nas, svoju djecu: odvojili smo se, otišli smo od kuće, ne marimo više za nju kao nekada, otuđili smo se (posljednje je bila njezina fraza). Ali, i lista njezinih odbijenica rasla je iz dana u dan: odbijala je da živi s bratom i njegovom obitelji (Zašto? Da im služim za kuhanje i pranje!), ili da promijeni stan i preseli se u njihovo susjedstvo (Onda bi im morala svaki dan čuvat djecu!), odbijala je da sa mnom ide na putovanja, dok je to još mogla (To sam ja sve ionako vidjela na televiziji!), odbijala je da sama putuje (Neću, valjda, sama, kao prst, pa da me svi gledaju!), često je odbijala da nam se pridruži u kratkim obiteljskim proslavama i izletima (Idite vi, za mene je to prenaporno!), odbijala je da se ozbiljnije pozabavi unucima (Stara sam i bolesna, sve bi dala za njih, ali me jako zamore!), odbijala je da se uključi u neku svoju dobnu grupu (Šta da radim tamo sa starcima!), odbijala je da porazgovara s psihologom (Nisam, valjda, luda, ne treba mi psiholog!), odbijala je da pronađe neki hobi (Šta ćemi hobi? To je utjeha za budale!), odbijala je da obnovi zapostavljenje veze s nekim starim znancima (Šta da radim s njima, bez tate?) - sve dok se na kraju ipak nije pomirila. S vremenom je urasla u kuću i svela svoje izlaske na šetnje po naselju, do tržnice, do trgovine, do liječnika, do prijateljice na kavu. Na kraju je obavljala samo malu dnevnu šetnju do kafića na tržnici. Isključivost u stavovima na malome terenu (Preslatko je! To je moje mišljenje! Možda zato što sam odgajana da volim ljuto!), njezina tvrdoglavost (Ne bih stavila pelene ni mrtva. Nisam, valjda, bespomoćna starica!), njezina zahtjevnost (Danas moramo oprat zavjese!), njezina direktnost (U bolnici su svi stari i ružni!), njezina netaktičnost (Susjeda, ova vaša kava smrdi!) - sve su to bili signali neke temeljne muke koja je u njoj tinjala godinama, stalno prisutnog osjećaja da je nitko ne zamjećuje, da je nevidljiva. Borbu protiv te zastrašujuće nevidljivosti vodila je kako je znala i umjela, sredstvima koja je imala na raspolaganju.

Seni mengumpulkan: sebuah panduan pemula Koleksi seni adalah agen domino online pokersaja sangat merangsang dan menginspirasi Hobi untuk semua. Ini bukan hanya untuk orang kaya dan terkenal, tapi bahkan biasa orang sehari-hari juga. Ada berbagai bentuk seni yang dapat Anda pilih, terutama karena definisi seni dapat sangat bervariasi dari seseorang ke orang lain. Namun, itu tidak terlalu materi apapun bentuknya, Anda adalah orang yang membuat panggilan yang menarik dan berapa banyak yang Anda bersedia untuk dibelanjakan untuk sepotong tersebut. Untuk go for prints atau Originals? Dalam dunia seni, beberapa orang mungkin melihat ke bawah pada orang lain karena selera mereka yang berbeda dalam memilih seni. Untuk Misalnya, ada orang yang hanya membeli asli bekerja dan tidak akan pernah mempertimbangkan untuk membeli cetakan. Namun, Anda harus mencatat bahwa jika Anda hanya mulai mengumpulkan seni dan melakukan hal ini untuk kenikmatan maka asli tidak benar-benar diperlukan untuk membeli, terutama jika mereka jalan keluar dari anggaran Anda. Tidak ada yang salah dengan membeli cetakan. In fakta, ini adalah salah satu cara yang luar biasa untuk berbingkai seni yang akan terlihat indah di dinding Anda, sama seperti bagaimana sebuah asli akan terlihat, tapi dengan cara harga yang lebih rendah. Meskipun di sini, Anda tidak akan memiliki sama tekstur seperti pada karya asli; sejak aslinya biasanya menunjukkan dimensi dan tekstur, sementara cetakan Tidak. Namun, karya seni yang dicetak dengan baik tidak menetap Tentu saja. Bahkan, banyak kolektor seni memiliki seni cetak oleh seniman yang berbeda, yang cukup dibeli tidak mahal dari internet, galeri dan seni Pameran. Hebatnya, potongan tersebut masih terlihat berselera dan berkelas, bukan murah mencari seperti apa yang kebanyakan orang Mengharapkan. Semua dibingkai up Setelah Anda melihat asli atau cetak yang Anda sukai, Anda memiliki pilihan untuk membingkai sendiri atau mendapatkan orang lain untuk melakukannya untuk Anda. Secara umum, Anda dapat menemukan frame dalam kisaran harga yang luas, mulai dari frame logam murah untuk hiasan dan tangan kayu ukiran frame biaya Anda mahal. Berkenaan dengan menggunakan tikar, yang merupakan cara lain untuk membingkai gambar Anda di dalam bingkainya dengan menggunakan kertas atau papan ilustrasi, Anda harus mencatat yang dapat mengurangi cetakan Anda. Jika Anda tidak tahu Bagaimana bingkai, maka Anda harus mendapatkan sepotong dan mendapatkan itu dibingkai pertama. Saat melakukannya, amati bagaimana mereka menawarkan tikar yang berbeda dan gaya bingkai. Anda tidak perlu mempergegas saat memilih tikar ingin Anda gunakan. Bahkan, Anda harus mengambil waktu Anda dengan cermat, karena tikar dan kombinasi warna bingkai dapat berdampak besar pada seberapa baik atau buruk karya seni Anda akan terlihat. Anda harus juga mempertimbangkan bagaimana frame akan cocok-dalam apa pun tempat Anda akan meletakkannya, seperti rumah atau kantor Anda. Jika Anda ingin tampilan yang bersih dan kontemporer, itu disarankan bahwa Anda menggunakan Nielsen disikat logam bingkai, yang tidak hanya murah tapi masih elegan Cari juga. Ini biasanya datang dalam warna yang berbeda. Namun demikian, itu aman untuk pergi untuk hitam atau perunggu. Jika Anda akan menempatkan mereka dalam sebuah galeri, perunggu akan juga melakukannya dengan baik, terutama karena tidak akan dikenakan biaya Terlalu banyak. Setelah semua, kebanyakan orang yang membeli seni dari Galeri akan memiliki seni mereka membeli kembali berbingkai di dapat menyesuaikan dekorasi rumah mereka. Jika lebih dari jenis kayu orang, Anda juga bisa mendapatkan bingkai kayu yang alami bernoda. Ceri dan mahoni adalah gaya yang paling disukai ketika datang bingkai kayu, karena warnanya yang dalam dan kemerahan membawa tampilan yang elegan untuk setiap karya seni.

E sì - agli studiosi potrà interessare l'uso innovativo del pennello o della luce, l'influenza storica e il significato nel contesto dell'arte olandese del periodo. Ma non a me. Come mia madre mi disse tanti anni fa, mia madre che amava il quadro pur avendolo visto soltanto in un libro preso in prestito dalla Comanche County Library, da bambina: il significato non conta. L'importanza storica lo trasforma in qualcosa di muto. Oltre quelle distanze impercorribili - tra l'uccello e il pittore, il quadro e lo spettatore - sento con fin troppa chiarezza ciò che il quadro dice a me, un pss in un vicolo, come direbbe Hobie, personale e specifico, che riverbera attraverso i secoli.

Hoby là Shop mẹ bé cung cấp và đề xuất cho những người mới làm cha mẹ những sản phẩm CHÍNH HÃNG giải quyết những vấn đề ăn, ngủ, chơi và học tập ở trẻ.

being alone might feel sort of heroic, or at least dignified. Or at least grown-up. It wasn’t any of these. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, the end of the

Banyak anak muda menggunakan media sosial - Facebook, Weibo, Instagram, dan masih banyak lagi. Mereka memosting segala hal yang terjadi pada mereka, foto, video, pertemanan baru - semuanya properti publik. Mereka lebih suka mengumpulkan 'like' daripada mempertahankan privasi mereka. Aku tak perlu meretas untuk mengetahui kepribadian, kelompok sosial, gaya hidup, bahkan hobi mereka. N

Rummy 555 is a well-known card game in India. All Rummy techniques are useless until the player achieves a pure sequence. Play the best hobi Rummy now.

A tart shiver of pleasure ran through her at the memory. The dare, the doing it, the mark it made.

In 1835 English Baptists Francis Cox and James Hoby, who had worked with William Wilberforce to abolish slavery in the British Empire, came to the United States “to urge Baptists to abandon slavery. This visit and subsequent correspondence tended to polarize Baptists.”26 They encouraged Christian activism in Northern abolitionist groups. In 1849 the American Baptist Anti- Slavery Convention was formed in New York and launched a polemic attack on the institution of slavery, calling Southern Baptists to repent in the strongest terms. They urged that Baptist mission agencies be cleansed of “any taint of slavery and condemned slavery in militant terms,” and they called on Southern Baptists to “confess before heaven and earth the sinfulness of holding slaves; admit it to be not only a misfortune, but a crime.” warning that “if Baptists in the South ignored such warnings and persisted in the practice of slavery, ‘we cannot and dare not recognize you as consistent brethren in Christ.

Naših se demona ne možemo riješiti ne zato što nas stalno sustižu, nego zato što su u nama.

I may tell you it is not a small token that a woman loveth when she giveth unto her lover her beauty, which is so precious a matter; and by the ways that be a passage to the soul (that is to say, the sight and the hearing) sendeth the looks of her eyes, the image of her countenance, and the voice of her words, that pierce into the lover's heart and give a witness of her love.

Joe mengusulkan agar setiap salesman memperlakukan pelanggan layaknya teman baik, bukan sebagai objek transaksi. Tersenyum lepas serta mengenal teman, keluarga dan hobi dapat membangun pertemanan. Dale Carnegie dalam bukunya, How to Win Friends and Influence People, menekankan pentingnya relationship. Kita ingin diperlakukan sebagai orang penting dan spesial seperti halnya ketika berada di antara teman dan sahabat.

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Being told what you were was irresistible, albeit in a slightly sickening way. She was feeling, yes, a little sick.