Horatio Quotes

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?

Kiss me, Hardy!’ Weren’t those Nelson’s last words at the Battle of Trafalgar? Don’t cry. We’re still alive and we make a sensational team.

I had hundreds of books under my skin already. Not selected reading, all of it. Some of it could be called trashy. I had been through Nick Carter, Horatio Alger, Bertha M. Clay and the whole slew of dime novelists in addition to some really constructive reading. I do not regret the trash. It has harmed me in no way. It was a help, because acquiring the reading habit early is the important thing. Taste and natural development will take care of the rest later on.

Gentlemen, when the enemy is committed to a mistake we must not interrupt him too soon.

O good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. . . O, I die, Horatio;

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

No captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of the enemy.

First gain the victory and then make the best use of it you can.

That liberty [is pure] which is to go to all, and not to the few or the rich alone. (to Horatio Gates, 1798)

Aft the more honour, forward the better man

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' Celia quotes at him. 'Please, no Shakespeare.' 'I am haunted by the ghost of my father, I think that should allow me to quote Hamlet as much as I please. You used to be quite fond of Shakespeare, Prospero.

Horatio leaned toward her, "What is the secret of joy?" Mousey thought for a moment. "Doing what you like best." Of course. How simple. And how true.

i knew him, Horatio

But what a burden. To be Horatio. To be the one with the memory.

There are many boys, and men too, who, like Micky Maguire, have never had a fair chance in life. Let us remember that, when we judge them, and not be too hasty to condemn.

Hornblower worked as hard to conceal his human weaknesses as some men worked to conceal ignoble birth.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,

BEL-IMPERIA: Oh let me go; for in my troubled eyes Now may'st thou read that life in passion dies. HORATIO: Oh stay a while, and I will die with thee; So shalt thou yield, and yet have conquered me.

While some multimillionaires started in poverty, most did not. A study of the origins of 303 textile, railroad, and steel executives of the 1870s showed that 90 percent came from middle- or upper-class families. The Horatio Alger stories of “rags to riches” were true for a few men, but mostly a myth, and a useful myth for control.

--Here, my good man. Could you tell me whereabouts Horatio Street...good heavens. Thus called upon, he took courage; the sursum corda of an extravagant belch straightened him upright, and he answered, --Whfffck? Whether this was an approach to discussion he had devised himself, or a subtle adaptation of the Socratic method of questioning perfected in the local athenaeums which he attended until closing time, was not to be known; for the answer was, --Stand aside.

Bush put both arms round Hornblower’s shoulders and walked with dragging feet. It did not matter that his feet dragged and his legs would not function while he had this support; Hornblower was the best man in the world and Bush could announce it by singing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ while lurching along the alleyway.

Happy is the bride the sun shines on.

It is well with my soul.

Whether you attribute it to some mysterious triple package or to your own Horatio Alger story, to succeed in America is, somehow, to be complicit with the idea of America—which means that at some level you’ve made peace with its rather ugly past.

Dane and Horatio are the only ones who respect my decisions, who give me the space to make them, even if I never say what they are. They don't make them for me and simply assume that I'll obey, that I'll follow along with no will and no mind as I so often do.

But in case signals can neither be seen or perfectly understood, no captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of the enemy.

They were setting off on an adventure, and Hornblower was only too conscious that it was his own fault.

I was a speck of sand on an infinite beach, waiting for the tide to come in and wash me away. And here he was, the ocean, the waves, and I drowned in him.

Horatio Lyle hit the floor, the floor hit him, and the floor came out the winner. It was in times like these, he told himself, when Newton's Second Law really made its point.

I knew him, Horatio,” said the drunken poet. “A man of infinite jest. Not one of them funny. A real horse’s ass, Horatio.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. —Shakespeare

I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger... a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.

Chicks, man, am I right? They crazy," you say. "Yes, what IS the deal with over half the human population of the planet? They're definitely all 100% insane," Horatio replies sarcastically.

England expects that every man will do his duty.

Drake chimed in, “No, Mortimer or Horatio—something long suffering and filled with angst.” “Mortimer? Horatio? What the hell is angst? What kind of word is that? Dude, have you been reading a thesaurus again? What did I tell you about using words you can’t understand?

I’ve heard this all before from people like you. Try, you all say. Do better. Be better. Be more. This is me. This is all I’ve got. I’m good with it. Or I was until you started trying to make me feel small.

Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism—which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly,

It was not a conspiratorial wink, nor did Hornblower attempt the hopeless task of trying to pretend he stuffed hot greasy sausages into his pockets every day of his life; the wink simply dared the old gentleman to comment on or even think of the remarkable act.

Whatever my lot Thou has taught me to say It is well it is well with my soul.

I mean to turn over a new leaf, and try to grow up "'spectable

Well," said he, as he left the ELEPHANT, "I have fought contrary to orders, and I shall perhaps be hanged. Never mind: let them!

The tyrant is always in danger of losing his hold upon the victim when the latter begins to think.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. —William Shakespeare, Hamlet, act 1, scene 5

Don't you ever do that to me." "You know you'll never make as much of a fool of yourself as Horatio Augustus. So I won't have to.

Say, what, is Horatio there? Horatio: A piece of him.

Kas sel mehel puudub arusaamine oma tegevusest, et ta hauda kaevates laulab? HORATIO: Harjumus on ta selles asjas tuimaks teinud.

Charles Horatio Bingley,

I don't think Blanca was worth it, Horatio told him. She wasn't even that good.

there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET

Horatio. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! Hamlet. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

...the whole of American life was organized around the cult of the powerful individual, that phantom ideal which Europe herself had only begun to outgrow in her last phase. Those Americans who wholly failed to realize this ideal, who remained at the bottom of the social ladder, either consoled themselves with hopes for the future, or stole symbolical satisfaction by identifying themselves with some popular star, or gloated upon their American citizenship, and applauded the arrogant foreign policy of their government.

It doesn't make any sense, does it?" "Some things don't," said the beetle, gloomily. "Don't be so sure," Aubrey said. "Everything makes sense if you can find the right way to look at it. What we need is a new perspective.

It is the first fashionable party I ever attended." "Well," said Dick, "I haven't attended many. When I was a boot-black I found it interfered with my business, and so I always declined all the fashionable invitations I got.

The field of glory," said he, "is a large one, and was never more open to any one than at this moment to you. Rome would throw open her gates and receive you as her deliverer; and the pope would owe his restoration to a heretic.

This is the happy time, I tell myself. I am superstitious about happiness. I worry that too much celebration of immanence, of God-goodness and life force, invites its opposite. Some pagan part of me believes that too much light draws darkness.

I think Horatio be my destin'd plague: First, in his hand he brandished a sword, And with that sword he fiercely waged war, And in that war he gave me dangerous wounds, And by those wounds he forced me to yield, And by my yielding I became his slave. Now in his mouth he carries pleasing words, Which pleasing words do harbour sweet conceits, Which sweet conceits are lim'd with sly deceits, Which sly deceits smooth Bellimperia's ears, And through her ears dive down into her heart, And in her heart set him, where I should stand.

I read more than ever, and wished my soul that I had been born a boy. Horatio Alger was the greatest writer in the world. His heroes were always good, always won, and were always boys. I could have developed the first two virtues, but becoming a boy was sure to be difficult, if not impossible.

Horatio Nelson set the standard after he was mortally wounded by a sniper at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Nelson’s body was pickled in brandy, which was replaced with wine at Gibraltar, and brought back to England, amid macabre speculation that the Admiral’s crew had drunk the embalming brandy in transit.

Imagine the same scene in HAMLET if Pullman had written it. Hamlet, using a mystic pearl, places the poison in the cup to kill Claudius. We are all told Claudius will die by drinking the cup. Then Claudius dies choking on a chicken bone at lunch. Then the Queen dies when Horatio shows her the magical Mirror of Death. This mirror appears in no previous scene, nor is it explained why it exists. Then Ophelia summons up the Ghost from Act One and kills it, while she makes a speech denouncing the evils of religion. Ophelia and Hamlet are parted, as it is revealed in the last act that a curse will befall them if they do not part ways.

Thomas Nast published an election cartoon entitled “Victory!” that showed Grant mounted on a white horse, waving a flag bedecked with the words “Union” and “Equal Rights,” as he thrust his sword into the throat of Horatio Seymour, who sat astride a black horse with the initials “K.K.K.” branded ominously on its flank.

The ideal never comes. Today is ideal for him who makes it so.

Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci.

Now, good clothes exert more influence upon the wearer than we might at first suppose. So it was with Tom.

Once more she felt that she had a home, humble enough, to be sure, but made attractive by kindness.

The flag atop the Main Street flagpole is flown at half-staff only when Walt Disney passed away, a U.S. President dies in office, or the pulley gets stuck.

Too much certainty is a miserable thing, while the unknowable has a pristine beauty and a wonder with no end.

If at first you don’t succeed, Try, try again!

Do you believe niggers go to de same heaven wid w'ite folks, missus?" asked Chloe, after a pause.

The Churchills brought to 10 Downing a new family member, the Admiralty’s black cat, Nelson, named after Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, hero of the British naval victory at Trafalgar. Churchill adored the cat and often carried him about the house. Nelson’s arrival caused a certain degree of feline strife, according to Mary, for Nelson harassed the cat that already resided at 10 Downing, whose nickname was “the Munich Mouser.” There was much to arrange, of course, as in any household, but an inventory for 10 Downing hints at the complexity that awaited Clementine: wine glasses and tumblers (the whiskey had to go somewhere), grapefruit glasses, meat dishes, sieves, whisks, knives, jugs, breakfast cups and saucers, needles for

Horatio Gates prepared to fight the British in South Carolina during the summer of 1780, as British troops swept up the coast from the south in a series of successful offensives, he found his rum supplies bare. He did, however, have plenty of molasses. Figuring the raw material of rum was better than nothing, Gates distributed the sweet goo among his men without realizing it was a laxative. He ultimately lost to the British.

The Horatio Alger Association of Distinguished Americans, founded in 1947 and devoted to promoting and affirming individual initiative and “the American dream,” releases annual back-to-school surveys.48 Its survey for 1998 contrasted two groups of students: the “highly successful” (approximately 18 percent of American students) and the “disillusioned” (approximately 15 percent). The successful students work hard, choose challenging classes, make schoolwork a top priority, get good grades, participate in extracurricular activities, and feel that teachers and administrators care about them and listen to them. According to the association, the successful group in the 1998 survey is 63 percent female and 37 percent male. The disillusioned students are pessimistic about their future, get low grades, and have little contact with teachers. The disillusioned group could accurately be characterized as demoralized. According to the Alger Association, “Nearly seven out of ten are male.”49

Wars and chaoses and paradoxes ago, two mathematicians between them ended an age d began another for our hosts, our ghosts called Man. One was Einstein, who with his Theory of Relativity defined the limits of man's perception by expressing mathematically just how far the condition of the observer influences the thing he perceives. ... The other was Goedel, a contemporary of Eintstein, who was the first to bring back a mathematically precise statement about the vaster realm beyond the limits Einstein had defined: In any closed mathematical system--you may read 'the real world with its immutable laws of logic'--there are an infinite number of true theorems--you may read 'perceivable, measurable phenomena'--which, though contained in the original system, can not be deduced from it--read 'proven with ordinary or extraordinary logic.' Which is to say, there are more things in heaven and Earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio. There are an infinite number of true things in the world with no way of ascertaining their truth. Einstein defined the extent of the rational. Goedel stuck a pin into the irrational and fixed it to the wall of the universe so that it held still long enough for people to know it was there. ... The visible effects of Einstein's theory leaped up on a convex curve, its production huge in the first century after its discovery, then leveling off. The production of Goedel's law crept up on a concave curve, microscopic at first, then leaping to equal the Einsteinian curve, cross it, outstrip it. At the point of intersection, humanity was able to reach the limits of the known universe... ... And when the line of Goedel's law eagled over Einstein's, its shadow fell on a dewerted Earth. The humans had gone somewhere else, to no world in this continuum. We came, took their bodies, their souls--both husks abandoned here for any wanderer's taking. The Cities, once bustling centers of interstellar commerce, were crumbled to the sands you see today.

But in spite of this material prosperity he was a slave. His work and his leisure consisted of feverish activity, punctuated by moments of listless idleness which he regarded as both sinful and unpleasant. Unless he was one of the furiously successful minority, he was apt to be haunted by moments of brooding, too formless to be called meditation, and of yearning, too blind to be called desire. For he and all his contemporaries were ruled by certain ideas which prevented them from living a fully human life.

Christianity agrees with Hamlet when he said to Horatio, “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” Reductionistic worldviews insist that there are fewer things in heaven and earth. Living according to these worldviews is like living in a concrete bunker with no windows. Communicating a Christian worldview should be like inviting people to open the door and come out. Our message ought to express the joy of leading captives out of a small, cramped world into one that is expansive and liberating.

By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it; the age has grown so picked, that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.” There can easily be too much liberty, according to Shakespeare — “too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty” (Measure for Measure, Act 1, Sc. 3), but the idea of too much authority is foreign to him. Claudio, himself under arrest, sings its praises: “Thus can the demi-god, Authority, Make us pay down for our offense by weight, — The words of Heaven; — on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still ’tis just.

The thunder rolled, one last time. It poured through the narrow, dirty black streets, slid into the gaps between cobbles, rippled across the water of the river, made the still bells hum, and passed on, spreading out into the countryside beyond, where it bent the grass, whispered in the trees and eventually died away.

But what set Steuben apart from his contemporaries was his schooling under Frederick the Great, Prince Henry, and a dozen other general officers. He had learned from the best soldiers in the world how to gather and assess intelligence, how to read and exploit terrain, how to plan marches, camps, battles, and entire campaigns. He gleaned more from his seventeen years in the Prussian military than most professional soldiers would in a lifetime. In the Seven Years’ War alone, he built up a record of professional education that none of his future comrades in the Continental Army—Horatio Gates, Charles Lee, the Baron Johann de Kalb, and Lafayette included—could match.

The difference between the rich merchant and the ragged fellow who solicits his charity as he is stepping into his carriage, consists, frequently, not in natural ability, but in the fact that the one has used his ability as a stepping-stone to success, and the other has suffered his to become stagnant, through indolence, or dissipation.

Through all the chaos, through all the bluster and noise, we found each other. In this little corner of the world, we cling together because we choose to, fate or destiny or happenstance be damned. There are more things in Heaven and Earth than we could possibly know, but I know the endless universe that is Jamie. And he knows me. It’s all I need.

Because I believe that the beauty of life outweighs the bad. And I know that were I to take up the banner against such hatred, they would use my Otherness to hurt more than just me. Tis better that I take Will’s own words to heart, which he so eloquently penned. ‘The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.’” Trust Horatio to use a quote from Shakespeare to make his point, even though I needed it interpreted. “What does that mean?” His rumbling chuckle vibrated against me like thunder. “Simply put, life is messy. You cannot have all good, for without the bad as well, how would you recognize that which is fair? Without knowing the darker feelings of your kin, I would not appreciate the goodness of your friendship as much.

Who knows? It’s one of the great secrets of the universe. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was destiny, or maybe it was nothing at all and we’re just two people in the middle of cosmic nonsense clinging to each other because we can.” He waved his hand dismissively, almost hitting me in the face. “It doesn’t matter. Here you are. Here I am. And there’s no other place I’d rather be. You intrigue me.

As much as I wanted to make all of our customers happy, our farm inevitably began to sell out of certain items each week... I had been taught that businesses should constantly grow and expand. Owners should demand annual productivity increases, and resources were to be tapped for maximum potential. Like most things in our melting-pot society, the message was a uniquely American blend -- equal parts Manifest Destiny, Yankee ingenuity, and Protestant work ethic. A dash of Horatio Alger seemed to be thrown in for good luck. Be more! Live more! Consume! Produce! ...What if, at the end of the day, just growing what we could grow was good enough? And what if we genuinely wanted other family farms to succeed as well? These were the ideas I valued most, and the questions I wanted to answer. Everything else began to feel like noise.

I had always wanted a God who guards my life and every external thing that concerns me. We all do. But I paused and reflected on the psalmists who wrote in the midst of danger and loss. I paused as I considered Paul writing from a Roman prison. I paused when I remembered Corrie ten Boom and Horatio Spafford. I paused, thinking of Jesus who could say, “Not as I will, but as you will” when faced with unimaginable, incomprehensible, agonizing execution on a cross (Matthew 26:39). It wasn’t always well with their lives, but it was always well with their souls. Knowing God guards our soul—and doesn’t necessarily promise physical well-being—provides a powerful opportunity: the opportunity to live not in bitterness, anger, cynicism, and disillusionment—but to live in the righteousness, hope, peace, power, and selflessness of the gospel.

Before about 1900, there is little discernible trace in American cultural conversations of the phrase ‘American dream’ being used to describe a collective, generalisable national ideal of any kind, let alone an economic one. The phrase does not appear in any of the foundational documents in American history–it’s nowhere in the complete writings of Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton or James Madison. It’s not in Hector St. John Crèvecoeur or Alexis de Tocqueville, those two great French observers of early American life. It’s not found in the works of any of America’s major nineteenth-century novelists: Washington Irving, James Fenimore Cooper, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville or Mark Twain. It’s not in the supposedly more sentimental novels of Harriet Beecher Stowe, Louisa May Alcott, or even Horatio Alger, whose ‘rags to riches’ stories are so often held to exemplify it. Nor does it crop up visibly in political discourse, or newspapers, or anywhere noticeable in the public record.

With our powerful founding story, our unusual reverence for our Constitution, our geographic isolation, and our two centuries of relative economic success, modern Americans have long been convinced that liberal democracy, once achieved, was impossible to reverse. The founders themselves were not so certain: their beloved classical authors taught them that history was circular, that human nature was flawed, and that special measures were needed to precent democracy from sliding back into tyranny. But American history, to most modern Americans, does not feel circular. On the contrary, it is often told as a tale of progress, forward and upward, with the Civil War as a blip in the middle. Cultural despair does not come easily to a nation that believed in the Horatio Alger myth and Manifest Destiny. Pessimism is an alien sentiment in a state whose founding documents, the embodiment of the Enlightenment, contain one of the most optimistic views of the possibilities of human government ever written.

Po chvíli se opět vynořil, třímaje v rukou lebku. Na rozdíl od anatomických preparátů, jak je znal Divák ze školy, z obchodů s potřebami pro mediky apod., neměla lebka dolní čelist a nebyla bílá, ale žlutavě zahnědlá. Hrobník ji nastavil proti Divákovi. Po tváři mú přeletěl ironický ušlápnutý úsměv: „Alas poor Yorick, I knew him well, Horatio,“ řekl hrobník. Okolnost, že hrobař zacitoval Shakespeara v originále, Diváka příliš nepřekvapila, jako asi nepřekvapuje ani současného českého čtenáře. Jen pro možné čtenáře budoucí a pro cizince poznamenejme, že inteligent, konající nádenickou práci, je ve vlastech českých zjev značně známý a banální. Kromě sporadičtějších individuálních případů, které nastávají pořád, proběhlo masovější třídní zničení zejména ve dvou vlnách: Po roce čtyřicet osm, kdy se hyeny ujaly vlády a nemohly se nasytit moci, a pak znovu po nezdařené plastické chirurgii roku šedesát osm, či správně šedesátého osmého, kdy se někteří naivkové pokusili přeopravovat tvář Šelmy na lidskou.

Ink runs in their veins, immortal ink, the ink of song and story.” It was the voice of Andreus. “Ink can be destroyed,” cried Black, “and men who are made of ink. Name me their names!” They came so swiftly from the skies Andreus couldn’t name them all, streaming out of lore and legend, streaming out of song and story, each phantom flaunting like a flag his own especial glory: Lancelot and Ivanhoe, Athos, Porthos, Cyrano, Roland, Rob Roy, Romeo; Donalbane of Birnam Wood, Robinson Crusoe and Robin Hood; the moody Doones of Lorna Doone, Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone; out of near and ancient tomes, Banquo’s ghost and Sherlock Holmes; Lochinvar, Lothario, Horatius, and Horatio; and there were other figures, too, darker, coming from the blue, Shakespeare’s Shylock, Billy Bones, Quasimodo, Conrad’s Jones, Ichabod and Captain Hook—names enough to fill a book. “These wearers of the O, methinks, are indestructible,” wailed Littlejack. “Books can be burned,” croaked Black. “They have a way of rising out of ashes,” said Andreus.

How long will a man lie i’th earth ere he rot ? Clow. Fayth if a be not rotten before a die, as we haue many pockie corſes, that will ſcarce hold the laying in, a will laſt you ſom eyght yeere, or nine yeere. A Tanner will laſt you nine yeere. Ham. Why he more then another ? Clow. Why ſir, his hide is ſo tand with his trade, that a will keepe out water a great while ; & your water is a ſore decayer of your whorſon dead body, heer's a ſcull now hath lyen you i'th earth 23. yeeres. Ham. Whoſe was it ? Clow. A whorſon mad fellowes it was, whoſe do you think it was ? Ham. Nay I know not. Clow. A peſtilence on him for a madde rogue, a pourd a flagon of Reniſh on my head once ; this ſame skull ſir, was ſir Yoricks skull, the Kings Iester. Ham. This ? Clow. Een that. Ham. Alas poore Yorick, I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite ieſt, of moſt excellent fancie, hee hath bore me on his backe a thouſand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is: my gorge riſes at it. Heere hung thoſe lyppes that I haue kiſt I know not howe oft, where be your gibes now ? your gamboles, your ſongs, your flaſhes of merriment, that were wont to ſet the table on a roare, not one now to mocke your owne grinning, quite chapfalne. Now get you to my Ladies table, & tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to this favour ſhe must come, make her laugh at that. Hora. What's that my Lord ? Ham. Dooſt thou thinke Alexander lookt a this faſhion i'th earth ? Hora. Een ſo. Ham. And ſmelt ſo pah. Hora. Een ſo my Lord. Ham. To what baſe vſes wee may returne Horatio ? Why may not imagination trace the noble duſt of Alexander, till a find it ſtopping a bunghole ? Hor. Twere to conſider too curiouſly to confider ſo. Ham. No faith, not a iot, but to follow him thether with modeſty enough, and likelyhood to leade it. Alexander dyed, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duſt, the duſt is earth , of earth vvee make Lome & why of that Lome whereto he was conuerted, might they not ſtoppe a Beare-barrell ? Imperious Ceſar dead, and turn'd to Clay, Might ſtoppe a hole, to keepe the wind away. O that that earth which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall t'expell the waters flaw. But ſoft, but ſoft awhile, here comes the King, The Queen, the Courtiers, who is this they follow? And with ſuch maimed rites ? this doth betoken, The corſe they follow, did with deſprat hand Foredoo it owne life, twas of ſome eſtate, Couch we a while and marke.

These Claudines, then…they want to know because they believe they already do know, the way one who loves fruit knows, when offered a mango from the moon, what to expect; and they expect the loyal tender teasing affection of the schoolgirl crush to continue: the close and confiding companionship, the pleasure of the undemanding caress, the cuddle which consummates only closeness; yet in addition they want motherly putting right, fatherly forgiveness and almost papal indulgence; they expect that the sights and sounds, the glorious affairs of the world which their husbands will now bring before them gleaming like bolts of silk, will belong to the same happy activities as catching toads, peeling back tree bark, or powdering the cheeks with dandelions and oranging the nose; that music will ravish the ear the way the trill of the blackbird does; that literature will hold the mind in sweet suspense the way fairy tales once did; that paintings will crowd the eye with the delights of a colorful garden, and the city streets will be filled with the same cool dew-moist country morning air they fed on as children. But they shall not receive what they expect; the tongue will be about other business; one will hear in masterpieces only pride and bitter contention; buildings will have grandeur but no flowerpots or chickens; and these Claudines will exchange the flushed cheek for the swollen vein, and instead of companionship, they will get sex and absurd games composed of pinch, leer, and giggle—that’s what will happen to “let’s pretend.” 'The great male will disappear into the jungle like the back of an elusive ape, and Claudine shall see little of his strength again, his intelligence or industry, his heroics on the Bourse like Horatio at the bridge (didn’t Colette see Henri de Jouvenel, editor and diplomat and duelist and hero of the war, away to work each day, and didn’t he often bring his mistress home with him, as Willy had when he was husband number one?); the great affairs of the world will turn into tawdry liaisons, important meetings into assignations, deals into vulgar dealings, and the en famille hero will be weary and whining and weak, reminding her of all those dumb boys she knew as a child, selfish, full of fat and vanity like patrons waiting to be served and humored, admired and not observed. 'Is the occasional orgasm sufficient compensation? Is it the prize of pure surrender, what’s gained from all that giving up? There’ll be silk stockings and velvet sofas maybe, the customary caviar, tasting at first of frog water but later of money and the secretions of sex, then divine champagne, the supreme soda, and rubber-tired rides through the Bois de Boulogne; perhaps there’ll be rich ugly friends, ritzy at homes, a few young men with whom one may flirt, a homosexual confidant with long fingers, soft skin, and a beautiful cravat, perfumes and powders of an unimaginable subtlety with which to dust and wet the body, many deep baths, bonbons filled with sweet liqueurs, a procession of mildly salacious and sentimental books by Paul de Kock and company—good heavens, what’s the problem?—new uses for the limbs, a tantalizing glimpse of the abyss, the latest sins, envy certainly, a little spite, jealousy like a vaginal itch, and perfect boredom. 'And the mirror, like justice, is your aid but never your friend.' -- From "Three Photos of Colette," The World Within the Word, reprinted from NYRB April 1977

Everywhere you look with this young lady, there’s a purity of motivation,” Shultz told him. “I mean she really is trying to make the world better, and this is her way of doing it.” Mattis went out of his way to praise her integrity. “She has probably one of the most mature and well-honed sense of ethics—personal ethics, managerial ethics, business ethics, medical ethics that I’ve ever heard articulated,” the retired general gushed. Parloff didn’t end up using those quotes in his article, but the ringing endorsements he heard in interview after interview from the luminaries on Theranos’s board gave him confidence that Elizabeth was the real deal. He also liked to think of himself as a pretty good judge of character. After all, he’d dealt with his share of dishonest people over the years, having worked in a prison during law school and later writing at length about such fraudsters as the carpet-cleaning entrepreneur Barry Minkow and the lawyer Marc Dreier, both of whom went to prison for masterminding Ponzi schemes. Sure, Elizabeth had a secretive streak when it came to discussing certain specifics about her company, but he found her for the most part to be genuine and sincere. Since his angle was no longer the patent case, he didn’t bother to reach out to the Fuiszes. — WHEN PARLOFF’S COVER STORY was published in the June 12, 2014, issue of Fortune, it vaulted Elizabeth to instant stardom. Her Journal interview had gotten some notice and there had also been a piece in Wired, but there was nothing like a magazine cover to grab people’s attention. Especially when that cover featured an attractive young woman wearing a black turtleneck, dark mascara around her piercing blue eyes, and bright red lipstick next to the catchy headline “THIS CEO IS OUT FOR BLOOD.” The story disclosed Theranos’s valuation for the first time as well as the fact that Elizabeth owned more than half of the company. There was also the now-familiar comparison to Steve Jobs and Bill Gates. This time it came not from George Shultz but from her old Stanford professor Channing Robertson. (Had Parloff read Robertson’s testimony in the Fuisz trial, he would have learned that Theranos was paying him $500,000 a year, ostensibly as a consultant.) Parloff also included a passage about Elizabeth’s phobia of needles—a detail that would be repeated over and over in the ensuing flurry of coverage his story unleashed and become central to her myth. When the editors at Forbes saw the Fortune article, they immediately assigned reporters to confirm the company’s valuation and the size of Elizabeth’s ownership stake and ran a story about her in their next issue. Under the headline “Bloody Amazing,” the article pronounced her “the youngest woman to become a self-made billionaire.” Two months later, she graced one of the covers of the magazine’s annual Forbes 400 issue on the richest people in America. More fawning stories followed in USA Today, Inc., Fast Company, and Glamour, along with segments on NPR, Fox Business, CNBC, CNN, and CBS News. With the explosion of media coverage came invitations to numerous conferences and a cascade of accolades. Elizabeth became the youngest person to win the Horatio Alger Award. Time magazine named her one of the one hundred most influential people in the world. President Obama appointed her a U.S. ambassador for global entrepreneurship, and Harvard Medical School invited her to join its prestigious board of fellows.

I’m no expert, no natural-born talent, definitely no guru. As you’ll soon learn, only through a colossal experiment in trial and error did I reach the sexual summit. Although I own up to having worn a cape in a few intimate scenarios, I don’t possess supernatural powers of any kind. Perhaps my IQ is slightly above average, but Mensa isn’t busting down my door. If pressed to define myself, I’d say I’m Horatio Alger between the sheets: a self-made swinging single male. . . with a hefty dose of Buster Keaton mixed in.

It’s the News-boys’ Lodgin’ House, on Fulton Street,” said Dick, “up over the ’Sun’ office. It’s a good place. I don’t know what us boys would do without it. They give you supper for six cents, and a bed for five cents more.” “I suppose some boys don’t even have the five cents to pay,–do they?” “They’ll trust the boys,” said Dick. “But I don’t like to get trusted. I’d be ashamed to get trusted for five cents, or ten either.

wish we were not so terribly poor, Grant," said Mrs. Thornton, in a discouraged tone. "Is there anything new that makes you say so, mother?

DEAR SIR: Inclosed you will find a bill for groceries and other goods furnished to you in the last six months, amounting to sixty-seven dollars and thirty-four cents ($67.34). It ought to have been paid before. How you, a minister of the Gospel, can justify yourself in using goods which you don't pay for, I can't understand. If I remember rightly, the Bible says: 'Owe no man anything.' As I suppose you recognize the Bible

Why are you smiling? - Horatio to Calliegh

Most of the world’s seven billion people found their destinies largely determined at the moment of birth. There are, of course, plenty of Horatio Alger stories in this world. Indeed, America abounds with them. But for literally billions of people, where they are born and who gives them birth, along with their gender and native intellect, largely determine the life they will experience. In this ovarian lottery, my children received some lucky tickets. Many people who experience such good fortune react by simply enjoying their position in life and trying to ensure that their children enjoy similar benefits. This approach is understandable, though it can become distasteful when it is accompanied by a smug “If I can do it, why can’t everyone else?” attitude.

In deepest truth there is no "alone.