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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

--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.

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.

It is well with my soul.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

England expects that every man will do his duty.

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

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

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.

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

Charles Horatio Bingley,

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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 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

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

We must trust to the Great Disposer of all events and the justice of our cause. —ADMIRAL HORATIO NELSON

The sun had just laid the first orange slices on the horizon. It lit up the manicured grounds of the clubhouse on the rise, the rooftops of the condos in the distance, making the country club look a but like Disney World. Birdie had been to Disney World, but she’d never liked it. It didn’t feel like real life. The view was enough to make a person think that God was smiling on Horatio Balmeade. He would never have to worry about frost, unless it might kill his imported pine trees, which had no business being in Georgia in the first place. A person could assume that his club would never have any problems, that it would always be perfect, and that at some point it was inevitable it would swallow up the mess of the orchard. But Birdie saw it differently. She took it as a good omen that the sun, though it was shining on Horatio Balmeade and all of his glittering property, was the exact same color every morning. That is, it was the exact same color as peaches.

Desperate affairs require desperate measures. —ADMIRAL HORATIO NELSON

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.

Any interest in Yoga, in miracles or psychic powers, not based on that humbleness of the soul which is the beginning and the end of all true spiritual light and love is at its best something of scientific interest, and at its worst it is that pride and desire for power which are the surest signs of spiritual darkness. Let us take an interesting psychological experiment: thought-transmission or thought-reading [.......] The person in deep sleep reads accurately what is written, and when the same experiment is repeated with success several times with different words and numbers not the slightest doubt is left in the mind of the operator that thought-transmission, or thought-reading, is a fact. And when he hears long arguments to the contrary by those who of course have not practised the experiment he cannot but smile. Well, what does the experiment prove? Only that, to quote Hamlet again, There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But supposing that after this experiment we could attain all the psychic powers promised in Yoga, does this mean that we have advanced a single step on the spiritual path? Of course not. We have learnt something of amazing psychological interest; but we have not advanced on the path of love. We may even have gone backwards if the slightest pride or self-satisfaction has infected our mind. Those who rely on physical miracles to prove the truth of spiritual things forget the ever-present miracle of the universe and of our own lives. The lover of the physical miracle is in fact a materialist: instead of making material things spiritual, as the poet or the spiritual man does, he simply makes spiritual things material, and this is the source of all idolatry and superstition. Leaving aside the question that matter and spirit may simply be 'different modes, or degrees in perfection, of a common substractum ', as Coleridge says, and the Upanishads suggest, there is the far greater question that in everything spiritual there is an element of beauty which is truth, and which we find in faith, but which is lacking in fanaticism and superstition.

gamesters,

Although “the American Dream” is a surprisingly recent coinage (the term was first used in its modern sense in the 1930s), the cultural trope of Horatio Alger and the prospect of upward social mobility have very deep roots in our psyche.

You just hired yourself a detective.

To have any goal in your life is to forget about the uselessness of life. To think of interesting ideas. - Isvan Moldovan

along their ribs: MUFFIN, BUSTER, WHANGDOODLE, SHIRLEY, and HORATIO, the Five Unicorns of the Apocalypse.

The American dream of the Horatio Alger success story is completely meaningless to the Indian. To him it is simply an indication of a struggle for material values. what we have failed to take to him is our spiritual values. We must show by our behavior that we believe in equality and in justice and that our religion teaches faith and love and charity to our fellow men. Here is where each of us has a job to do that must be done at home, because we can lose the battle on the soil of the United States just as surely as we can lose it in any one of the other countries in the world.

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

Cap’n Crunch’s full name is Captain Horatio Magellan Crunch.

The words with which a breakdown is treated are all medicalised - illness, treatment, nurse, doctor, meds - but the mechanism of treatment belongs to retribution: incarnation, surveillance, behaviour monitoring, parole. For crimes against normality, we get a label and a chemical life sentence. I hate this mechanism. I refuse to believe in it.

General Sherman praised the shows as "wonderfully realistic and historically reminiscent." Reviews and the show's own publicity always stressed its "realism." There is no doubt it was more realistic, visually and in essence, than any of the competing Wild Wests. There were four other Wild West shows that year: Adam Forepaugh had one, Dr. A. W. Carver another; there was a third called Fargo's Wild West and one known as Hennessey's Wild West. Cody criticized all their claims and their use of the words "Wild West." He had copyrighted the term according to an act of Congress on December 22, 1883, and registered a typescript at the Library of Congress on June 1, 1885. The copyright title read: The Wild West or Life among the Red Man and the Road Agents of the Plains and Prairies-An Equine Dramatic Exposition on Grass or Under Canvas, of the Adventures of Frontiersmen and Cowboys. Additional copy was headed BUFFALO BILL'S "WILD WEST" PRAIRIE EXHIBITION AND ROCKY MOUNTAIN SHOW, A DRAMATIC-EQUESTRIAN EXPOSITION OF LIFE ON THE PLAINS, WITH ACCOMPANYING MONOLOGUE AND INCIDENTAL MUSIC THE WHOLE INVENTED AND ARRANGED BY W.F. CODY W.F. CODY AND N. SALSBURY, PROPRIETORS AND MANAGERS WHO HEREBY CLAIM AS THEIR SPECIAL PROPERTY THE VARIOUS EFFECTS INTRODUCED IN THE PUBLIC PERFORMANCES OF BUFFALO BILL'S "WILD WEST" Although the show's first year under enlarged and reorganized management had not been a financial success, at least one good thing had come from it. Also showing in New Orleans that winter had been the Sells Brothers Circus. One of its performers who had wandered over to visit the Wild West lot was Annie Oakley. The story of Annie Oakley's life was so much in the American grain that it might have come from the pen of Horatio Alger Jr., the minister turned best-selling author, who chronicled the fictional lives of poor boys who made good. Ragged Dick: or, Street Life in New York, Ragged Tom, and Luck Moses then married Dan Brumbaugh, who died in an accident shortly afterward, leaving another daughter. When she was seven, Annie frequently fed the family with quail she had caught in homemade traps, much as young Will Cody had trapped small game. In an interview she once said: "I was eight years old when I made my first shot, and I still consider it one of the best shots I ever

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

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

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.

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.

In deepest truth there is no "alone.

There is an element in experience that usually eludes description. Some experiences can never be told. They are intimately a part of us.

It is one thing to talk about "the power of silence" and another to be able to pause long enough to enjoy it.

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.

Why are you smiling? - Horatio to Calliegh

Yeah, Erik. You're about as sensitive as a toilet seat," Horatio said. Angie giggled. "That's not original. I got it from Holden Caulfield." "Who's he?" Angie asked. "A character in a book. [i]The Catcher In The Rye[/i]." (pg. 69)

I am not Beauregard Horatio Walnut.

FAME AND FORTUNE;

of stories

one man, a guest named Horatio Prescott, killed on

Max’s lips trembled against Horatio’s mouth. “Now comes the best part,” he whispered, emotion shaking his voice. “I get to marry the boy of my dreams.”   ♦

...ia lalu mengakhiri pujiannya ke pada mereka semua, bahwa mereka sebaiknya meninggalkan Macondo, bahwa mereka telah melupakan semua yang diajarkan pada mereka tentang dunia dan hati manusia, bahwa mereka telah mengentuti Horatio dan bahwa ke mana saja mereka akan pergi harus selalu mengingat bahwa masa lalu itu adalah sebuah omong kosong, bahwa kenangan tidak akan kembali lagi, bahwa tiap musim gugur yang telah lalu tidak akan bisa dikejar dan bahwa cinta paling liar dan paling ngotot itu pada akhirnya hanyalah kebenaran yang sekejap, tidak berlangsung lama.

My salary was ten dollars a week, to which I added the extra two dollars Harry used to give me and about three dollars in tips that I used to average, which made a comfortable total of fifteen a week and was enough for me to get along on. I could use more money, but then, who couldn’t? Jobs were pretty hard to get and I thought I was doing pretty well. It wasn’t as much money as I had made years ago when I worked for Keough, but somehow I wasn’t too interested in trying to get back into that work. I had the idea that I would eventually work my way up into a better paying job. The Horatio Alger idea was still a good one as far as I knew.

He sighed. ‘Phrenology is where the size and shape of your skull determines whether you dunnit or not.

out of it glided ladies in dresses that trailed along in a rustle of silk, men who swept their hats off with the same grandeur with which they swung their canes, liveried servants with impassive expressions, expectant drivers and porters bearing lighted candles.

Lincoln’s smile could have scared rattlesnakes.

There is no secret” to success, Fred explained years later in accepting the Horatio Alger Award, given to people who overcame adversity. “There are just two things. One, you must like what you do. You must pick out the right business or profession. You must learn all about it . . . so you become enthusiastic about it. Nine out of ten people don’t like what they do. And in not liking what they do, they lose enthusiasm, they go from job to job, and ultimately become a nothing.

Poor Tom began to regret that she had experienced anything better, since it seemed doubtful whether she would ever again be satisfied with a street life.

To Tom, who was a true child of the city, who had rarely seen green grass, since the round of her life had been spent within a short distance of City Hall Park, it seemed strange. She wondered how it would seem to live in the country, and rather thought she should not like it.

Horatio, do you know me still? Are you my friend, Horatio? If you know me, how can you be my friend?

Already, data showed that the American dream of rags to riches, the Horatio Alger story, was largely a myth. Economic mobility was extremely limited. The abolition of the estate tax could solidify these changes, creating a new “class” society, based not on ancient nobility as in Europe, but on the bonanza of the Roaring Nineties. The

Why do we care about small businesses? Look, on one level, we care about the entrepreneurs--the Horatio Algers and the people working toward the American dream--but even more fundamentally, small businesses produce two-thirds of the new jobs in this country. If small businesses are suffering, jobs are suffering and America suffers.   ObamaCare is an absolute disaster for small businesses. Forty-one percent of small business owners have held off on plans to hire new employees, and 38 percent say they are holding off on plans to grow their businesses in direct response to the law.   By

But there also seems to be in our culture a curious cautiousness—“You’ll get these abundant gratifications only if you don’t feel too much, don’t let on you want too much.” The result is that, instead of conquering the world like Horatio Alger, we should wait passively until the genie of technology—which we don’t push or influence, only await—brings us our appointed gratifications. All of this is a part of the rewards which go with belief in the vast myth of the machine in the twentieth century.

For all my wanderings, I'm ordinary. I came to terms long ago with my littleness. A man is what he is--he can't rise so much as an inch above his shortcomings--Horatio Alger be damned!

Hamlet: Horatio! the funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. هاملت: هوراشيو! فإن اللحوم التي شُويت لأجل المناحة قُدَّمت باردة على موائد العرس

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

minutes later Horatio pulled up to the

In 1871, much of the city of Chicago was on fire, hundreds of people died, and four square miles of the city burned to the ground. The Great Chicago Fire was one of the worst disasters in America during the nineteenth century. One Chicago resident, Horatio Spafford, was a good friend of D. L. Moody and a man who lived out his faith. Despite great personal loss in property and assets, Horatio and his wife, Anna, dedicated themselves to helping the people of Chicago who had become impoverished by the fire. After years of hard work helping others recover from their losses, the Spaffords decided to take a well-earned vacation to help Moody during one of his evangelistic crusades in Great Britain. Anna and their four daughters went on ahead while Horatio planned on joining them in a few days after tending to some unfinished business matters. One night en route, the ship that Anna and the girls were traveling on collided with another ship and sank within minutes. Anna and the girls were thrown into the black waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and only Anna survived. As hard as she tried, she could not save even one of her daughters. Anna was found unconscious, floating on a piece of wreckage. After her rescue, she sent a heartrending telegram to Horatio in Chicago that simply said, “Saved alone.” Horatio boarded the next ship to Europe to be reunited with his wife. As he was en route, the captain called Horatio to the bridge when they reached the spot where his daughters had drowned. As Horatio stood looking out into the blackness of the sea, heartbroken and no doubt with tears running down his face, with only his faith sustaining him, he penned the words to one of the greatest hymns ever written: “It Is Well with My Soul.” When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul Chorus It is well with my soul, It is well, it is well with my soul! My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part, but the whole, Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul! How can a man who has just lost his four little girls praise the Lord? Where does a person get that kind of strength? The answer: by being deeply rooted in the Word of God. Horatio Spafford was a man of the Word, so when tragedy stuck, he could face it with strength and confidence. The centrality of God’s Word plays a critical role in the life of every believer, and this emphasis serves as the Big Idea throughout Psalms 90—150.

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

It was the time of the Oxford Pledge and the movement against Fascism; his temptation to go to Spain as a member of the Lincoln Brigade . . . 'I was an ideal recruit, alone, on the run, searching for something'; a serious affair with a schoolteacher, running away . . . 'This is part of the Depression. You lived in a fear of responsibility for another person. You backed off when someone got close.' . . . I was born out of the Depression. I gave up my illusions. No more Horatio Alger Jr. I had a few bad hours, a few bad years. But I found excitement. It was an awakening.

...Stealing all the balls from the ball-pit play area in the local 'Baron Horatio Von FUNigan's Pizzatorium and Gameateria' restaurant chain... one ball at a time..." The officer looked up at him. "Why would you do that?" "Because I couldn't find a container big enough to carry them all away at once." He answered seriously.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” –Shakespeare, Hamlet, act 1, scene 5

The McGees visit the Book Nook to buy Horatio Alger novels they plan to resell to a book collector.

I didn’t want to be Horatio Alger in someone’s tear-filled homage to the American dream. I wanted my life to make sense, and nothing in that narrative made sense to me.

We're all out of virgins!

That's the mistake too many bricklayers make; they're too keen on levels too early. The best place for getting it level is at the end, not at the beginning. That's what everyone sees, after all, the finished job.

Warren generally shared his wife’s liberal views, if not her desire to work in a hands-on way to improve society. He strongly rejected the Horatio Alger view of success so popular among conservative-minded business types and instead talked often of how the “ovarian lottery” determined people’s fate. As he’s said: “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.

The doorkeeper of the Norfolk Club was a man by the name of Cartiledge. As a youth, his heart had been romantic, his head had been poetic and his political affiliations had been conservative to an extreme. He hadn’t planned on a life of holding the door open for the aristocracy, and years of bowing to nobility had given him a sense both of what Karl Marx had been on about, and of profound, world-weary depression. Nothing interesting happened at the Norfolk Club.

What’s your name, son?” “Soot, Your Excellentness,” said the goblin. “Though I’ve always rather liked ‘Horatio.

Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower sat in his bath, regarding with distaste his legs dangling over the edge. They were thin and hairy, and recalled to his mind the legs of the spiders he had seen in Central America.

My father's generation grew up with certain beliefs. One of those beliefs is that the amount of money one earns is a rough guide to one's contribution to the welfare and prosperity of our society. I grew up unusually close to my father. Each evening I would plop into a chair near him, sweaty from a game of baseball in the front yard, and listen to him explain why such and such was true and such and such was not. One thing that was almost always true was that people who made a lot of money were neat. Horatio Alger and all that. It took watching his son being paid 225 grand at the age of twenty-seven, after two years on the job, to shake his faith in money. He has only recently recovered from the shock. I haven't. When you sit, as I did, at the center of what has been possibly the most absurd money game ever and benefit out of all proportion to your value to society (as much as I'd like to think I got only what I deserved, I don't), when hundreds of equally undeserving people around you are all raking it in faster than they can count it, what happens to the money belief? Well, that depends. For some, good fortune simply reinforces the belief. They take the funny money seriously, as evidence that they are worthy citizens of the Republic. It becomes their guiding assumption-for it couldn't possibly be clearly thought out-that a talent for making money come out of a telephone is a reflection of merit on a grander scale. It is tempting to believe that people who think this way eventually suffer their comeuppance. They don't. They just get richer. I'm sure most of them die fat and happy. For me, however, the belief in the meaning of making dollars crumbled; the proposition that the more money you earn, the better the life you are leading was refuted by too much hard evidence to the contrary. And without that belief, I lost the need to make huge sums of money. The funny thing is that I was largely unaware how heavily influenced I was by the money belief until it had vanished. It is a small piece of education, but still the most useful thing I picked up at Salomon Brothers. Almost everything else I learned I left behind. I became fairly handy with a few hundred million dollars, but I'm still lost when I have to decide what to do with a few thousand. I learned humility briefly in the training program but forgot it as soon as I was given a chance. And I learned that people can be corrupted by organizations, but since I remain willing to join organizations and even to be corrupted by them (mildly, please), I'm not sure what practical benefit will come from this lesson.

Jim Jordan as Fibber McGee of 79 Wistful Vista, teller of tall tales, incurable windbag. Marian Jordan as Molly McGee, his long-suffering wife. Marian Jordan as Teeny, the little girl who dropped in frequently to pester McGee. Isabel Randolph in miscellaneous “snooty” parts, beginning Jan. 13, 1936, and culminating in her long-running role as the highbrow Mrs. Abigail Uppington. Bill Thompson as Greek restaurateur Nick Depopoulous, first heard Jan. 27, 1936. Bill Thompson in various con man roles, first named Widdicomb Blotto and later Horatio K. Boomer, mimicking W. C. Fields from the show of March 9, 1936. Bill Thompson as the Old Timer, beginning May 31, 1937. Bill Thompson as Wallace Wimple, henpecked husband and bird fancier, introduced April 15, 1941.

There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" "Earth. The quote is, 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.'" "Is it now? I think I like my version better." "Even though it's wrong?" "Especially because it's wrong.

The boys are caught between a private conversation among themselves, a world only they can understand, and their awareness of the artist, the adult observer looking and listening. They remind me of us, of me and my fellow patients, the garments of the adult world not quite fitting us, the jumbled machinery of the day-to-day not quite belonging to us, asked to give an account of ourselves and unsure quite what to say.

Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

There seemed a popular sentiment in favor of employing boys, and Tom, like others of her sex, found herself shut out from an employment for which she considered herself fitted.

That Tom should be very conscientious on the subject of truth could hardly be expected.

He was a gentleman of considerable property in the Woolram Valley and believed that anything he dug up was a Roman remain. He was succeeded in the presidency by Sir Walpole Pridham, whose descendant Sir Edmund Pridham is still a hard-working servant of the county. Sir Walpole believed with fervour equal to Mr. Horatio Palmer’s that whatever he dug up was British, and since then the presidentship had been divided pretty evenly between the Roman and the British enthusiasts, and had gradually become the blue ribbon of Barsetshire, having been held by the Duke of Omnium, an Earl de Courcy, an Earl of Pomfret, Dean Arabin, Mr. Frank Gresham (little Frank’s great-grandfather who married a fortune), and in fact by all the county’s most noted peers, landed proprietors and spiritual leaders.

The linden tree. It stood unchanged since the first time Papa Horatio had seen it, all those years ago— unchanged, Alaine thought, for perhaps centuries. Always green, always blooming, even in the middle of winter. Now, at the cresting of summer, it almost blended into the deep green of the forest, except for the perfect circle of velvet green surrounding it. That, and the scent. Ebbing like a tide on the gentle breeze that stirred the linden’s leaves, the perfume mingled the ordinary golden florals of linden blooms with strange notes of vanilla and cedar and incense.

Batty ran up, her hands cupped together. “I caught one named Horatio,” she said, and spread open her hands. A lightning bug balanced uncertainly on her thumb. “Look, he’s blinking,” said Jane. “He’s trying to tell us something in Morse code.” “What?” asked Batty. “Please... let... me... go,” said Jane.

He leaned in and quoted, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” That’s the thing about Oxford. You go for a drink in a pub with some guy and next thing he’s quoting Hamlet.

You’re all fucking mine,” James growled, surging forward. In a rage, he wrapped a hand around the back of Burke’s neck. “You know me better than any person living. You know my greatest weakness is also my greatest strength: I covet things,” he whispered, his breath hot in Burke’s ear. God, Burke was so hard. If James inched any closer, he would feel it. “So be careful how you push me, Horatio. If you unleash me, I will claim you so fully, so fiercely…you will never escape me. I will brand myself on every inch of your fucking soul.

THERE WAS ONE MAN in the movie business immune to the usual pressures of dealing with actors, directors, set design, and union contractors. He created stars who never aged, never complained, never walked off the job, and never demanded salaries. By 1937 Walt Disney was already a dominant parallel force to the studio system, “the Horatio Alger hero of Cinema.” He did need distribution, but his company’s work had such a strong draw at the box office that the distribution arms needed Disney more than the other way around. He controlled the biggest star in the world, Mickey Mouse, who had debuted in a short seven-minute cartoon Steamboat Willie in 1928. Even better, Mickey was a commercial phenomenon away from the box office.

Hornblower, looking after them felt a sudden feeling of hatred for them and the race they represented. They were a proud nation, yet never so proud as to disdain favors from others, hating foreigners only a little more than they hated each other, ignorant, misgoverned, misusing the wealth with which nature had endowed their country; Spain was a natural prey to any stronger nation.

the Seas are Britannia’s where no Frog-eating Frenchman can show his Face?

as soon as the stimulus of necessity was applied.

the trinkets of the tyrant can never mean anything to a Knight of the Holy Ghost.

But there was one thing I got while I was in the printing-office which I value ore than money... a taste for reading and study. During my leisure hours I improved myself by study, and acquired a large part of the knowledge which I now possess.

If his employment is an honest one, it is an honorable one.

Dick may have been lucky," said Mr. Rockwell, "but I generally find that luck comes oftenest to those who deserve it. If you will try to raise yourself I will help you.

Now to-day I have been greatly startled by your voice coming through the forest to this opening. You have come with troubled mind through all obstacles. You kept seeing the places where they met on whom we depended, my offspring. How then can your mind be at ease? You kept seeing the footmarks of our fore-fathers; and all but perceptible is the smoke where they used to smoke the pipe together. Can then your mind be at ease when you are weeping on your way? Great thanks now, therefore, that you have safely arrived. Now, then, let us smoke the pipe together. Because all around are hostile agencies which are each thinking, 'I will frustrate their purpose.' Here thorny ways, and here falling trees, and here wild beasts lying in ambush. Either by these you might have perished, my offspring, or, here by floods you might have been destroyed, my offspring, or by the uplifted hatchet in the dark outside the house. Every day these are wasting us; or deadly invisible disease might have destroyed you, my offspring.

when next you enforce Britannia’s dominion of the seas.