Hoving Quotes

So I hove a brick through his window...

They laid up in the shade of a rock shelf until past noon, scratching out a place in the gray lava dust to sleep, and they set forth in the afternoon down the valley following the war trail and they were very small and they moved very slowly in the immensity of that landscape. Come evening they hove toward the rimrock again and Sproule pointed out a dark stain on the face of the barren cliff. It looked like the black from old fires. The kid shielded his eyes. The scalloped canyon walls rippled in the heat like drapery folds.

At this slower pace the journey took a couple of days, and I fought off a few minor threats along the way --griffins, carnivorous plants, giant serpents, hostile centaurs, that sort of thing, purely routine --and I was beginning to get bored when at last the dusky towers of Castle Roogna hove into view.

There was a period just after the inevitability of ruin hove into view and just before it smashed into the hull of your life that was the closest to pure freedom anybody got.

I always tell people that if they want to know about the history of a country, do not go to the history books, go to the fiction. Fiction is not fiction. It is the substance and heartbeat of a people's life, here, now, and in the past.

hauled up our wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line. Then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like

But he wasn't really thinking properly. It was as if the thoughts were chasing each other round and round his head without managing to catch up with each other.

Saari umar yaaara tenu pyar mile.. Jo hove tere dil vich oh harr vaar mile... Vichar jandy ne kush lok miln to bad... Jo kdi na vichare evy da tenu yaar mile... Hun kry jagdeep ehi ardass tenu sub kush mile... bs kdi mery varga dhokybaz yaar na mile...

And with that, away he went. You never see a bird work so since you was born. He laid into his work like a nigger, and the way he hove acorns into that hole for about two hours and a half was one of the most exciting and astonishing spectacles I ever struck. He

What's supposed to happen, at the end of a quest? Cheers and accolades, Josh knew; people throw their hats in the air, and you glow with pride as they lift you to their shoulders. What else? Medals, speeches and a great feast, and then a ballad about your exploits, and finally, as the fireworks go off overhead, a soft, clean, fresh bed.

That's the positive aspect of trade I suppose. The world gets stirred up together. That's about as much as I have to say for it.

de dødes lys brænder fra mit hoved som et mørkt forår i en udtrådt verden tanken om at vende tilbage til den ro der var før jeg fandtes skræmmer mig

Sonet pranveruer Me kangë në buzë e me hove të reja u zgjue agimi pranveruer, largësinat e hjedhta ka zatetë hareja, n'argjent shkëlqejnë brigjet tërthuer. Me kangë në buzë u zgjue agimi dhe ia këndoi kangën diellit t' art rrezash purpure dhe jetëdhurimi me kaltrinat e thellta në qiellë të kjartë. Me manushaqe në buzë e me andje në zemra vajzat si biluri ndër kopshtie të gjelbra dihasin aromat, që lulzimi derdhi, me gji të paprekun, ku dashnia sosë me fletza trandafilesh që flladi sjelli dhe adhrojnë pranverën me një apoteozë.

I mean to say, millions of people, no doubt, are so constituted that they scream with joy and excitement at the spectacle of a stuffed porcupine-fish or a glass jar of seeds from Western Australia - but not Bertram. No; if you will take the word of one who would not deceive you, not Bertram. By the time we had tottered out of the Gold Coast village and were working towards the Palace of Machinery, everything pointed to my shortly executing a quiet sneak in the direction of that rather jolly Planters' Bar in the West Indian section. ... There are certain moments in life when words are not needed. I looked at Biffy, Biffy looked at me. A perfect understanding linked our two souls. "?" "!" Three minutes later we had joined the Planters. I have never been in the West Indies, but I am in a position to state that in certain of the fundamentals of life they are streets ahead of our European civilisation. The man behind the counter, as kindly a bloke as I ever wish to meet, seemed to guess our requirements the moment we hove in view. Scarcely had our elbows touched the wood before he was leaping to and fro, bringing down a new bottle with each leap. A planter, apparently, does not consider he has had a drink unless it contains at least seven ingredients, and I'm not saying, mind you, that he isn't right. The man behind the bar told us the things were called Green Swizzles; and, if ever I marry and have a son, Green Swizzle Wooster is the name that will go down on the register, in memory of the day his father's life was saved at Wembley.

I don't think that time has much to do with whether God hears you or not; but I do believe that time has something to do with whether or not your faith is built up as you pray and ask. I don't believe that God will ever give much to those who hove their little conscience-easer prayers in the morning and evening. If you cannot take 1/48th of your day to be alone with your mighty God and King, I rather doubt that He is going to do very much through you.

Ako ti jave da sam pao na razoranim, sleđenim poljima Flandrije, da me je pokosio šrapnel - ti nemoj da budeš tužna i nemoj plakati pred svijetom, jer vrlo dobro znaš da iz mojih grudi ne mogu da niknu suncokreti niti se moje kapi krvi mogu pretvoriti u makove. To je sve jedna obična literarna konstrukcija, a da ne pričamo o tome što ja nikad nisam ni vidio Flandriju niti je ona vidjela mene. Ako ti kažu da sam se u svojim posljednjim časovima junački držao, da sam neustrašivo gledao smrti u oči, da sam je čak i začikavao, da sam svog sudiju prezrivo pljunuo, a da sam dželatu dao kesu dukata uz riječi: "Dobro obavite svoj posao!", a da sam, potom, sam izmaknuo stolicu ispod vješala, ti bi morala znati da je to jedna obična izmišljotina, izmišljotina onih koji ne znaju šta je to život a šta smrt znači. Ti me dobro znaš: znaš kako ja često umirem svakog bogovjetnog dana, kako se trzam na svaki šum, kako mi se čelo često orosi znojem (reklo bi se bez razloga), znaš da se bojim proviriti kroz špijunku na vratima bojeći se ne znam ni sam čega, bojeći se nekoga ko će mi s nadmoćnim osmijehom na licu izrecitirati sti­hove Marine Cvetajeve: Predaj se! Još niko nije našao spasa od onoga što uzima bez ruku! Sjećaš se kako sam se bojao kad si trebala da me predstaviš svo­jim roditeljima, koliko ti je trebalo vremena da me ubijediš da nisam baš toliki kreten koliki izgledam, da se ponekad sa mnom može proći ruku pod ruku kroz prometnu ulicu... Ja pamtim ono veče kad smo otišli kod jedne tvoje prijateljice koja je slavila rođendan, sjećam se svakog vica koji sam ispričao i sjećam se pogleda društva koje je u meni gledalo neku egzotičnu životinju, sjećam se kako su se gurkali laktovima kad smo ulazili, kad sam skidao svoje cipele sa pačijim kljunom (a u modi su bile brukserice), kako sam ispod stola krio onu rupu na ne baš čistim čarapama... Pamtim kako sam to veče, ponesen strahom, popio tri flaše "Fruškogorskog bisera", litar i po domaće rakije (više je nije bilo) i završio sa "Mandarmetom", nekim likerom od mandarina... Od svega toga bi se napilo jedno omanje krdo slonova, ali ja sam bio najtrezniji, bojao sam se da tebi ne napravim neko sranje i to me je držalo. Onda smo izašli na Vilsonovo šetalište i ti si se propela na prste i poljubila me, evo, baš ovdje, pored uha, a ja sam morao da sjed­nem na klupu i da počnem plakati... Prolazila su neka djeca i čuo sam ih kako kažu: "Vidi pedera!!!" Kao i uvijek, ti si me pitala šta mi je najednom, a ja nisam mogao da ti objasnim da to uopšte nije najednom, da je to stalno, da je to neka vrsta mog zaštitnog znaka, nešto po čemu bih sebe poznao među hiljadama meni sličnih, nešto što se i ne trudim da sakrijem, jedan zloćudni tumor s kojim sam se rodio, tumor na mozgu i duši koji se ne da ukloniti nikakvim operativnim putem ni zračenjem, ni činjenicom da te volim i da ti voliš mene... Ako ti jave da večeras hodam po kafanama i olajavam tebe i našu ljubav, da se prodajem za loše vino, da skupljam opuške tuđih simpatija, ljubim ruke nečistih konobarica, ispadam budala u svačijim očima... To ti je živa istina.

Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark-- which was a candle in a cabin window... It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened; Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could 'a' laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable... because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest. Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something.

They loved the sea. They taught themselves to sail, to navigate and read the weather. Without their mother's knowledge and long before she thought them old enough to sail outside the harbor, they were piloting their catboat all the way to the Isles of Shoals. They were on the return leg of one such excursion when the fickle weather of early spring took an abrupt turn and the sky darkened and the sun vanished and the wind came squalling off the open sea. They were a half mile from the harbor when the storm overtook them. The rain struck in a slashing torrent and the swells hove them so high they felt they might be sent flying--then dropped them into troughs so deep they could see nothing but walls of water the color of iron. They feared the sail would be ripped away. Samuel Thomas wrestled the tiller and John Roger bailed in a frenzy and both were wide-eyed with euphoric terror as time and again they were nearly capsized before at last making the harbor. When they got home and Mary Margaret saw their sodden state she scolded them for dunces and wondered aloud how they could do so well in their schooling when they didn't have sense enough to get out of the rain.

She sometimes takes her little brother for a walk round this way," explained Bingo. "I thought we would meet her and bow, and you could see her, you know, and then we would walk on." "Of course," I said, "that's enough excitement for anyone, and undoubtedly a corking reward for tramping three miles out of one's way over ploughed fields with tight boots, but don't we do anything else? Don't we tack on to the girl and buzz along with her?" "Good Lord!" said Bingo, honestly amazed. "You don't suppose I've got nerve enough for that, do you? I just look at her from afar off and all that sort of thing. Quick! Here she comes! No, I'm wrong!" It was like that song of Harry Lauder's where he's waiting for the girl and says, "This is her-r-r. No, it's a rabbut." Young Bingo made me stand there in the teeth of a nor'-east half-gale for ten minutes, keeping me on my toes with a series of false alarms, and I was just thinking of suggesting that we should lay off and give the rest of the proceedings a miss, when round the corner there came a fox-terrier, and Bingo quivered like an aspen. Then there hove in sight a small boy, and he shook like a jelly. Finally, like a star whose entrance has been worked up by the personnel of the ensemble, a girl appeared, and his emotion was painful to witness. His face got so red that, what with his white collar and the fact that the wind had turned his nose blue, he looked more like a French flag than anything else. He sagged from the waist upwards, as if he had been filleted. He was just raising his fingers limply to his cap when he suddenly saw that the girl wasn't alone. A chappie in clerical costume was also among those present, and the sight of him didn't seem to do Bingo a bit of good. His face got redder and his nose bluer, and it wasn't till they had nearly passed that he managed to get hold of his cap. The girl bowed, the curate said, "Ah, Little. Rough weather," the dog barked, and then they toddled on and the entertainment was over.

Alting gentog sig. Selvom rublen var skiftet ud med kronen, og militærflyene oven over hendes hoved var blevet færre, og officerernes koner mindre højrøstede, og selvom den estiske nationalsang dagligt lød fra højttalerne i Lange-Hermann-tårnet, ville der altid dukke en ny kernelæderstøvle op, altid en ny støvle, en, der var magen til, eller også så den anderledes ud, men måden den trådte én over halsen på, ville altid være den samme.

The Fawn There it was I saw what I shall never forget And never retrieve. Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to believe, He lay, yet there he lay, Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft small ebony hoves, The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer. Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here Till I return," so spotty and plain to see On the green moss lay he. His eyes had opened; he considered me. I would have given more than I care to say To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend One moment only of that forest day: Might I have had the acceptance, not the love Of those clear eyes; Might I have been for him in the bough above Or the root beneath his forest bed, A part of the forest, seen without surprise. Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he depart That jerked him to his jointy knees, And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling On his new legs, between the stems of the white trees?

… Men kære, kære Herre, hvem af os Mennesker kan vel egentlig hjælpe sin Næste? Hvem kan hjælpe ham saadan, som han ønsker det i sin Sjæls Inderste? Nej, vi maa nok se af hjælpe os selv! De vil maaske ikke tro det, men undertiden, — naar jeg ligger saadan ganske ene, akkurat, ligesom der ikke var andre Mennesker til i Verden end jeg og som jeg var det eneste Levende, saa er det mig tidt og mange Gange, som om En velsignende lagde sin Haand paa mit Hoved ; og saa faar jeg saadanne besynderlige Tanker, ganske besynderlige Tanker…

Slung on a stage over the gunwale of an old felucca, the Peri. A storm had just passed, rushing away toward the land in a great slope of clouds; already turning yellowish from the desert. The sea there is the color of Damascus plums; and how quiet. Sun was going down; not a beautiful sunset, more a gradual darkening of the air and that storm’s mountainside. The Peri had been damaged, we hove to alongside and hailed her master. No reply. Only the sailor—I never saw his face—one of your fellahin who abandon the land like a restless husband and then grumble for the rest of their term afloat. It’s the strongest marriage in the world. This one wore a kind of loincloth and a rag round his head for the sun which was almost gone. After we’d shouted in every dialect we had among us, he replied in Tuareg: ‘The master is gone, the crew is gone, I am here and I am painting the ship.’ It was true: he was painting the ship. She’d been damaged, not a load line in sight, and a bad list. ‘Come aboard,’ we told him, ‘night is nearly on us and you cannot swim to land.’ He never answered, merely continued dipping the brush in his earthen jar and slapping it smoothly on the Peri’s creaking sides. What color? It looked gray but the air was dark. This felucca would never again see the sun. Finally I told the helmsman to swing our ship round and continue on course. I watched the fellah until it was too dark: becoming smaller, inching closer to the sea with every swell but never slackening his pace. A peasant with all his uptorn roots showing, alone on the sea at nightfall, painting the side of a sinking ship.

Shkodra ne zheg E zhegu jeten edh’ e shafite e krejt qyteti disi kolomendet; heshtin pirajkat, heshtin avlimendet, e n’at heshti mbretnon e bardha drite. Vec ndonje cikrik pusi tur kersite degjohet hove-hive e’ i hap qi endet vetmimtar n’zheg,msa flejn’ njerzit e sendet, edhe kadalkadal vjen tu’u avite. Oh, shqetija fmijnore,n’moshe’ t’prarueme ! Nana na vente, n’zheg ne fmijjt,me fjete per t’i dhan me gjum’ t’on’, pak pushim shpis… Por na sa ndiejshem ngjat at hap, n’te shtrueme s’na zente vendi vend: rrijshim t’paqete, pse at hap e ndiqte britma e hallvaxhis!

Min mors sorg var primitiv og altomfattende: Den sugede ilten ud af luften. En tung, bedøvet fornemmelse fyldte mit hoved og min krop hver gang jeg kom hjem. Ingen af os – hverken min bror eller jeg selv, og da slet ikke min mor – fandt trøst i hinandens selskab. Vi var bare i eksil sammen, fanget i en fælles lidelse. For første gang var jeg bevidst om, at jeg blev grebet af åndelig ensomhed, og jeg kiggede ud på gaden, vendte mig mod de drømmende og melankolske indre anelser, der var blevet den eneste lindring fra det jeg hurtigt opfattede som en tilstand af tab og nederlag.

crafts. It’s lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they’d got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

All at once, something wonderful happened, although at first, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A female goldfinch suddenly hove into view. She lighted weightlessly on the head of a bankside purple thistle and began emptying the seedcase, sowing the air with down. The lighted frame of my window filled. The down rose and spread in all directions, wafting over the dam’s waterfall and wavering between the tulip trunks and into the meadow. It vaulted towards the orchard in a puff; it hovered over the ripening pawpaw fruit and staggered up the steep faced terrace. It jerked, floated, rolled, veered, swayed. The thistle down faltered down toward the cottage and gusted clear to the woods; it rose and entered the shaggy arms of pecans. At last it strayed like snow, blind and sweet, into the pool of the creek upstream, and into the race of the creek over rocks down. It shuddered onto the tips of growing grasses, where it poised, light, still wracked by errant quivers. I was holding my breath. Is this where we live, I thought, in this place in this moment, with the air so light and wild? The same fixity that collapses stars and drives the mantis to devour her mate eased these creatures together before my eyes: the thick adept bill of the goldfinch, and the feathery coded down. How could anything be amiss? If I myself were lighter and frayed, I could ride these small winds, too, taking my chances, for the pleasure of being so purely played. The thistle is part of Adam’s curse. “Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.” A terrible curse: But does the goldfinch eat thorny sorrow with the thistle or do I? If this furling air is fallen, then the fall was happy indeed. If this creekside garden is sorrow, then I seek martyrdom. I was weightless; my bones were taut skins blown with buoyant gas; it seemed that if I inhaled too deeply, my shoulders and head would waft off. Alleluia.

Banalata Sen Jibananda Das. Translated from the original Bengali by Amitabha Mukerjee A thousand years I have walked these paths, From the harbour at Malacca in the dark of night To the straits of Ceylon at glimmer of dawn. Much have I travelled - The grey world of Ashoka-Bimbisara, Further yet, The dark city of Vidharbha; Around me life foams its stormy breath. Weary of soul, I found a moment's respite in her presence - She: Banalata Sen of Natore. Her hair the ancient darkness of Vidisha, Face a sculpture from Sravasthi. A sailor in distant oceans, rudderless, lost, When hoves into view Island of grass through fronds of cinnamon, A green relief So she felt to me. In the darkness she spoke - "All these years, where had you been?" Her eyebrows arched like the soaring wings of a bird - She: Banalata Sen of Natore. With the sound of dewdrops, Comes evening. The sunset fringe of gold on the eagle's wing Melts into the night And the glow of fireflies. Birds return to nest - The shop of life Shuttered for the day. Left behind in the darkness Face to face - Only she: Banalata Sen of Natore. Original translation 11/90

This penne is much too arrabiata, and you did it on purpose," said Magnus when the surly werewolf waiter hove into view. "Werewolf rights," Erik grumped. "Crush the vile oppressors." "Nobody has ever won a revolution with pasta, Erik," said Magnus. "Now get a fresh dish, or I'll tell Luigi on you.

De forstår det bare ikke,” fortsatte Elior. ”Og jeg tror ikke, det er noget, der ændrer sig. Men du forstår det. Du ved godt hvorfor, og derfor må du lære at lade være med at tage dig af, hvad de siger.” ”Det er ikke bare det,” snøftede hun. ”Det er ikke som sådan ordene. Det er deres blikke. Deres ansigter på afstand.” Hun kunne mærke, at Elior nikkede. Hans hage stødte let mod toppen af hendes hoved, og hun trak sig lidt væk og kiggede op på ham. ”De hader mig virkelig.” Så rystede han på hovedet. ”Det er ikke had.” ”Jo, det er. Jeg kan se det.” Han rystede igen på hovedet, slap hende og satte sig tilbage mod husmuren. Hun rykkede lidt væk, så hun kunne se hans ansigt igen. ”Jeg kan se det,” gentog hun. ”Det er altid det samme. Jeg kom gående derhen, og de stod der uden for købmanden, og så kiggede de på mig. Og det var had.” ”Det er ikke had dybest set,” sagde Elior stille og strøg en tot hår om bag øret. ”De er bange.” Hun kom næsten til at le. ”De er overhovedet ikke bange for mig!” ”Ikke bange på den måde,” sagde han og bed i sin underlæbe. ”De er ikke bange for dig, de er bange for det, du er. De er bange for os. For ainatunari. De er bange, fordi de ikke forstår, hvad vi er.

I'm not where I want to be yet, but surely, I can look back & smile, from where I came from...... The scars I got, turned into beauty marks.

Challenges, hurt, betrayal, pain does not only come to destroy us, but to make us better, if we put the right mental attitude. Choose to view things differently .

Take each day as is, & appreciate every moment good or bad, it surely makes a complete puzzle of your life...

Challenges hurt, Betrayal pains, but they don't always come to destroy us, but to make us better, if we only put the right mental attitude. Choose to view things differently.

brighton and hove city mortuary.

City Books in Hove appears in this book, but there are so many more I could have mentioned, and I’m sure I will do in future stories. Please support your local bookshops. “Use It or Lose It” is quite right.

Mark Twain wrote that “a Southerner talks music.” This is Huck Finn describing life on the river: It’s lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss whether they was made or only just happened — Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened: I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they’d got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.

THERE WAS A PERIOD just after the inevitability of ruin hove into view and just before it smashed into the hull of your life that was the closest to pure freedom anybody ever got. The fateful decisions had all been made by some remote historical figure, a you who no longer existed. Nor would the you who’d eventually have to live them down resemble in any but the most general sense the you you were today.

Did you ever see mum and dad hug?’ Yngve said. I walked back to him. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not that I can remember. Did you?’ He nodded in front of me in the semi-darkness. ‘Once. It was in Hove, so I must have been five. Dad was yelling at mum so much she burst into tears. She was standing in the kitchen crying. He went into the living room. Then he went back and put his arms around her and consoled her. That’s the only time.

She leaves the coffee shop and walks down to the seafront, standing staring for a long time at the burnt-out remains of West Pier, derelict, rusting, but somehow still beautiful, looking like there may be life left in its broken remains yet, that it could magically be reborn from its own devastation, bigger and better than ever.

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove: When choosing the right person to date, there are many virtues to consider: honesty, respect, and compassion. Be selective! Slow down!! Get to know the person before permitting any intimacy to occur.

Piaget, J. (2001). Studies in reflecting abstraction. Hove: Psychology Press. (Original work published in 1977)

Det er med Agerdyrknings Videnskab ligesom med Philosophie: Nogle legge Vind paa Hoved-Ting, og lære noget; andre fordybe sig udi Transcendentalske Sager, forvilde alting, og vide intet.

I have heard of you- a kind of revolutionary. Hard to be a revolutionary in the deadly museum business.

The problem is that, even in the case of paintings that cost millions or tens of millions, science seldom comes into play. The best tools don’t help if no one uses them. “Nobody bothers to take the time or spend the money to go to the scientists,” says Thomas Hoving, former director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and an expert on fakes.

Our ship has come in. An old, old phrase, from old seafaring days, full of hope and wonder. An investor could spend all he had, building a ship, fitting it out, hiring a crew, or more than all he had, if he was borrowing. Then the ship would sail into a years-long void, unimaginable distances, unfathomable depths, incalculable dangers. There was no communication with it. No radio, no phone, no telegraph, no mail. No news at all. Then maybe, just maybe, one chance day the ship would come back, weather-beaten, its sails hoving into view, its hull riding low in the channel waters, loaded with spices from India, or silks from China, or tea, or coffee, or rum, or sugar. Enough profit to repay the costs and the loans in one fell swoop, with enough left over to live generously for a decade. Subsequent voyages were all profit, enough to make a man rich beyond his dreams. Our ship has come in.

He was up and on his feet before dawn, walking the stiffness out of his legs, paying a visit to the recovering McGuire, and finding a drop-line so he could catch her the promised fish. As the sun’s golden glow began to peep above the eastern horizon, he ordered the ship hove to. He had spent his earliest years as a fisherman. It didn’t take him long to catch her a fish and true to his word, he quietly carried it down to the galley, filleted it, and throwing some butter into a cast iron frying pan, cooked it for her himself. He didn’t know why he was going to such effort. He told himself that no gently bred woman would go hungry on an American ship, but he wondered if it was more than that. More than feeling a bit sorry for her. More than feeling guilty that his own actions had indeed ruined her life. Maybe it had nothing to do with any of that, and everything to do with his own damned pride. He was still thinking about that kiss he’d claimed. He’d been unable to stop thinking about it. Truth be told, his reaction to it had rattled him a bit… and not much rattled Ruaidri O’ Devir. She was English, Anglican, aristocracy, part of a hated race, and the fact that his body had responded to her with lust and longing confused the living hell out of him. No good could come of even allowing himself to think past that kiss. She was his hostage. His bargaining tool for the explosive he’d crossed the Atlantic to get, and he could not let himself be sidetracked by any thoughts of a romantic entanglement.

Pinto hove into sight, his drab, insignificant exterior concealing a drab, insignificant soul.

Sir Julian Hove was, to use the most comprehensive term, a martinet. He was likewise a man utterly without humor.

Our world requires that decisions be sourced and footnoted, and if we say how we feel, we must also be prepared to elaborate on why we feel that way. This is why it was so hard for the Getty, at least in the beginning, to accept the opinion of people like Hoving and Harrison and Zeri: it was a lot easier to listen to the scientists and the lawyers, because the scientists and the lawyers could provide pages and pages of documentation supporting their conclusions. I think that approach is a mistake, and if we are to learn to improve the quality of the decisions we make, we need to accept the mysterious nature of our snap judgments. We need to respect the fact that it is possible to know without knowing why we know and accept that—sometimes—we’re better off that way.

Zgjimi O vullnete të ndrydhuna ndër grushta të çelikta të shekujve të kaluem! O vullnete të shtypuna me themra të ngurta të titajve të tërbuem! Të cilët n'udhë për në theqafje këtejpari i ranë dhe vatrat tona në mjerim i përlanë... O vullnete të ndrydhura! O vullnete të shtypuna! Shkundni prangat të mbrapshta! E me brimë ngadhnyese, me hove viganash, dëshirash flatruese, turniu në të gjitha anët dhe poshtë në dhë zbritni - ndosht' aty keni për të gjetë fillin e një hymni, që Illyri e vjetër ndër kremtime këndonte, ndërsa zemra e kombit në liri kumbonte. O vullnete të ndrydhuna! O vullnete të shtypuna! Tash shëgjetat e flakta të shprehjes suej zharitse drejtoni kah qiella në ball të hyut a të dreqit, i cili fatin tonë mbytte në mnijë të vet përpise - a dijë se të Birt' e Shqipes folen ia ngrehën vetvetit.

Imidlertid sad Fru Fanny og kjedede sig. Lille Christian Fredrik var sendt ud med Barnepigen; Gaden var afskyelig, støvet, varm og fuld af simple Folk, som gjorde Lørdagsindkjøb; — Fruen gad ikke se ud. Lænet helt tilbage i sin blødeste Stol sad hun og gabede foran Speilet: skulde hun tage Madeleine med til Byen imorgen — der var gaaet nogle Dage siden hendes sidste Besøg — og heller resikere at blive staaende som Skjæmbræt; — eller skulde hun begynde for egen Regning? — ja hvorfor ikke! — men han kom jo aldrig indom, naar Madeleine ikke var i Byen — aa! man kunde gabe sine Kjæveben af Led! Da han nu pludseligt traadte ind i Stuen, gik der et Stød gjennem hende; men hun blev liggende i Stolen og rakte ham sin venstre Haand, som var nærmest: „Velkommen — Hr. Kandidat! — jeg sad just og tænkte paa Dem i min Ensomhed.“ „Det var smukt af Dem — Frue!“ svarede han og satte sig foran hende. „Ja — hvad kan man ikke falde paa for dumme Ting, naar man sidder saaledes alene —“ „Jeg var ellers ikke det dummeste, De kunde tænke paa,“ svarede Delphin muntert; men det er igrunden sandt, De sidder vist meget alene i den sidste Tid. „Aa ja — hvis jeg nu havde mine Grunde“ „Saa vilde jeg tillade mig at spørge efter disse Grunde.“ „Det var kanske det bedste, om jeg fortalte Dem mine Grunde —“ sagde Fruen og betragtede, opmærksomt Spidsen af sin Fod, som stak frem, idet hun laa tilbagelænet. Hun havde smaa, spidse Parisersko med udskaarne Striber over Vristen, hvor man saa en glat, mørkeblaa Silkestrømpe. „Jeg forsikrer Dem Frue! — at jeg vilde være ligesaa taknemmelig som discret.“ „Madeleine er jo saa ung,“ sagde Fruen, somom hun fortsatte sin egen Tankegang, — „jeg er jo paa en vis Maade forpligtet til at passe lidt paa hende — og —“ „Mon det skulde være saa nødvendigt?“ — spurgte han. „Aa ja! — naar en ung Pige saa naiv som Madeleine kommer i Berørelse med Herrer, der ere, — nuvel! der ere saa behændige som De — Hr. Kandidat Delphin! — saa —“ hun saa paa ham, idet hun stansede i Sætningen. „De gjør mig altfor megen Ære! —“ lo han, „desuden — hvorledes skulde det kunne falde mig ind at benytte mig af —“ „Pyt!“ afbrød hun og trak sine Øienbryn op, „den Snak kjender vi. De er som alle de andre; De tager ikke i Betænkning at benytte Dem af enhver — selv den allermindste Chance — ikke sandt? — vær nu oprigtig!“ „Nuvel —“ svarede han og stod op, „naar De gaar mig saadan paa Livet, saa vil jeg jo tilstaa, at naar jeg ser et Jordbær, som ingen passer paa, saa ta’r jeg det ialmindelighed.“ „Ja — det er just den Graadighed hos Mandfolkene, jeg finder ligesaa farlig som forunderlig.“ „Ih — men Frue! Jordbær ere dog saa fortryllende!“ „Ja — naar de ere modne —“ svarede Fru Fanny. De sidste Ord kom saa blødt som Kattefødder. Georg Delphin var gaaet et Par Skridt henover Gulvet. Han vendte sig hurtigt og fik netop se det sidste Glimt af et Blik, som maatte have hvilet paa ham, mens hun talte. Det var ikke ofte, han mistede sin Holdning i Konversationer som denne; men den Opdagelse, han gjorde eller troede at gjøre, Uvisheden, den forfængelige Glæde — forvirrede ham, saa han stammede, blev rød og stod og stirrede paa hende. Udstrakt som hun laa i den lave Stol løb de bugtede Linier fra det lille Hoved nedover de fyldige Lemmer — helt ud til Spidsen af hendes Parisersko. Hendes Skjønhed var saa fuldt færdig, saa sikker og ubekymret i hvert Led og hver Bøining. Hun forstod, at nu var det nok og reiste sig uden at lægge Mærke til hans Forvirring. „Ved De hvad!“ sagde hun pludseligt og lo høit, „det er dog latterligt, at jeg vil holde Prækener for Dem. Hver faar passe sig selv, og jeg maa gaa og passe en Kjole — jeg haaber, De undskylder. Godaften — Hr. Kandidat! — maatte Deres Jordbær bekomme Dem vel!

Julia’s mother is still alive and well, and living with her widowed sister in Hove. Her father, like mine, died some years ago. Women have a long afterlife, though not always a happy one.