Innocent Rouge Quotes

As a Nobel Peace laureate, I, like most people, agonize over the use of force. But when it comes to rescuing an innocent people from tyranny or genocide, I've never questioned the justification for resorting to force. That's why I supported Vietnam's 1978 invasion of Cambodia, which ended Pol Pot's regime, and Tanzania's invasion of Uganda in 1979, to oust Idi Amin. In both cases, those countries acted without U.N. or international approval—and in both cases they were right to do so.

America was never innocent. We popped our cherry on the boat over and looked back with no regrets. You can't ascribe our fall from grace to any single event or set of circumstances. You can't lose what you lacked at conception. Mass-market nostalgia gets you hopped up for a past that never existed. Hagiography sanctifies shuck-and-jive politicians and reinvents their expedient gestures as moments of great moral weight. Our continuing narrative line is blurred past truth and hindsight. Only a reckless verisimilitude can set that line straight. The real Trinity of Camelot was Look Good, Kick Ass, Get Laid. Jack Kennedy was the mythological front man for a particularly juicy slice of our history. He called a slick line and wore a world-class haircut. He was Bill Clinton minus pervasive media scrutiny and a few rolls of flab. Jack got whacked at the optimum moment to assure his sainthood. Lies continue to swirl around his eternal flame. It's time to dislodge his urn and cast light on a few men who attended his ascent and facilitated his fall. They were rouge cops and shakedown artist. They were wiretappers and soldiers of fortune and faggot lounge entertainers. Had one second of their lives deviated off course, American History would not exist as we know it. It's time to demythologize an era and build a new myth from the gutter to the stars. It's time to embrace bad men and the price they paid to secretly define there time. Here's to them.

He saw her as the passionate spirit of innocent youth, now beleaguered by the trick which is played on youth - the trick of treachery in the body, which turns flesh into green bones. Her stupid finery was not vulgar to him, but touching. The girl was still there, still appealing from behind the breaking barricade of rouge. She had made the brave protest: I will not be vanquished. Under the clumsy coquetry, the undignified clothes, there was the human cry for help. The young eyes were puzzled, saying: It is I, inside here - what have they done to me? I will not submit. Some part of her spirit knew that the powder was making a guy of her, and hated it, and tried to hold her lover with the eyes alone. They said: Don't look at all this. Look at me. I am still here, in the eyes. Look at me, here in the prison, and help me out. Another part said: I am not old, it is illusion. I am beautifully made-up. See, I will perform the movements of youth. I will defy the enormous army of age.

Each hand held a shoe and a handful of skirt, the hem of her pale blue polonaise gown raised above the knee, exposing satin ribbons which held up her white stockings. The ribbons were a bold cerise, like her lips, which were pulled wide in a girlish grin—inviting and ripe with unspent kisses—a hot-sweet ring of nubile, innocent fire. High cheeks, pink with natural rouge, gave

Et combien de civils tombés sous les bombes de leurs soi-disant alliés? Combien d'enfants ne souriront plus jamais? Combien de femmes tuées à l'aune des tueries? Combien d'hommes perdrons-nous encore? Combien de jeunes conscrits obligerons-nous à aller là-bas? Combien de pères de famille ne verront plus leurs enfants grandir? Une victoire? Non, il n'y a pas de victoire qui soit baignée d'autant de sang. Il n'y a pas de victoire là où l'on vole l'âme des innocents.

America was never innocent. We popped our cherry on the boat over and looked back with no regrets. You can't ascribe our fall from grace to any single event or set of circumstances. You can't lose what you lacked at conception. Mass-market nostalgia gets you hopped up for a past that never existed. Hagiography sanctifies shuck-and-jive politicians and reinvents their expedient gestures as moments of great moral weight. Our continuing narrative line is blurred past truth and hindsight. Only a reckless verisimilitude can set that line straight. The real Trinity of Camelot was Look Good, Kick Ass, Get Laid. Jack Kennedy was the mythological front man for a particularly juicy slice of our history. He called a slick line and wore a world-class haircut. He was Bill Clinton minus pervasive media scrutiny and a few rolls of flab. Jack got whacked at the optimum moment to assure his sainthood. Lies continue to swirl around his eternal flame. It's time to dislodge his urn and cast light on a few men who attended his ascent and facilitated his fall. They were rouge cops and shakedown artists. They were wiretappers and soldiers of fortune and faggot lounge entertainers. Had one second of their lives deviated off course, American History would not exist as we know it. It's time to demythologize an era and build a new myth from the gutter to the stars. It's time to embrace bad men and the price they paid to secretly define their time. Here's to them.

We look amazing," I repeated, as if I could make up for our brother's rudeness. And we did look amazing. Käthe and I were dressed as an angel and a demon, but to my surprise, my sister had chosen to be the devil. She looked majestic in her gown of black velvet, her golden curls draped with black silk and lace, cleverly twisted together and pinned to resemble horns growing from her head. She had rouged her lips a bright red, and her blue eyes looked imperious from behind her black mask. For a moment, the image of moldering gowns on dress forms rose up in my mind, a polished bronze mirror reflecting an endless line of faded Goblin Queens. I swallowed. The dress my sister had made for me was nearly innocent in its simplicity. Yards and yards of fine white muslin had made a floating, ethereal gown, while Käthe had somehow fashioned a brocade cape into the shape of folded angel wings, which grew from my shoulder blades and cascaded to the floor. She had braided gold into a crown about my head for a halo, and I carried a lyre to complete the picture.

Alors voilà. On faisait des mômes, ils chopaient la rougeole, et tombaient de vélo, avaient les genoux au mercurochrome et récitaient des fables et puis ce corps de sumo miniature qu'on avait baigné dans un lavabo venait à disparaître, l'innocence était si tôt passée, et on n'en avait même pas profité tant que ça. Il restait heureusement des photos, cet air surpris de l'autre côté du temps, et un Babyphone au fond d'un tiroir qu'on ne pouvait se résoudre à jeter. Des jours sans lui, des jours avec, l'amour en courant discontinu. Mais le pire était encore à venir. Car il arrivait cela, qu'une petite brute à laquelle vous supposiez des excuses socioéconomiques et des parents à la main leste s'en prenait à votre gamin. La violence venait d'entrer dans sa vie et on se demandait comment s'y prendre. Car après tout, c'était le jeu. Lui aussi devait apprendre à se défendre. C'était en somme le début d'une longue guerre. On cherchait des solutions, lui enseigner l'art de foutre des coups de pied et prendre rendez-vous avec la maîtresse, pour finalement en arriver là : avoir tout simplement envie de casser la gueule à un enfant dont on ne savait rien sinon qu'il était en CE1 et portait des baskets rouges. [...] Certains dimanches soirs, quand Christophe le laissait devant chez sa mère, et le regardait traverser la rue avec son gros sac sur le dos, il pouvait presque sentir l'accélération jusque dans ses os. En un rien de temps, il aurait dix, douze, seize ans, deviendrait un petit con, un ado, il n'écouterait plus les conseils et ne penserait plus qu'à ses potes, il serait amoureux, il en baverait parce que l'école, les notes, le stress déjà, il le tannerait pour avoir un sac Eastpak, une doudoune qui coûte un bras, un putain de scooter pour se tuer, il fumerait des pet, roulerait des pelles, apprendrait le goût des clopes, de la bière et du whisky, se ferait emmerder par des plus costauds, trouverait d'autres gens pour l'écouter et lui prendre la main, il voudrait découcher, passer des vacances sans ses parents, leur demanderait toujours plus de thune et les verrait de moins en moins. Il faudrait aller le chercher au commissariat ou payer ses amendes, lire dans un carnet de correspondance le portrait d'un total étranger, créature capable de peloter des filles ou d'injurier un CPE, à moins qu'il ne soit effacé, souffre-douleur, totalement transparent, on ne savait quelle calamité craindre le plus. Un jour, avec un peu de chance, à l'occasion d'un trajet en bagnole ou dans une cuisine tard le soir, cet enfant lui raconterait un peu de sa vie. Christophe découvrirait alors qu'il ne le connaissait plus. Qu'il avait fait son chemin et qu'il était désormais plus fort que lui, qu'il comprenait mieux les objets et les usages, et il se moquerait gentiment de l'inadéquation de son père avec l'époque. Christophe découvrirait que le petit le débordait maintenant de toute part et ce serait bien la meilleure nouvelle du monde. Simplement, il n'aurait rien vu passer. Gabriel aurait grandi à demi sans lui. Ce temps serait définitivement perdu.

Whatever demons she was fighting lay hidden behind a painted mask of rouge and riddles.

Kaplan “was further surprised to discover that a list of 154 influential people of color did not include Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., John Lewis, or Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall, though it included many violent revolutionaries. There was even a flattering description of Pol Pot, the communist leader of Cambodia’s Khmer Rouge, who was responsible for the murder of a quarter of the Cambodian population during the 1970s.