Ion Care Quotes

So,uh, where am I, exactly ? And what do you plan on doing with me ?" "You're at Underworld General Hospital. As you can probably guess, we specialize in nonhuman medical care. Our location is secret, so don't ask." "UGH ? Your hospital is called 'ugh' ? Oh, that's precious.

Sînt oameni care-şi scot durerile în văzul lumii, pentru a scăpa de ele, dar sînt şi de cei care coboară cu durere cu tot în adîncul firii sale şi nu se arată pînă nu-şi revin.

If…if you don't feel anything for me then don't touch me! Don't act like you care!

I don’t care what you are, Gem. I want you. I love you.

Be careful, little killer. The Fates can fuck with you in ways you can’t even imagine.

Nu sunt ce par a fi - Nu sunt Nimic din ce-aş fi vrut să fiu!... Dar fiindcă m-am născut fără să ştiu, Sau prea curând, Sau poate prea târziu... M-am resemnat, ca orice bun creştin, Şi n-am rămas decât... Cel care sunt!...

Nu ştiu alţi cum sunt, dar eu, când mă gândesc la locul naşterii mele, la casa părintească din Humuleşti, la stâlpul hornului unde lega mama o şfară cu motocei la capăt, de crăpau mâţele jucându-se cu ei, la prichiciul vetrei cel humuit, de care mă ţineam când începusem a merge copăcel, la cuptiorul pe care ma ascundeam, când ne jucam noi, băieţii, de-a mijoarca, şi la alte jocuri şi jucării pline de hazul şi farmecul copilăresc, parcă-mi saltă şi acum inima de bucurie!

Rusanda e încă un copil, şi copila care-ţi place mai trebuie să ţi-o creşti, dacă vrei gospodină în casă, zic bătrînii. A creşte o fată înseamnă în primul rînd a o dăscăli.

Grăuntele de speranţă care nu părăseşte pe om până nu-şi dă ultima suflare, care mai licăreşte în ochii muribundului chiar când inima a încetat de-a mai bate şi când trupul a îngheţat pentru totdeauna ― îi dădea şi ei puterea să mai aştepte şi să stăruiască...

All she'd ever wanted was to be good, so it was ironic that in order to do good, she'd had to become bad. She'd had to make everyone she cared about hate her. She'd had to lose everything, from her self-respect to her wings to her dreams of having friends and a family with Yenrieth, the only person she'd ever loved.

Tinereţea e o avere pe care fiecare e liber s-o irosească aşa cum îi place.

Patima din glasul lui Ion îl infiora pe Titu. Îndîrjirea, egoismul și cruzimea cu care omul acesta a urmărit o țintă, fără să se uite în dreapta și în stânga, îl infricoșau, dar îl și mișcau. Se gândi la șovăielile lui din vremea aceasta, la zig-zagurile neputincioase, la alergările lui după țeluri de-abia întrezărite și se simți mic în fața țăranului care a mers drept înainte, trecând nepăsător peste toate piedicile, luptând neobosit, împins de o patimă mare. El se frământă cu dorințe nelămurite, făurește planuri peste puterile lui, trăiește cu visuri fermecate, și alături de dânsul viața înaintează vijelios. Un simțământ de slăbiciune îi strânse inima.

Iron can only be destroyed by rust, and rust is a slow process which is caused by the hydrogen ion from water in the environment. Coat yourself against negative thoughts and be careful what you feed your mind because your mind is your greatest asset, make sure you are not using it against yourself.

In the same way, the establishment US media painted America as a decaying, racist, predatory capitalist realm unable to provide medical care for the poor, rebuild her “crumbling schools,” or replace the “shuttered mills that once provided a decent life for men and women of every race,”5 and promised all this could be changed by redistributing the country’s wealth. That also was a disinformation campaign.

Something inside him shook so hard he was surprised Idess didn't jiggled right off him. This was the closest he'd ever been with to a female. Oh, he'd fucked them, and he'd even cared for one he'd foolishly thought could be his. But never had any female fallen asleep on him. It was a surprising intimacy that gave him some hellacious warm fuzzies in a situation he had no right to feel good about at all. And yet, he stroked her hair and tried to be still, because crazily, this was the most amazing thing that ever happened to him.

I’m over a thousand years old. I’ve seen it all. You, sweetcheeks, are nothing new.” At what must have been an outraged expression on her face, he laughed again. “Come on. Surely you can’t think you are the only female out there who’s had a rough life, had her heart walked on, been kept in a dungeon for three centuries, blah, blah, pick your trauma, and are now stomping around with all this pent-up anger you spill like acid on everyone who gets to know you.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “How close am I?” Sin’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. She finally snapped it shut to avoid looking like a fish gasping on the bank of a river. “That’s what I thought.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “No, run along and go be caustic with someone who cares. Oh, wait, no one cares, do they? Because you won’t let them--

Who are you?” “Blunder’s reckoning.” The Shepherd King’s grin was worse than any snarl. “I am the root and the tree. I am balance.” Ione reached out in a flash, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I want to speak to Elspeth.” “You cannot have her. She is with me. And I am letting her rest.” “I don’t care. Give her back to me.” The Shepherd King’s teeth scraped over his lip. For a moment, Elm thought he might tear into Ione’s soft, unblemished cheek. But his grip on her face loosened, his brow easing. “She will be free. But not until my work is finished.” His eyes flashed to Elm. “And old debts settled.

Suprarealismul e de la Paris, delirul o fi bun la Zurich, la cafenea. Aici nu-i acolo. Aici se opreşte trenu-n gară, nu gara la tren. Aici e ţara lui Ion, a Fanarioţilor şi a lui Soarbe-Zeamă, aici Vlad Ţepeş i-a tras pe solii turci în ţeapă, nu le-a spus „trageţi întâi dumneavoastră, domnilor englezi", iar Petrache Carp i-a arătat lui Vodă Carol că porumbul se mănâncă cu mâna, aici e pe viaţă şi pe moarte, aici nu e decor sofisticat şi suprem de nebunatic, nu-s draperii şi delicii, nu-i paradis ori iad artificial, aici e ca la dugheană, ca la tejghea, ca la obor; ca la proces de clironomie; nu-i cu giuvaericale, e cu pietre, cu bolovani (şi dintr-o dată gândul mă poartă spre Brâncuşi, ţăran hotărât care-şi ciopleşte materialul cu gesturi mari de cosaş). Aici e scăldătoarea Vitezda: te arunci ori ba. Aici, acum, acum, acum. Aici te declari băiete, aici, pe loc, alegi.

Şi-n seara când ne-om despărţi Te voi ruga, Ca şi pe multele pe care le-am sfătuit 'naintea ta: - Să-ţi aminteşti c-ai fost şi-a mea!...

în ziua de azi nu știu, zău, care-a mai fi cu crucea-n sân, cum cauți tu... Eu gândesc că tot om alege, om alege, pân-om culege

Vremea care curge n-am putut s-o ţin.

It is important to note that the design of an entire brain region is simpler than the design of a single neuron. As discussed earlier, models often get simpler at a higher level—consider an analogy with a computer. We do need to understand the detailed physics ofsemiconductors to model a transistor, and the equations underlying a single real transistor are complex. A digital circuit that multiples two numbers requires hundreds of them. Yet we can model this multiplication circuit very simply with one or two formulas. An entire computer with billions of transistors can be modeled through its instruction set and register description, which can be described on a handful of written pages of text and formulas. The software programs for an operating system, language compilers, and assemblers are reasonably complex, but modeling a particular program—for example, a speech recognition programbased on hierarchical hidden Markov modeling—may likewise be described in only a few pages of equations. Nowhere in such a description would be found the details ofsemiconductor physics or even of computer architecture. A similar observation holds true for the brain. A particular neocortical pattern recognizer that detects a particular invariant visualfeature (such as a face) or that performs a bandpass filtering (restricting input to a specific frequency range) on sound or that evaluates the temporal proximity of two events can be described with far fewer specific details than the actual physics and chemicalrelations controlling the neurotransmitters, ion channels, and other synaptic and dendritic variables involved in the neural processes. Although all of this complexity needs to be carefully considered before advancing to the next higher conceptual level, much of it can be simplified as the operating principles of the brain are revealed.

See,' said (Liberty Hyde) Bailey, 'how the leaves of this small plant stand forth extended to bathe themselves in the light. ... THese leaves will die. They will rot. They will disappear into the universal mold. The energy that is in them will be released to reappear, the ions to act again, perhaps in the corn on the plain, perhaps in the body of a bird. The atoms and the ions remain or resurrect; the forms change and flux. We see the forms and mourn the change. We think all is lost; yet nothing is lost. The harmony of life is never ending.' The economy of nature provides that nothing be lost.

Ce victime ai mai făcut Din clipa-n care urma ţi-am pierdut?... Ce vrăjitoare te-a trecut prin foc Şi-a reuşit să-ţi pună inima la loc?... Şi care-anume sfânt din calendar Te-a sfătuit să te-ntâlneşti cu mine iar?...

Mai poate exista un al doilea om ca tine, Alex, un al doilea om care să înţeleagă toată complexitatea frământărilor ce m-au chinuit ani de zile? Nu mai poate exista! Şi chiar dacă ar exista, acela nu poate fi al meu... Al meu eşti tu şi numai tu...

And so I make my way across the room steadily, carefully. Hands shaking, I pull the string, lifting my blinds. They rise slowly, drawing more moonlight into the room with every inch And there he is, crouched low on the roof. Same leather jacket. The hair is his, the cheekbones, the perfect nose . . . the eyes: dark and mysterious . . . full of secrets. . . . My heart flutters, body light. I reach out to touch him, thinking he might disappear, my fingers disrupted by the windowpane. On the other side, Parker lifts his hand and mouths: “Hi.” I mouth “Hi” back. He holds up a single finger, signalling me to hold on. He picks up a spiral-bound notebook and flips open the cover, turning the first page to me. I recognize his neat, block print instantly: bold, black Sharpie. I know this is unexpected . . . , I read. He flips the page. . . . and strange . . . I lift an eyebrow. . . . but please hear read me out. He flips to the next page. I know I told you I never lied . . . . . . but that was (obviously) the biggest lie of all. The truth is: I’m a liar. I lied. I lied to myself . . . . . . and to you. Parker watches as I read. Our eyes meet, and he flips the page. But only because I had to. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you, Jaden . . . . . . but it happened anyway. I clear my throat, and swallow hard, but it’s squeezed shut again, tight. And it gets worse. Not only am I a liar . . . I’m selfish. Selfish enough to want it all. And I know if I don’t have you . . . I hold my breath, waiting. . . . I don’t have anything. He turns another page, and I read: I’m not Parker . . . . . . and I’m not going to give up . . . . . . until I can prove to you . . . . . . that you are the only thing that matters. He flips to the next page. So keep sending me away . . . . . . but I’ll just keep coming back to you. Again . . . He flips to the next page. . . . and again . . . And the next: . . . and again. Goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. I shiver, hugging myself tightly. And if you can ever find it in your (heart) to forgive me . . . There’s a big, black “heart” symbol where the word should be. I will do everything it takes to make it up to you. He closes the notebook and tosses it beside him. It lands on the roof with a dull thwack. Then, lifting his index finger, he draws an X across his chest. Cross my heart. I stifle the happy laugh welling inside, hiding the smile as I reach for the metal latch to unlock my window. I slowly, carefully, raise the sash. A burst of fresh honeysuckles saturates the balmy, midnight air, sickeningly sweet, filling the room. I close my eyes, breathing it in, as a thousand sleepless nights melt, slipping away. I gather the lavender satin of my dress in my hand, climb through the open window, and stand tall on the roof, feeling the height, the warmth of the shingles beneath my bare feet, facing Parker. He touches the length of the scar on my forehead with his cool finger, tucks my hair behind my ear, traces the edge of my face with the back of his hand. My eyes close. “You know you’re beautiful? Even when you cry?” He smiles, holding my face in his hands, smearing the tears away with his thumbs. I breathe in, lungs shuddering. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, black eyes sincere. I swallow. “I know why you had to.” “Doesn’t make it right.” “Doesn’t matter anymore,” I say, shaking my head. The moon hangs suspended in the sky, stars twinkling overhead, as he leans down and kisses me softly, lips meeting mine, familiar—lips I imagined, dreamed about, memorized a mil ion hours ago. Then he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into him, quelling every doubt and fear and uncertainty in this one, perfect moment.

Dacă-ai crezut c-ar fi putut să fie Ceva mai mult decât ce-a fost, te-ai înşelat!... N-a fost decât un început de nebunie, De care-ntâmplător ne-am vindecat!... N-a fost decât un zbor de triolete Pe care un poet le-a scris în vis, În cinstea celei mai frumoase fete, Şi-a-nnebunit de'ndată ce le-a scris!... N-a fost decât ce nu se poate spune Decât cu ochii-nchişi şi pe-nnoptat, În ritmul unui început de rugăciune Pentru iertarea primului păcat!... N-a fost decât ce-a trebuit să fie, Şi, dac-a fost cu-adevărat ceva, N-a fost decât un strop de veşnicie Desprins dintr-un meschin "et caetera!"...

N-a fost nimic din ce-a putut să fie, Şi ce-a putut să fie s-a sfârşit... N-a fost decât o scurtă nebunie Ce-a-nsângerat o lamă, lucioasă, de cuţit!... (...) Şi-atâta tot!... Din ce-a putut să fie, N-a fost decât un searbăd început De simplu "fapt divers", ce nu se ştie În care timp şi-n care loc s-a petrecut!...

Wind varies in its emotional effect on humans depending on ions in the atmosphere. A hot, dry, dusty wind-generates positive ions that cause increased tension and irritability…on the other hand, waterfalls, pounding surf, and the aftermath of a thunderstorm release negative ions that clear airborne particles, relieve stress, and boost energy.

Mă fascinează grecii antici – o mână de oameni care și-au luat viața în serios și au schimbat atât de mult înțelegerea lumii, încât nici până astăzi nu am putut depăși moștenirea lor. Scrierea le-a fost ca o pictură; limba ca o melodie, urca și cobora până la cvintă; gândirea, doar matematică și filozofie; civilizația, ca un panteon de zei întrupați.

Îmi priveam, de acum, viaţa înainte, închipuindu-mi drmul cu şuişuri şi coborâşuri, pe creste pline de soare, dar şi prin văi învăluite de ceaţă, urcând totuşi spre înălţimea unui ideal către a cărui împlinire tindeam şi care nu avea să mă părăsească niciodată. Credinţa asta, te asigur, mi-a dat aripi.Mi-a dat posibilitatea nesperată să zbor, să mă înalţ, să scrutez imensitatea cerului, oceanul luminii albe şi pure, asemuindu-l unui ecran pe care mi-am închipuit că văd secvenţe din filmul destinului meu. Şi trebuie să spun că febra unor nelinişti nu m-a ocrotit, dimpotrivă, m-a stăpânit cu tenacitate şi accentuală insistenţă. Dar tocmai neprevăzutul m-a îndârjit şi mi-a insuflat puterea de care aveam atâta nevoie ca să înving, să cuceresc înălţimile visate, să mă autodefinesc ca personalitate în lumea ce mă înconjura.

Nu sunt un om credincios, dar sunt un om religios, în sensul că am noţiunea unei profunzimi, am noţiunea că în mine însumi este ceva care mă depăşeşte şi acest ceva se exprimă prin trăirile simbolice pe care le oferă diferitele religii. Cu alte cuvinte, nu prin inventarea altei religii, nici prin abandonarea totală a categoriei religioase se va produce metamorfoza, ci printr-o adâncire în sine, prin a accepta că există ceva care este mai presus de noi şi care este interioritatea interiorităţii noastre.

Our chief biologist has had five tours of duty here at Base Tanaka and in his tenure has discovered, identified, and classified hundreds of the species of this planet. But as we learned today, in all that time, the one thing he has not discovered is that any of the creatures he's identified and named will be happy to eat him!" Laughs all around, and why not. Ardeleanu wasn't dead; it's easy to make jokes when you live. “To commemorate his escape from the literal jaws of death, and to remind him to be more careful the next time, I am proud to this evening induct Ion into the Ancient and Sacred Order of the Tasty Snack Cake.

Culcat pe burtă și cu casca trasă cât mai pe ceafă, Axente simțea cum fiecare explozie părea a fi tot mai aproape și că nu mai avea timp să-și recapete răsuflarea. Pământul se zguduia tot mai rău și ploaia părea că se transformase din picături de apă în bolovani, pietre și uneori valuri de pământ. Doamne Dumnezeule, se ruga Axente printre exploziile obuzelor ce cădeau, lasă-mă să-mi mai văd copiii măcar înc-odată! Dintr-odată suflul exploziei unui obuz ce căzu în apropiere, aproape că-l îngropă de viu sub un val de pământ. Pe locul unde o clipă mai devreme erau întinși la pământ soldații Ion Avram și Petruț Iacob, acum se afla un crater cu marginile înegrite, din care încă mai ieșea un firicel de fum. Cu ochii împăienjeniți de pământul ce aproape că-l acoperise și cu urechile înfundate, Axente se târâ pînă la marginea craterului și instinctiv se aruncă înăuntru știind că nu cad două proiectile în același loc.

À celle qui s'en va Tu crois que ce fut un amour vrai… Moi je crois que ce fut une brève folie… Mais ce qu'au juste ce fut, Ce que nous voulions que ce fût, Nous ne le saurons peut-être jamais… Ce fut un rêve vécu au rivage d'une mer, Un chant triste amené d'autres terres Par de blancs oiseaux voyageurs, Sur l'azur insurgé d'autres mers au loin, Un chant triste amené par les marins Arrivés de Boston Norfolk Et New York, Un chant triste que souvent chantent les pêcheurs Quand ils prennent le large et ne reviennent plus. Et se fut le refrain de triolets qu'un poète Jadis imagina en les pays du Nord Sur les bords de quelque blanc fjord, Mendiant l'amour des blondes coquettes... Ce fut un rêve Un vers Une mélodie Que nous n'avons chantée peut-être jamais... ...................... Tu crois que ce fut un amour vrai ? Moi je crois que ce fut une brève folie ! * Tu crezi c-a fost iubire-adevărată... Eu cred c-a fost o scurtă nebunie... Dar ce anume-a fost, Ce-am vrut să fie Noi nu vom şti-o poate niciodată... A fost un vis trăit pe-un ţărm de mare. Un cântec trist, adus din alte ţări De nişte pasări albe - călătoare Pe-albastrul răzvrătit al altor mări Un cântec trist, adus de marinarii Sosiţi din Boston, Norfolk Şi New York, Un cântec trist, ce-l cântă-ades pescarii Când pleacă-n larg şi nu se mai întorc. Şi-a fost refrenul unor triolete Cu care-alt'dată un poet din Nord, Pe marginile albului fiord, Cerşea iubirea blondelor cochete... A fost un vis, Un vers, O melodie, Ce n-am cântat-o, poate, niciodată... ...................... Tu crezi c-a fost iubire-adevărată?... Eu cred c-a fost o scurtă nebunie! [Celei care pleacă, traduction en français d’Aurel George Boeșteanu]

Esența prieteniei este binele reciproc pe care prietenii vor să și-l facă. Nu este «sinceritatea», înțeleasă ca o continuă bombardare cu problemele pe care le poți avea. (...) Confidența este o formă a indiscreției, este un apel excesiv la toleranța și la răbdarea celuilalt.

Vacanțele lui Ion au fost de trei feluri, în această ordine: verile în care lua bătaie de la nea Ionel, cele în care ieșeau în mare la egalitate și cele în care îl bătea el – până ce unchiul, supărat, răsturna tabla de șah și pleca șonticăind și bolborosind.

want you having to wake up all early when I leave.” He wasn’t worried about none of that. “I’d prefer waking up to you; Ion’t care how early it is. I ain’t ready for you to leave me yet.” “Awww,” she cooed, leaning over the console to kiss his lips. “You’re so mushy.” Levi smirked. “Go pack a bag and quit playin’ with me.” “Ooooh, yas. Saying it like that with all that bass in your voice. What else you want me to do?” “Sit that pussy on my face again if you hurry up.

want you having to wake up all early when I leave.” He wasn’t worried about none of that. “I’d prefer waking up to you; Ion’t care how early it is. I ain’t ready for you to leave me yet.” “Awww,” she cooed, leaning over the console to kiss his lips. “You’re so mushy.” Levi smirked. “Go pack a bag and quit playin’ with me.” “Ooooh, yas. Saying it like that with all that bass in your voice. What else you want me to do?” “Sit that pussy on my face again if you hurry up.” Shanae damn near tumbled out the car the way she hopped out. Levi shook his head

I wish we could have had those hundred years, Hawthorn. I wish you could have been Queen.” “I don’t care about being Queen.” She pulled him close—pressed quivering lips to his mouth. “You are not Hauth, and you are not the boy he tormented. It would be terribly unclever to die, just to prove it. Please, Elm. Come with me.” Her kiss tasted like tears. Elm was lost to it. He pulled back. “Get on the horse and ride away, Ione.” When her hazel eyes went blurry under his Scythe’s command, it took all of Elm not to look away. Ione got on his horse, spurred it, her hair catching moonlight, a dreamy yellow ribbon in the wind.

Basina care nu se aude miroase mai urat

Grecii lui Tucidide au înțeles primii că istoria se repetă. Evul Mediu s-a întors deja, de această dată înarmat cu artileria secolului XXI. Medievalii prezenului nu se vor opri până când nu vor cuceri lumea, iar dacă nu vor putea, măcar s-o distrugă... Șansa omului civilizat va fi să-și civilizeze semenii (am mai zis asta?); nu-i poate ocoli, nici înfrunta. Convingerile unui om nu vor fi niciodată cucerite în câmp deschis ori ținute prizoniere la nesfârșit. Iar lumea, indiferent de nivelul ei de civilizație, se lasă cucerită oricând de valori mai mari decât acelea pe care le posedă. Însă omul civilizat nu mai caută acea Valoare, Noul Graal, în care să creadă el mai întâi și pentru care să se jertfească oricând. Nu-i mai pasă... Vrea doar să huzurească până moare, eventual cât mai ferit de medievali.

Zaraza însă va continua, dincolo de Cristian Vasile, dincolo de orice scriitor, dincolo de orice regim politic și indiferent câți ani vor trece, tangoul memorabil, pe versurile lui Ion Pribeagu, un alt nedreptățit al vremurilor, se va auzi și va aminti întotdeauna de o epocă după care tânjim. Pariul a fost câștigat. Cântecul a devenit nemuritor.

Te-am aşteptat la-ncrucişarea potecilor pe care-alt'dată Multaşteptatele amante soseau grăbite să-şi sărute Amanţii, Ce-aşteptau în umbră, tăcuţi ca nişte statui mute... Şi câte primăveri, de-a rândul, castanii roşii nu-mi vestiră Că nimeni n-a trecut pe-acolo Şi-n zare nimeni nu s-arată!...

I doubt you cared this much about their feelings when you chose this path,” Iolaus said. He didn’t raise his voice. The truth doesn’t need to be shouted. “Maybe not,” I answered, looking him in the eyes. “But I had to choose it.” “That’s ridiculous.” “No more ridiculous than why you’re ready to sail into the unknown. The only person who needs to chase after the Golden Fleece is Prince Jason, yet you and all the others are joining him for the sake of pure adventure. You hunger for it! Why can’t I?” “Enough.” Iolaus raised his hand. “You win, for your brothers’ sake and because I’ve got the feeling you’d find a way to sneak aboard no matter how much they or I try to stop you. I wish some of the men I know had half your boldness. It’s strange to see it in a girl. Perhaps you’re really Atalanta’s daughter.” My smile answered his. “My nurse, Ione, said I was Zeus’s child.” “My uncle Herakles is supposed to be Zeus’s son. You two must be related. He’s a great one for following his heart first and thinking about the consequences afterward. Or never.” His teeth flashed in the shadows of the old fishwife’s home. “I’ll keep your secret.” “Thank you. You won’t have to do it for very long. You said I didn’t care about my brothers’ feelings when I decided to join this quest. You were right. I’ve only been thinking about what I want.” I took a deep breath. What I was about to say tore at my heart, but I couldn’t escape it. “I’ll go back to Delphi. It’s one thing to take a chance with my own life, but not with so many others.” “Oh, I agree,” Iolaus said. “Which is why I intend to take very good care of my new weapons bearers.

În schimb, alții mai rafinați încearcă să depășească moartea lăsând ceva în urma lor, ceva care să dăinuie. Acesta e “gardul” și crezul, de pildă, al omului de artă. Voi trăi de câte ori voi fi citit, spunea un scriitor nominalizat de curând la Premiul Nobel. Adică, explică alt mare autor: adevăratul artist își jertfește viața pentru operă, ca să supraviețuiască mort. Cât de cumplit sună! Auzi, să supraviețuiești mort, ca un Lenin împăiat, să mizezi totul pe niște lucruri la fel de pieritoare, pe artă sau pe orice altceva mai puțin trainic decât propria viață! De ce? Doar ca, după ce mori, să se zgâiască alții la amintirea ta... Și aceasta-i tot o formă de trufie. Încolțit de vreun prădător mult mai puternic, păunul, neavând nicio armă, doar se înfoaie, doar își arată penajul frumos, vrând parcă să înduplece fiara – flămândă și fără simț estetic. Acele pene fascinante, în loc să-i ajute la zbor, dimpotrivă, îl împiedică prin greutatea lor. (...) Tocmai povara, mirajul lor, îl împiedică să zboare, să se înalțe la o altă menire și să trăiască.

— Iartă-mă Doamne, că te-am spânzurat cu ață, neavând lanț de aur, nici de argint, cu care te spânzură mai-marii mei, arhiereii...

Inspectorul a scos un teanc de hîrtii. A început a mîzgăli hîrtia. — E adevărat că ai vorbit copiilor despre Ion-vodă cel Cumplit? — E adevărat. Trebuia să vorbesc. E în programă. — E adevărat că ai spus că Ion Armeanul i-a tăiat pe boieri şi chiar pe preasfinţitul mitropolit al Moldovei, în ziua de Paşte? — E adevărat. Scrie la carte. — E adevărat că ai povestit copiilor cum l-au vîndut boierii pe domnitor, turcilor? — E adevărat. Scrie la Cartea de citire. — E adevărat că ai stăruit asupra faptului că Ion Armeanul îi iubea pe ţărani şi-i ura pe boieri? — E adevărat. Scrie... — Ştiu. La Cartea de citire... — Atunci... — E adevărat că la această lecţie ţi-ai dat osteneala să le vorbeşti copiilor frumos? — E adevărat. Cum să nu fie adevărat? — De ce aţi făcut asta? [...] — Sunt lecţii care îmi plac. Pe acestea le predau cu căldură, cu pasiune chiar... [...] Alte lecţii le predau uscat, acelea care nu-mi plac, de pildă Mihai Viteazul, care i-a legat pe ţărani de pămînt, robindu-i şi mai mult boierilor. Nu-mi place Constantin Brîncoveanu, care a jupuit ţara şi a adunat averi nemăsurate... [...] — Dar la Cartea de citire scrie altfel... — Fals. Fals. Cartea de citire e falsificată în multe locuri. Cunosc adevărul din documente... — Cu asemenea documente, cu asemenea învăţători, n-avem ce face. Eşti pensionar? — Da. Cu prelungire în activitate. — Ţi-am tăiat prelungirea. Părăseşte şcoala. — O s-o părăsesc... — Acum! [...] — Să trăiţi, copii! Să rămîneţi sănătoşi şi să nu uitaţi a citi cartea cum nu e scrisă, cum v-am învăţat eu. [...] Adevărul, să căutaţi adevărul în cărţi. Sînt şi cărţi mincinoase. Multe. Să învăţaţi a le deosebi pe cele bune de cele rele...

Or, cea mai mare parte a junimiștilor de frunte, fie ei poeți, prozatori, dramaturgi, critici, istorici, filozofi, filologi, sau oameni de știință, care au creat capodopere în toate aceste domenii, a avut pregătit climatul propice acestor mari realizări de către intelectuali de mare prestigiu în acea vreme, intrați însă în posteritate pe scara de serviciu.

Ce fait ne pouvait, donc, qu'être vrai, cela d'autant plus qu'à l'exception de ceux qui ont la chance de vivre en contact avec le monde diplomatique, personne d'autre n'aurait pu le savoir. [Faptul, dar, nu putea fi decît adevărat, cu atît mai mult cu cît, afară de cei care au norocul să trăiască în contact cu lumea diplomatică, nimeni alții nu l-ar fi putut ști.] en français par Gabrielle Danoux

Les voisins, pour la plupart des gens des faubourgs simples et incultes, dépourvus de goûts et émois artistiques, qui ne pouvaient se figurer le beau autrement que selon les jugements de valeurs de leur banlieue, avaient inventé sur le compte de l'Anglais une légende qui, passée de bouche à oreille, se racontait comme ci à un bout de la rue, comme ça à l'autre. [Vecinii-cei mai mulți oameni simpli, mahalagii inculți, fără gusturi și simțuri artistice-neputîndu-și închipui frumosul decît așa cum era judecat în mahalaua lor, scorniseră pe socoteala englezului o legendă, care, trecută din gură în gură, ajunsese să fie povestită într-un fel la un cap al străzii și într-alt fel la cellalt.] en français par Gabrielle Danoux

L’arche J’ai construit dans mon âme inquiète et brisée Une arche – informe double à la Bible calquée – Et ce sont des troupeaux, des peuples de pensées, Soumis au ciel puissant, qui s’y sont embarqués. Il est temps que du ciel la colère s’abatte ! Une rigide pluie tend sa herse d’acier. Dans la lourde vapeur le navire se hâte Sans savoir où il va, sur les flots incliné. Et le dernier sommet des monts sombre dans l’onde. Vers quel bord, ô Seigneur, et vers quel Ararat Hors des brouillards lointains me portent l’eau profonde ? Sur la mer, un linceul de ténèbres s’abat. Ah, j’entends quelque part une âme se défaire Dans l’aigre mélopée de la pluie et des larmes. Et l’arche dans la nuit, ô Jéhovah, t’espère Qui scellera, d’un arc-en-ciel, les mers de l’âme. (Adaptation en français par Jean Rousselot) [În turburatu-mi suflet am construit o Arcă - Informa nălucire de biblic corăbier -, Și turme-ntregi de gînduri pe puntea ei se-mbarcă, Noroade-ntregi, plecate puternicului cer. E vremea să se-abată mînia Lui! O ploaie De stropi rigizi întinde zabrele de otel. Corabia aleargă… în negura greoaie, Corabia se-nclină, și-aleargă fără țel… Și cel din urmă creștet de munte se scufundă… - Spre care țărm, Stapîne, spre care Ararat Din bruma depărtării mă poartă-adînca undă? S-a coborît pe ape lințoliu-ntunecat. Aud cum se destramă un suflet undeva, Departe, în a ploii acidă melopee… E noapte-n larg… Iar Arca te așteaptă, Jehova, Pe mările din suflet să fereci curcubee. Sburătorul, 20 decembrie 1919]

To My Missus She plays with me when not at work, She rumples my hair; I romp among the papers which She's just arranged with care. A tease I am, yet, all the same, She loves to have me there. My Missus spoils me, you may think, I make a dreadful noise, The floor that we walk upon Is covered with my toys, Yet all the same, she says to me, I am her best of joys. My Missus takes me "Walkies," too; I love to go to town. 'Tis I who always comfort her, And lick away her frown. Yet, all the same, she is to me My queen without a crown. I love to hear her charming voice, That calls me by my name. I'm only a little bow-wow; Patch is my doggie name. She can be very strict, but still I love her all the same.

Vezi tu, uneori memoria copiilor e atât de consolidată de imagini ce-i impresionează la prima vedere, încât nu le scapă chiar peste zeci de ani amănunte pe care, în mod normal, un adult ori nu le-a sesizat şi înregistrat atunci, ori nu le mai ţine minte.

La liberté est fille des cieux, elle est le fruit de l'éternelle justice, elle est la volonté affranchie de l'homme sage de faire ce qui sert ses intérêts ainsi que ceux de son prochain et qui est porteur de vertu. [Libertatea este fiică a cerului, este rod al vecinicei dreptăți, e voia cea slobodă a omului înțelept a face ceea ce este de folos lui și aproapelui și care poate să-i ducă cinste.] ( Scrisoare către cenzor)

Greu de găsit o altă ţară care să fi trecut, ca România, prin atâtea regimuri politice de-a lungul unui singur deceniu. O relativă democraţie până la sfârşitul anului 1937. Regimul personal al regelui Carol II din februarie 1938 până în septembrie 1940. Statul naţional-legionar din septembrie 1940 până în ianuarie 1941. Puterea concentrată în mâinile Conducătorului: generalul (apoi mareşal) Ion Antonescu (deja asociat cu legionarii în lunile anterioare), din ianuarie 1941 până în august 1944. Scurta etapă democratică (cu destule limitări, de altfel) din august 1944 până în februarie 1945. Guvernarea Petru Groza, comunizantă, din martie 1945 până la sfârşitul lunii decembrie 1947. Iar la 30 decembrie 1947, odată cu proclamarea Republicii Populare Române, intrarea deplină într-un  sistem comunist. În doar zece ani, o succesiune de şapte regimuri, acoperind întreg evantaiul politico-ideologic, de la extrema dreaptă la extrema stângă şi de la democraţie la totalitarism.

Quantum Bits and Energy Levels Quantum computers use qubits, which, in some architectures, are derived from properties of electrons, such as their spin. The distinct energy levels play a pivotal role here. When we manipulate a qubit, we're essentially navigating it through these quantized energy levels. The qubit's information is encoded based on these levels, and the precision with which we can control and measure these states is central to the functioning of a quantum computer. For example, in quantum computers that use trapped ions as qubits, individual ions are manipulated using lasers. By carefully tuning these lasers, we can make an electron in an ion jump between different energy levels, effectively flipping a qubit between its 0 and 1 state. Here, the quantized nature of energy levels is a blessing, providing a clear, distinct boundary between the two states of the qubit.

Among the best solutions: using disposable blood-pressure cuffs on incoming patients; infusing hospital equipment with silver ion particles to create an antimicrobial shield; and forbidding doctors to wear neckties because, as the U.K. Department of Health has noted, they “are rarely laundered,” “perform no beneficial function in patient care,” and “have been shown to be colonized by pathogens.

Un popor care nu-și respectă trecutul și datina creștină, un popor care își pierde credința, un popor care nu cultivă iubirea pentru moșii și strămoșii săi este un popor condamnat.

Shorty, one thing you’ll learn about me is I don’t fuckin’ play about people I care about. I’on give a fuck if I gotta body a muthafucka. Ain’t nobody fuckin’ with what belongs to me.

Cause you used to people fuckin' usin' you! But I’on need you like that, lil' baby. I need you 'cause I fuckin' care 'bout you! I wanna fuckin' be witchu for you! Fuck ya name! Fuck what you got! I'm tryna have the only thing these niggas outchea can't get from you, shawty! I want ya fuckin' heart! So, if you can't give me that shit, tell me so I can move the fuck around.

He came across as not caring about anything, but she knew the truth now. He cared about everything. To distraction. To the point where he’d erected a barrier to protect himself. Stryke’s problem wasn’t that he didn’t have enough feelings. It was that he had too many.

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