Jack's Island Quotes

Failing and Flying" Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It's the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last. Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist. Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

You do not mean there is danger of peace?", cried Jack.

But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last.

Colonel Mickelson looks like he could defend Fort Hamilton by himself if Staten Island ever declared war and invaded... If Jack Nicholson looked like this when he yelled that Tom Cruise couldn't handle the truth, Cruise would have said, "Yes, you're right, I'm sorry. My bad.

This next part might cheer you up. So my mom told me she was gonna drive me to my appointment at the sperm bank, and she handed me one of my dad's Playboys--I had something way dirtier stashed in my closet, by the way--and she asked me, all serious, if I knew what do do." "You've got to be kidding." "No, I'm not." He started laughing. "I was fifteen, Anna. I was and expert at it, and I did not want to talk about jacking off with my mom.

The little island seemed to float on the dark lake-waters. Trees grew on it, and a little hill rose in the middle of it. It was a mysterious island, lonely and beautiful. All the children stood and gazed at it, loving it and longing to go to it. It looked so secret - almost magic. “Well,” said Jack at last. “What do you think? Shall we run away, and live on the secret island?” “Yes!” whispered all the children. “Let’s!

Somewhere in the vast jewelry of the Long Island night we walked, in wind and rain...

I had traveled eight thousand miles around the American continent and I was back on Times Square; and right in the middle of a rush hour, too, seeing with my innocent road-eyes the absolute madness and fantastic hoorair of New York with its millions and millions hustling forever for a buck among themselves, the mad dream-grabbing, taking, giving, sighing, dying, just so they could be buried in those awful cemetery cities beyond Long Island City.

A Brief for the Defense Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies are not starving someplace, they are starving somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils. But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants. Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women at the fountain are laughing together between the suffering they have known and the awfulness in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody in the village is very sick. There is laughter every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta, and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay. If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction, we lessen the importance of their deprivation. We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil. If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down, we should give thanks that the end had magnitude. We must admit there will be music despite everything. We stand at the prow again of a small ship anchored late at night in the tiny port looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning. To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth all the years of sorrow that are to come.

My parents stood still. It was like we were on two separate islands. Mom and Dad were on one, and I was on the other. And the ocean between us was the symbol of truth. The thing representing our truce.

Jack was already mother-naked when he heard the cry and saw the splash. He slipped from the gunwale into the clear water, made out the vague form at a surprising depth, dived, fished it up, swam to the ship, now a hundred yards away, roared for a line, passed the inanimate Herapath up the side, and followed himself. 'Mr Pullings,'he cried, very angry. 'Put an end to this infernal hallooing instantly. Always the same God-damned foolery, every time a man goes overboard. Damn you all for a mob of mad lunatics. Get along forward. Silence fore and aft.

We were so used to traveling we had to walk all over Long Island, but there was no more land, just the Atlantic Ocean, and we could only go so far.

We were not many, and the world was very small. There were strange lands to the east- islands like Akutan; so we thought all the world was islands, and did not mind.

Suddenly I found myself on Times Square. I had traveled eight thousand miles around the American continent and I was back on Times Square; and right in the middle of a rush hour, too, seeing with my innocent road-eyes the absolute madness and fantastic hoorair of New York with its millions and millions hustling forever for a buck among themselves, the mad dream––grabbing, taking, giving, sighing, dying, just so they could be buried in those awful cemetery cities beyond Long Island City.

I take a nap after supper and dream of the U.S. Navy, a ship anchored near a war scene, at an island, but everything is drowsy as two sailors go up the trail with fishing poles and a dog between them to go make love quietly in the hills: the captain and everybody know they're queer and rather than being infuriated however they're all drowsily enchanted by such gentle love... (p. 119)

I felt like a man who wakes alone on a deserted island to find that the rest of the world has stolen away in boats in the night. I felt like I was standing on a shore, watching small receding shapes on the horizon. I felt like I had been speaking English, and now I realized everyone else had been speaking a different language entirely. The world was changing. And I didn’t want it to.

Solomon Island scourges, dysentery, had struck Berande plantation, and he was all alone to cope with it.  Also, he was afflicted himself. By stooping close, still on man-back, he managed to pass through the low doorway.  He took

ketch all alone with a black crew from Malaita.  And Romance lured and beckoned before Joan’s eyes when she learned he was Christian Young, a Norfolk Islander, but a direct descendant of John Young, one of the original Bounty mutineers.  The blended Tahitian and English blood showed in his soft

we have a debt of honor to the people on those islands who decided that they wanted to be Americans. If we don’t defend that principle, we don’t defend anything. And nobody will trust us, and nobody will respect us, not even ourselves. If we turn our back on them, then we are not the people we say we are, and everything we’ve ever done is a lie.

You haven’t got it with you,’ said Jack, sneering. ‘You left it behind. See, clever? And the conch doesn’t count at this end of the island—

Human existence is girt round with mystery: the narrow region of our experience is a small island in the midst of a boundless sea. To add to the mystery, the domain of our earthly existence is not only an island in infinite space, but also in infinite time. The past and the future are alike shrouded from us: we neither know the origin of anything which is, nor its final destination.

Maria was amazed to learn that he had been in the Azores, where she had lived until she was eleven. She was doubly amazed that he had been in the Hawaiian Islands, whither she had migrated from the Azores with her people.

Newton, Iowa, it was, where I’d taken that dawn walk in 1947. In the afternoon we crossed drowsy old Davenport again and the low-lying Mississippi in her sawdust bed; then Rock Island, a few minutes of traffic, the sun reddening, and sudden sights of lovely little tributary rivers flowing softly among the magic trees and greeneries of mid-American Illinois. It was beginning to look like the soft sweet East again; the great dry West was accomplished and done.

All Summer in a Day” by Ray Bradbury Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo Big Nate series by Lincoln Peirce The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Book Thief  by Markus Zusak Brian’s Hunt by Gary Paulsen Brian’s Winter by Gary Paulsen Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis The Call of the Wild by Jack London The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis Diary of a Wimpy Kid series by Jeff Kinney Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury The Giver by Lois Lowry Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling Hatchet by Gary Paulsen The High King (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien Holes by Louis Sachar The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins I Am LeBron James by Grace Norwich I Am Stephen Curry by Jon Fishman Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell Johnny Tremain by Esther Hoskins Forbes Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson LeBron’s Dream Team: How Five Friends Made History by LeBron James and Buzz Bissinger The Lightning Thief  (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) by Rick Riordan A Long Walk to Water by Linda Sue Park The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle Number the Stars by Lois Lowry The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton The River by Gary Paulsen The Sailor Dog by Margaret Wise Brown Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor “A Sound of Thunder” by Ray Bradbury Star Wars Expanded Universe novels (written by many authors) Star Wars series (written by many authors) The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann D. Wyss Tales from a Not-So-Graceful Ice Princess (Dork Diaries) by Rachel Renée Russell Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt Under the Blood-Red Sun by Graham Salisbury The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

As I write these lines I lift my eyes and look seaward.  I am on the beach of Waikiki on the island of Oahu.  Far, in the azure sky, the trade-wind clouds drift low over the blue-green turquoise of the deep sea.  Nearer, the sea is emerald and light olive-green.  Then comes the reef, where the water is all slaty purple flecked with red.  Still nearer are brighter greens and tans, lying in alternate stripes and showing where sandbeds lie between the living coral banks.  Through and over and out of these wonderful colours tumbles and thunders a magnificent surf.

Well, Jack, we have taken the Macedonian, and your share of the prize, if we get her in safely, may be two hundred dollars; what will you do with it?” Stephen Decatur, commanding the frigate United States, North Atlantic, near the Azores Islands, 1812. “One hundred will go to my mother, sir, and the other I shall spend on schooling.” Jack Creamer, aged ten.

As for me," said the sailor, "if I ever grumble at work, my name's not Jack Pencroft, and if you like, captain, we will make a little America of this island! We will build towns, we will establish railways, start telegraphs, and one fine day, when it is quite changed, quite put in order and quite civilized, we will go and offer it to the government of the Union.

So you should be grateful about most everything, because, being an American, you live a very privileged life. There’s just a tiny amount of room for complaining, because there are a few legitimate things worth complaining about. Like, let’s say you watched a show about people who crashed on an island, and it was full of interesting mysteries, and you kept watching for six seasons, hoping to find answers to all the mysteries—but then in the finale they totally didn’t answer anything and acted like it was the characters and their resolutions I was supposed to care about—like Jack’s constant whining should have been my focus rather than the smoke monster or the mysterious hatch. That’s awful. That’s worth complaining about . . . even years later.

The more they talked of escape, the harder it was to dowse the flame, for it shone like a gateway to a golden world. The Dutch Indies were famed as the most beautiful string of islands in the world, green hillocks scattered in calm blue seas, blessedly free of the head-hunters that plagued the Pacific. As for food, Jack had heard tell of luxurious feasts, of roast pig and yellow rice: the very words made their stomachs rumble.

I looked at the huge charlatan with respect. Nicotine, dope, hash, barbiturates, speed, acid, smack, Colombian marching powder, ecstasy, alcohol in every form, all had entered the massive frame by some route and in quantities guaranteed to lay waste to the collected brains of three Melbourne universities or eight in Queensland. In theory, a scan of this man’s skull should reveal a place as grey and still as Kerguelen Island in winter. Yet from time to time there were clear signs of electrical activity.

Many Americans often refer to Elizabeth II as ‘Queen Elizabeth of England’ - however, as any Brit will tell you, that’s wrong - they’ll say she is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. But of course they’re wrong as well. Her majesty is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis.

If you read Lord of the Flies at some point in the past, you probably remember the story’s premise. A plane carrying a group of British schoolboys crashes on a desert island. In the adult world, war is raging. While the boys wait for grown-ups to rescue them, they set up a miniature society. They elect Ralph as their leader because he’s the one who finds a conch shell and uses it to call them together. They establish groups and roles: some boys will hunt, some will build shelters, and some will keep a fire burning in hopes of summoning a rescue boat. These plans are sensible and practical, but it’s only a matter of time before they fall apart. In order to eat meat, some of the boys must be willing to kill. Doing so requires them to cross a line—to let go of all they’ve been taught and unleash some part of themselves that they never before dared to reveal. As the leader of the hunters, Jack is intoxicated by this freedom. Meanwhile there’s Piggy, the voice of reason, reminding them that they must have rules and remain focused on rescue. But it’s easier to play than to work, and being wild is more fun than being disciplined. Undermining it all is the element of fear, which trumps reason and incites panic. Soon the same war raging in the adult world erupts on the island. Children who were once proper schoolboys become distortions of their former selves, barely recognizable as human.

Now this is grand, she thought, the white linen well-pressed, the warm light glimmering from a score of candles, the silver plate polished like mirrors. It was a feast in a picture book, a queen's banquet in a fairy castle. At the centre rose a vast Desert Island molded from sugar-paste, just as Aunt Charlotte had used to make it. A stockade of licorice crowned the peak, and a pathway of pink sugar sand stretched to the shore. The whole was surrounded by a sea of broken jelly, swimming with candied fish. First off, she ate the two tiny sugar castaways from the lookout on her island- very sweet and crisp they were, too. She stood to make a toast. "To you, Jack, my own true love," and took a long draught. Sugarplums next; a whole pyramid to herself, of every color: raspberry, orange, violet, pistachio. She was eating dinner back to front, and she recommended it heartily. Next, her teeth sank into a sticky mass of moonshine jelly- it was good, very good.

Among the best shows were these, some of which have attained cult followings: The Most Dangerous Game (Oct. 1, 1947), a showcase for two actors, Paul Frees and Hans Conried, as hunted and hunter on a remote island; Evening Primrose (Nov. 5, 1947), John Collier’s too-chilling-to-be-humorous account of a misfit who finds sanctuary (and something else that he hadn’t counted on) when he decides to live in a giant department store after hours; Confession (Dec. 31, 1947), surely one of the greatest pure-radio items ever done in any theater—Algernon Blackwood’s creepy sleight-of-hand that keeps a listener guessing until the last line; Leiningen vs. the Ants (Jan. 17, 1948) and Three Skeleton Key (Nov. 15, 1949), interesting as much for technical achievement as for story or character development (soundmen Gould and Thorsness utilized ten turntables and various animal noises in their creation of Three Skeleton Key’s swarming pack of rats); Poison (July 28, 1950), a riveting commentary on intolerance wrapped in a tense struggle to save a man from the deadliest snake in the world—Jack Webb stars

It was a damned near-run thing, I must admit,' said Jack, modestly; then after a pause he laughed and said, 'I remember your using those very words in the old Bellerophon, before we had our battle.' 'So I did,' cried Dundas. 'So I did. Lord, that was a great while ago.' 'I still bear the scar,' said Jack. He pushed up his sleeve, and there on his brown forearm was a long white line. 'How it comes back,' said Dundas; and between them, drinking port, they retold the tale, with minute details coming fresh to their minds. As youngsters, under the charge of the gunner of the Bellerophon, 74, in the West Indies, they had played the same game. Jack, with his infernal luck, had won on that occasion too: Dundas claimed his revenge, and lost again, again on a throw of double six. Harsh words, such as cheat, liar, sodomite, booby and God-damned lubber flew about; and since fighting over a chest, the usual way of settling such disagreements in many ships, was strictly forbidden in the Bellemphon, it was agreed that as gentlemen could not possibly tolerate such language they should fight a duel. During the afternoon watch the first lieutenant, who dearly loved a white-scoured deck, found that the ship was almost out of the best kind of sand, and he sent Mr Aubrey away in the blue cutter to fetch some from an island at the convergence of two currents where the finest and most even grain was found. Mr Dundas accompanied him, carrying two newly sharpened cutlasses in a sailcloth parcel, and when the hands had been set to work with shovels the two little boys retired behind a dune, unwrapped the parcel, saluted gravely, and set about each other. Half a dozen passes, the blades clashing, and when Jack cried out 'Oh Hen, what have you done?' Dundas gazed for a moment at the spurting blood, burst into tears, whipped off his shirt and bound up the wound as best he could. When they crept aboard a most unfortunately idle, becalmed and staring Bellerophon, their explanations, widely different and in both cases so weak that they could not be attempted to be believed, were brushed aside, and their captain flogged them severely on the bare breech. 'How we howled,' said Dundas. 'You were shriller than I was,' said Jack. 'Very like a hyena.

A beautiful example of a long-term intention was presented by A. T. Ariyaratane, a Buddhist elder, who is considered to be the Gandhi of Sri Lanka. For seventeen years there had been a terrible civil war in Sri Lanka. At one point, the Norwegians were able to broker peace, and once the peace treaty was in effect, Ariyaratane called the followers of his Sarvodaya movement together. Sarvodaya combines Buddhist principles of right livelihood, right action, right understanding, and compassion and has organized citizens in one-third of that nation’s villages to dig wells, build schools, meditate, and collaborate as a form of spiritual practice. Over 650,000 people came to the gathering to hear how he envisioned the future of Sri Lanka. At this gathering he proposed a five-hundred-year peace plan, saying, “The Buddha teaches we must understand causes and conditions. It’s taken us five hundred years to create the suffering that we are in now.” Ari described the effects of four hundred years of colonialism, of five hundred years of struggle between Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists, and of several centuries of economic disparity. He went on, “It will take us five hundred years to change these conditions.” Ariyaratane then offered solutions, proposing a plan to heal the country. The plan begins with five years of cease-fire and ten years of rebuilding roads and schools. Then it goes on for twenty-five years of programs to learn one another’s languages and cultures, and fifty years of work to right economic injustice, and to bring the islanders back together as a whole. And every hundred years there will be a grand council of elders to take stock on how the plan is going. This is a sacred intention, the long-term vision of an elder. In the same way, if we envision the fulfillment of wisdom and compassion in the United States, it becomes clear that the richest nation on earth must provide health care for its children; that the most productive nation on earth must find ways to combine trade with justice; that a creative society must find ways to grow and to protect the environment and plan sustainable development for generations ahead. A nation founded on democracy must bring enfranchisement to all citizens at home and then offer the same spirit of international cooperation and respect globally. We are all in this together.

A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENSE Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies are not starving someplace, they are starving somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils. But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants. Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women at the fountain are laughing together between the suffering they have known and the awfulness in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody in the village is very sick. There is laughter every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta, and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay. If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction, we lessen the importance of their deprivation. We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil. If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down, we should give thanks that the end had magnitude. We must admit there will be music despite everything. We stand at the prow again of a small ship anchored late at night in the tiny port looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning. To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth all the years of sorrow that are to come.

How I Got That Name Marilyn Chin an essay on assimilation I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin Oh, how I love the resoluteness of that first person singular followed by that stalwart indicative of “be," without the uncertain i-n-g of “becoming.” Of course, the name had been changed somewhere between Angel Island and the sea, when my father the paperson in the late 1950s obsessed with a bombshell blond transliterated “Mei Ling” to “Marilyn.” And nobody dared question his initial impulse—for we all know lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency. And there I was, a wayward pink baby, named after some tragic white woman swollen with gin and Nembutal. My mother couldn’t pronounce the “r.” She dubbed me “Numba one female offshoot” for brevity: henceforth, she will live and die in sublime ignorance, flanked by loving children and the “kitchen deity.” While my father dithers, a tomcat in Hong Kong trash— a gambler, a petty thug, who bought a chain of chopsuey joints in Piss River, Oregon, with bootlegged Gucci cash. Nobody dared question his integrity given his nice, devout daughters and his bright, industrious sons as if filial piety were the standard by which all earthly men are measured. * Oh, how trustworthy our daughters, how thrifty our sons! How we’ve managed to fool the experts in education, statistic and demography— We’re not very creative but not adverse to rote-learning. Indeed, they can use us. But the “Model Minority” is a tease. We know you are watching now, so we refuse to give you any! Oh, bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots! The further west we go, we’ll hit east; the deeper down we dig, we’ll find China. History has turned its stomach on a black polluted beach— where life doesn’t hinge on that red, red wheelbarrow, but whether or not our new lover in the final episode of “Santa Barbara” will lean over a scented candle and call us a “bitch.” Oh God, where have we gone wrong? We have no inner resources! * Then, one redolent spring morning the Great Patriarch Chin peered down from his kiosk in heaven and saw that his descendants were ugly. One had a squarish head and a nose without a bridge Another’s profile—long and knobbed as a gourd. A third, the sad, brutish one may never, never marry. And I, his least favorite— “not quite boiled, not quite cooked," a plump pomfret simmering in my juices— too listless to fight for my people’s destiny. “To kill without resistance is not slaughter” says the proverb. So, I wait for imminent death. The fact that this death is also metaphorical is testament to my lethargy. * So here lies Marilyn Mei Ling Chin, married once, twice to so-and-so, a Lee and a Wong, granddaughter of Jack “the patriarch” and the brooding Suilin Fong, daughter of the virtuous Yuet Kuen Wong and G.G. Chin the infamous, sister of a dozen, cousin of a million, survived by everbody and forgotten by all. She was neither black nor white, neither cherished nor vanquished, just another squatter in her own bamboo grove minding her poetry— when one day heaven was unmerciful, and a chasm opened where she stood. Like the jowls of a mighty white whale, or the jaws of a metaphysical Godzilla, it swallowed her whole. She did not flinch nor writhe, nor fret about the afterlife, but stayed! Solid as wood, happily a little gnawed, tattered, mesmerized by all that was lavished upon her and all that was taken away!

HOW TO USE THIS BOOK WHAT TO DO FIRST 1. Find the MAP. It will be there. No Tour of Fantasyland is complete without one. It will be found in the front part of your brochure, quite near the page that says For Mom and Dad for having me and for Jeannie (or Jack or Debra or Donnie or …) for putting up with me so supportively and for my nine children for not interrupting me and for my Publisher for not discouraging me and for my Writers’ Circle for listening to me and for Barbie and Greta and Albert Einstein and Aunty May and so on. Ignore this, even if you are wondering if Albert Einstein is Albert Einstein or in fact the dog. This will be followed by a short piece of prose that says When the night of the wolf waxes strong in the morning, the wise man is wary of a false dawn. Ka’a Orto’o, Gnomic Utterances Ignore this too (or, if really puzzled, look up GNOMIC UTTERANCES in the Toughpick section). Find the Map. 2. Examine the Map. It will show most of a continent (and sometimes part of another) with a large number of BAYS, OFFSHORE ISLANDS, an INLAND SEA or so and a sprinkle of TOWNS. There will be scribbly snakes that are probably RIVERS, and names made of CAPITAL LETTERS in curved lines that are not quite upside down. By bending your neck sideways you will be able to see that they say things like “Ca’ea Purt’wydyn” and “Om Ce’falos.” These may be names of COUNTRIES, but since most of the Map is bare it is hard to tell. These empty inland parts will be sporadically peppered with little molehills, invitingly labeled “Megamort Hills,” “Death Mountains, ”Hurt Range” and such, with a whole line of molehills near the top called “Great Northern Barrier.” Above this will be various warnings of danger. The rest of the Map’s space will be sparingly devoted to little tiny feathers called “Wretched Wood” and “Forest of Doom,” except for one space that appears to be growing minute hairs. This will be tersely labeled “Marshes.” This is mostly it. No, wait. If you are lucky, the Map will carry an arrow or compass-heading somewhere in the bit labeled “Outer Ocean” and this will show you which way up to hold it. But you will look in vain for INNS, reststops, or VILLAGES, or even ROADS. No – wait another minute – on closer examination, you will find the empty interior crossed by a few bird tracks. If you peer at these you will see they are (somewhere) labeled “Old Trade Road – Disused” and “Imperial Way – Mostly Long Gone.” Some of these routes appear to lead (or have lead) to small edifices enticingly titled “Ruin,” “Tower of Sorcery,” or “Dark Citadel,” but there is no scale of miles and no way of telling how long you might take on the way to see these places. In short, the Map is useless, but you are advised to keep consulting it, because it is the only one you will get. And, be warned. If you take this Tour, you are going to have to visit every single place on this Map, whether it is marked or not. This is a Rule. 3. Find your STARTING POINT. Let us say it is the town of Gna’ash. You will find it down in one corner on the coast, as far away from anywhere as possible. 4. Having found Gna’ash, you must at once set about finding an INN, Tour COMPANIONS, a meal of STEW, a CHAMBER for the night, and then the necessary TAVERN BRAWL. (If you look all these things up in the Toughpick section, you will know what you are in for.) The following morning, you must locate the MARKET and attempt to acquire CLOTHING (which absolutely must include a CLOAK), a SADDLE ROLL, WAYBREAD, WATERBOTTLES, a DAGGER, a SWORD, a HORSE, and a MERCHANT to take you along in his CARAVAN. You must resign yourself to being cheated over most prices and you are advised to consult a local MAGICIAN about your Sword. 5. You set off. Now you are on your own. You should turn to the Toughpick section of this brochure and select your Tour on a pick-and-mix basis, remembering only that you will have to take in all of it.

ROUND UP A lot more can be said, but finally, this is your last lesson in this epic 30 -day quest to become a successful conversationalist. For the past 29 days, you’ve been tutored about different techniques to make things happen, and today you’ll kick start a conversation with more confidence and organization, because you are now a professional in the communication world. There are takeaways that you should not forget as you go forth as a small talk professional. You have learnt and practiced many truths about the nature and composition of small talk, but there are certain ones that should be placed next to your heart: Small talk may be seen as a waste of time, but it is actually time well spent; take note of this important point, people might want to convince and confuse you. Small talk with personal meaning orientation will scratch business shop talk off any time. Small talk should now be seen as an effective tool that is available right next to you and can be a gateway to success. You still have the chance to go back to the previous chapters you struggled with, this way, you’ll review and assimilate the important points, no one is an island of knowledge, and so I don’t expect you to have everything registered in your brain already, constant practices will bring out the best in you. Identifying your weakness is just as important as acknowledging your strength. I want to assure you that you’ll definitely excel since you’ve been able to lay hands on this book, and this how you can help others who are still in the position that you were when you started in day one. You’ve been instructed about many secrets of success, as well as the things to exploit and avoid. It’s up to you to make this permanent, and this can only be achieved if you keep following these instructions. You have to make the decision now; whether you would make use of this manual or not, but I would advise that you want it again and again as this is the only way to dedicate your spirit, soul and body to constant improvement. You definitely would have noticed some changes in you, you’re not the same person any more. One important thing is that you shouldn’t give up; try to redouble your efforts and realize that you know everything you’re supposed to know. This shouldn’t end here, endeavour to spread the word to make sure that you impact at least three people per day, this means that you would have impacted about 90 people at the end of the next 30 days and close to about 120 people in just two months. Now, you see how you can make the world a better place? It’s up to you to decide what you want and how you want it to be. Don’t waste this golden opportunity of becoming a professional in communication, you’ll go a long way and definitely be surprised at the rate at which you’ve gone in such a small time. Take time to attend to things that need attention, don’t be too hard on yourself, and don’t go too soft on yourself, you’re one vessel that can’t be manipulated, so you have to be careful and sure about your status on communication skills. On the final note, I would like to congratulate you for reading this to the end, you’ve taken this course because you believe in the powers of small talks, so this shouldn’t be the last time I’m hearing from you. I would look forward to seeing your questions about any confusing aspect in the future. Till then, remain the professional that you are!

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

Come see the kitchen,” Haven told me, tugging me toward a tiled area with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. “Would you like something to drink?” “Yes, thanks.” She opened the refrigerator. “Mango iced tea, or raspberry basil?” “Mango, please.” I sat on a stool at the island. Jack ripped his attention away from the magazine long enough to protest, “Haven, you know I can’t stand that stuff. Just give me the regular kind.” “I don’t have the regular kind,” his sister retorted, pulling out a pitcher of citrus-colored tea. “You can try some of the mango.” “What’s wrong with tea-flavored tea?” “Quit complaining, Jack. Hardy tried this a few times and he likes it.” “Honey, Hardy would like it if you picked up grass clippings from the yard and brewed them. He’s pussy-whipped.” Haven bit back a smile. “I dare you to say that to his face.” “Can’t,” came the laconic reply. “He’s pussy-whipped, but he could still kick the crap out of me.” My eyes widened as I wondered what kind of man could manage to kick the crap out of Jack Travis. “My fiancé used to be a welder on a drilling rig and he’s tough as hell,” Haven informed me, her eyes twinkling. “Which is a good thing. Otherwise my three older brothers would have run him off by now.” “We’ve done everything short of giving him a medal for taking you on,” Jack retorted.

He hefted the drill. “Now let me do the guy stuff while you go to the kitchen. Trust me, it’s a perfect arrangement.” “Luke’s going to cry,” I said darkly. “No, he won’t. He’ll love it.” To my disgust Luke didn’t make a sound, watching contentedly as Jack built the crib. I heated a plate of spaghetti and sauce, and set a place for Jack at the kitchen island. “C’mon, Luke,” I said, picking up the baby and carrying him into the kitchen. “We’ll entertain Cro-Magnon while he has his dinner.” Jack dug into the steaming pasta with gusto, making appreciative noises and finishing at least a third of it before coming up for air. “This is great. What else can you cook?” “Just the basics. A few casseroles, pasta, stew. I can roast a chicken.” “Can you do meat loaf?” “Yep.” “Marry me, Ella.” I looked into his wicked dark eyes, and even though I knew he was joking, I felt a wild pulse inside, and my hands trembled. “Sure,” I said lightly. “Want some bread?” -Jack & Ella

One particularly successful swimmer was Johnny Weismuller, an American (with Austro-Hungarian ancestry) who won five gold medals over the course of the 1924 and 1928 games. When his sporting career came to an end, he went into acting and starred as Tarzan in twelve films. In 1958 Weismuller was playing a round of golf on the island of Cuba when a small band of rebels attempted to kidnap him. He scared them off by loudly making the Tarzan yell.

Her majesty is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis.

called aral, “island,” in Mongolian.

To satisfy McIlhenny Co.’s need for a steady supply of casks, E.A. signed a deal with Jack Daniels, the Lynchburg, Tennesseee–based whiskey distiller whose roots date back to 1866, a year before Tabasco sauce debuted. Under the agreement, still in existence today, McIlhenny Co. has bought tens of thousands of Jack Daniels’s used barrels, which arrive at Avery Island smelling of hard liquor and charred from years of storing sour mash whiskey.

Upon the death of Olam III, the Elder Isles entered upon a time of troubles. The Ska, having been expelled from Ireland, settled on the island Skaghane, where they rebuffed all attempts to dislodge them. Goths ravaged the coast of Dahaut, sacking the Christian monastery on Whanish Isle, sailing their long-boats up the Cambermouth as far as Cogstone Head, from which they briefly menaced Avallon itself. A dozen princelings vied for power, shedding much blood, wreaking much grief and bereavement, exhausting the land, and in the end achieving nothing, so that the Elder Isles became a patchwork of eleven kingdoms, each at odds with all the rest.

You know,” I said as we trudged homeward, “this is an important occasion, and not just because of this great discovery. According to my calculations, tomorrow will be our second anniversary on the island “ “Is this really true?” Elizabeth asked. “I can hardly believe so much time has passed.” “It is true, my dear,” I said. Think of all of the adventures that we have had and that we are safe, well-fed and happy. I am going to declare tomorrow a special day of celebration.” “You mean that we are going to have a party?” cried Francis, jumping for joy. “Oh, I can hardly wait!” Actually, Francis did not have long to wait, for when the morning dawned, Elizabeth and I had the entire day’s festivities planned. Greeting my sons on the lawn beneath Falcon’s Nest, I said, “For the past two years, you boys have been practicing wrestling, running, swimming, shooting and horseback riding here on the island. Now, we are going to determine the champions of these feats.” So, the competitions began, with Elizabeth cheering the boys and Turk and Flora running alongside them. Unquestionably, the highlight of the day was the horseback-riding event. Fritz mounted Lightfoot and Ernest rode Grizzle, but they were no match for Jack’s skillful handling of the wild buffalo. A practiced groom could not have managed a thoroughbred horse with more grace and ease. “Jack, my boy,” I boomed, “I hereby declare you the winner of this contest.” “No, Papa.” interrupted Francis. “You haven’t seen what I can do yet.” Francis rode into the arena, mounted on his young buffalo bull, Broumm, which was just four months old. Elizabeth had made a saddle of kangaroo skin and stirrups that adjusted to Francis’s little legs.

I know there were moments of elation while I played – an indescribable euphoria from the movement of the ball, the tingling reverberation of my leg after a kick, and a sense of freedom and relief in the heat of the contest, perhaps exaggerated by floating in the stasis of my thoughts on either side of the game; and outside the lines of the field were the coffees between meetings, the games of basketball across the islands of the changeroom and the walks from the front of the club to the carpark at Fox Studios every afternoon – but like a drug high, what I cannot escape is the aftermath: the gnawing of my teeth and the staring at the ceiling… On these pages is the evidence of the comedown that we don’t often see, one that I am still very much in the midst of.

So, where is he?” “In trouble,” said Hercules. “Why? What’d he do?” “He read a book,” said Tom Sawyer. “All about that beanstalk fellow, Jack.” “It was a good story,” said Hercules. “Action. Adventure. Glory.

Imagine it this way,” boomed Rex’s voice. “There’s these two men, one an enlightened genius and the other one a cretin, both of them thirsty and about to have a drink of water. Now the smart one, he knows that the water is H2O, the glass, baked silicate, and his thirst, dehydration of the cell. The cretin knows jack shit. They both drink that water and they’re both not thirsty anymore. Now tell me, what did the smart one’s enlightenment do here? How is he better off than the dum’ one? That’s why philosophy is a waste of time. It does fuck all.

Around their mounds, they dug scores of miles of watercourses on the order of Venetian canals; one allowed them to punt their craft two and a half miles across Pine Island between the sound and Matlacha Pass, saving themselves from a ten-mile paddle around either end of the island.

I wanted to disable the vehicle, but the cab doors were locked, and the engine hood was latched from the inside. Damn. I crawled under the high chassis and drew my knife. I don’t know much about auto mechanics, and Jack the Ripper didn’t know much about anatomy.

I don’t know much about auto mechanics, and Jack the Ripper didn’t know much about anatomy.

It was not a petty fact that nearly ninety percent off all door locks, from Buenos Aires to Toronto, from Beijing to Cape Cod, all utilized the ubiquitous and infirmed pin tumbler lock, which, as it turned out, made keys, rather than a necessity, only an easy convenience which served to lull the mind into a false sense of security.

Mom was excited to get back to the island, watching as it appeared in the distance. Her anticipation turned to dread, and she gasped, her hands on her mouth, when she saw the dock they had worked so hard on before gone. “What happened?” she asked, breaking her silence for the first time. “I’m pretty sure this was Ortho's work. He seemed to really hate villagers and destroyed every village he came across,” Dad said with a frown. Mom’s face softened. “I’m glad he can't do that anymore. This is so sad.” They pulled up to the island, stretching as they stepped from their boats. “We should probably fix up a shelter,” Dad said. “We’ll need a place for when it gets dark. Then I think we should strategize for this ocean monument trip we have to make.” “Oooh!” Kate said. “We should have turtle shell helmets!” Mom gasped. “Kate! Why would you do that to the poor turtles?” Kate giggled. “No Mom, baby turtles drop scute when they grow into big turtles, then you can collect it and make turtle shell helmets. They’re cool because they let you breathe underwater a bit longer. Plus, you can enchant them with...um. I forgot the name. But there’s an enchantment that helps you breathe longer, too.” “And one for mining underwater,” Jack added. “Why would you need that?” Dad asked. “Can’t you just mine like normal?” Jack shook his head. “Have you ever tried to swing a pickaxe underwater?” Dad blinked. “Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Sorry to dredge that up.” He wiggled his eyebrows. Mom was about to give Dad ‘The Look’ but Kate beat her to it. “No Dad, Jack already did a bunch of jokes.” “What?” Dad looked offended. “I’m supposed to do the Dad jokes!” “You are,” Jack said. “That’s why I did Jack Jokes.” Dad snorted out a laugh. “Were they punny?” Jack grinned. “Definitely. They worked great for our new villager friends when they helped us on the farm. They were real ice-breakers.” Dad laughed extra loud. “That’s it, I’m done!” Kate said. “Come on Mom, let’s go get some turtle scute.” “I’m right there with you girl. Let’s go.” Dad waved. “We’ll make sure we have shelter, and we’ll give it a nice outfit.” Dad winked. Jack cocked his head. “What does a house wear?” Dad grinned. “Address!” Jack laughed, and the girls rolled their eyes. “We’ll make sure not to build a house like a penguin though. They just igloo them together.” Kate and Mom groaned and hurried off towards the turtles. “Don’t run in front of a car!” Jack yelled. “You might get tired!” “Run faster, Mom,” Kate yelled. Dad and Jack laughed at their fleeing forms. Chapter 18 By the time Mom and Kate came back from their turtle excursion, Dad and Jack had fixed up a house

The orange wave was real. Layton and the NDP won 103 seats on May 2, 2011, and for the first and only time in its history, the party formed the official opposition with Layton at the helm. It was a huge accomplishment for the NDP, but for Jack Layton there was very little time to celebrate. The cancer had returned. It was about to race through his body. Just one hundred and twelve days after election night, the battle against it ended. On August 22, just before five in the morning, my phone rang. I've been around long enough to know that when the phone rings in the middle of the night the odds are it's not good news. It wasn't. "Jack just passed away. We will be announcing it publicly in a few hours. Perhaps you could make it known before then." I got up, showered, and dressed. I drove into Toronto from our home in Stratford thinking about those last conversations we'd had during the campaign. In St. John's after that interview had ended, I'd thanked him for being so frank about his health and his hopes in the few days we'd just spent together. Standing on the dock I'd told him that while he and I had done many interviews in the years before, all my questions in those past years had been so predictable. Before I could say anything, he smiled and looked at me. "And all my answers were so predictable too." We both laughed. It was so true. But 2011 had been different. I parked my car and walked into the studio where Heather Hiscox was hosting her morning show and, to her surprise, I sat down, unannounced, beside her. She could tell something wasn't right and, on air, she asked me what was up. "Jack Layton has just died." Heather's face said it all. She was shocked and saddened, just like so many Canadians of all political stripes were, as they found out in that same moment. A person's life have been stolen from them at the pinnacle of their professional career. The country was instantly in mourning. Two weeks later, Layton's widow, Olivia Chow, returned with me to the spot on Toronto Island where they had been married twenty-three years before and talked about what the final moments had been like. "It was very difficult, but he had no fear. He had no fear. He was ready, so I thought, okay. So we held him.

Be wary of The Other, for this one will be unexpected A weapon of conquest forged by the conqueror This one must be protected “This was the prophecy that was given to me. The prophecy that started it all. I never received the entire prophecy together. It was all given to me in pieces,” Dionysus revealed to Emma and me. “The conqueror…that’s Herobrine. The betrayer is Leo. I’m obviously Steve…” I deduced as Dionysus agreed. “What about The Other?” “The prophecy mentions the other would be unexpected. I had always assumed it meant Emma betraying Herobrine as it was our plan to have her be The Other.” “But it really meant it will be someone you wouldn’t expect,” I realized. “Not Herobrine. We should have seen it coming. Now Jack and the others are captured by Herobrine.” “Indeed. That is what I realized. This is why I removed you from the Minecraft realm when you landed on the island. I connected the fact that Emma never reported to me as planned, and with my newfound interpretation of the prophecy, I was worried about your safety,” Dionysus explained. “I wonder what’s Herobrine planning with The Other?” I asked Dionysus. “Well, Herobrine’s ultimate plan is to make one of you use the Ender Pearl so he can latch on with his army back to your world. With two Ender Pearls out there, on opposite sides, one must lose. Whoever

Just breathe. You are an apple tree on an island surrounded by oceans of indifference. You are impossible. Yet you are here. You are undeniable. Breathe.

A sharp prod at his hip reminded Enzo the ghostly pallbearers were still doing a poor job of carrying him. He obviously hadn’t reached his final resting place. The fireworks had subsided, which was a shame, they were rather a nice distraction from being dead. - By the Time Dawn Breaks (soon to be published)

Jack Frost,” she said. “Where are the fairies from the festival?” asked Kirsty, gazing around. The throne room was empty apart from one spindly frog footman. “They have gone back to Mermicorn Island,” said the queen. “I am not sure why.” “Perhaps we had better go to the island too,” said Rachel. “Perhaps,” said the queen. “I’m not sure. The only thing I know is that I won’t be able to give advice

Wyoming got an Algonquian name from Pennsylvania meaning “large prairie,” but the adoption came only after a long fight. Decades before the settling of the present state of Wyoming, its name achieved popular acclaim after an 1809 poem, “Gertrude of Wyoming,” by Thomas Campbell. The poem recalled the Iroquois defeat of a group of Tory settlers and the ensuing death of 350 of them during the chaos of the American Revolution. By the time Congress created the territory of Wyoming in 1868, ten communities in Rhode Island, New York, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Kansas, and Nebraska had already claimed the name. The name had grown in popularity and was proposed for the new Western territory, even though it had no historical relationship to the area, to the native people who lived there, or to the languages spoken there. One anti-Wyoming group of congressmen favored the name Cheyenne, since that name referred to the native people living there, but Congress rejected Cheyenne for fear that Europeans might confuse it with the French word chienne, meaning “female dog.” No one in the seemly Victorian era wanted a state whose name meant “bitch” (G. R. Stewart 1945).

The natives of North America were some of the best hunters ever known anywhere in the world; their skill and accuracy frequently astounded the early European explorers. When the Arctic explorer Martin Frobisher made his voyage to Baffin Island, the skill of the Inuit so impressed him that he kidnapped a hunter to take back to England as a prize. The hunter’s skill with a harpoon thrilled Queen Elizabeth I so much that she invited him to harpoon her royal swans for the amusement of her court.

At 2:30 a.m. on the night of August 2, 1943, Kennedy, the skipper of a PT boat on patrol in World War II, got the chance to play the hero in his own life story. An enemy destroyer rammed the boat and split it in half. Two members of the 13-man crew were killed. One man was terribly injured and would certainly die if left on his own to swim to safety. Kennedy took a strap of the man’s life jacket, put it between his teeth, and swam four hours to a tiny uninhabited island that was only 70 yards wide. “With the physical courage of which he’d shown himself to be capable, Jack Kennedy had turned his years of frailty and private suffering into a personal and public confidence that would take him forward,”10 writes Matthews. Stories of heroes and heroic actions challenge us to remake our own internal narratives.

We stopped by the blackboard and saw that the fishing had been upgraded to “good.” Woody had recommended minnows for bait and chalked in “Browns around Pepperwood Island.” “Let’s add a note,” Jack said. “Skeletons by Prentice Point.

She won’t come that way.” Jack’s stepmother stepped out beside him on the large terrace in front of the fortress. All around them, the setting sun painted the sky a brilliant red and purple that only accentuated the jagged cliffs of the isle of Berlengas, jutting out into the sea around them. The wind had risen, slapping the waves into a frenzy. Whitecapped, they dashed themselves against the base of the narrow causeway that connected the Forte São João Batista with the island. “I know that,” said Jack quickly, but despite himself, his eyes turned again to that narrow and twisting stone bridge, the shadows playing tricks on him, presenting him with the image of a carriage, the echo of horses’ hooves against the stone. His stepmother was right: anyone would be mad to attempt the bridge at dusk in a high wind. Under the very best of conditions it would be dangerous. And these were not the best of conditions. If Jane came at all, she would come by sea. “She will come,” said Jack fiercely. “She knows what she’s doing.” His stepmother furled her parasol, tucking it under her arm. “Most of the time.” Before Jack could retort, she added in a voice like vinegar, “I care about her, too, you know.

The English explorer Martin Frobisher developed a novel technique for using the services of the Inuit as pilots for his ship during his first Arctic exploration, in 1576. When he sailed around Baffin Island, searching for a northwest passage to the Pacific, Frobisher watched for Inuit men out in their kayaks. When he saw one, he leaned over the bow of his ship and rang a bell, which he held out as though offering a gift to the passing native. When the friendly Inuit came closer and reached up for the bell, Frobisher grabbed him and forced him to pilot the large ship through the Arctic bays and inlets.

the captain decided to hoist sail and move a little westward, on the chance that the fog was hugging the coast of the Island. This was likely; land heats up and cools down faster than water, which caused early fogs over many seacoasts in warm weather.

Every island he had ever been on had a garbage problem.

Yeah. It's a metaphor. Jess and I are partners.' I point across the bay at nearby San Francisco. 'Look at that city,' I say. 'That's society. It's Out There. I this its own illusions, its own abilities, its own tasks. We used to be a part of it. Oh, we are, in some way, but now we are something else. We are a distinct culture, a separate island. To get to Us, you have to swim across a bay in cold ocean waters. By the time you get here, you would have come to respect the ocean and the waters and the waves—and the beaches of this island would remind you of how great it is to be on land, to be in the presence of a great, married couple.' Jack laughs. 'Now you really are a megalomaniac. A true idealist.' 'I don't know, Jack,' I say. 'I think marriage is sacred.' 'I can tell.' He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He blows smoke around and then looks at me. 'You want one?' he asks. 'This one's not a metaphor.

Atolls are home to more than a quarter of the world’s marine fish species, a mind-boggling array of angelfish, clown fish, batfish, parrotfish, snappers, puffers, emperors, jacks, rays, wrasses, barracudas, and sharks. And that’s without even mentioning all the other sea creatures—the turtles, lobsters, porpoises, squid, snails, clams, crabs, urchins, oysters, and the whole exotic understory of the corals themselves. Atolls are also an obvious haven for birds, both those that range over the ocean by day and return to the islands at night and those that migrate thousands of miles, summering in places like Alaska and wintering over in the tropics.

There, in a hollow in the mountainside I had sat all on my own writing. It felt as if I had arrived at where I wanted to go. I was sitting on a Greek island in the middle of the Mediterranean writing my first novel. At the same time I was restless, there was nothing there, only me, and it wasn't until that was all there was that I experienced the emptiness it entailed. That was how it was there, my own emptiness was everything, and even when I became immersed in 'jack' or was bent over my pad writing about 'gabriel', my protagonist, what I noticed was the emptiness.

There was something about walking into an island bar that causes all your worries to slip from your shoulders.

I won't leave. No, Jack. This is MY island

Since marrying Jack, I have never once spent Christmas away from the island. Whenever I argued for us to take up offers from my sisters to stay with them he always feigned needing to stay and keep up the farm, but I knew that really, he didn’t want to deal with the consequences of going against his parents.

As the climate continued to warm (and the ocean continued to rise), plant life inevitably began to spring up among these hills, providing the basis for an ever-improving soil. Thirteen thousand years ago, jack pines and spruce trees began to grow; a few thousand years later, oaks appeared. What is now Nantucket Sound was then a valley of ponds, lakes, and forests. It was not until just 5,000 years ago—a drop in the bucket of geological time—that the ever-encroaching ocean flooded this valley and Nantucket became an island.

I am not master of words to tell you, Jack, the value of an exceedingly remote island to a naturalist, an uninhabited fertile volcanic island covered with a luxuriant vegetation, with no vile rats, dogs, cats, goats, swine, introduced by fools to destroy an Eden, an island untouched...

I’m an Indian.” She’s never told anyone this except Jack. To Tyler she knows she’s just . . . Goth, if he thinks of her at all. “Penobscot. I was born on Indian Island. And I just want to say that what happened to the Indians is exactly like what happened to the Irish under British rule. It wasn’t a fair fight. Their land was stolen, their religion was forbidden, they were forced to bend to foreign domination. It wasn’t okay for the Irish, and it’s not okay for the Indians.” “Jeez,

When Franci walked in the house a few hours later, she encountered one of the biggest messes she’d ever seen. Newspapers were spread over the island in the kitchen, covered with pumpkin guts. She could see the spills on the floor—seeds that had gotten away—and three pumpkins were in the middle of the carving process on the dining room table. One huge, one large and one small. The pumpkin family. “Nuts,” Sean said. “You’re home early. We were going to surprise you. We’ve gotta have jack-o’-lanterns for Halloween!” “Mama!” Rosie shouted excitedly. Then pointing, she said, “Daddy, Mommy, Rosie!” “Were you going to surprise me with the cleanup?” she asked hopefully. “Of course,” he said. “Maybe you should just go to your room and read or something until I have a chance to get things under control.” “I’ll go change and then come and help,” she said.

She cannot relax. The world around her is a living, breathing metaphor. The boat is her mother’s frail body, groaning under Eleanor’s weight. The sea is the poison that waits below, ready to consume her when she stumbles. The island is death, and she carves a resolute path—“a straight shot,” as Jack said—to death’s very door. Eleanor

A beautiful example of a long-term intention was presented by A. T. Ariyaratane, a Buddhist elder, who is considered to be the Gandhi of Sri Lanka. For seventeen years there had been a terrible civil war in Sri Lanka. At one point, the Norwegians were able to broker peace, and once the peace treaty was in effect, Ariyaratane called the followers of his Sarvodaya movement together. Sarvodaya combines Buddhist principles of right livelihood, right action, right understanding, and compassion and has organized citizens in one-third of that nation’s villages to dig wells, build schools, meditate, and collaborate as a form of spiritual practice. Over 650,000 people came to the gathering to hear how he envisioned the future of Sri Lanka. At this gathering he proposed a five-hundred-year peace plan, saying, “The Buddha teaches we must understand causes and conditions. It’s taken us five hundred years to create the suffering that we are in now.” Ari described the effects of four hundred years of colonialism, of five hundred years of struggle between Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists, and of several centuries of economic disparity. He went on, “It will take us five hundred years to change these conditions.” Ariyaratane then offered solutions, proposing a plan to heal the country. The plan begins with five years of cease-fire and ten years of rebuilding roads and schools. Then it goes on for twenty-five years of programs to learn one another’s languages and cultures, and fifty years of work to right economic injustice, and to bring the islanders back together as a whole. And every hundred years there will be a grand council of elders to take stock on how the plan is going. This is a sacred intention, the long-term vision of an elder.

The Hub, a cluster of bubbles in a web of metal, hung in empty space, in that region known to Earthmen as Hither Sagittarius. The owner was Pan Pascoglu, a man short, dark and energetic, almost bald, with restless brown eyes and a thick mustache. A man of ambition, Pascoglu hoped to develop the Hub into a fashionable resort, a glamor-island among the stars — something more than a mere stopover depot and junction point. Working to this end, he added two dozen bright new bubbles — “cottages”, as he called them — around the outer meshes of the Hub, which already resembled the model of an extremely complex molecule.

Not far off his line of fission was the star Cygnus T342, and its planet Euville where an unpleasant and psychotic population lived in five cities: Oni, Me, Che, Dun and Ve, each compulsively built in pentagonal patterns, from the central five-sided citadel. The space-port, on a remote island, was opprobriously named “Orifice”.

When you tasted dragon's blood, you became part dragon. That's why you can understand the languages of the air... Don't expect to sprout wings anytime soon. You've been given a useful skill, and through the sacrifices of your hand, I suspect you've gained even more. You might even turn into a healer." Jack hooted with laughter before he could stop himself. ... "I've seen how the horses come to you and follow your every command. I heard how you lifted that crow from the mud and breathed hope into his wings." "What crow? Nobody saw me. I didn't do it," cried Thorgil.

You carry the blood of the horse lords," the Bard said... "Your mother must have been a descendant of King Hengist, who was said to take the form of a horse when he went into battle." ... "So I could be royal," said the shield maiden. "Or part horse," Jack added. She danced the stallion sideways, making him jump out of the way.

It is our fate," Thorgil said. "In the spring look for us again, or if you don't find us, we'll meet in Valhalla." She looked away. Jack knew she had no real hope, or desire, now to go to Valhalla. ... "Jack leaned over and took her hand. "You are Jill Allyson's Daughter," he said, using the name Thorgil's dead mother had given her at birth. "You are not meant for Ragnarok.

Thorgil's going to the School of Bards?" Jack said... "I'm not even sure what a school is," said Thorgil. "Neither am I," admitted Jack... "Come on, Jill. We can get through this.

Many Americans often refer to Elizabeth II as ‘Queen Elizabeth of England’ - however, as any Brit will tell you, that’s wrong - they’ll say she is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. But of course they’re wrong as well. Her majesty is in fact Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis. Phew!

Barthold’s response was a snort of disdain and a twitch of his staff. Moncrief departed the hold and returned to the saloon. Schwatzendale stepped from the galley, where he had been testing Wingo’s special Sea Island Punch, a compound of fresh coconut milk*, lime juice, rum and a dash of apricot brandy. At Moncrief’s signal, Schwatzendale crossed the saloon and joined him. “You look morose. What has happened now?” * The coconut palm, native to Old Earth, had been transferred across the Gaean Reach wherever climate and salt water permitted, and now seemed native to the entire universe.

THE 38-FOOT PROTECTOR TAURANGA bobbed in the dark waters of Fishers Island Sound, between Fishers Island, New York, and Ram Island, Connecticut. Located at the eastern tip of Long Island Sound, Fishers Island had long been associated with the military as a base for naval forces up to and through World War II.

home in 1979 in Merritt Island, while

He knew the small island in the pond contained a rock memorial to the fifty-six signers of the Declaration of Independence. He wondered what they would think of the generations that had inherited the gift of freedom for which they had sacrificed so much.