Jutta Quotes

Is it right,” Jutta says, “to do something only because everyone else is doing it?

Jutta opens her eyes but doesn't look at him. 'Don't tell lies. Lie to yourself, Werner, but don't lie to me.

It was not,' said Jutta, reaching the limits of her French, 'very easy to be good then.

How? How did Jutta understand so much more about how the world worked? While he knew so little?

and Werner sees six-year-old Jutta lean toward him, Frau Elena kneading bread in the background, a crystal radio in his lap, the cords of his soul not yet severed.

Jutta, he thinks, I finally listened.

It’s also joy. The joy to be here, to be free and finally able to walk around with pride and dignity as a lesbian woman in the midst of all these life-affirming rainbows, without worrying about who might see and possibly judge me.

Laura turns her gaze back to me, smirking mischievously. “Do you like chocolate?” I notice a delighted grin forming on my face. “‘Like’ is not the right word. I LOVE chocolate!

Linet, it’s a great pleasure to meet you! What can I offer you? Sex on the Beach? A Screaming Orgasm? And maybe something to drink as well?” She winks at me mischievously.

It was time for her to finally get that all of that sanctimonious drivel is just the opiate of the masses. Ha, even I was educated enough to know that quote. From Gandhi.

He takes her hand to help her over the piles. No shells fall and no rifles crack and the light is soft and shot through with ash. Jutta, he thinks, I finally listened.

Time slows. The attic disappears. Jutta disappears. Has anyone ever spoken so intimately about the very things Werner is most curious about? Open

Is it right," Jutta says, "to do something only because everyone else is doing it?

Because I’ve also realized very clearly that I love you. I have loved you for a long time and I am very sure that I will always love you. You are a wonderful, vibrant, incredibly lovable person, you have enriched my life and shown me who I really am, and I will be eternally grateful to you for that.

The kiss isn’t even unexpected, but it overwhelms me completely. It’s only when Laura’s lips touch mine that I realize how much I’ve been longing for this. I hold my breath when she wraps her arms around me and pulls me close. It’s intoxicating to feel her so close to me, to smell her, to taste her.

Now the piano makes a long, familiar run, the pianist playing different scales with each hand--what sounds like three hands, four--the harmonies like steadily thickening peals on a strand, and Werner sees six-year-old Jutta lean toward him, Frau Elena kneading bread in the background, a crystal radio in his lap, the cords of his soul not yet severed.

Julia schloss die Augen unter der berauschenden Empfindung, die sie durchströmte, und merkte, wie sie mit ungeheurer Intensität ein allumfassendes Gefühl überkam, das so neu und überwältigend war, dass sie es nicht einmal hätte benennen können. Es war Erregung und Lust, Ruhe und Erleichterung, Zusammengehörigkeit und Erhöhung, Erlösung und Glück, alles auf einmal. Es war Liebe.

Mostly he misses Jutta: her loyalty, her obstinacy, the way she always seems to recognize what is right. Though in Werner’s weaker moments, he resents those same qualities in his sister. Perhaps she’s the impurity in him, the static in his signal that the bullies can sense.

Jutta drags herself closer; she watches her brother with outsize eyes. A piano chases the violins. Then woodwinds. The strings sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself. “Werner?” Jutta whispers. He blinks;

One night he sits up. In cots around him are a few dozen sick or wounded. A warm September wind pours across the countryside and sets the walls of the tent rippling. Werner’s head swivels lightly on his neck. The wind is strong and gusting stronger, and the corners of the tent strain against their guy ropes, and where the flaps at the two ends come up, he can see trees buck and sway. Everything rustles. Werner zips his old notebook and the little house into his duffel and the man beside him murmurs questions to himself and the rest of the ruined company sleeps. Even Werner’s thirst has faded. He feels only the raw, impassive surge of the moonlight as it strikes the tent above him and scatters. Out there, through the open flaps of the tent, clouds hurtle above treetops. Toward Germany, toward home. Silver and blue, blue and silver. Sheets of paper tumble down the rows of cots, and in Werner’s chest comes a quickening. He sees Frau Elena kneel beside the coal stove and bank up the fire. Children in their beds. Baby Jutta sleeps in her cradle. His father lights a lamp, steps into an elevator, and disappears. The voice of Volkheimer: What you could be. Werner’s body seems to have gone weightless under his blanket, and beyond the flapping tent doors, the trees dance and the clouds keep up their huge billowing march, and he swings first one leg and then the other off the edge of the bed. “Ernst,” says the man beside him. “Ernst.” But there is no Ernst; the men in the cots do not reply; the American soldier at the door of the tent sleeps. Werner walks past him into the grass. The wind moves through his undershirt. He is a kite, a balloon. Once, he and Jutta built a little sailboat from scraps of wood and carried it to the river. Jutta painted the vessel in ecstatic purples and greens, and she set it on the water with great formality. But the boat sagged as soon as the current got hold of it. It floated downstream, out of reach, and the flat black water swallowed it. Jutta blinked at Werner with wet eyes, pulling at the battered loops of yarn in her sweater. “It’s all right,” he told her. “Things hardly ever work on the first try. We’ll make another, a better one.” Did they? He hopes they did. He seems to remember a little boat—a more seaworthy one—gliding down a river. It sailed around a bend and left them behind. Didn’t it? The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn’t the wind move the light? Across the field, an American watches a boy leave the sick tent and move against the background of the trees. He sits up. He raises his hand. “Stop,” he calls. “Halt,” he calls. But Werner has crossed the edge of the field, where he steps on a trigger land mine set there by his own army three months before, and disappears in a fountain of earth.

Der Rest ihres Verstandes explodierte in hunderttausend grellbunten, ohrenbetäubenden Lichtpunkten, ein Feuerwerk der Empfindungen, während dieser unendlichen Sekunden der Vereinigung mit Nisha. Und dann begannen die Glocken zu läuten, laut und wild, vibrierten tief in ihr, brachten ihr Innerstes zum Klingen. Doch erst als sie aus weiter Entfernung eine Stimme hörte, eine vertraute, geliebte Stimme, die ihren Namen rief und völlig aufgelöst klang, sickerte allmählich in Julias angeschlagenes Bewusstsein, dass das Feuerwerk und das Glockenläuten nicht nur in ihrem Inneren stattfanden. Das neue Jahr hatte angefangen und wurde von den Leuten in den Straßen frenetisch gefeiert.

— É certo — pergunta Jutta — fazer algo apenas porque todas as outras pessoas estão fazendo?

The Reich must need socks." "For what?" "For feet, Jutta (73).

It was not," says Jutta, reaching the limits of her French, "very easy to be good then.

Livia ... Actually, I hadn’t thought of her for a long time. I wonder where that thought suddenly came from. It’s probably just the fact that she’s been living in San Francisco for a while. At least that’s what I heard. Maybe we’ll meet somewhere by chance? Yeah, right, I think sarcastically. I suppose that’s extremely likely, amidst millions of locals and tourists.

The German psychologist Jutta Heckhausen, now in California, studied a group of childless middle-aged women who were still hoping to have a baby. As they approached menopause, their emotional distress became more and more intense. But after menopause those who gave up their hope for pregnancy lost their depression symptoms.81 The irony is deep: hope is often at the root of depression.

Werner and his younger sister, Jutta, are raised at Children's House, a clinker-brick two-story orphanage on Viktoriastrasse whose rooms are populated with the coughs of sick children and the crying of newborns and battered trunks inside which drowse the last possessions of deceased parents: patchwork dresses, tarnished wedding cutlery, faded ambrotypes of fathers swallowed by the mines.

She looks into my eyes very intensely for a moment before taking another truffle. “I’m always open to attempts at bribery of this kind,” she says mischievously and puts the treat in her mouth with relish. I have to swallow and take out a chocolate as well. Suddenly I have a ravenous appetite.

Other times, the corpses bear no apparent injuries, and it is these that fill Jutta with dread: people who look like they are a moment away from rising up and slogging back to work with the rest of them.

And he was murdered?"... "Stabbed"... "And this has something to do with the strange drugs?" ...Personally, I'd never heard of a package insert that listed "fatal stabbing injuries" under a drug's side effects.

sheets of yellow flowers glow in the fields, and Jutta wonders if any of them grow over the bones of her brother. Before dark, a well-dressed man with a prosthetic leg boards the train. He sits beside her and lights a cigarette. Jutta clutches her bag between her knees; she is certain that he was wounded in the war, that he will try to start a conversation, that her deficient French will betray her. Or that Max will say something. Or that the man can already tell. Maybe she smells German. He’ll say, You did this to me. Please. Not in front of my son. But the train jolts into motion, and the man finishes his cigarette and gives her a preoccupied smile and promptly falls asleep.

When they were first married and Albert went away on trips for work, Jutta would wake in the predawn hours and remember those first nights after Werner left for Schulpforta and feel all over again the searing pain of his absence.

Marlene’s praise went down like a cold beer after a greasy burger. She could sense this. “You’re not at all as bad as you pretend,” she said. Careful... Now she was talking crap, that much was clear. I needed to change the topic.

Kızlardan birini bugün yüzme havuzundan attılar. Inge Hanmann'ı... Onun gibi bir kırma ile birlikte yüzmemize izin veremezlermiş. Temiz değilmiş. Melezmiş, Werner. Biz de öyle değil miyiz? Biz de yarı annemiz, yarı babamız değil miyiz?

Bernd molders in the corner. Jutta moves through the world somewhere, watching shadows disentangle themselves from night, watching minders limp past in the dawnn. It was enough when Werner was a boy, wasn't it? A world of wildflowers blooming up through the shapes of rusty cast-off parts. A world of berries and carrot peels ad Frau Elena's fairy tales. Of the sharp smell of tar, and trains passing, and a voice on the radio offering a loom on which to spin his dreams.

When I asked her yesterday evening by text message, she only told me very briefly that she’s “quite low-maintenance” when it comes to food. However, I did remember that she had told me she eats mostly vegetarian but isn’t very dogmatic about it. I’m glad to know that, because this way I was able to refrain from roasting a goose. Or cooking a suckling pig. Or half a cow.

All of a sudden, I feel like a mouse that the cat is playing with for a few more moments before the defenseless little rodent is finally wolfed down. And the worst thing is that I don’t care at all. Play with me, eat me, if you only kiss me first …

Nein, es ist auch Freude. Freude darüber, hier zu sein, frei zu sein und endlich mit Stolz und Würde als lesbische Frau inmitten all dieser lebensbejahenden Regenbogen umherzulaufen, ohne mir Gedanken darüber zu machen, wer mich sehen und möglicherweise verurteilen könnte.

Tre ragazzi passano ridendo e Max li guarda con intensità. Su un muro butterato e chiazzato di licheni è fissata una piccola lapide di pietra. <>Ici a été tuè Buy Gaston Marcel agé de 18 ans, mort pour la France le 11 aout 1944. Jutta si siede per terra. Il mare è gonfio, grigio d'ardesia. Non ci sono lapidi per i tedeschi morti qui.

...definitely dramadies [are out], too. To me, if the writer can’t make up his mind if he’s doing drama or comedy, then he should switch to making paper airplanes until he know what he wants.

Werner thinks of home all the time. He misses the sound of rain on the zinc roof above his dormer; the feral energy of the orphans; the scratchy singing of Frau Elena as she rocks a baby in the parlor. The smell of the coking plant coming in under the dawn, the first reliable smell of every day. Mostly he misses Jutta: her loyalty, her obstinacy, the way she always seems to recognize what is right.

sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself. “Werner?” Jutta whispers. He blinks; he has to swallow back tears. The parlor looks the same as it always has: two cribs beneath two Latin crosses, dust floating in the open mouth of the stove, a dozen layers of paint peeling off the baseboards. A needlepoint of Frau Elena’s snowy Alsatian village above the sink. Yet now there is music. As if, inside Werner’s head, an infinitesimal orchestra has stirred to life. The room seems to fall into a slow spin. His sister says his name more urgently, and he presses the earphone to her ear. “Music,” she says. He holds the pin as stock-still as he can. The signal is weak enough that, though the earphone is six inches away, he can’t hear any trace of the song. But he watches his sister’s face, motionless except for her eyelids, and in the kitchen Frau Elena holds her flour-whitened hands in the air and cocks her head, studying Werner, and two older boys rush in and stop, sensing some change in the air, and the little radio with its four terminals and trailing aerial sits motionless on the floor between them all like a miracle.

A part of Jutta does not want to take the letter. Does not want to hear what this huge man has traveled a long way to say. Weeks go by when Jutta does not allow herself to think of the war, of Frau Elena, of the awful last months in Berlin. Now she can buy pork seven days a week. Now, if the house feels cold she twists a dial in the kitchen, and voilà. She does not want to be one of those middle-aged women who thinks of nothing but her own painful history. Sometimes she looks at the eyes of her older colleagues and wonders what they did when the electricity was out, when there were no candles, when the rain came through the ceiling. What they saw. Only rarely does she loosen the seals enough to allow herself to think of Werner. In many ways, her memories of her brother have become things to lock away. A math teacher at Helmholtz-Gymnasium in 1974 does not bring up a brother who attended the National Political Institute of Education at Schulpforta.

Werner likes to crouch in his dormer and imagine radio waves like mile-long harp strings,bending and vibrating over Zollverein,flying through forests,through cities,through walls.At midnight he and Jutta prowl the ionosphere,searching for that lavish,penetrating voice.When they find it,Werner feels as if he has been launched into a different existence,a secret place where great discoveries are possible,where an orphan from a coal town can solve some vital mystery hidden in the physical world.

He is about to hand the earphone to Jutta when—clear and unblemished, about halfway down the coil—he hears the quick, drastic strikes of a bow dashing across the strings of a violin. He tries to hold the pin perfectly still. A second violin joins the first. Jutta drags herself closer; she watches her brother with outsize eyes. A piano chases the violins. Then woodwinds. The strings sprint, woodwinds fluttering behind. More instruments join in. Flutes? Harps? The song races, seems to loop back over itself.

Everything has led to this: the death of his father; all those restless hours with Jutta listening to the crystal radio in the attic; Hans and Herribert wearing their red armbands under their shirts so Frau Elena would not see; four hundred dark, glittering nights at Schulpforta building transceivers for Dr. Hauptmann. The destruction of Frederick. Everything leading to this moment as Werner piles the haphazard Cossack equipment into the shell of the truck and sits with his back against the bench and watches the light from the burning cottage rise above the field. Bernd climbs in beside him, rifle in his lap, and neither bothers to close the back door when the Opel roars into gear.

I concentrate on the picturesque sight of the beach, whose light sand offers a fascinating contrast to the rugged black rocks. The rolling waves with their white crests add even more sparkling nuances to the countless shades of blue and white of the sky with the low-hanging fog. And the Golden Gate Bridge towers majestically above it all. It’s overwhelming.

I think museums are dead boring. I don't like most of the pictures on their walls. With modern pieces you never know if it's a sandwich on the floor half-eaten by some animals, a forgotten hors d'oeuvre -- or Art Some great artist paints shit pictures that I could've surpassed in nursery school and then hangs them upside down on the wall. I mean, what about that involves Art?

The most popular game is Cholesterol Canasta, where the plague patients, vivisection victims, and ambulant biohazard bags try to one-up each other with their hellish blood panels and urine tests. For a long time, the undisputed winner was a two-hundred-and-fifty-kilo diabetic with renal insufficiency, fatty liver disease, and food poisoning. The only infection he didn’t have was HIV..

Te avio päläfertiilam. You are my lifemate. Éntölam kuulua, avio päläfertiilam. I claim you as my lifemate.   Ted kuuluak, kacad, kojed. I belong to you.   Élidamet andam. I offer my life for you.   Pesämet andam. I give you my protection.   Uskolfertiilamet andam. I give you my allegiance.   Sívamet andam. I give you my heart.   Sielamet andam. I give you my soul.   Ainamet andam. I give you my body.   Sívamet kuuluak kaik että a ted. I take into my keeping the same that is yours.   Ainaak olenszal sívambin. Your life will be cherished by me for all my time.   Te élidet ainaak pide minan. Your life will be placed above my own for all time.   Te avio päläfertiilam. You are my lifemate. Ainaak sívamet jutta oleny. You are bound to me for all eternity.   Ainaak terád vigyázak. You are always in my care.   To

At an overgrown garden with a weathered picket fence, I stop and lean over the fence to sniff at a pristine bright red rose bloom between hundreds of others on a lush rose bush. They all exude an intoxicating scent, which obviously also pleases the bees, who, despite the twilight, are still out and about in astonishing numbers to diligently collect pollen. I deeply inhale the sweet smell and then walk on with a dreamy smile.

Gerlitz, Claudia Förster, and fifteen-year-old Jutta Pfennig—are transported from Essen to Berlin to work in a machine parts factory. For ten hours a day, six days a week, they disassemble massive forging presses and stack the usable metal in crates to be loaded onto train cars. Unscrewing, sawing, hauling. Most days Frau Elena works close by, wearing a torn ski jacket she has found, mumbling to herself in French or singing songs from childhood. They live above a printing company abandoned a month before. Hundreds of crates of misprinted dictionaries are stacked in the halls, and the girls burn them page by page in the potbelly stove. Yesterday Dankeswort, Dankesworte, Dankgebet, Dankopfer. Today Frauenverband, Frauenverein, Frauenvorsteher, Frauenwahlrecht. For meals they have cabbage and barley in the factory canteen at noon, endless ration lines

Every day, on his right and left, another soul escapes toward the sky, and it sounds to him as if he can hear faraway music, as if a door has been shut on a grand old radio and he can listen only by putting his good ear against the material of his cot, although the music is soft, and there are moments when he is not certain it is there at all. There is something to be angry at, Werner is sure, but he cannot say what it is. “Won’t eat,” says a nurse in English. Armband of a medic. “Fever?” “High.” There are more words. Then numbers. In a dream, he sees a bright crystalline night with the canals all frozen and the lanterns of the miners’ houses burning and the farmers skating between the fields. He sees a submarine asleep in the lightless depths of the Atlantic; Jutta presses her face to a porthole and breathes on the glass. He half expects to see Volkheimer’s huge hand appear, help him up, and clap him into the Opel. And Marie-Laure? Can she still feel the pressure of his hand against the webbing between her fingers as he can feel hers?

the team structure works well for us because it is well-aligned with our culture, our technical architecture and platform, our product, and even our workspace.

But I had gotten stuck with a trash can driver. A duffle coat wearer. Tea drinker. Bean counter. City map collector. Presumably also a muesli eater, gravesite tender, and sock darner. What had I done to deserve this?

Little sisters are like measles, mumps, or scarlet fever. In the early stages no one notices them, and then ultimately you end up in bed with them.

letter as a mirror image—then you’ll come across as interesting,” Troll

I’ve never understood women’s response to temperature. The second you’re nice and warm under the covers, they slide their ice-cold feet over onto your calves, and presumably after holding an ice cube for the five hours before bedtime they lay their hands on your stomach. But if you then even remotely flinch, they start griping that men just cannot cuddle. Newsflash: men can cuddle. They even want to. Just not with ice cubes.

If we could manage to reduce hostile societal attitudes toward sex workers even more so they can publicly stand up for their interests just like the huge steelworkers’ union, then we will have taken a giant step forward toward the safety and self-determination of women.

As with millions of others, Adeline Perry and her two young daughters endured the horrors of the Second World War in NAZI Germany. Following her death and armed with her manuscript, Captain Hank Bracker and his wife Ursula, Adeline’s youngest daughter, followed in Adeline’s footsteps to better understand the ordeal she experienced. Realizing that this book was the only way that her story could be preserved, Captain Hank took on the task of recording it. Ursula’s brother-in-law and stepsister, Peter Klett and his wife Jutta drove them to many of the places described in this book including Bischoffsheim, Strasbourg and Rosheim, in what was known as Reichsland Elsaß-Lothringen during World War II and which is now recognized as the administrative territory of Alsace-Moselle, France. He found the still existing bunker in Feudenheim and talked to people in Mannheim, Überlingen and Bischoffsheim who still remembered some of the details of the incidents in this book. Ursula’s sister Brigitte wrote her own manuscripts which helped fill in some previously unknown facts. “Suppressed I Rise” is an insight into how individual people’s lives were adversely affected by the insane acts of one man and the country he decimated.

In the year 2000, to my great surprise I received a call from Fürth, Germany, with news of an intriguing project. The caller explained that his wife, an actress, had read the poetry of Selma Meerbaum - a small volume of her writings published in Germany. The actress, Jutta Czurda, and a group of friends - a composer, a writer, and his actress wife-decided to create a play about Selma and put some of her poems to music. However, they knew very little about her, other than that she had died of typhoid fever n Ukraine in December, 1941. Mr. Minasian, the husband of the actress, decided to turn to the Internet for information. As soon as he entered Selma's name, there appeared the chapter from my memoirs, Before Memories Fade. He found my address and telephone number and the connection was established.

The play was performed often in Fürth, then at a film festival in Munich, and in 2002 in Zurich. And then in Czernowitz. On the anniversary of the world premiere the cast travelled to Selma's hometown, where it was put on in a theater very similar to the one in Fürth. As Jutta Czurda reported in a letter to me, both performances were almost sold out and the audiences were very enthusiastic: "Almost 1,000 people saw Selma …After the play we all signed countless programs and answered questions. And so for us, you, too, returned symbolically to Czernowitz with your voice, and built a direct bridge to Selma for the audience." She is right. Although German is not spoken in Czernowitz today, Selma and I came home somehow.

The Renault Kangoo van was wedged between the narrow piers under the bridge like a boil in a butt crack, but the driver’s seat was empty.

Manchmal glaube ich, es ist nicht normal, das Schreiben so sehr zu lieben. Denn ich liebe das Schreiben, liebe es, mehr als alles andere. Und ich meine wirklich alles andere. Noch mehr als dunkle Schokolade, mehr als meine liebsten Fernsehserien, sogar mehr, als versteckt in den Dünen Abenteuerromane zu lesen und vor mich hin zu träumen. Auch wenn das vielleicht nicht zählt, denn in den Dünen mit Blick aufs Meer schreibe ich am liebsten.

Wenn ich schreiben kann, kann ich mir verwickelte, phantastische Plots ausdenken, die weit über mein eigenes kleines, trauriges Leben hinausgehen und im Idealfall gar nichts damit zu tun haben. In den Phantasiewelten, die ich selbst gestalte, gibt es keine Aktionen, die ich nicht selbst erfunden habe, es gibt keine unerwarteten Überraschungen, nichts, was mich unvorbereitet trifft, nichts, was mich kränken oder verletzen kann. Unerwünschtes wird ausgemerzt oder umgestaltet. Wenn ich schreiben kann, kann ich mir meine Welt selbst schaffen, habe die absolute Kontrolle über alles und jedes. Wenn ich schreiben kann, bin ich die Herrin über das, was passiert. Wenn ich schreiben kann, ist alles okay.

Und was wir beide furchtbar gerne machen, ist Lesen. Wir schleppen beide seit frühester Kindheit meistens irgendwelche Bücher mit uns herum, in denen wir in jeder freien Minute schmökern, und seit wir befreundet sind, tun wir das oft gemeinsam.

And what we both really love to do is reading. We always carry some books around with us, which we usually devour in our spare time, and ever since we’ve been friends, we’ve often done it together.

Reardon, Colleen. Holy Concord Within Sacred Walls: Nuns and Music in Siena, 1575–1700. Oxford University Press. Rose, Mary Beth, editor. Women in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Syracuse University Press. Ruggiero, Guido. The Boundaries of Eros. Oxford University Press. Schutte, Anne Jacobson. Aspiring Saints. Johns Hopkins University Press. Siraisi, Nancy G. Medieval and Early Renaissance Medicine. University of Chicago Press. Sobel, Dava. To Father: The Letters of Sister Maria Celeste to Galileo. Fourth Estate. Sperling, Jutta Gisela. Convents and the Body Politic in Late Renaissance Venice. University of Chicago Press. Trexler, Richard C. Public Life in Renaissance Florence. Academic Press. ________. The Women of Renaissance Florence. Pegasus Press.

In the thicket of dark hair on his chest, her fingers entwine with Fiona’s, and a softly exhaled sigh of contentment escapes her blonde-haired lover’s lips. The symmetry of them at each side of him is imperfect, but then this is true in much of nature. Not everything is as true as a butterflies wing. She pushes her nose into his hair and basks in his scent. Nature, symmetrical or otherwise, also abhors a vacuum. It is Fiona who breaks the silence, perhaps unsurprisingly. ‘I’ve been thinking about your book.’ She murmurs, her fingers forming triangle shapes with Jutta’s beneath the cover, breaking and reforming them again in unseen silence. A game without a word between them, a twinned tickle above John’s steady heart.

Vor uns erhoben sich die Mauern und Türme der Stadt, die mein Schicksal werden würde. Der Stadt, deren Name bis heute mit dem meinen eng verbunden ist: Forlì.

99% of the time I don´t know what I´m doing. The other 1% is pure luck!

If you want to change something you have to do the first step!

Without conscious thought, the words formed in his mind. Te avio päläfertiilam--You are my lifemate. His ancient language, the sacred words to bind them soul to soul, rose up before he could think, before he could guard against them. He was a Carpathian male, his body buried deep in the body of his lifemate, joined skin to skin. The ferocious hunger would never leave him, and the need to bind them together for all time overwhelmed him. The words poured out of his soul--aloud--from his soul to hers. “Éntölam kuulua, avio päläfertiilam--I claim you as my lifemate. Ted kuuluak, kacad, kojed--I belong to you,” he whispered his fierce claim. “Élidamet andam--I offer my life for you. Pesämet andam--I give you my protection. Uskolfertiilamet andam--I give you my allegiance. Sívamet andam--I give you my heart. Sielamet andam--I give you my soul. Ainamet andam--I give you my body. Sívamet kuuluak kaik että a ted--I take into my keeping the same that is yours. Ainaak olenszal sívambin--Your life will be cherished by me for all my time. Te élidet ainaak pide minan--Your life will be placed above my own for all time. Te avio päläfertiilam--You are my lifemate. Ainaak sívamet jutta oleny--You are bound to me for all eternity. Ainaak terád vigyázak--You are always in my care.” With those formal words, a male Carpathian bound his true lifemate to him for all eternity. Once they were said, she could never escape him. Mikhail really had no intention of binding her to him, but every instinct in him, everything he was, forced the words out of his soul so that their souls were one as they were meant to be. He felt the threads weaving them together, soul to soul as they were meant. Their hearts were finally united, their minds one.

به هر حال هر کسی در مقابل چیزی که می‌گیرد باید پولی یا چیزی هم بپردازد. به قول معروف، توی این دنیا جز مرگ هیچ چیز دیگری مجانی نیست و خیلی کم پیش می‌آید که معجزه‌ای بشود و شانس، مفت و مجانی در خانه‌ات را بزند.

If I had suspected that this day would determine the course of the rest of my life, I’d obviously have stayed in bed.

They’re so dumb they put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on top of their phones during their lunch breaks and wonder why the phone still rings.

Noch nie hatte ich einen Mann getroffen, der um die geheime Ich-bringe-die-Welt-wieder-in-Ordnung-Kraft von Milchreis wusste.

Look, Clara,” I say enthusiastically and raise my hand to show my lover the beautiful butterfly couple, but then I realize that she’s already noticed them. Sitting up, she nods to me with a smile. Her gaze follows them, just like mine, until they’ve finally disappeared out of sight, without rushing and without a destination. Now Clara turns to me, with a smile that lights up her deep, dark eyes. The most beautiful sight in the world, I think dreamily, gently plucking a thistle from her disheveled hair. “That’s certainly a good omen,” she says, lost in thought. “For what?” I ask, smiling. She winks at me. “For the future. For our life. For whatever you want.