K Camp Quotes

It is easier to remove tyrants and destroy concentration camps than to kill the ideas that gave them birth.

This education has reduced us to a nation of morons; we were strangers to our own culture and camp followers of another culture, feeding on leavings and garbage . . . What about our own roots? . . . I am up against the system, the whole method and approach of a system of education which makes us morons, cultural morons, but efficient clerks for all your business and administration offices.

I always wondered why the makers leave housekeeping and cooking out of their tales. Isn't it what all the great wars and battles are fought for -- so that at day's end a family may eat together in a peaceful house? The tale tells how the Lords of Manva hunted & gathered roots & cooked their suppers while they were camped in exile in the foothills of Sul, but it doesn't say what their wives & children were living on in their city left ruined & desolate by the enemy. They were finding food too, somehow, cleaning house & honoring the gods, the way we did in the siege & under the tyranny of the Alds. When the heroes came back from the mountain, they were welcomed with a feast. I'd like to know what the food was and how the women managed it.

Every soul confined to a concentration camp of sin and guilt has a key to the gate. The adversary cannot hold them if they know how to use it. The key is labeled Repentance.

An old man I met in the slave camp told me once, always be positive. He died of gangrene, something it’s hard to be positive about, and he spent his last week on earth whimpering, but I’ve always tried to follow his advice, even so.

Your stay in the camp was merely an allegory, if you know that word. It was an allegory--speaking at the highest level--of how scandalously, how outrageously a meaning can take up residence in a system without becoming a term in it.

You've got a thing for Dylan whether you're with Austin or not. That's what this all boils down to -- Dylan is here and giving you the attention you crave, and Austin's far away and is barely picking up the phone. It's not your fault. It was bound to happen. I'm sure Austin will be the same way when he goes to camp and..." A catering person walks by with a tray of goodies. "Oh look! Brownies! See you in a few, K!

Frоm what K-pоp trainееs еndurе at thе start оf thеir "bооt camps" tо thе suicidе attеmpts, racism, and sеxual and physical assaults, thе truth abоut K-pоp stars and thеir industry is anything but glamоrоus

I am up against the system, the whole method & approach of a system of education which makes us morons, cultural morons, but efficient clerks for all your business and administrative offices. This education had reduced us to a nation of morons; we were strangers to our own culture and camp followers of another culture, feeding on leavings & garbage...

People who don't camp much think darkness falls from the sky. It doesn't. Darkness slides from the trees and fills them first, then spreads outward to the open places.

Let me tell you the meaning of the sacred and alluring garden that blooms in the heart of the desert and produces the food of life. The garden for which you are currently heading is nowhere and everywhere except in the camps. It is another name for the only place where you belong, Michaels, where you do not feel homeless. It is off every map, no road leads to it that is merely a road, and only you know the way.

Can you try not to keep up the entire camp this time?” My cheeks burn as I grasp Jarek’s meaning. “We weren’t that loud.” He smirks. “He wasn’t.” I push aside my embarrassment. “Aw, it’s okay.” I reach up to toy with the thick rope of braided hair draped over his shoulder … “One day, if you try really hard, you’ll please someone that much too.

To be in the weakest camp is to be in the strongest school. Nor can I imagine anything that would do humanity more good than the advent of a race of Supermen, for them to fight like dragons. If the Superman is better than we, of course we need not fight him; but in that case, why not call him a Saint? But if he is merely stronger (whether physically, mentally, or morally stronger, I do not care a farthing), then he ought to have to reckon with us at least for all the strength we have. If we are weaker than he, that is no reason why we should be weaker than ourselves. If we are not tall enough to touch the giant's knees, that is no reason why we should become shorter by falling on our own.

So you send other people into the camps, he thought, to get your husband out. It sounds like a typical police deal. It's probably the truth

Al ver a representantes de tantas nacionalidades en el camping, pensó que había sido un tonto al creer que Hogwarts sería el único. Observ

We climb Everest twice,” Chhiring explained. “First, Sherpas go up to set the ropes and camps, then we go down to collect our clients and take them to the top.

What we had was the most special thing to me. I was yours for so many years, and I loved you more than anything. I still do.

This is a mere dream dreamed in a bad time, an Up Yours to the people who ride snowmobiles, make nuclear weapons, and run prison camps by a middle-aged housewife, a critique of civilisation possible only to the civilised, an affirmation pretending to be a rejection, a glass of milk for the soul ulcered by acid rain, a piece of pacifist jeanjacquerie, and a cannibal dance among the savages in the ungodly garden of the farthest West

You brought me back to life at a time I needed it most. If you think if you think I’m giving up on you now then you’re wrong. I get a second chance to show you exactly what you mean to me – and just how far I’ll go to keep you.

The kids just got back from camp. After four days, it's great to have them home. I find myself staring at my wife and how she interacts with them. Spoils them. As if she's making up lost time. I don't know how else to say it, but that shit is hot.

God’s people need to invade the enemy’s camp with all diligence, confidence, and assurance. We can take back everything Satan has stolen from us and our households. It doesn’t belong to the devil. He is a thief, and we demand that he give it all back now!

And now Snape stood again in the headmaster’s study as Phineas Nigellus came hurrying into his portrait. “Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean! The Mudblood--” “Do not use that word!” “--the Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she opened her bag and I heard her!” “Good. Very good!” cried the portrait of Dumbledore behind the headmaster’s chair. “Now, Severus, the sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under conditions of need and valor--and he must not know that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry’s mind and see you acting for him--” “I know,” said Snape curtly. He approached the portrait of Dumbledore and pulled at its side. It swung forward, revealing a hidden cavity behind it from which he took the sword of Gryffindor. “And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so important to give Potter the sword?” said Snape as he swung a traveling cloak over his robes. “No, I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore’s portrait. “He will know what to do with it. And Severus, be very careful, they may not take kindly to your appearance after George Weasley’s mishap--” Snape turned at the door. “Don’t worry, Dumbledore,” he said coolly. “I have a plan…” And Snape left the room. Harry rose up out of the Pensieve, and moments later he lay on the carpeted floor in exactly the same room: Snape might just have closed the door.

Empowered by the Enabling Law, Hitler launched a political blitzkrieg, destroying what remained of German democracy. He began by abolishing local assemblies and replacing provincial governors with Nazis. He sent SA thugs to brutalize political opponents and, when necessary, cart them off to newly opened concentration camps. He disposed of the unions by declaring May 1, 1933, a paid national holiday, then occupying union offices throughout the country on May 2. He purged the civil service of disloyal elements and issued a decree banning Jews from the professions. He placed theater, music, and radio productions under the control of Joseph Goebbels and barred unsympathetic journalists from doing their jobs. To ensure order, he consolidated political, intelligence, and police functions in a new organization, the Gestapo.

Here's one way that we try to actively and immediately bring in kindness in our meetings and camps: we ask our girls to stop before they speak and reevaluate what they're going to say based on this acronym: True Honest Important Necessary Kind Is what they're out to say True? Is it Honest? Is it Important? Necessary Kind? We ask the to T.H.I.N.K. before they speak text, or type, and try to incorporate it into their daily lives -- especially within their interactions with their friends and classmates -- as much as possible. It's a choice girls can make: Do they want to encourage others with their words, or bring others down? You might think this won't resonate with your middle school girl, but I promise that it works. It's not about self-editing or asking her not to speak her truth, of course; it's about thinking of others too.

It was a battle, Jack realized, between the composite psyche of the school and the individual psyches of the children, and the former held all the key cards. A child who did not properly respond was assumed to be autistic—that is, oriented according to a subjective factor that took precedence over his sense of objective reality. And that child wound up by being expelled from the school; he went, after that, to another sort of school entirely, one designed to rehabilitate him: he went to Camp Ben-Gurion. He could not be taught, he could only be dealt with as ill.

Hi, I’m Karyn with a K”—flashing a shy smile at Kim—“and I’m eleven and three quarters. I’ve never been to camp before.” She paused, then said in a rush, “The upstairs part of my body works fine. The downstairs part—not so much. They call it spina bifida. I call it a pain in the butt.

TO MASTER, FROM KREACHER. Harry stared at it. “D’you reckon this is safe to open?” he asked. “Can’t be anything dangerous, all our mail’s still being searched at the Ministry,” replied Ron, though he was eyeing the parcel suspiciously. “I didn’t think of giving Kreacher anything. Do people usually give their house-elves Christmas presents?” asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously. “Hermione would,” said Ron. “But let’s wait and see what it is before you start feeling guilty.” A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt out of his camp bed; the package contained a large number of maggots. “Nice,” said Ron, roaring with laughter. “Very thoughtful.

During World War II, the University of Minnesota’s Laboratory of Physiological Hygiene conducted what scientists and relief workers still regard today as a benchmark study of starvation. Partly funded by religious groups, including the Society of Friends, the study was intended to help the Allies cope with released concentration-camp internees, prisoners of war, and refugees. The participants were all conscientious objectors who volunteered to lose 25 percent of their body weight over six months. The experiment was supervised by Dr. Ancel Keys (for whom the K-ration was named). The volunteers lived a spare but comfortable existence at a stadium on the campus of the University of Minnesota.

In 1944-1945, Dr Ancel Keys, a specialist in nutrition and the inventor of the K-ration, led a carefully controlled yearlong study of starvation at the University of Minnesota Laboratory of Physiological Hygiene. It was hoped that the results would help relief workers in rehabilitating war refugees and concentration camp victims. The study participants were thirty-two conscientious objectors eager to contribute humanely to the war effort. By the experiment's end, much of their enthusiasm had vanished. Over a six-month semi-starvation period, they were required to lose an average of twenty-five percent of their body weight." [...] p193 p193-194 "...the men exhibited physical symptoms...their movements slowed, they felt weak and cold, their skin was dry, their hair fell out, they had edema. And the psychological changes were dramatic. "[...] p194 "The men became apathetic and depressed, and frustrated with their inability to concentrate or perform tasks in their usual manner. Six of the thirty-two were eventually diagnosed with severe "character neurosis," two of them bordering on psychosis. Socially, they ceased to care much about others; they grew intensely selfish and self-absorbed. Personal grooming and hygiene deteriorated, and the men were moody and irritable with one another. The lively and cooperative group spirit that had developed in the three-month control phase of the experiment evaporated. Most participants lost interest in group activities or decisions, saying it was too much trouble to deal with the others; some men became scapegoats or targets of aggression for the rest of the group. Food - one's own food - became the only thing that mattered. When the men did talk to one another, it was almost always about eating, hunger, weight loss, foods they dreamt of eating. They grew more obsessed with the subject of food, collecting recipes, studying cookbooks, drawing up menus. As time went on, they stretched their meals out longer and longer, sometimes taking two hours to eat small dinners. Keys's research has often been cited often in recent years for this reason: The behavioral changes in the men mirror the actions of present-day dieters, especially of anorexics.

We now dwelt in a very large prison, without walls, bounded by Canada, Mexico and two oceans. There were the jailers, the turnkeys, the informers, and somewhere in the Midwest the solitary confinement of the special internment camps. Most people did not appear to notice. Since there were no literal walls or barbed wire, since they had committed no crimes, had not been arrested or taken to court, they did not grasp the change, the dread transformation, of their situation. It was the classic case of a man kidnapped while standing still. Since they had been taken nowhere and since they themselves had voted the new tyranny into power, they could see nothing wrong. Anywho, a good third of them, had they known, would have thought it a good idea…Their freedom to do as they were told had been preserved.

With this warning, Mussolini demanded and was given authority to do just about whatever he wanted; but his initial priority, surprisingly, was good government. He knew that citizens were fed up with a bureaucracy that seemed to grow bigger and less efficient each year, so he insisted on daily roll calls in ministry offices and berated employees for arriving late to work or taking long lunches. He initiated a campaign to drenare la palude (“drain the swamp”) by firing more than 35,000 civil servants. He repurposed Fascist gangs to safeguard rail cargo from thieves. He allocated money to build bridges, roads, telephone exchanges, and giant aqueducts that brought water to arid regions. He gave Italy an eight-hour workday, codified insurance benefits for the elderly and disabled, funded prenatal health care clinics, established seventeen hundred summer camps for children, and dealt the Mafia a blow by suspending the jury system and short-circuiting due process. With no jury members to threaten and judges answerable directly to the state, the courts were as incorruptible as they were docile. Contrary to legend, the dictator didn’t quite succeed in making the trains run on time, but he earned bravos for trying.

He said maybe some fear isn’t so bad. When you’re taking on a mountain the magnitude of Mt. Fuji or K2, you have to bring oxygen. It’s scary. But if you go up and a storm comes, you can go back to base camp, and nobody’s going to tell you that you’re a failure. I loved that because it expressed so well that not only were we engaged in a great challenge, which would involve setbacks, but we were also on a great adventure.

I think,” he said slowly, “he’s got something to do with Quidditch. There’s some connection, but I can’t--I can’t think what it is.” “Quidditch?” said Ron. “Sure you’re not thinking of Gorgovitch?” “Who?” “Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season.” “No,” said Harry. “I’m definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch.” “I try not to either,” said Ron. “Well, happy birthday anyway.” “Wow--that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!” Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, “Accio Glasses!” Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye. “Slick,” snorted Ron.

There are 1.2 billion Muslims in the world today. Of course not all of them are radicals. The majority of them are peaceful people. The radicals are estimated to be between 15-25%, according to all intelligence services around the world. That leaves 75% of them - peaceful people. But when you look at 15-25% of the world Muslim population, you're looking at 180 million to 300 million people dedicated to the destruction of Western civilization. That is as big as the United States. So why should we worry about the radical 15-25%? Because it is the radicals that kill. Because it is the radicals that behead and massacre. When you look throughout history, when you look at all the lessons of history, most Germans were peaceful. Yet the Nazis drove the agenda. And as a result, 60 million people died, almost 14 million in concentration camps. 6 million were Jews. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. When you look at Russia, most Russians were peaceful as well. Yet the Russians were able to kill 20 million people. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. When you look at China for example, most Chinese were peaceful as well. Yet the Chinese were able to kill 70 million people. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. When you look at Japan prior to World War II, most Japanese were peaceful as well. Yet, Japan was able to butcher its way across Southeast Asia, killing 12 million people, mostly killed by bayonets and shovels. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. On September 11th in the United States we had 2.3 million Arab Muslims living in the United States. It took 19 hijackers - 19 radicals - to bring America down to its knees, destroy the World Trade Center, attack the Pentagon and kill almost 3000 Americans that day. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. So for all our power of reason, and for all us talking about moderate and peaceful Muslims, I'm glad you're here. But where are the others speaking out? And since you are the only Muslim representative in here, you took the limelight instead of speaking about why our government - I assume you're an American (the Muslim says yes) - As an American citizen, you sat in this room, and instead of standing up and saying a question, or asking something about our four Americans that died and what our government is doing to correct the problem, you stood there to make a point about peaceful, moderate Muslims. I wish you had brought ten with you to question about how we could hold our government responsible. It is time we take political correctness and throw it in the garbage where it belongs.” - Brigette Gabriel (transcript from Benghazi Accountability Coalition - Heritage Foundation)

Rapid City," he said with a flourish at the lights below. "We always stopped there on the way home from camping," Baldwin said. "There's this great ice-cream stand just off the highway. But I guess we aren't going for ice cream, are we?" "Probably not," Ray said. "Unless it's being served by monsters." "That could be cool," Baldwin said. "An ice-cream fight. Like a snowball fight, with fifty flavors of snow. Good, safe fun. No one ever died from ice cream." "Unless they drowned you in a giant vat of it," Reyna said. "Or forced you to eat it until you choked. Or -" "You're no fun at all, you know that?" Baldwin said. "Depends on your definition of fun.

Well, happy birthday anyway.” “Wow--that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!” Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, “Accio Glasses!” Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye. “Slick,” snorted Ron. Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron’s possessions flying around the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron’s Chudley Cannons posters bright blue. “I’d do your fly by hand, though,” Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry immediately checked it. “Here’s your present. Unwrap it up here, it’s not for my mother’s eyes.” “A book?” said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. “Bit of a departure from tradition, isn’t it?” “This isn’t your average book,” said Ron. “It’s pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I’d had this last year I’d have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would’ve known how to get going with…Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I’ve learned a lot. You’d be surprised, it’s not all about wandwork, either.

There was a new president and a new Congress but each was bound to follow the law as set down in the Constitution. They were Republican, they were isolationist, and among them, yes, there were anti-Semites—as indeed there were among the southerners in FDR’s own party—but that was a long way from their being Nazis. Besides, one had only to listen on Sunday nights to Winchell lashing out at the new president and “his friend Joe Goebbels” or hear him listing the sites under consideration by the Department of the Interior for building concentration camps—sites mainly located in Montana, the home state of Lindbergh’s “national unity” vice president, the isolationist Democrat Burton K. Wheeler—to be assured of the fervor with which the new administration was being scrutinized by favorite reporters of my father’s, like Winchell and Dorothy Thompson and Quentin Reynolds and William L. Shirer, and, of course, by the staff of PM. Even I now took my turn with PM when my father brought it home at night, and not just to read the comic strip Barnaby

I here behold a Commander in Chief who looks idle and is always busy; who has no other desk than his knees, no other comb than his fingers; constantly reclined on his couch, yet sleeping neither in night nor in daytime. A cannon shot, to which he himself is not exposed, disturbs him with the idea that it costs the life of some of his soldiers. Trembling for others, brave himself, alarmed at the approach of danger, frolicsome when it surrounds him, dull in the midst of pleasure, surfeited with everything, easily disgusted, morose, inconstant, a profound philosopher, an able minister, a sublime politician, not revengeful, asking pardon for a pain he has inflicted, quickly repairing an injustice, thinking he loves God when he fears the Devil; waving one hand to the females that please him, and with the other making the sign of the cross; receiving numberless presents from his sovereign and distributing them immediately to others; preferring prodigality in giving, to regularity in paying; prodigiously rich and not worth a farthing; easily prejudiced in favor of or against anything; talking divinity to his generals and tactics to his bishops; never reading, but pumping everyone with whom he converses; uncommonly affable or extremely savage, the most attractive or most repulsive of manners; concealing under the appearance of harshness, the greatest benevolence of heart, like a child, wanting to have everything, or, like a great man, knowing how to do without; gnawing his fingers, or apples, or turnips; scolding or laughing; engaged in wantonness or in prayers, summoning twenty aides de camp and saying nothing to any of them, not caring for cold, though he appears unable to exist without furs; always in his shirt without pants, or in rich regimentals; barefoot or in slippers; almost bent double when he is at home, and tall, erect, proud, handsome, noble, majestic when he shows himself to his army like Agamemnon in the midst of the monarchs of Greece. What then is his magic? Genius, natural abilities, an excellent memory, artifice without craft, the art of conquering every heart; much generosity, graciousness, and justice in his rewards; and a consummate knowledge of mankind. There

There are 1.2 billion Muslims in the world today. Of course not all of them are radicals. The majority of them are peaceful people. The radicals are estimated to be between 15-25%, according to all intelligence services around the world. That leaves 75% of them - peaceful people. But when you look at 15-25% of the world Muslim population, you're looking at 180 million to 300 million people dedicated to the destruction of Western civilization. That is as big as the United States. So why should we worry about the radical 15-25%? Because it is the radicals that kill. Because it is the radicals that behead and massacre. When you look throughout history, when you look at all the lessons of history, most Germans were peaceful. Yet the Nazis drove the agenda. And as a result, 60 million people died, almost 14 million in concentration camps. 6 million were Jews. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. When you look at Russia, most Russians were peaceful as well. Yet the Russians were able to kill 20 million people. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. When you look at China for example, most Chinese were peaceful as well. Yet the Chinese were able to kill 70 million people. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. When you look at Japan prior to World War II, most Japanese were peaceful as well. Yet, Japan was able to butcher its way across Southeast Asia, killing 12 million people, mostly killed by bayonets and shovels. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. On September 11th in the United States we had 2.3 million Arab Muslims living in the United States. It took 19 hijackers - 19 radicals - to bring America down to its knees, destroy the World Trade Center, attack the Pentagon and kill almost 3000 Americans that day. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. So for all our power of reason, and for all us talking about moderate and peaceful Muslims, I'm glad you're here. But where are the others speaking out? And since you are the only Muslim representative in here, you took the limelight instead of speaking about why our government - I assume you're an American (the Muslim says yes) - As an American citizen, you sat in this room, and instead of standing up and saying a question, or asking something about our four Americans that died and what our government is doing to correct the problem, you stood there to make a point about peaceful, moderate Muslims. I wish you had brought ten with you to question about how we could hold our government responsible. It is time we take political correctness and throw it in the garbage where it belongs.” - Brigette Gabriel (transcript from Benghazi Accountability Coalition - Heritage Foundation)                              

A U.S. serviceman, standing nearby, was not so content. He yelled at the Czechs to stop. “The war is over, so halt your bullying!” he shouted. Some of his buddies agreed. That was too much for Hana. “How dare you?” she demanded of the American. “Where in the States are you from, anyway?” “Mississippi,” he said. “Miss-iss-ip-pi?” said Hana, drawing out the syllables sarcastically. “I see. So you’ve come all the way from Miss-iss-ip-pi to tell us in Czech-o-slo-vakia how we should treat our traitorous Nazi scum, our prisoners. You find it too much if we humiliate those dregs of humanity by making them sing Czech folk tunes? Where have you been all this time? Do you know what they have done? Do you know they tortured and killed millions? Or haven’t you heard? Or maybe,” said Hana, drawing a deep breath, “you sympathize with them because you float dead Negroes down your river?” Her words caused a commotion: furious and indignant soldiers gathered round; Hana’s own phrase was thrown back at her: “How dare you?” Another American intervened. “She’s absolutely right,” he said. “I’ve just come from those camps where we’ve been liberating the inmates. You should see it. Besides, these Germans are not being harmed in any way.” Turning to the first soldier, he said, “Let’s you and I keep out of it, okay?

With much the same sense of privacy, Nicholas disliked discussions of politics, especially in casual conversation. A new aide-de-camp, galloping at the side of the Tsar near Livadia on a morning ride, supposed that his duty was to amuse the Tsar with small talk. He chose politics as his subject. Nicholas replied reluctantly, and quickly switched the conversation to the weather, the mountain scenery, the horses and tennis. When the aide persisted, Nicholas put spurs to his horse and galloped ahead. This sense of privacy, along with an unwillingness to provoke personal unpleasantness, created perennial difficulty between the Tsar and his ministers. Ministers were appointed and dismissed directly by the crown. In theory, they were the servants of the Tsar, and he was free to give these posts to whomever he liked, to listen to or ignore a minister’s advice, and to hand down dismissals without explanation.

I love Johannesburg – like one loves and protects a fragile puppy, like one removes weeds from beds of blossoming tulips and roses. I am drawn to its formless danger, the lurking disquiets of a big city, by how minute and faceless I have become in the vast frontiers of its palaces and dungeons, how my stargazing crawls by unnoticed by my countrymen. There are other stargazers too, there must be, real stargazers who camp and live and thrive in the wild: lantern carriers and owners of books and celestial maps about the history and unknown charms in the world of stars. There must be true worshippers and disciples of these heavenly fires, these celestial corpses that have long died, exploded into trillions of graveyards that adorn the night skies. There seems, if I concentrate long enough, to be a certain secret that draws me to the stars: their ancient silence, their insistence on commanding attention without shouting from rooftops, unlike the shamelessness of thunder and rain, unaffected by their distance or determination. Stars are quiet – arrogant, maybe – but also of a particular crispness that takes refuge in every pore, every fragment of every hair that covers every slope and plane of the body. It is possible that Michael K is peering from behind the night clouds, content not to be bothered. He has seen the zealots and charlatans coming from miles away, preserved his soul in the most elementary of ways: the ways of silence.

Nazi concentration camps engulfed gentile as well as Jewish prisoners, that Soviet Union, U.K., France and United States of America’s hands were not entirely clean after the war, and that slavery and brutality were and are quite compatible with high technology.

over her at night. It feels nice to have someone, anyone, protecting her again. But. She thinks. It troubles Nassun that Schaffa has damaged himself in the eyes of his fellow Guardians by choosing not to kill her. It troubles her more that he suffers, gritting his teeth and pretending that this is another smile, even as she sees the silver flex and burn within him. It never stops doing so now, and he will not let her ease his pain because this makes her slow and tired the next day. She watches him endure it, and hates the little thing in his head that hurts him so. It gives him power, but what good is power if it comes on a spiked leash? “Why?” she asks him one night as they camp on a flat, elevated white slab of something that is neither metal nor stone and which is all that remains of some deadciv ruin. There have been some signs of raiders or commless in the area, and the tiny comm they stayed at

As she approached the First Regiment’s camp, the soldiers guarding the gates did nothing to stop her. They saluted her, but their eyes passed over her without care. However, a large square of scarlet red cloth was hoisted up the flag pole just as she passed through the gates. It flew there with the Erlauf flag and the flag of the First Regiment. The

TOOLBOX   B - Bulbs, Batteries. D - Duct tape, Drills. E - Electrical tester. F - Fuses, Fan belt (spare). G - Glues (super, fabric, threadlock, multipurpose) H - Hammers. J - Jacks, Jumper leads. K - Knives (box and pocket). L - Level (spirit). M - Marker pen, Mallet. O - Oils (Engine and lubricating) P

Batteries, Bug repellent, Belts, Bags , Barbecue equipment, Boots, Bath towels. Bikes, Bike rack. C - Cash and credit cards, Cell phones & chargers, Camera and film/memory cards, Coffee pot, Can opener, Cups, Cutlery, Computer, Clock, Cleaning utensils, Clothes and coats, Camping Guides, Condiments (salt, sugar, pepper). D - Dishes, Drainers, Disinfectant. F - First Aid kit, Fire Extinguishers G - Glasses, (drinking, reading, sun), Games. H -Herbs, Hair brushes, Headphones. K -Keys (house, RV, Lockers), Kindle & cable, Kitchen Gadgets. M - Medication. Money belts, Measuring implements, Maps, P - PERSONAL DOCUMENTS: Passports, Health Certificates, Insurance, Driving License, RV documents, Power adapters, Pens, Pets:

In North Korea a person has two lives, natural and political. But once you get sent to a prison camp your political life is over and you have only your natural life. You’re nothing, an animal, a savage. The guards have the right to kill you without penalty because you’re just an animal. If you disobey them or talk back, the guards hit you. It’s human nature then to fight back, but if you do they’ll shoot you. In one year’s time they would stage public executions fifteen or twenty times. People who tried to escape and didn’t get far were simply shot on the spot. But if you cost the guards a lot of time and trouble before they recaptured you, they would have a public execution.

This was the hour when he found London most lovable; the working day over, her pub windows were warm and jewel-like, her streets thrummed with life, and the indefatigable permanence of her aged buildings, softened by the street lights, became strangely reassuring. We have seen plenty like you, they seemed to murmur soothingly, as he limped along Oxford Street carrying a boxed-up camp bed. Seven and a half million hearts were beating in close proximity in this heaving old city, and many, after all, would be aching far worse than his. Walking wearily past closing shops, while the heavens turned indigo above him, Strike found solace in vastness and anonymity." Cuckoo Calling by J.K. Rowling

That’s the problem with unrequited love. It doesn’t give back, even when you think you’re on the verge of something spectacular. It’s like looking into a one-way mirror, knowing in the depths of your soul that you’re standing in front of the one, but he never sees you in return. Still, you try. It’s an addiction. A trap. And the deeper you fall, the harder it is to climb your way out.

The second I recognize Hope is the moment the pain of losing her comes crashing and burning all around me. The damage I did, the woman I lost, the deep-seeded desire I smothered like it wasn’t the last flame left standing in my life. She was the one. The only one I’d ever felt could make my dimly lit world a better place, and I pushed her away as though she didn’t even matter.

The last time I gave Hope the space I thought she needed, she walked away and left a big, gaping hole in my chest. I won’t make that mistake again.

I want to go back. And this time, I want to be selfish. Because if I ever had the chance to rewrite that last night we had together, I would have never let her go.

You’re right. About everything.” I bend down to touch my forehead to hers. “I was cruel, and I forced you to leave when it was the last thing I wanted you to do. I’ve never wanted anyone to stay more.

I fucked up. I hurt you. And the weight of my regret over causing that pain is my burden to bear for the rest of my fucking life. But you belong here, Hope, just as much as I do. This is your home, and I’ll make it my mission to remind you of that for as long as you’re here.

I knew you’d leave one day. You were young and still figuring out what you wanted to do with your life. You were bound to leave, whether I pushed you away or not. Everyone leaves.” From my peripheral, I can see her scan me like she’s assessing my expression. ”I’m not everyone. I was yours. And you were the only one who couldn’t see it.

Not getting another chance to explore everything we should have had is my biggest fear of all. This time, I don’t want to miss a thing.

My goddess. My Hope. My second chance at life. I’ll worship her for a lifetime if she’ll give me the chance.

It was his eyes that I gravitated to the most. It was there that I could see his soul, the very part of him that he kept hidden from everyone else. Not from me. And that was how I always knew that Jamison Bexley was mine.

I know what I did. I know how badly I hurt you … And I know what I lost.

Violet doesn’t belong to me. She never has, no matter the desperation I once felt to make her mine. Yet here I am, back in my old neck of the woods, chasing after the ghost of my past like there’s a chance in hell to resurrect what we once shared.

Friendship was safe for us. It was the only way I could be sure that you’d always be there.” I frowned, thinking about how wrong I was. “But we couldn’t help ourselves. I wanted all your firsts.” “And I wanted you to have them. I wanted yours too.” I move my hands to her waist. “You got all the important ones. To this day, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.

I would have loved you forever, Vi … I wanted to love you forever.

His lips tilt up on one side. “You act like you won’t be moving in soon.” I gasp and playfully push against his chest. “Going a little fast there, aren’t you, Bexley?” He shakes his head so slowly that I become mesmerized by the purposeful movement. “I happen to think the lifetime it’s taken for us to be standing right here has been excruciatingly slow.” My heart is beating so fast. “I might have taken a little detour.” He leans in so his mouth is a mere inch from mine. “And you’re back on track now?” It’s been years since I’ve felt these kinds of butterflies – the ones that feel uncaged in my chest to the point that they could carry me away. “Without a doubt.

And here I thought I’d have to work a lot harder to get you back into my bed.” … “I don’t have the same willpower I once did. Like it or not, I’m pretty much a sure thing for you.

You’re the sexiest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Then, now, and forever.

I’m certain there isn’t another man alive who could love you more than I do.

O.K., Maggie. You will note, we have no clocks, hourglasses, or even calendars. Time is measured in years, seasons, or even phases of the moon. But, we have no way of keeping track of what month or day it is, except our own memories. Now, as to when we'll get somewhere, there's just no telling. Because, we don't even know where we're going, so we don't know when we'll get there. I can tell you this. If we're careful, and fortunate, and the Good Lord is willing, we will make it to someplace to camp for the night, and hopefully have something to eat before we try to get some sleep. And if we're careful, and fortunate, and the Good Lord is willing, we'll wake up in the morning and start again. Everything in this country will either stick you, sting you, bite you, kick you, claw you, pluck your eyes out or try to kill you. And if that doesn't get you the weather will try to drown you, bake you, freeze you, or bury you. So, if we're careful, and fortunate, and the Good Lord is willing, we'll make it somewhere, but for right now, I just don't know where.

I’ve just been biding my time waiting for the moment she realizes her rock star obsession is ridiculous and that the person she’s supposed to be with is right here waiting for her.

I’m already in love with her. How can she still be oblivious to how naturally we fit together? Not only our bodies when we make love but in ways that turn every intimate moment into something more. She’s not just the girl next door. She’s my everything. And I want to be hers.

I know I promised. You gave me no other choice What if I want to break my promise? What if I want to fall in love with you?” I suck in a breath, the moment becoming too real. “What if I already have?

While you may be perfect to me, you carry scars that make you question your worth. You fall for men who feed into those insecurities instead of the men who help you carry them.

Fritz was looking forward to the challenge but in the end he was given something much more testing: a huge storm. For eight days Camp 4 was savaged by high winds and freezing temperatures. Fritz had survived similar storms on Nanga Parbat in 1932, but the others had never experienced anything like this. When the expedition chronicler George Sheldon wrote an article about their attempt on K2 six months later, the strange mixture of terror and monotony was still vivid in his mind: We would lie in our sleeping bags swathed in several sets of underwear, wind-suits, boots, gloves and hats. At any moment we expected to be blown into nearby Tibet. We had nothing to read except the labels on the food cans. A meal became an event of tremendous importance… the eternal banging and cracking of the tent, in the seventy-mile-an-hour gale, made us virtually psychopathic

As ever, the challenge was not just to get high on the mountain, but to haul up hundreds of kilos of supplies and equipment and set up a ladder of camps to the summit.

covered in apocalyptic rot. Paul followed.  “Why do you call it a clinic?” “Reasons.” Paul waited for more of an answer but Marazzi didn’t offer anything else.  He looked around and noticed a significant crack in one of the curved support beams.  “These things have been empty a long time.” “I guess.” Marazzi looked at the walls but didn’t break his stride. “Why here?” “Why here what?” Marazzi was becoming irritated with answering questions.  He probably didn’t even like talking. “Why put the camp here? Why put some of us down in the silos?” “Started with a minimum-security prison

You see?” she said pointing to the horizon. “It seems to coincide with the setting of the sun. I’m interested to see if it happens again at sunrise.” “Me too,” Savannah concurred. “Having just witnessed that amazing display,” Travis said, “I think there’s real merit to your hoax theory, Xenia. That dust rose into the air so thick and so high that I doubt anyone would have difficulty projecting a very high resolution image on it from a very powerful digital projector.” “Indeed,” she agreed. “That would mean that such a projector would have to be set up fairly close by just of the shore right there,” Adam said, pointing to the water. “And if that’s the case,” Mark added, “then we could be right in the middle of some serious criminal activity. I suggest we move our camp immediately.

Mr. Weasley happily. “The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we’re as close as we could be.” He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. “Right,” he said excitedly, “no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land. We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be too difficult. . . . Muggles do it all the time. . . . Here, Harry, where do you reckon we should start?” Harry had never been camping in his life; the Dursleys had never taken him on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave

Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, "Accio Glasses!" Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye. "Slick," snorted Ron.

Bright specks that were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen and white-collar workers around. The huge transport tubes that shot masses of workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units.

Vingt et un ans dans les camps staliniens, dont seize passés dans le Grand Nord, puis une existence misérable avant de finir ses jours dans un hôpital psychiatrique à Moscou – « dernière victoire du K.G.B. », comme diront ses amis –, tel fut le destin de Varlam Chalamov (1907-1982).

Lucas stopped inches from my fingers, but he was still too close. "And I don't?" he whispered. "I get you more than anyone ever has, and you know it. There's still something between us. You can't ignore that." A primal spark blazed behind the cool blue of his eyes. "Andy." I didn't want him to say my name like that, like it was all he needed to remind me of an entire summer of longing that I'd tried so hard to forget. He didn't get to do this to me. Not this year.

I started toward the field, and they fanned out around me, talking about all the food they hoped the cafeteria would make this summer, about how it would be helpful if the camp served them hot guys on a platter, too. I sighed to keep from laughing out of frustration.

I didn't look down, but my face flooded with heat I hoped he couldn't see in the shade of the dock. I was wearing a white shirt. How rude of him to mention it like I was in a wet T-shirt contest. I cleared my throat. "Does that distract you?" My voice came out lower than it should have. "You've always distracted me," he breathed, his lips descending.

He might've been the first person to truly need me. And I'd been there for him. There was something in that.

We were moving with all the busy people. I wondered if we looked like movie stars, too. It was O.K. if we didn’t because my father was like my God then. It didn’t matter what we looked like—I was happy to be with him in this shiny, new place. When we were still in Ban Vinai Refugee Camp, men and women who believed in God visited and tried to get Hmong people to share in their belief. My family was not interested because we already had our own belief in our ancestors and the spirits of the land and the Buddha, but many of the children grew curious. I was one of them. I once asked my father to explain God to me. He compared people’s belief in God to our allegiance to our ancestors. The idea that God helped people was hard for me to grasp. “But our ancestors help us.” “So does God for those who believe in him.” “Then why don’t we?” “Because we already believe that our ancestors gave birth to us.” “But you gave birth to me. Does that mean you are my God?” He didn’t say yes or no. My father was how I understood God to be. In that hallway to the bathroom, I saw the first glimpse of my father as just a man trying to take care of me.

There was a wall. It did not look important. It was built of uncut rocks roughly mortared. An adult could look right over it, and even a child could climb it. Where it crossed the roadway, instead of having a gate it degenerated into mere geometry, a line, an idea of boundary. But the idea was real. It was important. For seven generations there had been nothing in the world more important than that wall. Like all walls it was ambiguous, two-faced. What was inside it and what was outside it depended upon which side of it you were on. Looked at from one side, the wall enclosed a barren sixty-acre field called the Port of Anarres. On the field there were a couple of large gantry cranes, a rocket pad, three warehouses, a truck garage, and a dormitory. The dormitory looked durable, grimy, and mournful; it had no gardens, no children; plainly nobody lived there or was even meant to stay there long. It was in fact a quarantine. The wall shut in not only the landing field but also the ships that came down out of space, and the men that came on the ships, and the worlds they came from, and the rest of the universe. It enclosed the universe, leaving Anarres outside, free. Looked at from the other side, the wall enclosed Anarres: the whole planet was inside it, a great prison camp, cut off from other worlds and other men, in quarantine.

YouTube “Jeremy Camp There Will Be A Day

Fuck that! Love don’t hurt like this, nigga, but I’m ‘bout to show you what hurt looks like, bitch nigga. Angel, you got a choice, since you can’t make that muthafucka by yourself. It’s being a part of this organization and giving this nigga his walking papers, or you’re out. I never want the women in our camp to let a pussy ass nigga do some shit like this to them. If a nigga put his hand on one of ours, he the muthafuckin’ opp, and that’s on me. So, what’s up?

But, sometime the next morning, Beck opened his eyes, struggled to his feet, and began climbing toward camp. “I am neither churchly nor a particularly

Defeat and Death of Sennacherib 35 That night the angel of the Lord went out and struck down 185,000 in the camp of the Assyrians. When the people got up the next morning — there were all the dead bodies! h 36 So Sennacherib king of Assyria broke camp and left. He returned home and lived in Nineveh. i 37 One day, while he was worshiping in the temple of his god Nisroch, his sons Adrammelech j and Sharezer struck him down with the sword and escaped to the land of Ararat. k Then his son Esar-haddon l became king in his place.

I’ve never met anyone like you. Someone who sees the simplicity in the most complicated things. Someone who challenges me to work harder and dig deeper than I ever cared to before … Someone who, for the first time in a long time, inspires me.

Watching you and feeling that tug to ride again made me realize how detached I’ve been these last ten years. I mean, I guess that was the point of my travels – to become detached – but what was the point in it all if I only continued to hurt the people who cared about me most?

You’re optimistic and talented and so damn beautiful.” His eyes dip to my lips before resting back on my eyes. “I mean that, you know. More than I’ve ever meant it in my life. You’re beautiful. Inside, outside, and all the spaces in between.

My weakness is you, Brooklyn Kennedy.” He reaches out and takes my hand then pulls me closer. “You’re also my strength, my light, my balance, my focus. You’re the contrast I never knew I needed. You make me want to stand still. Right here with you. If you’ll have me.

It is easier to brand her a villain and go back to camp, play the victim, lick his wounds. This is what he does. There is no glory in it, but there is survival. And, he realizes, that is what they are playing at now.

He marches right inside my mind, parks his ass, and camps out.

I admit that I’d flirted with the idea of self-compassion over the years, yet I’d never really committed to it. It all sounded a little on the hippy-dippy side, whereas I preferred the self-flagellators camp; Do better, you stupid bitch! That sort of thing.

Camp Morningwood

Now, I’d like to suggest we all get to leveling. The best idea is probably to go back to the boring ass golems. They were ridiculous experience once they fell. I’m not far from nineteen, which I know you guys must—wait, Ver you’re already nineteen. You suck. Everyone else, we need to level.” She turned on her heel and began to head back to their camp, Havoc glowering in her wake. “It’s amazing how there aren’t even bears in this wood. Wouldn’t you think there’d be bears?” A sudden roar tore through the trees causing snow to dislodge from the branches and tumble to the ground with a heavy thud like a fallen corpse. Sinister turned back to the group. “Is it too late to take that back?” You have encountered Disestru, the giant bear. He doesn’t like to be roused from his sleep. Watch out, his claws and teeth don’t need to touch you to kill you. Probably shouldn’t have been making so much noise before checking for caves in the area.

No matter the internal battle you may be fighting. Your loved ones are never your enemies.