Leeds Quotes

My name is Stephen Leeds, and I am perfectly sane. My hallucinations, however, are all quite mad.

This time, there are no tears. This time, there is only emptiness and I feel it set in the straight line of my mouth. I am not strong enough for this. I want an earthquake, a hurricane, anything - even a devil, the one with the cloven hoof - Mrs. Leed's unfortunate 13th child - to rush out and stomp on me, break me into little pieces and hurl me to the stars, let me go back with those people I love. Please.

Men have always been permitted in fiction and in life to simply be what they are, no matter how dark or terrifying that might be. But with a woman, we expect an answer, a reason.

I'm not working-class: I come from the criminal classes.

We staan elke dag op, doen wat van ons verwacht wordt, en gaan dan weer slapen, en dat noemen we leven. We saboteren onszelf zonder het te beseffen, omdat we nadoen wat ons ooit is voorgedaan, en dan denken we dat het zo móet gaan. En ondertussen organiseren we de dingen zo, dat we geen tijd hebben om stil te staan bij dat wat we ten diepste voelen. We vergeten wat we waard zijn en durven niet te geloven dat we het goeie wel degelijk verdienen. We vinden het makkelijker om te berusten bij ons leed, om onszelf te troosten na de pijn, dan te kiezen voor wat ons echt gelukkig zou maken.

Zo ging het leven onafgebroken en eentonig voort, als met een zenuwachtig egoïstisch materialisme: er werd geleden en er daalde geen algemeen rouwfloers neer op de wereld; er werd geleden en toch bleef alles het zelfde en lachte men, sliep men, at men rondom dat leed.

A lifetime thus far of being alone. Of knowing I would be alone, forever. To stand in a full room and know oneself to be apart, that invisible barrier between you and them to be in every way uncrossable. To find the will to exist in a world so wholly unsuited for you.

You aren't insane, then." "Heavens no," I said. I eyed her. "You don't accept that." You see people that aren't there Mr. Leeds. It's a difficult fact to get around. "And, yet, I live a good life," I said. "Tell me. Why would you consider me insane, but the man who can't hold a job, who cheats on his wife, who can't keep his temper in check, you call him sane?

I love Halloween because all the time, everyone wears masks. But one night a year, they do it openly. The dark and forbidden things they wish to be but deny themselves, on Halloween they don’t. On Halloween, they embrace it, all of it. The hidden parts of the world are exposed, if only for one night. And those things that are truly dark are a little less alone.

I have tried the way of the misanthrope, the way of the deviant, the philosopher, the observer, the pretender. But there is one road I have not seriously considered walking down, have not permitted myself to. Perhaps it is time.

He howls questions to me: Who are you? Why are you doing this? I didn’t do anything to anyone. I don’t deserve this. Why me? This is a failing of men. This same violence, applied to a woman, she does not ask why it is being inflicted upon her, she only struggles unsuccessfully to free herself and grieves the fact she has grieved her entire life, one that she understands fundamentally and innately. That violence simply occurs.

Lily might be icy on the outside, but inside she was Vesuvius.

Here is the truth, the one that so few of us know: You do not need a moral and noble story to do what you want. You do not first need to be a victim to become a monster.

I have never understood, and still do not understand the notion that a woman must first endure a victimhood of some sort—abandonment, abuse, oppression of the patriarchy—to be monstrous. Men have always been permitted in fiction and in life to simply be what they are, no matter how dark or terrifying that might be. But with a woman, we expect an answer, a reason. But why would she do it? Why, why, why?

In order to create a sustainable world, we need to: 1) Educate people. 2) Educate people. 3) Educate people. For every person left uneducated about the system of this sphere, the nature will make us all pay for it. Sustainability can only start in the mind.

Speak dumb person, please.

Honestly, I don't know that the universe yould really handle everyone being infinite Batmans. Perhaps the point of God was to prevent nonsense like that.

Van één ding zijn we zeker : dat we mensen zijn, stof onder de sterren. En dat alle menselijke geluk en alle menselijke leed door mensen veroorzaakt wordt.

Bitterbessie dagbreek bitterbessie son 'n spieël het gebreek tussen my en hom Soek ek na die grootpad om daarlangs te draf oral draai die paadjies van sy woorde af Dennebos herinnering dennebos vergeet het ek ook verdwaal trap ek in my leed papegaai-bont eggo kierang kierang my totdat ek bedroë weer die koggel kry Eggo is geen antwoord antwoord hy alom bitterbessie dagbreek bitterbessie son

There are many definitions of insanity in this world. One could argue that spooning a man’s eyeball out of the socket and performing carnal acts of religious desecration with it is insanity - we will revisit that later- perhaps you’d be right, but I argue that true insanity is driving in Los Angeles.

If you ask a negative, unanswerable question, you will get a negative, impractical answer. The question you ask determines the focus of your thinking, your focus determines your attitude, and your attitude determines your ability to take action.

It’s only the kind of fucked-up girls who like my princess, the sister with the destructive powers, the one without a husband. The one who occupies the space of both princess and villainess.

I signed the form as if my whole life hadn't been an unwritten contract ensuring my abstinence anyway. As if my whole value as a person, a future wife, a mortal girl and woman who hopes not to burn in eternal hellfire doesn't lie largely in my intact virginity.

I follow behind her and watch as she takes a knife out of the butcher block and spins around, waving it wildly at me. “Let. Me. Leave.” Her voice is low and threatening, but it’s also trembling. “Put the knife down,” I plead. “I’ll put it down when I’m in the car.” I shake my head. “I can’t let you leave, Layla.” “You can’t make me stay!” she screams. “Why are you trying to make me stay?” She covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob, but she keeps the knife up, pointed in my direction. “Something is happening to us, Leeds. You’re going crazy. Or maybe it’s me, I don’t know, but it’s this house and we need to get out. Please.

The wolf is strong. But there is one who is stronger. You will have to feed it, every day, forever. You will have to nurture it, Maeve, for the wolf can never be seen again. Not by me, and not by anyone. You cannot be what you are and survive.

So,Batman,eh?" Effing St. Clair. I cross my arms and slouch into one of the plastic seats. I am so not in the mood for this.He takes the chair next to me and drapes a relaxed arm over the back of the empty seat on his other side. The man across from us is engrossed in his laptop,and I pretend to be engrossed in his laptop,too. Well,the back of it. St. Clair hums under his breath. When I don't respond,he sings quietly. "Jingle bells,Batman smells,Robin flew away..." "Yes,great,I get it.Ha ha. Stupid me." "What? It's just a Christmas song." He grins and continues a bit louder. "Batmobile lost a wheel,on the M1 motorway,hey!" "Wait." I frown. "What?" "What what?" "You're singing it wrong." "No,I'm not." He pauses. "How do you sing it?" I pat my coat,double-checking for my passport. Phew. Still there. "It's 'Jingle bells, Batman smells,Robin laid an egg'-" St. Clair snorts. "Laid an egg? Robin didn't lay an egg-" "'Batmobile lost a wheel,and the Joker got away.'" He stares at me for a moment,and then says with perfect conviction. "No." "Yes.I mean,seriously,what's up with the motorway thing?" "M1 motorway. Connects London to Leeds." I smirk. "Batman is American. He doesn't take the M1 motorway." "When he's on holiday he does." "Who says Batman has time to vacation?" "Why are we arguing about Batman?" He leans forward. "You're derailing us from the real topic.The fact that you, Anna Oliphant,slept in today." "Thanks." "You." He prods my leg with a finger. "Slept in." I focus on the guy's laptop again. "Yeah.You mentioned that." He flashes a crooked smile and shrugs, that full-bodied movement that turns him from English to French. "Hey, we made it,didn't we? No harm done." I yank out a book from my backpack, Your Movie Sucks, a collection of Roger Ebert's favorite reviews of bad movies. A visual cue for him to leave me alone. St. Clair takes the hint. He slumps and taps his feet on the ugly blue carpeting. I feel guilty for being so harsh. If it weren't for him,I would've missed the flight. St. Clair's fingers absentmindedly drum his stomach. His dark hair is extra messy this morning. I'm sure he didn't get up that much earlier than me,but,as usual, the bed-head is more attractive on him. With a painful twinge,I recall those other mornings together. Thanksgiving.Which we still haven't talked about.

There are no spoilers in life. If you are observant and pragmatic, the endings of all things are easily predictable. In the most basic terms, human life is always punctuated with death. It does not cheapen the buildup to know it. There are many winding paths to an inevitable end, and there is so much beauty and pain in the watching.

For us it is not comparable, the FA Cup and Champions League,’ Arsène Wenger said before Arsenal played Leeds in the FA Cup. ‘The Champions League is compulsory. The FA Cup is something that is for enjoyment … The basis of our life at the top level is dictated by the championship. If we can add on top of that the FA Cup it is fantastic.

And which would you rather live in? The fake prison where you think you are free, or the real prison where you spend each day in drudgery?

Never do anything standing that you can do sitting, or anything sitting that you can do lying down.

Inside my room, I turn on Billy Holiday. There are only two kinds of music in my world. Billy Holiday and Halloween songs.

What does it feel like?" My words a whisper. She smiles at me, and I know I'll remember it for the rest of my life. "Like wings on the wind, baby.

Leeds United had won but I didn’t care. I had lost.

ah've been on t'dole all mi life in fucking Leeds!

How we have lived through so much together but are still strangers in many ways. It is a crazy thought, how much more we might be able to learn about each other still, if we survive.

I have never understood, and still do not understand the notion that a woman must first endure a victimhood of some sort—abandonment, abuse, oppression of the patriarchy—to be monstrous.

Mrs. Leeds was lovely, wasn't she? You turned on the light after you cut his throat so Mrs. Leeds could watch him flop, didn't you? It was maddening to have to wear gloves when you touched her, wasn't it?

The core of the story was there. People so often get hung up on the facts, on plausibility or details. But every day in this life, we’re all only telling each other, and ourselves, stories. We may as well make them good.

It was the explosion of EDM music where profit margins were exponentially higher because the entire under-aged clientele arrived totally fucked up on pills and needed to stay hydrated at the price of $7 per bottle for water.

I spent so much time with those useless how-tos, gaining knowledge in other areas, but not the one of my own body. This vessel that is the cause of everything. This is forbidden. I can't read these, can I? Can I afford not to?

It is a remarkable fact that the people who do things by hand still find time to add to their work some elaboration of mere beauty which makes it a joy to look on, while our machine-made tools, which could do so at much less cost, are too utilitarian to afford any ornament. It used to give me daily pleasure in Teheran to see the sacks in which refuse is carried off the streets woven with a blue and red decorative pattern: but can one imagine a borough council in Leeds or Birmingham expressing a delicate fancy of this kind? Beauty, according to these, is what one buys for the museum: pots and pans, taps and door-handles, though one has to look at them twenty times a day, have no call to be beautiful. So we impoverish our souls and keep our lovely things for rare occasions, even as our lovely thoughts - wasting the most of life in pondering domestic molehills or the Stock Exchange, among objects as ugly as the less attractive forms of sin.

Free to live whatever life he wants. There are dangers. There is infection, there is violence, there is weather and the problem of currency and a million forces that could work against them. But maybe none of that matters because he chose it.

What god would want you to kill other people for him? People he made. It's all just ... fucking insane." A Baptist church's front sign reads The Most Power Position Is On Your Knees. Someone has hung a red robe from the side of it. "Yeah," I reply. "But not to the ones who believe it.

Life and all its choice and lack of choices propelling us forward, holding us still. I want to lie in the dark here forever, suspended and out of time. I want to stop wanting for so much I cannot have. For things to stop moving forward and spinning away from me with such violent indifference.

Being your age, it’s the best and the worst. You know what I mean? Like, everything is so intense. So extreme, and it all feels life or death, even when it’s not. Everything does. Exams, friendships, first love. But that’s what’s so great about it. You just feel so alive all the time. You just feel.

The familial rupture led to Prince becoming a person who cannot trust others, and must be in dictatorial control of everything around him, Leeds explained, “Anyone assuming any kind of control frightens the hell out of him. So much of what he does is driven by fear, fear of someone else having control.

Dark myths and suburban legends roam like living things through the halls of Leeds High School, whispered in stairwells over bubblegum-tinted tongues ; scrawled on the wall of the secret room above the auditorium stage ; argued over in the shaded courtyard adjacent to the cafeteria, buoyed on grey-brown clouds of cigarette smoke. There’s the Weird House up on Tremens Terrace, haunted by a trio of cannibalistic fiends with a taste for wayward boys. And the coven of teachers, including Mr. Gauthier (Chemistry) and Miss Knell (English), who cavort with a charred-skin devil in the glass-walled natatorium after dark.

Tim and Andy stood there in head-to-toe leather motocross outfits, covered in road dust, behind me in a dark corner of the hotel’s dining room. Tim has penetrating pale blue eyes with tiny pupils, and the accent of an Englishman from the north – Newcastle, or Leeds maybe. Andy is an American with blond hair and the wholesome, well-fed good looks and accent of the Midwest. Behind them, two high-performance dirt bikes leaned on kickstands in the Hang Meas’ parking lot.      Tim owns a bar/restaurant in Siemreap. Andy is his chef. Go to the end of the world and apparently there will be an American chef there waiting for you.

I can't be here, can't allow this. There is too much at stake, and I can see that he wants the same thing that I do, the same lethal thing. To continue what we started. But the feeling deep down in me, the wanting, it renders me motionless. The wanting is a living thing, like the wind, a separate self from me. Maybe it is all that I am.

Zijn goede bedoelingen werden gedwarsboomd door de onwankelbare starheid van Rebeca, die vele jaren van leed en ellende nodig had gehad om de voorrechten van de eenzaamheid te verkrijgen en die niet van plan was daarvan af te zien in ruil voor een oude dag welke verstoord zou worden door de valse aantrekkelijkheid van een anders medelijden.

I'm not crazy, I'm compratmentalized.

This isn't your prison. This is mine.

Could Eve have been sick in the Garden? Is desire an illness in itself?

You don't carry a precious thing to give away only once, and you do not lose value as a human or a woman once you give it. You are a precious thing, you.

When and where there is repression, what a woman does when she gets dressed in the morning may be considered political. Wearing or not wearing a veil, disobeying laws that prohibit transgender dressing, or wearing a large Afro in an institution that seeks to diminish the formation of racial alliances are all actions that can serve as challenges to domination

It was the grime and the shine together.

I will carry my vengeance with me.

Noah's voice, the wind beating against the window. Birds are always chirping after a storm, telling the world they've made it through. Finding each other. "I'd want to be a bird," I say.

Tasks can carry you through many hours of a life otherwise too empty to contemplate. And books, the right ones, can nearly make you forget what it is you’re trying to forget in the first place.

Men," Maeve muses, "have always been permitted in fiction and in life to simply be what they are, no matter how dark or terrifying that might be. But with a woman, we expect an answer, a reason.

Every square inch of the wood-paneled walls is covered with photographs of cops, some black-and-white, some in color. Red-and-white Ws and America's Dairyland, old flaking signs for Lake Monona, Lake Mendota, and the U.P. Posters, with all kinds of beer, half-nude women holding giant mugs of it. All the color, words, images, the vibrant clutter of them, such a stark contrast to the spare tans, beiges, and wood of our home, our church, the school. My life.

Travel became distinguishable from pain and began to be regarded as an intellectual pleasur...These factors--the voluntariness of departure, the freedom implicit in the indeterminancies of mobility, the pleasure of travel free from necessity, the notion that travel signifies autonomy and is a means for demonstrating what one 'really' is independent of one context or set of defining associations--remain the characteristics of the modern conception of travel. Eric Leed

Leed en la medida de lo posible pocos textos estéticos-críticos: se trata bien de opiniones partidistas, fosilizadas y que han ido perdiendo sentido en un anquilosamiento sin vida, o bien de hábiles juegos de palabras con el que hoy se demuestra un punto de vista y mañana el opuesto. Las obras artísticas son de una soledad interminable y la forma menos adecuada de abarcarlas es la crítica. Solo el amor puede abrazarlas y conservarlas y ofrecer una contraprestación justa.

Eric Leeds said at one point Prince wanted the band to all be vegan. Alan told his brother that to survive being in Prince’s band you had to at least pretend to drink the Kool-Aid, so, Eric said, you had guys being vegan when Prince was around and eating whatever they wanted when he wasn’t around. “He attached some spiritual component to it but looked at it as another way for him to exercise control,” Eric said. “If you’re gonna work for me then you have to conform to my ideal.

Who cares? Yes, it’s all in my head. But pain is ‘all in my head’ too. Love is ‘all in my head.’ All the things that matter in life are the things you can’t measure! The things our brains make up! Being made-up doesn’t make them unimportant.

The discovery that detonated Cleveland is one of Britain’s great contributions to awareness of child abuse. In 1986 and 1987 the Leeds paediatricians Dr Jane Wynne and Dr Christopher Hobbs reported in the Lancet that they were seeing more children who were being buggered than battered. About 300 cases were corroborated. The children were young – two-thirds were pre-school children – and anal abuse was more common than vaginal penetration. They also noted that ‘boys and girls seem to be at similar risk’. Almost half of the children who suffered anal abuse also showed a sign written up in the forensic textbooks as ‘anal dilation’, an anus opening when it was supposed to stay shut; opening and expecting entry. What the paediatricians were observing was not an acute sign, the effect of a single intrusion – a spasm or seizure – but a sign that was telling a story about everyday life; the anatomy of adaption. Anal dilation seemed to describe the architecture of abuse: it allowed the body to receive an incoming object, regularly.

At first I was drawn to illicit, banned, or subversive books because they were just that. But after a time, and especially since my grandmother’s illness set in, I’ve been using them as sort of instructional guides. How to Exist, as told by misanthropes throughout the ages.

I have a capital story which is quite new to me. The hero is a certain Professor Alexander, a philosopher, at Leeds, but I have no doubt that the story is older than he. He is said to have entered a railway carriage with a large perforated cardboard box which he placed on his knees. The only other occupant was an inquisitive woman. She stood it as long as she could, and at last, having forced him into conversation and worked the talk round (you can fill in that part of the story yourself) ventured to ask him directly what was in the box. ‘A mongoose madam.’ The poor woman counted the telegraph posts going past for a while and again could bear her curiosity no further. ‘And what are you going to do with the mongoose?’ she asked. ‘I am taking it to a friend who is unfortunately suffering from delirium tremens.’ ‘And what use will a mongoose be to him?’ ‘Why, Madam, as you know, the people who suffer from that disease find themselves surrounded with snakes: and of course a mongoose eats snakes.’ ‘Good Heavens!’ cried the lady, ‘but you don’t mean that the snakes are real?’ ‘Oh dear me, no said the Professor with imperturbable gravity. ‘But then neither is the mongoose!

On the negative side, this constant question/ thought continuum can turn into worry. Worry is the uneasy or anxious feeling we get when our questions cannot be readily answered. We go over past events and ask ourselves, "Why did I say that?" or "Why didn't I do that?" We think about our loved ones when they're not around and wonder, "Why hasn't he called yet?" or "When will she be home?" or "Has something horrible happened?" The broader the question ("Why am I so unhappy?" Or "What should I do with the rest of my life?"), the more difficult it is to answer and the more anxiety it produces.

You wanna know why I think possession scares you?" Cleo says, elbows resting on her knees, looking at me intently. "It's the same reason they want it to. Because on some level you feel that you've already given up your free will. God and Jesus and the Devil and angels and demons have already infiltrated your thoughts, your whole being. The church has. They make us so afraid of possession, of doing wrong and being wrong, because they don't want us to see they've done it to us already. That fear, guilt, and shame, that has possessed you your entire life. And they put it there. Now tell me who's the one who deserves to go to hell.

Eric Leeds said, “This is a guy who has done some exceedingly generous and thoughtful things for me and other people but then a day later he could turn around and say something so off the wall and so ridiculously stupid and you’d say how do I reconcile these behaviors? People would wonder is he a bad guy who has good days or a good guy who has bad days? I think it’s because he has the emotional maturity of a five-year-old. And he never understood the value of doing something thoughtful for somebody on its own merits. He really didn’t understand the consequences of him doing something nice for somebody any more than he gave importance to the consequences of him doing something really nasty to somebody. The child doesn’t know that yet. You teach your child what works and what doesn’t and establish how relationships work. Well, Prince never got that and, to this day, he never has.

decade after the first edition of this book was published, Yan Wong and I met in the fitting surroundings of the Oxford Museum of Natural History to discuss the possibility of producing a new, tenth anniversary edition. Yan, once my undergraduate pupil, had been employed as my research assistant during the writing of the original edition, before he left for his lecturing position in Leeds and his career as a television presenter. He played an enormously important part in the conception and execution of the first edition, and he was credited as joint author of several of the chapters. During the course of our discussion ten years on, we realised that much new information had come in, especially from the molecular genetics laboratories of the world. Yan undertook the bulk of the revision and I proposed to the publisher that this time he should be properly credited as joint author of the whole book.

Police have announced the untimely and gruesome death of local poet and Leeds historian Michael Dooley. Mr. Dooley’s piteous remains were found in the pond of Langford Primary School, in the lunch bags of four children who attend the self-same school, in the confessional at Leeds Catholic Church, in the lanterns that line the catwalk that stretches between McCauliffe Park and Tremens Terrace, in a collection of small metal lock-boxes owned by local box collector Ruth Swaddleston, and wound around the trunks of ancient trees in the loneliest reaches of Look Park. Two toes each were found in stewpots in the kitchens of Mary Lowerton, Richard Frogtoucher, Susan Diggle, Nathaniel Ronstadt, and Robert Grain-Toggle. The poor man’s face was found hanging from a coat-hanger of local doctor Elias Stonehearse. It expected that more of Mr. Dooley will turn up when, once again, spring thaws the rivers and roads of our lovely city.

[Refers to 121 children taken into care in Cleveland due to suspected abuse (1987) and later returned to their parents] Sue Richardson, the child abuse consultant at the heart of the crisis, watched as cases began to unravel: “All the focus started to fall on the medical findings; other supportive evidence, mainly which we held in the social services department, started to be screened out. A situation developed where the cases either were proven or fell on the basis of medical evidence alone. Other evidence that was available to the court, very often then, never got put. We would have had statement from the child, the social workers and the child psychologist’s evidence from interviewing. We would have evidence of prior concerns, either from social workers or teachers, about the child’s behaviour or other symptoms that they might have been showing, which were completely aside from the medical findings. (Channel 4 1997) Ten years after the Cleveland crisis, Sue Richardson was adamant that evidence relating to children’s safety was not presented to the courts which subsequently returned those children to their parents: “I am saying that very clearly. In some cases, evidence was not put in the court. In other cases, agreements were made between lawyers not to put the case to the court at all, particularly as the crisis developed. Latterly, that children were sent home subject to informal agreements or agreements between lawyers. The cases never even got as far as the court. (Channel 4, 1997)” Nor is Richardson alone. Jayne Wynne, one of the Leeds paediatricians who had pioneered the use of RAD as an indicator of sexual abuse and who subsequently had detailed knowledge of many of the Cleveland children, remains concerned by the haphazard approach of the courts to their protection. I think the implication is that the children were left unprotected. The children who were being abused unfortunately returned to homes and the abuse may well have been ongoing. (Channel 4 1997)

Alle gevoelens die het lief en leed van een echte persoon in ons oproepen, doen zich alleen maar voor via een voorstelling van dat lief en leed; het vernuft van de eerste romanschrijver bestond erin te begrijpen dat, aangezien in het organisme van onze emoties de voorstelling het enige essentiële element is, de vereenvoudiging die het zijn zou om doodgewoon af te zien van echte personen, een decisieve verbetering zou betekenen. (...) En als de romancier ons eenmaal in die toestand heeft gebracht waarin, zoals bij alle louter innerlijke toestanden, iedere emotie tien keer zo groot wordt en zijn boek ons zal aangrijpen op de manier van een droom, maar van een droom die helderder is dan die wij slapend hebben en die ons langer bijblijft, dan maakt hij bij ons in een uur alle denkbare geluk en ongeluk los waar wij in het leven zelf jaren voor nodig zouden hebben om er iets van te leren kennen, en waarvan de meest intense vormen ons nooit zouden zijn geopenbaard doordat de trage gang waarmee ze zich voordoen ze aan onze waarneming onttrekt (zo verandert in het leven ons hart, en dat is allerpijnlijkst; maar wij kennen die pijn alleen in onze lectuur, in onze verbeelding: in de werkelijkheid verandert het hart, zoals bij sommige natuurverschijnselen gebeurt, zo langzaam dat, al kunnen wij elk van die verschillende toestanden successievelijk vaststellen, ons daarentegen de gewaarwording zelf van de verandering bespaard blijft).

Dither and I like to take the ladies out. Last night Maggie showered her blue-black guts over the barstool at the Dirty Truth while I swung the bartender into the wall-sized mirror by his ankles. Dither put his many fingers into six fraternity brothers while Winnie sucked off the beer spigots, her shattered pelvis undulating obscenely, her hair and dress alive with blood beetles. Then we burst out into the streets. I sliced off heads all down Pleasant while Dither shoved swords up through the seats at the Calvin Theater. Winnie set bassinets afire at Cooley Dickinson while Maggie squatted to piss in the lobster tank in the Stop & Shop. We pinwheeled through the Bridge Street cemetery, upending ancient caskets and sending their contents into the grey sky until it looked like smoke from a great fire. It was a beautiful night; we poured wine into our lungs like drowning sots. In the pink morning we were stacked on the benches like cordwood. The sky was a sick yellow bruise. The sun was a cold dead eye. The winds raised up and shook the houses and thrashed the trees. A great fire is coming to Leeds. Pneumonic plagues and blood from the faucets and worms exploding up into bath tubs from the drains. You’re listening to WXXT. The time is 6:16 a.m. It is not too late to rise, rise and do what needs to be done. Up next, we’ve got Burton Stallhearse and the Grappling Grannies performing their version of “Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground.

A Letter to the Reader I thought my dog dying was going to kill me. If I’m being honest, I still think it, some days. Most days. If I’m being honest, I still think it every day. Soul-mutt. Best friend. Not everyone understands, or will. That’s fine. I’ve never been one to want to share in grief, never been one to share much of anything. Only child, writer. A dog removes itself from the pack to lick wounds clean. A dog goes off, alone, to die. But we all know it—a family member, a friend, the sudden glazing of the eyes, the feel of a heart stopping beneath our hand. Our souls and selves dropping pieces each time someone exits this earth. Our identities, foundations shaken. Even sometimes bulldozed to nothing. This one brought me to my knees. At the time of writing this note, I can honestly say, I have never felt anything like this. I am truly surprised it hasn’t killed me. I always knew Barghest was going to die. Barghest’s death was (with the deaths of the others) the worst thing I could think of, and my job as I see it is to explore all the worsts. And all the bests, too. This book, or more accurately, an early, now unrecognizable version of it, was the first thing I ever seriously wrote. It was also what got me started on this path of Writer. Someone read this early snippet and believed in it, in me. This was a story that I wanted to tell from day one, ideas that hounded me then and have for all the years since. It’s taken ten years, an education, all the events of a decade of life, and more drafts than I’d like to count for me to tell this story in a way that felt right. In a way that is (I hope) befitting of you, most precious reader. And these dogged questions of guilt, shame, faith have nipped at my heels through everything. Funny, how they always draw just enough blood to keep us from running full tilt. But now. In the wake of a loss that has shaken me more than any I’ve lived through before, in a moment in which I find myself, like Sophie, questioning everything, questioning what the point of being here is at all, I have to say, It all feels very human and very small to confine and bind ourselves to anything that seeks to diminish us. This world and universe and existence is so expansive and evolving, and we choose to let ourselves be crippled by someone else’s ideas. We share life with mortality. We will die. Everyone we love will die. We will all face the dark. Together, or separate. We just don’t know. There is no self-help book, no textbook, no how-to that can tell us, definitively, what comes after. By the time any of us has the answers, we won’t be here to write them. None of us knows, even if we think we do. But here is what I do know: We live with death. And horror chooses not to turn away from it. Horror looks the darkness in the eyes. Horror dances with the absence, the loss. Explores ways for us—you, the reader, and me—to take it in our arms and spin around together. Ways to embrace the centrifugal force that is human striving, human searching. Mortal life. Dogs die. Humans die. We live with it, whether we want to or not. But from choosing to look, choosing not to turn away, from our embrace in the darkness, I hope that guilt and shame and any idea invented to hold you down in this glorious, nearly blinding existence, will seem, at the end of it all, very, very small. You, and me, spinning too fast for them to catch us. Thank you for continuing on this journey with me. With my characters, who are of course, now yours. These questions and worlds that I humbly share with you. That now belong to you. And while we keep hurtling through the unknown, as we spin round and round, I want to say, Here’s to dancing, book by book, question by question, through this vast, shining existence. Together.

Leeds

This concept was brilliantly parodied (or at least I hope it was a parody) in 1998 by a group of Leeds art students. They got a £1,000 grant for putting on their degree show at the end of their term at art school. And when it came to the exhibition, theirs consisted of a series of holiday snaps of them on the Costa del Sol, frolicking on the beach, and some holiday souvenirs and the air tickets. And of course there was outrage and the papers got hold of it and it was front-page news: ‘Art students spend grant on holiday and call it art.’ I thought it was very funny. But then the real coup that these students pulled off was that they’d faked it. The money was still in the bank; the tan had come from a salon; the beach they were on was Skegness; the souvenirs had come from the charity shop and the tickets were fake. They brilliantly wrong-footed the media who held this common idea that if everything can be art, then art is this stupid mucking about, the idea that you can do something and then just call it art.

Morecambe and Wise, the famous team of Northern comedians, used to complain about the propensity of Yorkshire audiences to “zip their teeth up,” as they put it. Eric Morecambe claimed one man in Leeds said to him, “Ee, lad, thou wert so funny tonight I almost had to laff.

I’d never been good at meditation. My mind raced in a thousand directions all the time, and the one meditation class I took in college was an abject failure. There were just too many thoughts, observations, and distractions bouncing around inside my head for me to push them all out.

Here’s something you may not know: every time you go to Facebook or ESPN.com or wherever, you’re unleashing a mad scramble of money, data, and pixels that involves undersea fiber-optic cables, the world’s best database technologies, and everything that is known about you by greedy strangers. Every. Single. Time. The magic of how this happens is called “real-time bidding” (RTB) exchanges, and we’ll get into the technical details before long. For now, imagine that every time you go to CNN.com, it’s as though a new sell order for one share in your brain is transmitted to a stock exchange. Picture it: individual quanta of human attention sold, bit by bit, like so many million shares of General Motors stock, billions of times a day. Remember Spear, Leeds & Kellogg, Goldman Sachs’s old-school brokerage acquisition, and its disappearing (or disappeared) traders? The company went from hundreds of traders and two programmers to twenty programmers and two traders in a few years. That same process was just starting in the media world circa 2009, and is right now, in 2016, kicking into high gear. As part of that shift, one of the final paroxysms of wasted effort at Adchemy was taking place precisely in the RTB space. An engineer named Matthew McEachen, one of Adchemy’s best, and I built an RTB bidding engine that talked to Google’s huge ad exchange, the figurative New York Stock Exchange of media, and submitted bids and ads at speeds of upwards of one hundred thousand requests per second. We had been ordered to do so only to feed some bullshit line Murthy was laying on potential partners that we were a real-time ads-buying company. Like so much at Adchemy, that technology would be a throwaway, but the knowledge I gained there, from poring over Google’s RTB technical documentation and passing Google’s merciless integration tests with our code, would set me light-years ahead of the clueless product team at Facebook years later.

Het leed van een wereld is draagbaar als verfrissend water wanneer de adelaar hoog boven thermiek, kennis en wijsheid boven de zon weet te plaatsen.

Maar ik zal niet spreken van mieren, welker vreugde of leed door de grofheid onzer zintuigen aan onze waarneming ontsnapt.

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Everyone loves a good iceberg, and this one is a corker." professor of Earth Observation at the University of Leeds

Mensen die denken dat je leed kunt delen met woorden hebben zelf nooit iets meegemaakt. Uit dingen die worden gezegd valt geen enkele troost te peuren. Het delen van stilte, dat is het enige waaraan ik behoefte heb.

I ignored her complaint and - as flashes of light behind us lit the fairgrounds a shimmering red-orange - I strode right up to the man at the hot dog cart, placed Sandra's phone on the counter, and looked him right in the eyes. "I'm tired," I told him. "And I feel old." The man stood up straight, eyes going wide. He had his hair in a buzz cut, and was lean and muscular. J.C. could have told me whether he was packing, but even I noticed how poor a fit he was for his hot-dog vendor role. "Sir," he said, "I'm not certain if a hot dog can help.

For the next few minutes Sir Peregrine’s optimism seemed justified. The National Unity candidate held Oxford with a majority only slightly reduced. Braintree stayed Tory. So did Colchester and Finchley. Then at about quarter to midnight came the first results from the North. Salford, Grimsby, York and Leeds East were all held by Labour with doubled, even trebled, majorities. It was at this point that Arthur Furnival disappeared to ring his stockbroker.

Leeds. It’s been proven that people who read live longer. Are you trying to die young?

Hurry,” I say, needing her to be faster before Willow takes over again. We get halfway to the car when Layla stops. “Let’s go, Layla.” She doesn’t move. I look at her but no longer see Layla standing next to me. It’s Willow again. I just let go of the suitcases. I throw my hands up in defeat. The suitcases fall over, and I kick one. I kick it again. I kick it and I kick it and I kick it because she’s not going to let us leave. “Leeds, stop,” Willow pleads. I don’t know how to get Layla out of her grasp now. And even if she does slip out of Layla, is Willow going to follow us? How do I know she won’t be in the car with us when we leave? I can’t call the police. What the hell would I say? The ghost of the girl I killed is stalking me? Again? How the fuck did I get myself into this mess?

Tyson Dirksen grew up in a family very concerned about the environment, especially California's devastating drought of the 1980's. He started Evolve to try and reduce the use of energy, water, and other raw resources through sustainable design and development and use of green technologies. Tyson is an expert in the high-performance building industry and frequently speaks on the subject at conferences and symposiums. Tyson’s extensive knowledge of real estate investment combined with his expertise in healthy, sustainable, smart and resilient design and construction sets him and Evolve apart.. Tyson received his bachelor’s degree from Brown University and holds a Masters in Real Estate Development from MIT. Tyson is a licensed General Contractor, Real Estate Broker, LEED AP certified, Green Point and HERS Rater, and Passive House builder.

Wallis, ironically, lives in Leeds and commutes into Wakefield.

100%原版制作學历證书【+V信1954 292 140】《利兹大学學位證》University Of Leeds

The formal definition of insanity is actually quite fluid. Two people can have the exact same condition, with the exact same severity, but one can be considered sane by the official standards while the other is considered insane. You cross the line into insanity when your mental state stops you from being able to function, from being able to have a normal life. By those standards, I’m not the least bit insane.

Two guns, Kyle. One is real, one is fake. Can you tell which is which? Can you feel them, cold against your skin? Death in one hand, a game in the other. Which should I fire? Right or left? Would you like to choose?

Always tell your captives they have more time than they do; it makes them relax, sets them to planning, instead of trying to break out immediately. The last thing you want to do is make them desperate, since desperate people are unpredictable.

Dried pig blood for making black pudding; black pudding-making kit with dried pig blood; dried pig blood bulk buy. And recipes at the bottom. Blood sausage hash, Tolosa stew, hot pot, sweet potato gnocchi with black pudding and chili. A menu for a posh restaurant in Leeds comes up too, and one of the starter options is dried pig blood and snail eggs. People are weird, I think.

Cambridge... the place bowled me over. Leeds, where I had been born and brought up... but though I was not blind to its architectural splendours... I was famished for antiquity. I had never been in a place of such continuous and unfolding beauty as Cambridge and, December 1951 being exceptionally cold, the Cam was frozen and a thick hoarfrost covered every court and quadrangle giving the whole city an unreal and celestial beauty. And it was empty, as provincial places in those days were.