Lucent Quotes

Variation on the Word Sleep I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head. and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center. I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and you enter it as easily as breathing in I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary.

Lucent and delicate, Drama entered, mincing like a cat.

Tatiana lived for that evening hour with him that propelled her into her future and into the barely formed, painful feelings that she could neither express nor understand. Friends walking in the lucent dusk. There was nothing more she could have from him, and there was nothing more she wanted from him but that one hour at the end of her long day when her heart beat and her breath was short and she was happy.

Without Psychological Evolution there cannot be any form of revolution. The self is constantly changing. Be involved, be evolved, be revolutionized as lucent and fresh as the new wave hitting at the shore. Become the Sea of Changes. It starts from within.

Listen, we’ll come visit you. Okay? I’ll dress up as William Shakespeare, Lucent as Emily Dickinson, and beautiful ‘Ray’ as someone dashing and manly like Jules Verne or Ernest Hemingway...and we’ll write on your white-room walls. We’ll write you out of your supposed insanity. I love you, Micky Affias. -James (from "Descendants of the Eminent")

Augustine’s lips tense into a line. “Oh, for the gods’ sakes, Little Jac,” he snaps. “We know Lucent wasn’t just your riding companion.” At her stunned expression, Augustine laughs. “You are good at many things, but you are horrible at keeping your love interests a secret.

You suffered no injuries?” Two long, wet fingers hooked the top of her neckline and tugged her closer to the side of the bathtub. Sebastian’s eyes were pale, lucent blue, sparkling like winter starlight. “I may have enough of a sprain to require your services.” A smile curved her lips. “What services?” “I need a bath maid.” Catching one of her hands, he drew it down into the water. “For my hard-to-reach places.

This is a Lucent PBX with Audix voice mail, right? I used this kind at all of my old jobs, so I'm pretty familiar with them." Completely ignoring me, Pat continues to demonstrate every single one of the phone's features, half of which she describes incorrectly. I don't bother taking notes because I've used this system a thousand times. I have no need to transcribe an erroneous refresher course. "Hey, you should be writing this down." Like I said, I've used this system extensively and--" WRITE IT DOWN," Pat growls. "If you screw up the phone, Jerry's gonna be on my ass." No problem." I'm slowly learning to choose my battles and figure this isn't the hill I want to die on. I pull a portfolio out of my briefcase and begin to take notes. When the phone rings and Jerry isn't there to answer, you pick it up and hold it to your mouth like this. You say, 'Hello, Jerry Jenkins' office.'" I write: When phone rings, place receiver next to your word hole and not your hoo-hoo or other bodily aperature, and say, "Shalom.

Love Letter" Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn't just tow me an inch, no- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars. That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chisled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures, But didn't convince me. Those tears froze. Each dead head had a visor of ice. And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn't know what to make of it. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. Tree and stone glittered, without shadows. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. From stone to cloud, so I ascended. Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

She'd like to say something about the metaphors of space. She won't, but she'd like to. In many religions, the sun is viewed as an analogue to God, and in some Near Eastern cults, the fire cults that interested Nietzsche, the sun is a diety, the origin of all energy, heat, light, and life. A masculine force, this sun, countered by the feminine lucent moon, mutable, pale pink at the horizon, grayish white overhead, and silver in daytime. The moon is a friend to women. Its attraction, its capacity to pull objects toward itself, is traditionally a metaphor for womanly force. Lovers know and understand the moon as a sign for love: a cliché, certainly, but one that does not wear out. "The Moon," they whisper, infinitely.

The crescent moon, The night’s lucent lesion. We are felled oaks beneath it, Branches full of empty. Look closer. What we share is more Than what we’ve shed.

Truth is a leper banished from the hearts of men and rotting away in exile. All that is left is corruption, a bad smell, some unnameable pieces of what was once a thing lucent and good.

Poetry is the wailing of a broken heart―the etched sorrows of despairing souls.  These artful words are an exclamation in rare colors expressed noiselessly on parchment.   Poetry is the unheard cry of a flower, wilting.  It is a humble, lucent tear shed with meaning.  It is the lovely portrayal of ugliness and the bitter edge of sweet.   Poetry speaks to the spirit by piercing understanding. It interprets all senseless truths―beauty, love, emotion―into sensible scrawl.   Poetry is vague affirmation and bewildering clarification. Like the most poignant of emotions, we understand the essence but cannot adequately do it verbal justice, crippled by inherently weak tongues.  A spiritual soothsayer, poetry is the closest thing to expression of feelings unutterable.

La vita sognata Chi mi parla non sa che io ho vissuto un’altra vita – come chi dica una fiaba o una parabola santa. Perché tu eri la purità mia, tu cui un’onda bianca di tristezza cadeva sul volto se ti chiamavo con labbra impure, tu cui lacrime dolci correvano nel profondo degli occhi se guardavamo in alto – e così ti parevo più bella. O velo tu – della mia giovinezza, mia veste chiara, verità svanita – o nodo lucente – di tutta una vita che fu sognata – forse – oh, per averti sognata, mia vita cara, benedico i giorni che restano – il ramo morto di tutti i giorni che restano, che servono per piangere te.

Chiusi gli occhi, sebbene davanti alle palpebre socchiuse avessi ancora l’immagine di quello sguardo prezioso come un diamante grezzo, lucente come una stella. Era proprio questo ciò che mi ha sempre ricordato Holmes: un diamante nel cielo, con mille sfaccettature sempre diverse, capace di produrre luce con la sua bellezza, in grado di essere tagliente come ben poche cose al mondo, eppure così fragile da rischiare di spezzarsi per sempre se lo si fosse stretto troppo.

The Cairngorm water is all clear. Flowing from granite, with no peat to darken it, it has never the golden amber, the ‘horse-back brown’ so often praised in Highland burns. When it has any colour at all, it is green, as in the Quoich near its linn. It is a green like the green of winter skies, but lucent, clear like aquamarines, without the vivid brilliance of glacier water. Sometimes the Quoich waterfalls have violet playing through the green, and the pouring water spouts and bubbles in a violet froth.

We have less time than we knew and that time buoyant, and cloven, lucent, and missile, and wild.

Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin I’m writing you this declaration— What more can I in candour say? It may be now your inclination To scorn me and to turn away; But if my hapless situation Evokes some pity for my woe, You won’t abandon me, I know. I first tried silence and evasion; Believe me, you‘d have never learned My secret shame, had I discerned The slightest hope that on occasion— But once a week—I’d see your face, Behold you at our country place, Might hear you speak a friendly greeting, Could say a word to you; and then, Could dream both day and night again Of but one thing, till our next meeting. They say you like to be alone And find the country unappealing; We lack, I know, a worldly tone, But still, we welcome you with feeling. Why did you ever come to call? In this forgotten country dwelling I’d not have known you then at all, Nor known this bitter heartache’s swelling. Perhaps, when time had helped in quelling The girlish hopes on which I fed, I might have found (who knows?) another And been a faithful wife and mother, Contented with the life I led. Another! No! In all creation There’s no one else whom I’d adore; The heavens chose my destination And made me thine for evermore! My life till now has been a token In pledge of meeting you, my friend; And in your coming, God has spoken, You‘ll be my guardian till the end…. You filled my dreams and sweetest trances; As yet unseen, and yet so dear, You stirred me with your wondrous glances, Your voice within my soul rang clear…. And then the dream came true for me! When you came in, I seemed to waken, I turned to flame, I felt all shaken, And in my heart I cried: It’s he! And was it you I heard replying Amid the stillness of the night, Or when I helped the poor and dying, Or turned to heaven, softly crying, And said a prayer to soothe my plight? And even now, my dearest vision, Did I not see your apparition Flit softly through this lucent night? Was it not you who seemed to hover Above my bed, a gentle lover, To whisper hope and sweet delight? Are you my angel of salvation Or hell’s own demon of temptation? Be kind and send my doubts away; For this may all be mere illusion, The things a simple girl would say, While Fate intends no grand conclusion…. So be it then! Henceforth I place My faith in you and your affection; I plead with tears upon my face And beg you for your kind protection. You cannot know: I’m so alone, There’s no one here to whom I’ve spoken, My mind and will are almost broken, And I must die without a moan. I wait for you … and your decision: Revive my hopes with but a sign, Or halt this heavy dream of mine— Alas, with well-deserved derision! I close. I dare not now reread…. I shrink with shame and fear. But surely, Your honour’s all the pledge I need, And I submit to it securely.

It was queer the way things crept: the night, and these feelings. One was brought up to scorn the tendency to despair. But it seemed that the darkness knew this, and found a way to reach one nevertheless. It was patient and subtle, gauging the heart’s output of light. Her confusion grew, the heart lucent and the mind lucifugous

For a moment he didn’t understand, then did. “Both,” he said, and took her hand. She squeezed it, and he looked into her shining lucent eyes and thought A man could fall in love, and that was when her hand turned into a claw and she was telling him he was a honky mahfah, and she wadn’t just goan take his balls, she was goan chew on those mahfahs.

Una mattina, al suo risveglio, ella vide sulla finestra due vasi pieni di fiori. Uno era un bellissimo vaso di cristallo molto lucente, ma incrinato. Aveva perso l'acqua con cui era stato riempito, ed i fiori che conteneva erano appassiti. L'altro era un vaso di grès, rozzo e comune, ma che aveva conservato tutta l'acqua, e i cui fiori erano rimasti freschi e vermigli.

Terrible things happen all the time, he thinks, but not today. Terrible things, beautiful things, things of such power, of such bewilderment, lucent and dark as tar. But right now the universe, restless beyond imagining, a universe of rock and flame, whose nature is incandescence—a universe that flickers, its impatient forms blinking like fireflies in the night—astounds and delights him.

But other creatures of the desert do seem to apprehend what is happening. Through the crosshairs of its huge pupils, a tarantula watches Angie’s skin drink in the danger: the pollen from the Joshua mixes with the red blood on her finger. On a fuchsia ledge of limestone, a dozen lizards witness the Leap. They shut their gluey eyes as one, sealing their lucent bodies from contagion, inter-kingdom corruption.

La gente si ama, si ama continuamente. L'ho visto. Le persone sbandierano il loro amore a chiunque, te lo sbattono in faccia con arroganza. Amare qualcuno e avere qualcuno che ti ama è qualcosa che ti rende migliore, una garanzia agli occhi degli altri. Penso che è amore rappreso. E' bigiotteria, non vale niente. E' lucente in superficie, ma dentro è nero, rugginoso, si inceppa e non funziona. L'amore, quello vero, è quello che la gente nasconde. Quello che rende fragili e cattivi, quello che rende meschini. Quello che rende avidi. Disposti a tutto. L'amore è scuro, vischioso, è il sangue che si addensa e chiude i contorni di una cicatrice. La patina ruvida e opaca che si è depositata sulle ossa consumate di Luce, a quello assomiglia l'amore. E' muffa, che ti vive addosso mentre tu sei morto. Quello che non vorresti far vedere a nessuno. L'amore che ti vergogni di provare.

Esterina, i vent’anni ti minacciano, grigiorosea nube che a poco a poco in sé ti chiude. Ciò intendi e non paventi. Sommersa ti vedremo nella fumea che il vento lacera o addensa, violento. Poi dal fiotto di cenere uscirai adusta più che mai, proteso a un’avventura più lontana l’intento viso che assembra l’arciera Diana. Salgono i venti autunni, t’avviluppano andate primavere; ecco per te rintocca un presagio nell’elisie sfere. Un suono non ti renda qual d’incrinata brocca percossa!; io prego sia per te concerto ineffabile di sonagliere. La dubbia dimane non t’impaura. Leggiadra ti distendi sullo scoglio lucente di sale e al sole bruci le membra. Ricordi la lucertola ferma sul masso brullo; te insidia giovinezza, quella il lacciòlo d’erba del fanciullo. L’acqua’ è la forza che ti tempra, nell’acqua ti ritrovi e ti rinnovi: noi ti pensiamo come un’alga, un ciottolo come un’equorea creatura che la salsedine non intacca ma torna al lito più pura. Hai ben ragione tu! Non turbare di ubbie il sorridente presente. La tua gaiezza impegna già il futuro ed un crollar di spalle dirocca i fortilizî del tuo domani oscuro. T’alzi e t’avanzi sul ponticello esiguo, sopra il gorgo che stride: il tuo profilo s’incide contro uno sfondo di perla. Esiti a sommo del tremulo asse, poi ridi, e come spiccata da un vento t’abbatti fra le braccia del tuo divino amico che t’afferra. Ti guardiamo noi, della razza di chi rimane a terra

Quel che aveva pensato Jasper Gwyn era che quella ragazza era perfetta. Aveva in mente come la bellezza irrimediabile del suo viso suggerisse un desiderio che poi il suo corpo smentiva, con fare placido e lento, perfetto. Era veleno e antidoto - lo era in modo dolce ed enigmatico. jasper Gwyn non l'aveva incontrata una sola volta senza sentire l'infantile desiderio di toccarla, appena: ma come avrebbe potuto desiderare di posare le dita su un insetto lucente, o su un vetro coperto di vapore.

A ciascun’alma presa e gentil core Nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente, In ciò che mi rescrivan suo parvente, Salute in lor segnor, cioè Amore. Già eran quasi che atterzate l’ore Del tempo che onne stella n’è lucente, Quando m’apparve Amor subitamente, Cui essenza membrar mi dà orrore. Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo Meo core in mano, e ne le braccia avea Madonna involta in un drappo dormendo. Poi la svegliava, e d’esto core ardendo Lei paventosa umilmente pascea: Appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.

[Sonetto I] A ciascun' alma presa e gentil core nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente, a ciò che mi rescriva in su' parvente, salute in lor segnor, ciò é Amore. Gia eran quasi que atterzate l'ore del tempo che onne stella n'è lucente, quando m'apparve Amor subitamente, cui essenza membrar mi dà orrore. Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo meo core in mano, e ne le bracci' avea madonna involta 'n un drappo dormendo; poi la svegliava, d'esto core ardendo lei paventosa umilmente pascea: appresso gir lo ne vedea piagendo.

Brennan remembers a Nortel recruiting truck showing up at a Newbridge mass termination meeting at the local hockey arena and offers this practical advice: “If all the meeting rooms are booked at the same time, it means something’s up.” By “something,” he means firings.

In Sardis her thoughts turn constantly to us here, to you like a goddess. She was happiest in your song. Now she shines among Lydian women as after sunset the rosy-fingered moon surpasses all the stars, and her light reaches equally across the salt sea and over meadows steeped in flowers. Lucent dew pours out profusely on blooming roses. on frail starflowers and florid honey clover. But wandering back and forth she remembers gentle Atthis and for your pain a heavy yearning consumes her but to go there the mind endlessly is singing

I wasn't in a moment's danger. Ravenel was the one who held off a belligerent bull while I fetched the boy." Evie closed her eyes briefly at the thought of it and reached for the crystal glass in his hand. She downed what little was left and set the glass on the floor. "You suffered no injuries?" Two long, wet fingers hooked the top of her neckline and tugged her closer to the side of the bathtub. Sebastian's eyes were pale, lucent blue, sparkling like winter starlight. "I may have enough of a sprain to require your services." A smile curved her lips. "What services?" "I need a bath maid." Catching one of her hands, he drew it down into the water. "For my hard-to-reach places." Evie resisted with a throaty chuckle, tugging at her imprisoned wrist. "You can reach that by yourself." "My sweet," he said, nuzzling into her neck, "I married you so I wouldn't have to do it myself. Now... tell me where you think my sprain is." "Sebastian," she said, trying to sound severe as his wet hands roved over her bodice, "you're going to r-ruin my dress." "Unless you remove it." He gave her an expectant glance.

Talented writers etched the story detailing the travails of broken souls numerous times. The poets recounted an equal amount of times the lucent tears of human laughter and weeping sorrow. Everyone understands bitterness and joy. Conversely, the most evocative aspects of human beings, the bewildering clarification of their ambiguous natures, are virtually indefinable and therefore unutterable. Written testaments to love, truth, beauty, and adoration of nature are inherently weak because words fail to convey what a person experiences inside the spaces that compose their chemical field.

Memory is a choice. You said that once, with your back to me, the way a god would say it. But if you were a god you would see them. You would look down at this grove of pines, the fresh tips flared lucent at each treetop, tender-damp in their late autumn flush. You would look past the branches, past the rusted light splintered through the brambles, the needles falling, one by one, as you lay your god eyes on them. You’d trace the needles as they hurled themselves past the lowest bough, toward the cooling forest floor, to land on the two boys lying side by side, the blood already dry on their cheeks.

Memory is choice. You said that once, with your back to me, the way a god would say it. But if you were a god you would see them. You would look down at this grove of pines, the fresh tips flared lucent at each treetop, tender-damp in their late autumn flush. You would look past the branches, past the rusted light splintered through the brambles, the needles falling, one by one, as you your god eyes on them. You’d trace the needles as they hurled themselves pst the lowest, bough, toward the cooling forest floor, to land on the two boys lying side by side, the blood already dry on their cheeks [...] Ma. You told me once that memory is a choice. But if you were a god , you’d know it’s a flood

La madre di Ferguson fotografava sempre i soggetti nel loro ambiente, si recava nei luoghi in cui vivevano e lavoravano, portandosi dietro stativi portatili per le luci, paraventi pieghevoli e ombrelli telescopici, fotografava gli scrittori nel loro studio pieno di libri o seduti alla scrivania, i pittori fra gli schizzi e lo scompiglio del loro atelier, i pianisti seduti alla tastiera o in piedi accanto al loro lucente Steinway nero, gli attori davanti allo specchio del camerino o seduti soli sul nudo palcoscenico, e per qualche ragione i suoi ritratti in bianco e nero sembravano catturare la loro vita interiore meglio degli altri fotografi che ritraevano le stesse celebri figure, una qualità che forse non dipendeva dall’abilità tecnica ma da un certo non so che nella madre di Ferguson, che si preparava sempre per i suoi lavori leggendo i libri, ascoltando i dischi e guardando i quadri dei suoi soggetti, per avere qualcosa di cui parlare con loro durante le lunghe sedute, e siccome era una brava conversatrice, sempre molto affascinante e attraente, sempre restia a parlare di sé, quegli artisti vanitosi e complicati finivano per rilassarsi in sua presenza, avvertendo un genuino interesse per la loro persona e per quello che rappresentavano, un interesse vero o quasi, quasi sempre, e quando la seduzione riusciva e abbassavano la guardia, la maschera che portavano sul viso scivolava via un po’ alla volta e nel loro sguardo affiorava una luce diversa.

Ci sono giorni in cui tutto intorno a noi è lucente, leggero, appena accennato nell’aria chiara e pur nitido. Le cose più vicine hanno già il tono della lontananza, sono sottratte a noi, mostrate a noi ma non offerte; e ciò che ha rapporto con gli spazi lontani – il fiume, i ponti, le lunghe strade e le piazze che si prodigano -, tutto ciò ha preso dietro di sé quegli spazi, vi sta sopra dipinto come sulla seta. E’ impossibile esprimere cosa riesca ad essere, allora, una carrozza d’un verde lucente sul Pont-Neuf o qualcosa di rosso che non si può fermare, o anche solo un manifesto sul muro antincendio di un gruppo di case grigio perla. Tutto è semplificato, composto in piani giusti e chiari come il volto in un ritratto di Manet. E nulla è insignificante e superfluo.

When I started researching this book, I thought that the Internet was a metaphor for life; now I think life is a metaphor for the Internet. I’m not trying to be cute. Just as it is impossible to point to a single spark within the human brain that proves life, so it is impossible to disprove that the Internet is a living thing. It is massive. It never sleeps. And more and more, it’s talking about us behind our backs.

The one appalling thing about electric cars is that one plugs them into already overtaxed municipal power grids. Try mentioning this to a politician or manufacturer who wants to ride the green wave and you will quickly find yourself escorted out of the room. Mention this twice and you’ll magically find yourself on the No Fly List. Mention this three times and your cold lifeless body will be found in a clump of brambles off the nearest motorway.

He spoke about the different beauties of Spring and Autumn. 'Each has its own delight,' he said. 'On Spring nights the sky is beautifully shrouded with mist. The moon then is not too bright and its light seems to be floating away in the distance. How delightful it is at such a time to hear someone plucking gently at the strings of a lute that have been set in the key of the Fragrant Breeze! When Autumn comes the sky is still misty, but the lucent moon shines through so clearly that one feels one could pick it up in one's hands. The soughing of the wind and the hum of the insects blend in such a way that all the savours of Nature seem to have come together. At such moments the strumming of the great zither accompanied by the clear notes of a flute makes one wonder how one could ever have admired Spring. But then there is a Winter night when the sky is chill, the air bitter cold, and the piles of snow reflect in the moonlight.

It was a lucent suspension, a deathless thing.

The fact is that, after the Easter Rising and the War of Independence, the Irishmen who’d fought in the Great War didn’t fit the new way the country imagined itself. If the British were our sworn enemies, why had two hundred thousand Irishmen gone off to fight alongside them? If our history was the struggle to escape from British oppression, what were we doing helping Britain out, fighting and dying on her behalf? The existence of these soldiers seemed to argue against this new thing called Ireland. And so, first of all, they were turned into traitors. Then, in a quite systematic way, they were forgotten.’ The boys listen palely, the lucent grass-green of the empty park shimmering around them. ‘It’s a good example of how history works,’ Howard says. ‘We tend to think of it as something solid and unchanging, appearing out of nowhere etched in stone like the Ten Commandments. But history, in the end, is only another kind of story, and stories are different from the truth. The truth is messy and chaotic and all over the place. Often it just doesn’t make sense. Stories make things make sense, but the way they do that is to leave out anything that doesn’t fit. And often that is quite a lot.

All good things are borne from evil, just like good people. It’s very rare that someone does things purely out of the goodness of their heart. Most need something to fight against, something to drive them forward in order to create a light in what will always be a very dark world.

Storytelling is an ancient art. The lucent vibes of stories express what we cannot articulate directly. When we hear someone’s story, we respond to the spark of humanness within ourselves that seeks to come out in the light and greet the world. When we tell the stories of our lives, we give voice to people bereft of speech, we make the persons whom we love or loved immortal, and we pass along our familiarity with the natural and physical world.

We were more alike than any of the others, neither of us quite human and both hated by the two species we drifted between.

What’s keeping them so long?” Jode tugs at his hair. “Have I gone completely gray yet? Do I look like Gandalf the Grey?” Lucent shakes his massive white head, as impatient as his rider. He’s ready to go, too. “Yes,” I say. “You’re exactly like Gandalf, except a pop-star version. Lord of the Sing.” “This isn’t good, man,” Marcus says. “Yeah, it was a reach.

The film of evening light made the red earth lucent, so that its dimensions were deepened, so that a stone, a post, a building had greater depth and more solidity than in the daytime light; and these objects were curiously more individual—a post was more essentially a post, set off from the earth it stood in and the field of corn it stood out against. And plants were individuals, not the mass of crop; and the ragged willow tree was itself, standing free of all other willow trees. The earth contributed a light to the evening. The front of the gray, paintless house, facing the west, was luminous as the moon is. The gray dusty truck, in the yard before the door, stood out magically in this light, in the overdrawn perspective of a stereopticon.5

The magnitude of the underfunding was astronomical. One study of just the 348 companies in the S&P 500 with defined benefit pension programs concluded that this underfunding amounted to between $184 and $323 billion (if non-pension benefits, such as health benefits, are included, the deficit is in the range of $458 to $638 billion). A Merrill Lynch study showed that companies with off-balance-sheet pension liabilities that exceed their total equity value include Campbell Soup, Maytag, Lucent, General Motors, Ford, Goodyear, Boeing, U.S. Steel, and Colgate Palmolive. While the accounting standards may have disguised the true size of the pension liabilities, they were in fact real liabilities, obligations of the corporations to their workers. They represented a potential source of bankruptcy for many of America’s most important companies.

Outsourcing requires a tight integration of suppliers, making sure that all pieces arrive just in time. Therefore, when some suppliers were unable to deliver certain basic components like capacitors and flash memory, Compaq's network was paralyzed. The company was looking at 600,000 to 700,000 unfilled orders in handheld devices. The $499 Pocket PCs were selling for $700 to $800 at auctions on eBay and Amazon.com. Cisco experienced a different but equally damaging problem: When orders dried up, Cisco neglected to turn off its supply chain, resulting in a 300 percent ballooning of its raw materials inventory. The final numbers are frightening: The aggregate market value loss between March 2000 and March 2001 of the twelve major companies that adopted outsourcing-Cisco, Dell, Compaq, Gateway, Apple, IBM, Lucent, Hewlett-Packard, Motorola, Ericsson, Nokia, and Nortel-exceeded $1.2 trillion. The painful experience of these companies and their investors is a vivid demonstration of the consequences of ignoring network effects. A me attitude, where the company's immediate financial balance is the only factor, limits network thinking. Not understanding how the actions of one node affect other nodes easily cripples whole segments of the network. Experts agree that such rippling losses are not an inevitable downside of the network economy. Rather, these companies failed because they outsourced their manufacturing without fully understanding the changes required in their business models. Hierarchical thinking does not fit a network economy. In traditional organizations, rapid shifts can be made within the organization, with any resulting losses being offset by gains in other parts of the hierarchy. In a network economy each node must be profitable. Failing to understand this, the big players of the network game exposed themselves to the risks of connectedness without benefiting from its advantages. When problems arose, they failed to make the right, tough decisions, such as shutting down the supply line in Cisco's case, and got into even bigger trouble. At both the macro- and the microeconomic level, the network economy is here to stay. Despite some high-profile losses, outsourcing will be increasingly common. Financial interdependencies, ignoring national and continental boundaries, will only be strengthened with globalization. A revolution in management is in the making. It will take a new, network-oriented view of the economy and an understanding of the consequences of interconnectedness to smooth the way.

THE SABBAT, TREGUENDA OR WITCH-MEETING— HOW TO CONSECRATE THE SUPPER. Here follows the supper, of what it must consist, and what shall be said and done to consecrate it to Diana. You shall take meal and salt, honey and water, and make this incantation: Scongiurasione alia Farina. Scongiuro te, o farina! Che sei i! corpo nostro—senia di te Non si potrebbe vivere—tu che Prima di divenire la farina, Sei stata sotto terra, dove tutti Sono nascosti tutti in segreti, Maccinata che siei a metterte al vento, Tu spolveri per 1' aria e te ne fuggi Portando con te i tuoi segreti! Ma quando grano sarai in spighe, In spige belle che le lucciole, Vengeno a ferti lume perche tu Possa crescere piii bella, altrimenti Tu non polresd crescere a divenire bella, Dunque anche tu appartieni THE SABBAT Alle Strege o alle Fate, perche IjC lucciole appartengono AIsol. . . . Lucciola caporala, Vieni corri e vieni a gara, Metti la briglia a la cavalla! Metti la briglia al figluol del t6 ! Vieni, corri e portala a m^ ! II figluol del i6 te lasciera andare Pero voglio te pigliare, Giache siei bella e lucente, Ti voglio mettere sotto un bicchiere £ guardarti coUa lente; Sotto un bicchiere tu staiai Fino che tutti i segreti, Di questo mondo e di quell' altro non n Sapere e anche quelle del grano, E della farina appena, Questi segreti io saprb, Lucciola mia libera ti lascierd Quando i segreti della terra io saprtS Tu sia benedetta ti diro! Scongiurazione del Sale. Scongiuro il sale suona mezza gibmo. In punlo in mezza a un fiume, Entro e qui miro 1' acqua, L' acqua e al sol altro non penso, Che a r acqua e al sol, alloro La mia mente tutta e rivolta, Altra pensier non ho desidero. Saper la, verissima che tanto tempo 6 Che soffro, vorrei saper il mio avenir, Se cattivo fosse, acqua e sol Migliorate il destino mio! 7Sb Conjuration of Meal. I conjure thee, O Meal! Who art indeed our body, since without thee We could not live, Ehou who (at first as seed) Before becoming flower went in the earth, Where all deep secrets hide, and then when ground Didst dance like dust in the wind, and yet meanwhile Didst bear with thee in flitting, secrets strange ! And

Hennick’s iliac artery and vein, as well as the artery and vein of the new kidney, were spliced together with neat embroidery stitches. Then the surgeon took a deep breath, stretched his arms like a stage conjurer, and said to me: “You’re about to witness the most wonderful sight in the history of medicine.” He removed the arterial and venous clamps in sequence, and Hennick’s blood began to pump into the withered kidney. Each beat of his heart, visible in the pumping of the arteries, caused the kidney to swell. It was like watching a process of reanimation: a refutation of death. As the kidney grew, its defeated, dimpled surface began to fill out to a lucent pink. The surgeon held up the ureter of the new kidney (the tube that carries urine to the bladder) and I watched as a bead of urine began to grow at its cut end.

C'è poco da aggiungere, se non un fatto semplice: ciascuno, disegnando la trama dei propri pensieri, delle scelte, delle azioni e delle interazioni con gli altri, traccia anche un minuscolo o grande tratto della trama mutevole che lo unisce come individuo a tutto il resto. E, poco o tanto, la modifica, rendendola più luminosa o più opaca. In questa logica, forse è venuto il momento in cui ogni persona che ha a cuore il futuro del paese e il proprio promuova e difenda, senza sussiego e con semplicità, energia e passione (questo è fondamentale), in ogni contesto e occasione, con ogni strumento, senza stancarsi mai, il valore dell'apprendimento, dell'educazione e della scuola.

But now living women wanted to be doll-like, to cross the frontier and look like toys. Now the doll was the original, the woman the representation. These living dolls, these stringless marionettes, were not just "dolled up" on the outside. Behind their high-style exteriors, beneath that perfectly lucent skin, they were so stuffed full of behavioral chips, so thoroughly programmed for action, so perfectly groomed and wardrobed, that there was no room left in them for messy humanity.

concurrent series that follows alongside this one, involving Elise and Lucent's side of the story: His Absolute Assignment His Absolute Betrayal His Absolute

« [...] non vi sembra che noi seguitiamo il corteo dell'Estate defunta? Ella giace nella barca funebre, vestita d'oro come una dogaressa, come una Loredana o una Morosina o una Soranza del secolo lucente; e il corteo la conduce verso l'isola di Murano dove un maestro del fuoco la chiuderà in un involucro di vetro opalino affinché, immersa nella laguna, ella possa almeno guardare a traverso le sue palpebre diafane i molli giochi delle alghe e illudersi di aver tuttavia intorno al corpo l'ondulazione continua della sua capellatura voluttuosa aspettando l'ora di risorgere.»

The sunrise across the wild northern lake seemed a kind of holiness that human chatter was bound to destroy a little. The water, so still and lucent, beyond it the dark forest, and the fir’s fragrance; for this sacred experience, enjoyed alone, I would get up at dawn every day during the summer. Being there began to seem almost the same experience as making music, as the way, when I played the piano, I was the music, my physical body feeling as if it dissolved in the sounds. I could say my dimensions then were those of the melodies and the harmony that spread out from the piano in all directions. Walking in the forest …was not a wide going out and out, as with music, but again of losing myself-nature herself does not name flowers, the important thing is to know this flower, look at its color until the blueness becomes as real as a keynote of music… Collected in: Sisters of the Earth: Women's Prose and Poetry About Nature by Lorraine Anderson

Alec remembered Magnus, in the moment when the barriers of the pentagram had fallen. Magnus had turned, and the elements seemed to turn with him. His hand was uplifted, magic wrapping atouts his smooth brown skin, magic lucent white against his coruna of black hair, fire and wind in the light of his brilliant cyes. He was incandescent with power, imposibly beautiful, and dangerous. And be had hurt none of the people who had hurt him.

Joseph gained the ridge-top and looked down on the grass lands of his new homestead where the wild oats move in silver waves under a little wind, where the patches of blue lupins lay like shadows in a clear lucent night, and the poppies on the side hills were broad rays of sun.

The film of evening light made the red earth lucent, so that its dimensions were deepened, so that a stone, a post, a building had greater depth and more solidity than in the daytime light; and these objects were curiously more individual—a post was more essentially a post, set off from the earth it stood in and the field of corn it stood out against. And plants were individuals, not the mass of crop; and the ragged willow tree was itself, standing free of all other willow trees. The earth contributed a light to the evening. The front of the gray, paintless house, facing the west, was luminous as the moon is. The gray dusty truck, in the yard before the door, stood out magically in this light, in the overdrawn perspective of a stereopticon.

As we wind through the graves, I’m reminded of growing up down the road from the town dump to the north and the cemetery to the south, my own house haunting the center, equal radius to either destination: dumping ground or burial. Mama’s ghost skirted the edges; I could feel her presence, but not nearly enough. Girlhood nights I used to sleepwalk, and Alba would find me, wriggling through the slats in the fence, kneeling at the makeshift altar I’d made of debris, all that wreckage, a shrine for the mama I never knew, and my staunch and sturdy saint of a sister would walk me home where I’d claim no memory in the morning. Dreamworld would merge with waking, and I felt it—embryonic, swelling, lucent, what would sprout inside me as I grew older, rasher—the city of the Dead. Where I accidentally sent Karma a few short years later. Where—I can’t shake the clawing feeling now—I’ve sent Cecilia as well, with my vitriol, with my jealousy.

«Posso darti tutto ciò che desideri», disse la fata. «La ricchezza, il potere e uno scettro, la gloria, una vita lunga e felice. Scegli.» «Non voglio la ricchezza o la gloria, e neppure il potere o uno scettro», rispose la striga. «Voglio un cavallo, che sia nero e inafferrabile come l’impetuoso vento notturno. Voglio una spada, che sia lucente e affilata come un raggio di luna. Voglio percorrere il mondo nella nera notte in sella al mio cavallo nero, voglio colpire le forze del Male e dell’Oscurità con la mia spada luminosa. Questo è ciò che desidero.» «Ti darò un cavallo più nero della notte e più veloce dell’impetuoso vento notturno», promise la fata. «Ti darò una spada più lucente e affilata di un raggio di luna. Ma chiedi molto, striga, dunque dovrai pagarmi profumatamente.» «E con cosa? Non posseggo nulla.» «Col tuo sangue.»

[The] chanting died away and silence flooded back the moonlit grove, a silence as solid and lucent as glass. A cloud drew across the moon, plunging the clearing into into darkness. The forest held its breath. Then the ground around them began to tremble, shaking as if a thousand horses were charging by. As the cloud peeled back from the moon, Gytha could see something rising in front of them just beyond the circle. A wisp of mist was uncurling from the ground, pushing up the earth around it, like the first shoot of a plant. Then the column of mist burst out of the black earth with a thin wail like a newborn baby's cry. It whirled around and around, and as it turned there came a low moaning in the forest as if an icy winter wind was wandering among the branches of the trees, but the trees were quite still. The moaning grew into a shriek, rising higher and higher till the very darkness was vibrating with the pain of it. Then, just as suddenly, the shrieking stopped. A naked infant stood in front of them, its body so thin the ribs stood out like the timbers of a wrecked ship. The lips were drawn back to reveal the toothless bones of its jaws, its empty eye sockets were as dark as black fire. Madron turned her sightless eyes towards her daughter. 'Has he come? Do you see him?' Gytha could not wrench her gaze from the little corpse in front of her. 'He is here, Madron, the babe is here,' she whispered.

And his name was called, shrilly in his ears. His mind walked in to face the accusers: Vanity, which charged him with being ill dressed and dirty and vulgar; and Lust, slipping him the money for his whoring; Dishonesty, to make him pretend to talent and thought he did not have; Laziness and Gluttony arm in arm. Tom felt comforted by these because they screened the great Gray One in the back seat, waiting—the gray and dreadful crime. He dredged up lesser things, used small sins almost like virtues to save himself. There were Covetousness of Will’s money, Treason toward his mother’s God, Theft of time and hope, sick Rejection of love. Samuel spoke softly but his voice filled the room. “Be good, be pure, be great, be Tom Hamilton.” Tom ignored his father. He said, “I’m busy greeting my friends,” and he nodded to Discourtesy and Ugliness and Unfilial Conduct and Unkempt Fingernails. Then he started with Vanity again. The Gray One shouldered up in front. It was too late to stall with baby sins. This Gray One was Murder. Tom’s hand felt the chill of the glass and saw the pearly liquid with the dissolving crystals still turning over and lucent bubbles rising, and he repeated aloud in the empty, empty room, “This will do the job. Just wait till morning. You’ll feel fine then.” That’s how it had sounded, exactly how, and the walls and chairs and the lamp had all heard it and they could prove it. There was no place in the whole world for Tom Hamilton to live. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. He shuffled possibilities like cards. London? No! Egypt—pyramids in Egypt and the Sphinx. No! Paris? No! Now wait—they do all your sins lots better there. No! Well, stand aside and maybe we’ll come back to you. Bethlehem? Dear God, no! It would be lonely there for a stranger. And here interpolated—it’s so hard to remember how you die or when. An eyebrow raised or a whisper—they may be it; or a night mottled with splashed light until powder-driven lead finds your secret and lets out the fluid in you. Now this is true, Tom Hamilton was dead and he had only to do a few decent things to make it final.

Lucent, Not Transparent In mid-2000, Lucent Technologies Inc. was owned by more investors than any other U.S. stock. With a market capitalization of $192.9 billion, it was the 12th-most-valuable company in America. Was that giant valuation justified? Let’s look at some basics from Lucent’s financial report for the fiscal quarter ended June 30, 2000:1 FIGURE 17-1 Lucent Technologies Inc. All numbers in millions of dollars. * Other assets, which includes goodwill. Source: Lucent quarterly financial reports (Form 10-Q). A closer reading of Lucent’s report sets alarm bells jangling like an unanswered telephone switchboard: Lucent had just bought an optical equipment supplier, Chromatis Networks, for $4.8 billion—of which $4.2 billion was “goodwill” (or cost above book value). Chromatis had 150 employees, no customers, and zero revenues, so the term “goodwill” seems inadequate; perhaps “hope chest” is more accurate. If Chromatis’s embryonic products did not work out, Lucent would have to reverse the goodwill and charge it off against future earnings. A footnote discloses that Lucent had lent $1.5 billion to purchasers of its products. Lucent was also on the hook for $350 million in guarantees for money its customers had borrowed elsewhere. The total of these “customer financings” had doubled in a year—suggesting that purchasers were running out of cash to buy Lucent’s products. What if they ran out of cash to pay their debts? Finally, Lucent treated the cost of developing new software as a “capital asset.” Rather than an asset, wasn’t that a routine business expense that should come out of earnings? CONCLUSION: In August 2001, Lucent shut down the Chromatis division after its products reportedly attracted only two customers.2 In fiscal year 2001, Lucent lost $16.2 billion; in fiscal year 2002, it lost another $11.9 billion. Included in those losses were $3.5 billion in “provisions for bad debts and customer financings,” $4.1 billion in “impairment charges related to goodwill,” and $362 million in charges “related to capitalized software.” Lucent’s stock, at $51.062 on June 30, 2000, finished 2002 at $1.26—a loss of nearly $190 billion in market value in two-and-a-half years.

Lucent’s stock, at $51.062 on June 30, 2000, finished 2002 at $1.26—a loss of nearly $190 billion in market value in two-and-a-half years.

She shook her hair in the cool breeze and inhaled, the scents of lavender and rose and jasmine sweet in the lucent air. They passed fields where delicately scented rosa centifolia bushes grew. "How was the rose crop this year?" "Excellent. We had a mild spring and a generous rainfall. Twenty to twenty-five blossoms on every branch. Our rose was indeed the 'queen of the flowers' this year, to quote the Greek poet Sappho." He lifted his chin and peered at her down his nose. "Our rose de mai is expensive, Danieeele, but far superior to others." Laughter bubbled in her throat. "Your Gallic pride is showing, Philippe." He expressed a puff of air between pursed lips. "Bulgaria? Morocco? You can't tell me their roses are better than mine." "Just different," she said with patience. "Moroccan roses have a rich perfume, and Bulgaria's Valley of the Roses produces lovely damascena roses scented with a brilliant tinge of pear.

Cortana. Il nome significava semplicemente “spada corta”, ma per Emma non lo era. Lunga quanto il suo avambraccio, di metallo lucente, portava incise parole che non mancavano mai di farle correre brividi lungo la schiena: Il mio nome è Cortana e condivido l’acciaio e la tempra di Gioiosa e Durlindana. Suo padre le aveva spiegato il significato di quella frase quando, a dieci anni, le aveva messo per la prima volta l’arma fra le mani. “Capisci cosa significa quella scritta?” Lei aveva scosso la testa. “Acciaio” le era chiaro, ovviamente, ma “tempra”? Per un uomo significava avere carattere, ma una spada che carattere poteva mai avere? “Hai già sentito parlare della famiglia Wayland” aveva aggiunto lui. “Erano famosi fabbricanti d’armi, prima che le Sorelle di Ferro iniziassero a forgiare tutte le spade degli Shadowhunters. Wayland il Fabbro realizzò Excalibur e Gioiosa, quelle di Artù e di Lancillotto, così come Durlindana, la spada dell’eroe Orlando. E fecero anche Cortana, partendo dallo stesso acciaio. L’acciaio deve sempre essere temprato, cioè sottoposto a un calore quasi in grado di fondere o distruggere il metallo, in modo da renderlo più resistente.” A quel punto le aveva dato un bacio sulla testa. “I Carstairs custodiscono questa spada da generazioni. L’iscrizione ci ricorda che gli Shadowhunters sono le armi dell’Angelo. Tempraci nel fuoco, e diventiamo più forti. Pur soffrendo, sopravviviamo.

Facing Snow Thin slice of ascending light, radiant arc Tipped aside bellied dark- the first moon Appears, and barely risen beyond ancient Frontier passes, edges into clouds. Silver, Changeless, the Star River spreads across Mountains empty in their own cold. Lucent Frost dusts the courtyard, chrysanthemum Blossoms clotted there with solemn dark. Tu Fu

I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center. I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and you enter it as easily as breathing in I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary.

The rain had stopped: again the sun gleamed for a moment; Gugolevo appeared before him, opened itself out, enclosed him in its blossoming embrace—and now it was looking at him, Gugolevo; looking at him with the lucent waters of its lake, Gugolevo; and the lake was rocking him with its dove-blue waters which sang with silver, and all the while the rippling lake was reaching out to the bank with its waters—but it could not reach: and whispered with the reeds—and there, in the lake, was Gugolevo: it rose behind the trees in its entirety, then gazed with a smile of longing at the water—and escaped into the water: there it was now, in the water—over there, over there.

Il perdono e una fiamma lucente in un animo adagiato all'ascolto del proprio cuore, quando vuol respirare l'amore per poter volare al di là del rancore!

Lucent wisps spiraled up from the mass, forming a columned portal supporting a hot-white door. My vision clouded, like snow on a tele-a hot-white door. My vision clouded, like snow on a television screen. Vertigo gripped me.

This is the best time, Tatiana,” Alexander said. “Do you want to know why?” “Please don’t tell me.” “There will never be a time like this again. Never this simple, this uncomplicated.” “You call this uncomplicated?” Tatiana shook her head. “Of course.” Alexander paused. “We’re just friends, walking through Leningrad in the lucent dusk.