M Porter Quotes

The hypocrisy was too much to bear, the institution was paying over a million dollars for Mr. Hyde to perform “values training” to “protect our culture,” while they simultaneously paid $2 million a year for Dr. Porter to destroy it. It was a laughable facade, but instead I wanted to cry.

The entire time they’re talking, I can’t tear my eyes away from Porter. What I’m feeling for him now is like drowning and floating at the same time.

If I didn't know the ending of a story, I wouldn't begin. I always write my last lines, my last paragraph first, and then I go back and work towards it. I know where I'm going. I know what my goal is. And how I get there is God's grace.

I want you to know if we die right now, I won't be able to distinguish if I've made it to heaven or not, because I'm already sitting here with you.. like this." -Gray Porter

I’m a million cameras, even when I’m sleeping, clicking, clicking, every second something is growing and changing. We are little arrogant flashes in a grand magnificent scheme.

Quand j'arrive à la gare de l'Est, j'espère toujours secrètement qu'il y aura quelqu'un pour m'attendre. C'est con. J'ai beau savoir que ma mère est encore au boulot à cette heure-là et que Marc est pas du genre à traverser la banlieue pour porter mon sac, j'ai toujours cet espoir débile. [...] Je voudrais que quelqu'un m'attende quelque part... C'est quand même pas compliqué.

I am in your midst, without apology. I’m here to stay. I’m here as I am. And if you have a problem with that—fuck you!

No matter who I couldn't save before, no matter if I'm stuck being a random mess of a girl, I'm still going to save something.

Tatooine, huh? So awesome you know Star Wars facts,” he adds nodding. “Do you ever watch the animated stuff?” Grin. Grin. Grin. I'm seriously at risk of an old-style faint. Holy-WTHECK? My neck and cheeks are volcano-hot. My entire chest swarms with an uncontrollable butterfly attack. Butterfly riot. Butterfly massacre. Person slaughtered: Me. Method used: Dimple. The guy has a dimple. Of course he does. To match the Hollywood chin divot. To make the lump on my forehead pound even harder. Points for Gray Porter: 3,000,000-bajallion, trillion to the millionth power.

Jimmy: One day, when I'm no longer spending my days running a sweet-stall, I may write a book about us all. It's all here. (slapping his forehead) Written in flames a mile high. And it won't be recollected in tranquillity either, picking daffodils with Auntie Wordsworth. It'll be recollected in fire, and blood. My blood.

Shh. Please don't cry. I'm so sorry. Here." She opened her eyes to see him pull a tissue from his jeans. He handed it to her and she used it to press away her tears. He carried tissues around in his pockets for her, even on nights when he had no expectation of seeing her.

Peter Gibbons: The thing is, Bob, it's not that I'm lazy, it's that I just don't care. Bob Porter: Don't... don't care? Peter Gibbons: It's a problem of motivation, all right? Now if I work my ass off and Initech ships a few extra units, I don't see another dime; so where's the motivation? And here's something else, Bob: I have eight different bosses right now. Bob Slydell: I beg your pardon? Peter Gibbons: Eight bosses. Bob Slydell: Eight? Peter Gibbons: Eight, Bob. So that means that when I make a mistake, I have eight different people coming by to tell me about it. That's my only real motivation is not to be hassled; that, and the fear of losing my job. But you know, Bob, that will only make someone work just hard enough not to get fired.

I was raised in church, Gray. If you'd asked me during my wildest phases if I was a Christian, I'd have told you I was. But there was a disconnect there. You're judging me. No, I'm calling it like it is, unlike most of the people you know, who would all agree with you if you said the sky is red.

I'm a poet and you are poetry

Hi, I'm Porter Reese." I didn't know it yet. But those four simple words changed my life all over again.

He falls asleep quickly. I lie awake and listen to lights being switched off all over the town. Whispered goodnights. The drowsy creak of bedsprings. I find Adam’s hand and hold it tight. I’m glad that night porters and nurses and long-distance lorry drivers exist. It comforts me to know that in other countries with different time zones, women are washing clothes in rivers and children are filing to school. Somewhere in the world right now, a boy is listening to the merry chink of a goat’s bell as he walks up a mountain. I’m very glad about that.

As awkward as this moment is, I'm intrigued with the possibilities of what this could mean. Gray Porter holding up my bangs while I memorize the depth of his chin divot ranks at the top of my things-that-have-overly-surprised me list! I don't really have such a list. But when I get home, I'm making one.

Then you--weren't lovers?" Pollyanna's voice was tragic with dismay. "Never!" "And it isn't all coming out like a book? . . . Oh dear! And it was all going so splendidly," almost sobbed Pollyanna. "I'd have been so glad to come--with Aunt Polly." "And you won't--now?" The man asked the question without turning his head. "Of course not! I'm Aunt Polly's!

Porter grins at me and rubs his hands together excitedly. "This looks super weird. I'm so in. Let's play.

But the thing he doesn’t know, the thing that shocks even me, is that I’m not the gentle guardian spirit; I’m the hungry shark. And I fear his arm won’t be enough. I want all of him.

I pause, unsure what to type. It would be weird to say I’ve missed you too, even though I have, because that feels like I’m betraying Porter. I’m so confused. Maybe he doesn’t even mean it that way. Maybe he never did. Lord knows I’m not good at reading people.

I belong to a culture that includes Proust, Henry James, Tchaikovsky, Cole Porter, Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Alexander the Great, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Christopher Marlowe, Walt Whitman, Herman Melville, Tennessee Williams, Byron, E.M. Forster, Lorca, Auden, Francis Bacon, James Baldwin, Harry Stack Sullivan, John Maynard Keynes, Dag Hammarskjold… These are not invisible men. Poor Bruce. Poor frightened Bruce. Once upon a time you wanted to be a soldier. Bruce, did you know that an openly gay Englishman was as responsible as any man for winning the Second World War? His name was Alan Turing and he cracked the Germans' Enigma code so the Allies knew in advance what the Nazis were going to do — and when the war was over he committed suicide he was so hounded for being gay. Why don't they teach any of this in the schools? If they did, maybe he wouldn't have killed himself and maybe you wouldn't be so terrified of who you are. The only way we'll have real pride is when we demand recognition of a culture that isn't just sexual. It's all there—all through history we've been there; but we have to claim it, and identify who was in it, and articulate what's in our minds and hearts and all our creative contributions to this earth. And until we do that, and until we organize ourselves block by neighborhood by city by state into a united visible community that fights back, we're doomed. That's how I want to be defined: as one of the men who fought the war.

When I used to say I wanted to be anywhere but Brooklyn, I maybe didn't mean it this literally. And, I suddenly understand, I do want to be Vassa--or technically I want to make Vassa into somebody worth being. The only way to become that somebody is to live in a real, substantial world: a world that doesn't follow orders, that's just as willful and independent as I'm going to be. I can only become a whole girl in a place that offers resistance; a place that makes me fight for what I want.

All the rules changed. I’m holding you hostage, pretty. Who the hell do you think you are?” “Just an old lady trying to make things right.

I am awesome. I'm better than you sucka!

Will the soft comfy furniture have pink on it?" "Of course." He made a dissatisfied sound. "What's the matter with pink?" "I'm a man. That's what's the matter.

Father says that I'm one little instrument in the great Orchestra of Life, and that I must see to it that I'm always in tune, and don't drag or hit false notes

Lazarus, come forth. Not unless you bring me my top hat and stick. Stay where you are then, you snob. Not at all. I’m coming forth.

You need to realise how gorgeous you are.' She laughs, but I’m not trying to be funny. ‘I mean it Flo, you really are. Somewhere under all that disbelief.

I'm not a hermit. I'm just an introvert, which means I like people, but I don't find parties exciting. They tire me out.

You people, you think happiness is the only important thing about being alive. I’m serious when I say I’m not interested in happiness. This old body hurts. That’s as worthy an experience as any.

I’m not going to lie, Paul’s balls on my mascara brush was a blow to the gut, but Porter’s switching to the dark side, now that was like an elephant farting in my face and blowing off my fake eyelashes.

I brush off my skirt and notice that a small trail of blood runs from a nasty scrape on my knee. I don’t even care. I’m still on an oh-so-sweet adrenaline high. Porter grins, eyebrows high. “Damn, Bailey. You took him downtown. Full-on atomic drop body slam. I had no idea you had it in you.” Me neither, to be honest. “No one steals from Sam Spade and gets away with it,” I say. He holds his hand up, and I slap it

Strolling, keeping step, his stout polished well-made boots setting themselves down firmly beside her thin-soled black suede, they put off as long as they could the end of their moment together, and kept up as well as they could their small talk that flew back and forth over little grooves worn in the thin upper suface of the brain, things you could say and hear clink reassuringly at once without disturbing the radiance which played and darted about the simple and lovely miracle of being two persons named Adam and Miranda, twenty-four years old each, alive and on earth at the same moment: 'Are you in the mood for dancing, Miranda?' and 'I'm always in the mood for dancing, Adam!' but there were things in the way, the day that ended with dancing was a long way to go.

Yes, it’s unfortunate that we have been conditioned to see an alternative to motherhood as not normal. But you do all realise that some of the most brilliant women in the world don’t have kids, right? Oprah, Gloria Steinem, Helen Mirren, Dolly Parton? Do you think their lives carry an air of tragedy because they never had children? I don’t. I’m sure they all had different reasons for not doing it, some maybe couldn’t, some didn’t want to, but these women’s lives are not empty because of that. I think it’s important we take the lead from our heroes and for everyone to stop valuing women on whether they do, or do not, become mothers. The irony of yours and your listeners’ opinions is that it is you boxing women in to these roles, not men. It’s highly un-feminist of you.’ She

In the meantime, though my kiss-stung face has returned to normal, my heart and all working body parts are absolutely not normal. Because every time Porter so much as even walks within ten feet of me at work, I have the same reaction. Four knocks on Hotbox door? I flush. Scent of coconut in the break room? I flush. Sound of Porter cracking jokes with Pangborn in the hallway? I flush. And every time this happens, Grace is there like some taunting Greek chorus, making a little mmm-hmmnoise of confirmation. Even Pangborn notices. “Are you ill, Miss Rydell?” “Yes,” I tell him in the break room one day before work. “I’m apparently very ill in the worst way. And I want you to know that I didn’t plan for this to happen. This was not part of my plan at all. If you want to know the truth, I had other plans for the summer!” I think of my boardwalk map, lying folded and abandoned in my purse. Pangborn nods slowly. “I have no idea what you mean, but I support it completely.” “Thank you,” I tell him as he walks away, whistling. Half a minute later, Porter pulls me into a dark corner of the hallway, checks around the corner, and kisses the bejesus out of me. “That’s me, destroying all your other plans,” he says wickedly. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he sounds jealous. Then he walks away, leaving me all hot and bothered. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.

I don't see how you can find anything about this poor-people business to be glad for. Of course we can be glad for ourselves that we aren't poor like them; but whenever I'm thinking how glad I am for that, I get so sorry for them that I CAN'T be glad any longer. Of course we COULD be glad there were poor folks, because we could help them. But if we DON'T help them, where's the glad part of that coming in?

Je suis trop intelligente, trop exigeante et trop riche pour que personne puisse se charger de moi entièrement. Personne ne me connaît ni ne m'aime tout entière. Je n'ai que moi. Il ne faut pas que j'essaie de tromper cette solitude en renonçant à ce que je peux seule porter. Il faut que je vive, sachant que personne ne m'aidera à vivre. Ma force, c'est que je m'estime aussi haut que n'importe quel autrui ; je peux bien envier à l'un ou l'autre telle qualité ; de personne la valeur ne me semble dépasser la mienne : je possède autant. Seule je vivrai, forte de ce que je sais être.

Mattie,” he said silently to no one in the room, “you’re a little girl. But nobody stays a little girl or a little boy long—take me, for instance. All of a sudden little girls wear lipstick, all of a sudden little boys shave and smoke. So it’s a quick business, being a kid. Today you’re ten years old, running to meet me in the snow, ready, so ready, to coast down Spring Street with me; tomorrow you’ll be twenty, with guys sitting in the living room waiting to take you out. All of a sudden you’ll have to tip porters, you’ll worry about expensive clothes, meet girls for lunch, wonder why you can’t find a guy who’s right for you. And that’s all as it should be. But my point, Mattie—if I have a point, Mattie—is this: kind of try to live up to the best that’s in you. If you give your word to people, let them know that they’re getting the word of the best. If you room with some dopey girl at college, try to make her less dopey. If you’re standing outside a theater and some old gal comes up selling gum, give her a buck if you’ve got a buck—but only if you can do it without patronizing her. That’s the trick, baby. I could tell you a lot, Mat, but I wouldn’t be sure that I’m right. You’re a little girl, but you understand me. You’re going to be smart when you grow up. But if you can’t be smart and a swell girl, too, then I don’t want to see you grow up. Be a swell girl, Mat.

I can’t do many things,” he said fiercely, “but I can love you, Meg. I can love you every hour of every day for the rest of my life. I swear to you I can. I want to earn the right to try.” The pad of his thumb rubbed her cheek. “I love you so much I can hardly see straight. I can’t concentrate. I can’t sleep. I can’t make myself care about anything on earth except for you. I’m useless.” “No you’re not.” “I’m a mess.” “No.” “I am.” He insisted. “About you, I am.

But every day I remind myself that nothing matters more than extending the legacy of the angels in my life. It’s my devout conviction that if I’m not enabling and encouraging the underprivileged and the vulnerable, then I haven’t justified their confidence in me, and I haven’t done sufficient justice to their gifts.

You don't have to tell me you're fine. I'm not fine. You're not fine either. We can be honest with each other about that, can't we?' I say. The sides of her face tense as tries to stop herself from crying, but she can't. There is something about her grief that makes mine less exclusive. Less like my world isn’t the only one falling apart.

As true as I’m drinking this porter if he was at his last gasp he’d try to downface you that dying was living.

wealth,

He could learn a lot from me. That’s why I’m here.

I don’t wish to be left behind by the man who made me the woman I am today. No, if I could, I’d follow him on his journey and take pride and pleasure in doing so.

father’s.

lost

that

Æthelred

Next question.” He swipes the screen of his phone, but he’s not looking at it; he’s staring at me. Trying to intimidate me. Trying to see who’ll blink first. “Did you leave DC because (A) you couldn’t find any hotties to make out with? Or (B) your East Coast boyfriend is an ankle buster and you’d heard about legendary West Coast D, so you had to find out for yourself if the rumors were true?” he says with a smirk. “Idiot,” Grace mumbles, shaking her head. I may not understand some of his phrasing, but I get the gist. I feel myself blushing. But I manage to recover quickly and get a jab in. “Why are you so interested in my love life?” “I’m not. Why are you evading the question? You do that a lot, by the way.” “Do what?” “Evade questions.” “What business is that of yours?” I say, secretly irritated that he’s figured me out... Porter scoffs. “Seeing how this is your first day on the job, and may very well be your last, considering the turnover rate for this position? And seeing how I have seniority over you? I’d say, yeah, it’s pretty much my business.” “Are you threatening me?” I ask. He clicks off his phone and raises a brow. “Huh?” “That sounded like a threat,” I say. “Whoa, you need to chill. That was not . . .” He can’t even say it. He’s flustered now, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Grace . . .” Grace holds up a hand. “Leave me out of this mess. I have no idea what I’m even witnessing here. Both of you have lost the plot.

...without disturbing the radiance which played and darted about the simple and lovely miracle of being two persons named Adam and Miranda, twenty four years old each, alive and on earth at the same moment: 'Are you in the mood for dancing?' and 'I'm always in the mood for dancing, Adam!' but there were things in the way, the day that ended with dancing was a long way to go.

Apology accepted. If you're finished Mrs. Porter ---" "Allegra." "Fine. If you're finished, Allegra, I'd like to go." "I'm not." Good Lord, but the woman was a blister that refused to pop.

Once I'm through the doors, I often pause to take in the grandeur of the lobby. It never tarnishes. It never grows drab or dusty. It never dulls or fades. It is blessedly the same each and every day. There's the reception and concierge to the left, with its midnight-obsidian counter and smart-looking receptionists in black and white, like penguins. And there's the ample lobby itself, laid out in a horseshoe, with its fine Italian marble floors that radiate pristine white, drawing the eye up, up to the second-floor terrace. There are the ornate Art Deco features of the terrace and the grand marble staircase that brings you there, balustrades glowing and opulent, serpents twisting up to golden knobs held static in brass jaws. Guests will often stand at the rails, hands resting on a glowing post, as they survey the glorious scene below—porters marching crisscross, dragging suitcases behind them, guests lounging in sumptuous armchairs or couples tucked into emerald love seats, their secrets absorbed into the deep, plush velvet.

I’m hoping for an apology. An acknowledgement that she’s made me feel like crap about myself again, but obviously I don’t get anything like that out of her. She just sits in front of my mirror, rearranging her cleavage.

My belly does a flip and I get goosebumps on my arms. I’m so used to people translating every nice thing I ever do as me trying to get something for myself that I just presume people think the worst of me the whole time.

 It’s weird being alone in the museum. It’s dark and eerily quiet: Only the after-hours lights are on—just enough to illuminate the hallways and stop you from tripping over your own feet—and the background music that normally plays all the time is shut off. I quickly organize the flashlights and check their batteries, and when I don’t hear Porter walking around, I stare at the phone sitting at the information desk. How many chances come along like this? I pick up the receiver, press the little red button next to the word ALL, and speak into the phone in a low voice. “Paging Porter Roth to the information desk,” I say formally, my voice crackling through the entire lobby and echoing down the corridors. Then I press the button again and add, “While you’re at it, check your shoes to make sure they’re a match, you bastard. By the way, I still haven’t quite forgiven you for humiliating me. It’s going to take a lot more than a kiss and a cookie to make me forget both that and the time you provoked me in the Hotbox.” I’m only teasing, which I hope he knows. I feel a little drunk on all my megaphone power, so I page one more thing: “PS—You look totally hot in those tight-fitting security guard pants tonight, and I plan to get very handsy with you at the movies, so we better sit in the back row.” I hang up the phone and cover my mouth, silently laughing at myself. Two seconds later, Porter’s footfalls pound down Jay’s corridor—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! He sounds like a T. rex running from Godzilla. He races into the lobby and slides in front of the information desk, grabbing onto the edge to stop himself, wild curls flying everywhere. His grin is enormous. “Whadidya say ’bout where you want to be puttin’ your hands on me?” he asks breathlessly. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I tease. His head sags against the desk. I push his hair away from one of his eyes. He looks up at me and asks, “You really still haven’t forgiven me?” “Maybe if you put your hands onme, I might.” “Don’t go getting my hopes up like that.” “Oh, your hopes should be up. Way up.” “Dear God, woman,” he murmurs. “And here I was, thinking you were a classy dame.” “Pfft. You don’t know me at all.” “I aim to find out. What are we still doing here? Let’s blow this place and get to the theater, fast.

Et tout d’un coup le souvenir m’est apparu. Ce goût, c’était celui du petit morceau de madeleine que le dimanche matin à Combray (parce que ce jour-là je ne sortais pas avant l’heure de la messe), quand j’allais lui dire bonjour dans sa chambre, ma tante Léonie m’offrait après l’avoir trempé dans son infusion de thé ou de tilleul. La vue de la petite madeleine ne m’avait rien rappelé avant que je n’y eusse goûté ; peut-être parce que, en ayant souvent aperçu depuis, sans en manger, sur les tablettes des pâtissiers, leur image avait quitté ces jours de Combray pour se lier à d’autres plus récents ; peut-être parce que, de ces souvenirs abandonnés si longtemps hors de la mémoire, rien ne survivait, tout s’était désagrégé ; les formes — et celle aussi du petit coquillage de pâtisserie, si grassement sensuel sous son plissage sévère et dévot — s’étaient abolies, ou, ensommeillées, avaient perdu la force d’expansion qui leur eût permis de rejoindre la conscience. Mais, quand d’un passé ancien rien ne subsiste, après la mort des êtres, après la destruction des choses, seules, plus frêles mais plus vivaces, plus immatérielles, plus persistantes, plus fidèles, l’odeur et la saveur restent encore longtemps, comme des âmes, à se rappeler, à attendre, à espérer, sur la ruine de tout le reste, à porter sans fléchir, sur leur gouttelette presque impalpable, l’édifice immense du souvenir.

I know, father-among-the-angels, I'm not playing the game one bit now—not one bit; but I don't believe even you could find anything to be glad about sleeping all alone 'way off up here in the dark—like this. If only I was near Nancy or Aunt Polly, or even a Ladies' Aider, it would be easier!" Down-stairs

I’m yours. Until I die, and even after that, I’m yours.” She shook her head as moisture rushed to her eyes. “I didn’t do the things you’re saying I did. I don’t know why you or Brimm think that I did them, but please believe me. Please. I would never, not for anything in the world, hurt you. Never. I swear it.

Bo glanced at Meg, who’d frozen in place, almost too afraid to move lest Jayden start back in on the screaming. “I’m winging it,” Bo said to her. “You’re a magician. Thank God you’re here.” Bo winked at her. Saint Bo, a man christened with the miraculous ability to gentle horses, nervous women, and one-year-olds.

Mrs. Porter was from Virginia and had a smooth-as-cat-fur way of speaking. She taught me how to say, “Fiddle-Dee-Dee,” just like Scarlett O’Hara and she made her split-pea soup with bacon and even let me try on her lipstick sometimes as she teased up my hair in the same sixties style she wore, “Ala Pricilla Presley,” whoever that was.

He’s a really astonishing fellow, has friends everywhere. Did you know he was on safari with the Viceroy once? Some maharajah fellow was host. I must say I’m surprised he got so drunk. I don’t remember him even keeping up with me. He took me to my hotel last night, put me to bed and all that. Was in fine fettle, a strong arm to lean on. I was counting on him, actually, to get me through the day. But when I came downstairs this morning, the porter fellow told me Rhett had ordered coffee and a newspaper while he waited for me, then suddenly bolted without even paying. I went in the bar to wait for him—Scarlett, what is it? I can’t fathom you today. What are you crying for?

Cohn had put another document, “U.S. Record in WTO Disputes,” in the daily book that Porter compiled for the president at night. But Trump rarely if ever cracked it open. “The World Trade Organization is the worst organization ever created!” Trump said. “We lose more cases than anything.” “This is in your book, sir,” Cohn said, and brought out another copy. The document showed that the United States won 85.7 percent of its WTO cases, more than average. “The United States has won trade disputes against China on unfair extra duties on U.S. poultry, steel and autos, as well as unfair export restraints on raw materials and rare earth minerals. The United States has also used the dispute settlements system to force China to drop subsidies in numerous sectors.” “This is bullshit,” Trump replied. “This is wrong.” “This is not wrong. This is data from the United States trade representative. Call Lighthizer and see if he agrees.” “I’m not calling Lighthizer,” Trump said. “Well,” Cohn said, “I’ll call Lighthizer. This is the factual data. There’s no one that’s going to disagree with this data.” Then he added, “Data is data.

his far-sight serving him well once more. “Fuck,” I complain. I purposefully left those men behind, because they were all too ill to fight. It seems they’ve taken the decision from me, and I know I won’t be able to send them away, not now they’ve come so far. I expect an acerbic comment from Edmund, a counterpart to his on-going worry. His response puzzles me. “Fucking clever bastards,

NED: I belong to a culture that includes Proust, Henry James, Tchaikovsky, Cole Porter, Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Alexander the Great, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Christopher Marlowe, Walt Whitman, Herman Melville, Tennessee Williams, Byron, E. M. Forster, Lorca, Auden, Francis Bacon, James Baldwin, Harry Stack Sullivan, john Maynard Keynes, Dag Hammarskjöld . . . These are not invisible men.

Mais quelle étrange leçon de géographie je reçus là! Guillaumet ne m'enseignait pas l'Espagne; il me faisait de l'Espagne une amie. Il ne me parlait ni d'hydrographie, nie de populations, ni de cheptel. Il ne me parlait pas de Guadix, mais des trois orangers qui, près de Guadix, bordent un champ : " Méfie-toi d'eux, marque-les sur ta carte... " Et les trois orangers y tenaient désormais plus de place que la Sierra Nevada. Il ne me parlait pas de Lorca, mais d'une simple ferme près de Lorca. D'une ferme vivante. Et de son fermier. Et de sa fermière. Et ce couple prenait, perdu dans l'espace, à quinze cents kilomètres de nous, une importance démesurée. Bien installés sur le versant de leur montagne, pareils à des gardiens de phare, ils étaient prêts, sous leur étoiles, à porter secours à des hommes. (Terre des Hommes, ch. I)

I’m so sorry. Don’t cry.” “You are good enough.” “Shh. Please don’t cry. I’m so sorry. Here.” She opened her eyes to see him pull a tissue from his jeans. He handed it to her and she used it to press away her tears. He carried tissues around in his pockets for her, even on nights when he had no expectation of seeing her. Despite his attempts to convince her otherwise, he was one of the best, most worthy, most deserving men she’d ever met.

PARODY OF "YOU'RE THE TOP" BY COLE PORTER You're the pop You're the baby's father You're the pop But you needn't bother I will make no claim to your ancient name at all When I let you make me You promised you'd take me to the city hall My mistake wasn't getting plastered, What a break for the little b***stard I was bad when I let you get on top But if baby I'm the momma, You're the pop! [Sung by Elaine Stritch when interviewed by Michael Parkinson on YouTube.

You haven't said yet weather I may help you while I am here" Elnora hesitated. You better say 'yes,'" he persisted. It would be a real kindness. It would keep me out doors all day and give an incentive to work. I'm good at it. I'll show you if I am not in a week or so. I can 'sugar' manipulate lights, and mirrors, and all the expert methods. I'll wager moths are think int the old swamp over there" They are," said Elnora. "Most I have I took there. A few nights ago my mother caught a good many, but we don't dare go alone" All the more reason why you need me. Where do you live? I can't get an answer from you, I'll just go tell your mother who I am and ask her if I may help you. I warn you young lady, I have a very effective way with mothers. They almost never turn me down." Then it's probable you will have a new experience when you meet mine," said Elnora. "She never was known to do what anyone expected she surely would.

You needn't be thinking," he said to the goldfinch, "that because I'm coming down this line alone day after day, it's always to be so. Some of these times you'll be swinging on this wire, and you'll see me coming, and you'll swing, skip, and flirt yourself around, and chip up right spunky: 'SEE ME?' I'll be saying 'See you? Oh, Lord! See her!' You'll look, and there she'll stand. The sunshine won't look gold any more, or the roses pink, or the sky blue, because she'll be the pinkest, bluest, goldest thing of all. You'll be yelling yourself hoarse with the jealousy of her. The sawbird will stretch his neck out of joint, and she'll turn the heads of all the flowers. Wherever she goes, I can go back afterward and see the things she's seen, walk the path she's walked, hear the grasses whispering over all she's said; and if there's a place too swampy for her bits of feet; Holy Mother! Maybe--maybe she'd be putting the beautiful arms of her around me neck and letting me carry her over!

Je suis encore un homme jeune, et pourtant, quand je songe à ma vie, c’est comme une bouteille dans laquelle on aurait voulu faire entrer plus qu’elle ne peut contenir. Est-ce le cas pour toute vie humaine, ou suis-je né dans une époque qui repousse toute limite et qui bat les existences comme les cartes d’un grand jeu de hasard ? Moi, je ne demandais pas grand-chose. J'aurais aimé ne jamais quitter le village. Les montagnes, les bois, nos rivières, tout cela m’aurait suffi. J’aurais aimé être tenu loin de la rumeur du monde, mais autour de moi bien des peuples se sont entretués. Bien des pays sont morts et ne sont plus que des noms dans les livres d’Histoire. Certains en ont dévoré d’autres, les ont éventrés, violés, souillés. Et ce qui est juste n’a pas toujours triomphé de ce qui est sale. Pourquoi ai-je dû, comme des milliers d’autres hommes, porter une croix que je n’avais pas choisie, endurer un calvaire qui n’était pas fait pour mes épaules et qui ne me concernait pas? Qui a donc décidé de venir fouiller mon obscure existence, de déterrer ma maigre tranquillité, mon anonymat gris, pour me lancer comme une boule folle et minuscule dans un immense jeu de quilles? Dieu? Mais alors, s’Il existe, s’Il existe vraiment, qu’Il se cache. Qu’Il pose Ses deux mains sur Sa tête, et qu’Il la courbe. Peut-être, comme nous l'apprenait jadis Peiper, que beaucoup d’hommes ne sont pas dignes de Lui, mais aujourd’hui je sais aussi qu’Il n'est pas digne de la plupart d’entre nous, et que si la créature a pu engendrer l’horreur c’est uniquement parce que son Créateur lui en a soufflé la recette.

How did he know my dad helped get me this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it’s not like I’m some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. My dad’s just aCPA! But I’m not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I’m halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown right off and my brains are flowing out like molten lava. I think I might well and truly hate Porter Roth. “You know nothing about me or my family. And you’re a goddamn dickbag, you know that?” I say, so enraged that I don’t even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch turned on from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family’s wide-eyed faces clue me in now. They’ve heard every nasty word. For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize profusely, but the parents aren’t happy. At all. Why should they be? Oh God, is the wife wearing a crucifix pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Jesus fu—I mean, fiddlesticks. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Cavadini? Am I going to be fired? On my first day? What is my dad going to say?

Will the soft comfy furniture have pink on it?” “Of course.” He made a dissatisfied sound. “What’s the matter with pink?” “I’m a man. That’s what’s the matter.” Her lips curved. “Perhaps I could make some concessions.” “Generous of you.” “How about if I limit pink to the master bedroom only?” “Definitely no pink in the master bedroom.” “No?” “A man shouldn’t sleep under pink covers.” She laughed, but her mind caught on the mental image of him with her under any-colored covers. Her skin flushed. “Well, then how about a pink guest room? Whenever I need a fix, I’ll just go in there and breathe in the pink.” “I’ll agree to that.

J'étais donc arrivé à ce moment si particulier où l'on peut encore choisir, ce moment où l'on peut choisir l'avenir de ses sentiments. Je me trouvais désormais au sommet du toboggan, je pouvais toujours décider de redescendre de l'échelle, de m'en aller, fuir loin d'elle, prétextant un impératif aussi fallacieux qu'important. Ou bien je pouvais me laisser porter, enjamber la rampe et me laisser glisser avec cette douce impression de ne plus pouvoir rien décider, de ne plus pouvoir rien arrêter, confier son destin à un chemin que vous n'avez pas dessiné, et pour finir, m'engloutir dans un bac aux sables mouvants, dorés et ouatés.

He watched a two-hour block of Fox News, and then most of the two-hour-long blocks of MSNBC and CNN that he had TiVo’d. He raged at the coverage as top aides came in and out—Priebus, Bannon, Kushner, McGahn, Cohn, Hicks and Porter. Why was Mueller picked? Trump asked. “He was just in here and I didn’t hire him for the FBI,” Trump raged. “Of course he’s got an axe to grind with me.” “Everybody’s trying to get me,” the president said. “It’s unfair. Now everybody’s saying I’m going to be impeached.” What are the powers of a special counsel? he asked. A special counsel had virtually unlimited power to investigate any possible crime, Porter said.

Miss—Polly—Harrington!" he breathed. "You live with—HER!" "Yes; I'm her niece. She's taken me to bring up—on account of my mother, you know," faltered Pollyanna, in a low voice. "She was her sister. And after father—went to be with her and the rest of us in Heaven, there wasn't any one left for me down here but the Ladies' Aid; so she took me." The man did not answer. His face, as he lay back on the pillow now, was very white—so white that Pollyanna was frightened. She rose uncertainly to her feet. "I reckon maybe I'd better go now," she proposed. "I—I hope you'll like—the jelly." The man turned his head suddenly, and opened his eyes. There was a curious longing in their dark depths which even Pollyanna saw,

Who am I? You know who I am. Or you think you do. I’m your florist. I’m your grocer. I’m your porter. I’m your waiter. I’m the owner of the dry-goods store on the corner of Elm. I’m the shoeshine boy. I’m the judo teacher. I’m the Buddhist priest. I’m the Shinto priest. I’m the Right Reverend Yoshimoto. So prease to meet you. (…) I’m the one you call Jap. I’m the one you call Nip. I’m the one you call Slits. I’m the one you call Slopes. I’m the one you call Yellowbelly. I’m the one you call Gook. I’m the one you don’t see at all—we all look alike. I’m the one you see everywhere—we’re taking over the neighborhood. I’m the one you look for under your bed every night before you go to sleep. (…) I’m your nightmare…

Quelle idée ! – répliqua la marionnette offensée – Sachez, pour votre gouverne, que je ne suis pas une bête de somme et que je n’ai jamais été attelé à une charrette ! – Tant mieux pour toi. Dans ce cas, mon garçon, si tu meurs vraiment de faim, mange donc deux belles tranches de ton superbe orgueil et prends bien garde de ne pas attraper une indigestion. Deux minutes plus tard, c’est un maçon qui passait en portant sur l’épaule un sac de chaux. – Mon bon monsieur, feriez-vous l’aumône d’un sou à un pauvre garçon qui baille tellement il a faim ? – supplia Pinocchio. – Bien volontiers – lui répondit le maçon – Je te donnerai même cinq sous si tu m’aides à porter ce sac. – Mais la chaux, c’est très lourd – fit remarquer Pinocchio – et je ne veux pas me fatiguer.

In one slick move, he shoves his phone in his pocket and grabs me so we’re in front of the cabinet. His hand slides around the back of my neck, and before I can panic, he kisses me hard. Momentarily caught off guard, I just throw my arms around his neck and press my body against his. His kiss deepens until our tongues are twisting together, and I’m reminded of just how great a kisser he is. The lights flicker on, and Grayson pulls away from me with a grunt. I’m so flustered, it takes me a few seconds to collect myself enough to see a man wearing a suit and a hotel name badge eyeing us. “Excuse me, Mr. Cole, I’m afraid this office is off-limits for guests,” he says. I glance at Grayson and have to stop myself from laughing at the shade of my lipstick he’s now wearing. Grayson doesn’t miss a beat; he just grabs my hand and tugs me across the room. “I won’t mention this if you don’t,” he says as we pass by the hotel porter. I try for a sheepish smile as we walk past him. “Sorry,” I mouth. As we make it out to the hallway, a half-smothered giggle escapes before I can stop it. “You should probably go to the men’s room before you go back to the party.” A smile creases his lipstick-smeared mouth before he swipes his hand over it. “Yeah. This isn’t really my shade.” I snort a laugh and try to laugh off the kiss. But as I head back to the party, I’m well aware that kiss has only stirred a desire for another one. Not only that but as I pull my mirror out to check my own face, I realize something I didn’t in the heat of the moment. ​There was nothing fake about that kiss.

said Una. "That birch is such a place for birds and they sing like mad in the mornings." "I'd take the Porter lot where there's so many children buried. I like lots of company," said Faith. "Carl, where'd you?" "I'd rather not be buried at all," said Carl, "but if I had to be I'd like the ant-bed. Ants are AWF'LY int'resting." "How very good all the people who are buried here must have been," said Una, who had been reading the laudatory old epitaphs. "There doesn't seem to be a single bad person in the whole graveyard. Methodists must be better than Presbyterians after all." "Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people just like they do cats," suggested Carl. "Maybe they don't bother bringing them to the graveyard at all." "Nonsense," said Faith. "The people that are buried here weren't any better than other folks, Una. But when anyone is dead you mustn't say anything of him but good or he'll come back and ha'nt you. Aunt Martha told me that. I asked father if it was true and he just looked through me and muttered,

C’est que les soirs où des étrangers, ou seulement M. Swann, étaient là, maman ne montait pas dans ma chambre. Je dînais avant tout le monde et je venais ensuite m’asseoir à table, jusqu’à huit heures où il était convenu que je devais monter ; ce baiser précieux et fragile que maman me confiait d’habitude dans mon lit au moment de m’endormir, il me fallait le transporter de la salle à manger dans ma chambre et le garder pendant tout le temps que je me déshabillais, sans que se brisât sa douceur, sans que se répandît et s’évaporât sa vertu volatile, et, justement ces soirs-là où j’aurais eu besoin de le recevoir avec plus de précaution, il fallait que je le prisse, que je le dérobasse brusquement, publiquement, sans même avoir le temps et la liberté d’esprit nécessaires pour porter à ce que je faisais cette attention des maniaques qui s’efforcent de ne pas penser à autre chose pendant qu’ils ferment une porte, pour pouvoir, quand l’incertitude maladive leur revient, lui opposer victorieusement le souvenir du moment où ils l’ont fermée.

You know what I’ve been thinking about?” Rachel asked, extending her hand to get snuffled by Boo Boo again, a true glutton for attention, as most of the goats were. “All the people I could have married. Not that anyone else asked me! But all the strangers I could have chosen to have a baby with. Like, Sliding Doors, but with my life, instead of Gwyneth Paltrow. Is that the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard?” Porter shook her head. “Yes. I mean, no, it’s not the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. It’s my entire life. It’s also a fun game to play for other people. The good news is that I think you have to stop when you have children, because you know that whoever you give birth to wouldn’t be there if you’d made different choices. And when Elvis is born, or Felix, or Tallulah, or whoever, you and I are going to look at them and say, fuck, I’m glad you’re here, and not someone else, and whatever choices you made led you to that person, your little person, and so the past becomes perfect. The future can always change, but not the past.

Jeanne était au pain sec dans le cabinet noir, Pour un crime quelconque, et, manquant au devoir, J'allai voir la proscrite en pleine forfaiture, Et lui glissai dans l'ombre un pot de confiture Contraire aux lois. Tous ceux sur qui, dans ma cité, Repose le salut de la société S'indignèrent, et Jeanne a dit d'une voix douce: -Je ne toucherai plus mon nez avec mon pouce; Je ne me ferai plus griffer par le minet. Mais on s'est recrié:-Cette enfant vous connaît; Elle sait à quel point vous êtes faible et lâche. Elle vous voit toujours rire quand on se fâche. Pas de gouvernement possible. A chaque instant L'ordre est troublé par vous; le pouvoir se détend; Plus de règle. L'enfant n'a plus rien qui l'arrête. Vous démolissez tout.-Et j'ai baissé la tête, Et j'ai dit:-Je n'ai rien à répondre à cela, J'ai tort. Oui, c'est avec ces indulgences-là Qu'on a toujours conduit les peuples à leur perte. Qu'on me mette au pain sec.-Vous le méritez, certe, On vous y mettra.-Jeanne alors, dans son coin noir, M'a dit tout bas, levant ses yeux si beaux à voir, Pleins de l'autorité des douces créatures: -Eh bien' moi, je t'irai porter des confitures.

A father one day said to his son, Tom, who, he knew, had refused to fill his mother's woodbox that morning: 'Tom, I'm sure you'll be glad to go and bring in some wood for your mother.' And without a word Tom went. Why? Just because his father showed so plainly that he expected him to do the right thing. Suppose he had said: 'Tom, I overheard what you said to your mother this morning, and I'm ashamed of you. Go at once and fill that woodbox!' I'll warrant that woodbox, would be empty yet, so far as Tom was concerned!" On and on read the minister—a word here, a line there, a paragraph somewhere else: "What men and women need is encouragement. Their natural resisting powers should be strengthened, not weakened.... Instead of always harping on a man's faults, tell him of his virtues. Try to pull him out of his rut of bad habits. Hold up to him his better self, his REAL self that can dare and do and win out!... The influence of a beautiful, helpful, hopeful character is contagious, and may revolutionize a whole town.... People radiate what is in their minds and in their hearts. If a man feels kindly and obliging, his neighbors will feel that way, too, before long. But if he scolds and scowls and criticizes—his neighbors will return scowl for scowl, and add interest!... When you look for the bad, expecting it, you will get it. When you know you will find the good—you will get that.... Tell your son Tom you KNOW he'll be glad to fill that woodbox—then watch him start, alert and interested!

Parce qu'il faut bien le dire, le sexe dans ses bras est un immense et luxuriant espace de jeu où rien, mais absolument rien, n'est interdit. J'ai l'impression de gambader toute nue au milieu d'herbes hautes infiniment plus douces que le plus doux des gazons, sous un ciel parfait, et Monsieur me pousse pour que j'atteigne des sommets inédits sur une balançoire née des pinceaux de Fragonard – et bien sûr je ne vais pas dire que je suis tout à fait tranquille en voyant le sol s'éloigner de plus en plus, mais l'ivresse est si grisante, mon Dieu, l'abandon si poignant que je ferme les yeux avec une envie insoutenable de pleurer de plaisir, mise au supplice par ce besoin que j'ai d'exprimer à quel point ce que je ressens est merveilleux, incapable de trouver ne serait-ce que des lettres pour illustrer ce sentiment; puis lorsque je suis à moitié folle d'excitation Monsieur m'entraîne à me plonger dans des marais sombres exhalant de suaves et scandaleuses vapeurs de soufre, dont l'eau est d'une chaleur obscène, et dans lesquels je me perds, orteil après orteil. Autour de nous le paysage est devenu plus inquiétant, je sais que je suis sur un territoire que Monsieur connaît par cœur, et qu'il va lui falloir me porter dans ces petits chemins de traverse que je ne soupçonnais qu'à peine. Lentement, inéluctablement je glisse dans les ornières les moins débroussaillées, et certes ma petite balançoire fleurie est loin, mais qu'il fait chaud et moite sous les ramures de ces arbres morts, plus près de l'enfer que je l'ai jamais été !...

McMaster said he had been completely in the dark about this. The secretary of state had not consulted or even informed him in advance. He had learned from press reports! In a news conference in Qatar, Tillerson had said the agreement “represents weeks of intensive discussions” between the two governments so it had been in the works for a while. Porter said Tillerson had not gone through the policy process at the White House and had not involved the president either. Clearly Tillerson was going off on his own. “It is more loyal to the president,” McMaster said, “to try to persuade rather the circumvent.” He said he carried out direct orders when the president was clear, and felt duty bound to do so as an Army officer. Tillerson in particular did not. “He’s such a prick,” McMaster said. “He thinks he’s smarter than anyone. So he thinks he can do his own thing.” In his long quest to bring order to the chaos, Priebus arranged for each of the key cabinet members to regularly check in. Tillerson came to his office at 5:15 p.m. on Tuesday, July 18. McMaster had not been invited but joined the meeting anyway. He took a seat at the conference table. The national security adviser’s silent presence was ominous and electric. Tell me, Priebus asked Tillerson, how are things going? Are you on track to achieve your primary objectives? How is the relationship between the State Department and the White House? Between you and the president? “You guys in the White House don’t have your act together,” Tillerson said, and the floodgates gushed open. “The president can’t make a decision. He doesn’t know how to make a decision. He won’t make a decision. He makes a decision and then changes his mind a couple of days later.” McMaster broke his silence and raged at the secretary of state. “You don’t work with the White House,” McMaster said. “You never consult me or anybody on the NSC staff. You blow us off constantly.” He cited examples when he tried to set up calls or meetings or breakfasts with Tillerson. “You are off doing your own thing” and communicate directly with the president, Mattis, Priebus or Porter. “But it’s never with the National Security Council,” and “that’s what we’re here to do.” Then he issued his most dramatic charge. “You’re affirmatively seeking to undermine the national security process.” “That’s not true,” Tillerson replied. “I’m available anytime. I talk to you all the time. We just had a conference call yesterday. We do these morning calls three times a week. What are you talking about, H.R.? I’ve worked with you. I’ll work with anybody.” Tillerson continued, “I’ve also got to be secretary of state. Sometimes I’m traveling. Sometimes I’m in a different time zone. I can’t always take your calls.” McMaster said he consulted with the relevant assistant secretaries of state if the positions were filled. “I don’t have assistant secretaries,” Tillerson said, coldly, “because I haven’t picked them, or the ones that I have, I don’t like and I don’t trust and I don’t work with. So you can check with whoever you want. That has no bearing on me.” The rest of the State Department didn’t matter; if you didn’t go through him, it didn’t count.

Poem in a Straight Line:" I never knew a soul who ever took a licking. My friends have all been champions at everything. And I, so often vulgar, so often obscene, so often vile, I, so deliberately parasitical, Unforgivably filthy, I, so often without patience to take a bath, I, who’ve been so ridiculous, so absurd, Tripping up in public on the carpet of etiquette, I, so grotesque and mean, submissive and insolent, Who’ve been insulted and not said a word, And when putting a word in growing still more ridiculous, I who strike chambermaids as laughable, I who feel porters wink sarcastically, I who’ve been scandalous about money, borrowing and not paying it back, I, who when the time came to fight, ducked As far as I could out of punching range, I who go into a sweat over the slightest thing — I’m convinced no one’s better than I at this sort of game. No one I know, none of my speaking acquaintances, Ever acted ridiculous, ever took insults, Was ever anything but noble – yes, all of them princes, living their lives… How I’d love to hear a human voice, from any one of them. Confessing not to sins but to infamies, Speaking not of violent but of cowardly acts! But no, each one’s a Paragon, to hear them tell it. Is there no one in this world who’d confess to me he’s been vile just once? All you princes, my brothers, Enough – I’m fed up with demigods! Where are the real people in this world? Am I the only scoundrel and bungler alive? Maybe women don’t always fall for them. Maybe they’ve been betrayed. But ridiculous? Never! And I, who’ve been ridiculous but never betrayed, How do I speak to their Highnesses without stammering? I, who’ve been vile, literally vile, Vile in the meanest and rottenest possible sense of the word

En ce qui concerne l’arabe et le berbère, je ne dirai qu’une chose : j’estime qu’un berbère qui ne connaît pas l’arabe, ne connaît pas le Maroc et l’arabe qui ne sait pas le berbère, non plus. Quant à l’origine des uns et des autres, et puisqu’on parle beaucoup ces derniers temps d’ADN, je voudrais déplorer le fait que chez nous, on a l’esprit insuffisamment scientifique pour remettre en cause des données historiques héritées, qu’on s’en tient à ce qui a été dit il y a mille ans. Or, je peux vous dire que les civilisations berbère et égyptienne ont une même origine, le centre du Grand Sahara. Quand je travaillais sur le dictionnaire berbère (j’y ai consacré 27 ans de ma vie), il y a eu une racine berbère qui m’a intriguée. Il s’agit d’un verbe, Sko, qui veut dire dans tous les dialectes berbères, « bâtir », sauf chez les touaregs où il veut dire « enterrer ». Or, c’est de notoriété publique, le touareg est un isolant linguistique, conservateur, qui peut porter les traces d’une signification originelle. Petit à petit, j’ai réuni suffisamment d’éléments pour affirmer qu’à l’époque des hordes dans le Grand Sahara, on a commencé à enterrer les morts. Puis, les gens n’étant pas sédentarisés, on a été obligés de construire un édifice reconnaissable sur chaque tombe. Par ce détail linguistique, je suis arrivé à l’hypothèse de l’origine historique commune, saharienne, des Berbères et des Egyptiens. Quand j’ai exposé ma thèse à l’Académie Royale du Maroc, elle a été accueillie très froidement. Mais une anthroplogue américaine qui menait une recherche sur les deux civilisations puis un livre paru en 2000 2 ont corroboré mon propos et montré qu’au moment de la désertification, les populations ont émigré vers l’Ouest (le Maghreb) et l’Est (l’Egypte) au plus proche des points d’eau 3, avec une particularité bovine du côté du Nil et une orientation pastoraliste ovine du côté du Maghreb. [Interview Economia, Octobre 2010]

In the fall of 1990 Iraq invaded Kuwait, and in the run-up to the Gulf War, Americans were sickened by a story that emerged. On October 10, 1990, a fifteen-year-old refugee from Kuwait appeared before a congressional Human Rights Caucus.23 The girl—she would give only her first name, Nayirah—had volunteered in a hospital in Kuwait City. She tearfully testified that Iraqi soldiers had stolen incubators to ship home as plunder, leaving over three hundred premature infants to die. Our collective breath was taken away—“These people leave babies to die on the cold floor; they are hardly human.” The testimony was seen on the news by approximately 45 million Americans, was cited by seven senators when justifying their support of war (a resolution that passed by five votes), and was cited more than ten times by George H. W. Bush in arguing for U.S. military involvement. And we went to war with a 92 percent approval rating of the president’s decision. In the words of Representative John Porter (R-Illinois), who chaired the committee, after Nayirah’s testimony, “we have never heard, in all this time, in all circumstances, a record of inhumanity, and brutality, and sadism, as the ones that [Nayirah had] given us today.” Much later it emerged that the incubator story was a pseudospeciating lie. The refugee was no refugee. She was Nayirah al-Sabah, the fifteen-year-old daughter of the Kuwaiti ambassador to the United States. The incubator story was fabricated by the public relations firm Hill + Knowlton, hired by the Kuwaiti government with the help of Porter and cochair Representative Tom Lantos (D-California). Research by the firm indicated that people would be particularly responsive to stories about atrocities against babies (ya think?), so the incubator tale was concocted, the witness coached. The story was disavowed by human rights groups (Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch) and the media, and the testimony was withdrawn from the Congressional Record—long after the war.

One morning, a farmer knocked loudly on the door of a monastery. When Brother Porter opened the door, the farmer held out to him a magnificent bunch of grapes. “Dear Brother Porter, these are the finest grapes from my vineyard. Please accept them as a gift from me.” “Why, thank you! I’ll take them straight to the Abbot, who will be thrilled with such a gift.” “No, no. I brought them for you.” “For me? But I don’t deserve such a beautiful gift from nature.” “Whenever I knocked on the door, you opened it. When the harvest had been ruined by drought, you gave me a piece of bread and a glass of wine every day. I want this bunch of grapes to bring you a little of the sun’s love, the rain’s beauty and God’s miraculous power.” Brother Porter put the grapes down where he could see them and spent the whole morning admiring them: they really were lovely. Because of this, he decided to give the present to the Abbot, whose words of wisdom had always been such a boon to him. The Abbot was very pleased with the grapes, but then he remembered that one of the other monks was ill and thought: “I’ll give him the grapes. Who knows, they might bring a little joy into his life.” But the grapes did not remain for very long in the room of the ailing monk, for he in turn thought: “Brother Cook has taken such good care of me, giving me only the very best food to eat. I’m sure these grapes will bring him great happiness.” And when Brother Cook brought him his lunch, the monk gave him the grapes. “These are for you. You are in close touch with the gifts Nature gives us and will know what to do with this, God’s produce.” Brother Cook was amazed at the beauty of the grapes and drew his assistant’s attention to their perfection. They were so perfect that no one could possibly appreciate them more than Brother Sacristan, who had charge of the Holy Sacrament, and whom many in the monastery considered to be a truly saintly man. Brother Sacristan, in turn, gave the grapes to the youngest of the novices in order to help him understand that God’s work is to be found in the smallest details of the Creation. When the novice received them, his heart was filled with the Glory of God, because he had never before seen such a beautiful bunch of grapes. At the same time, he remembered the day he had arrived at the monastery and the person who had opened the door to him; that gesture of opening the door had allowed him to be there now in that community of people who knew the value of miracles. Shortly before dark, he took the bunch of grapes to Brother Porter. “Eat and enjoy. You spend most of your time here all alone, and these grapes will do you good.” Brother Porter understood then that the gift really was intended for him; he savoured every grape and went to sleep a happy man. In this way, the circle was closed; the circle of happiness and joy which always wraps around those who are in contact with the energy of love.

A knock at the enameled door of the carriage altered them to the presence of a porter and a platform inspector just outside. Sebastian looked up and handed the baby back to Evie. He went to speak to the men. After a minute or two, he came back from the threshold with a basket. Looking both perturbed and amused, he brought it to Phoebe. “This was delivered to the station for you.” “Just now?” Phoebe asked with a nonplussed laugh. “Why, I believe it’s Ernestine’s mending basket! Don’t say the Ravenels went to the trouble of sending someone all the way to Alton to return it?” “It’s not empty,” her father said. As he set the basket in her lap, it quivered and rustled, and a blood-curdling yowl emerged. Astonished, Phoebe fumbled with the latch on the lid and opened it. The black cat sprang out and crawled frantically up her front, clinging to her shoulder with such ferocity that nothing could have detached her claws. “Galoshes!” Justin exclaimed, hurrying over to her. “Gosh-gosh!” Stephen cried in excitement. Phoebe stroked the frantic cat and tried to calm her. “Galoshes, how . . . why are you . . . oh, this is Mr. Ravenel’s doing! I’m going to murder him. You poor little thing.” Justin came to stand beside her, running his hands over the dusty, bedraggled feline. “Are we going to keep her now, Mama?” “I don’t think we have a choice,” Phoebe said distractedly. “Ivo, will you go with Justin to the dining compartment, and fetch her some food and water?” The two boys dashed off immediately. “Why has he done this?” Phoebe fretted. “He probably couldn’t make her stay at the barn, either. But she’s not meant to be a pet. She’s sure to run off as soon as we reach home.” Resuming his seat next to Evie, Sebastian said dryly, “Redbird, I doubt that creature will stray more than an arm’s length from you.” Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West’s handwriting. Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position To Whom It May Concern, I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred. Your servant, Galoshes the Cat Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents’ questioning gazes on her. “Job application,” she explained sourly. “From the cat.” “How charming,” Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder. “‘Personal companion,’ my foot,” Phoebe muttered. “This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin.” “I wonder,” Seraphina said thoughtfully. “If she were truly feral, she wouldn’t want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “It seems we’ll find out.” The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe’s lap and curled up with a sigh.

Are you Hilary Westfield?” She sounded like she hoped it wasn’t the case. Hilary nodded. “Oh. Well, I’m Philomena. I have to show you to your room.” Hilary looked wildly at Miss Greyson. “I’m Miss Westfield’s governess,” Miss Greyson said, to Hilary’s relief. Maybe talking politely to people like Philomena was something you learned at Miss Pimm’s, or maybe getting past Philomena was a sort of entrance exam. “Is there any chance we could see Miss Pimm? We’re old acquaintances. I used to go to school here, you see.” Miss Greyson smiled for the second time that day—the world was getting stranger and stranger by the minute—but Philomena didn’t smile back. “I’m terribly sorry,” said Philomena, “but Miss Pimm doesn’t receive visitors. You can leave Miss Westfield with me, and the porter will collect Miss Westfield’s bags.” She raised her eyebrows as the carriage driver deposited the golden traveling trunk on the doorstep. “I hope you have another pair of stockings in there.” “I do.” Hilary met Philomena’s stare. “I have nineteen pairs, in fact. And a sword.” Miss Greyson groaned and put her hand to her forehead. “Excuse me?” said Philomena. “I’m afraid Miss Westfield is prone to fits of imagination,” Miss Greyson said quickly. Philomena’s eyebrows retreated. “I understand completely,” she said. “Well, you have nothing to worry about. Miss Pimm’s will cure her of that nasty habit soon enough. Now, Miss Westfield, please come along with me.” Hilary and Miss Greyson started to follow Philomena inside. “Only students and instructors are permitted inside the school building,” said Philomena to Miss Greyson. “With all the thefts breaking out in the kingdom these days, one really can’t be too careful. But you’re perfectly welcome to say your good-byes outside.” Miss Greyson agreed and knelt down in front of Hilary. “A sword?” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Miss Greyson.” “All I ask is that you take care not to carve up your classmates. If I were not a governess, however, I might mention that the lovely Philomena is in need of a haircut.” Hilary nearly laughed, but she suspected it might be against the rules to laugh on the grounds of Miss Pimm’s, so she gave Miss Greyson her most solemn nod instead. “Now,” said Miss Greyson, “you must promise to write. You must keep up with the news of the day and tell me all about it in your letters. And you’ll come and visit me in my bookshop at the end of the term, won’t you?” “Of course.” Hilary’s stomach was starting to feel very strange, and she didn’t trust herself to say more than a few words at a time. This couldn’t be right; pirates were hardly ever sentimental. Then again, neither was Miss Greyson. Yet here she was, leaning forward to hug Hilary, and Hilary found herself hugging Miss Greyson back. “Please don’t tell me to be a good little girl,” she said. Miss Greyson sniffed and stood up. “My dear,” she said, “I would never dream of it.” She gave Hilary’s canvas bag an affectionate pat, nodded politely to Philomena, and walked down the steps and through the gate, back to the waiting carriage. “Come along,” said Philomena, picking up the lightest of Hilary’s bags. “And please don’t dawdle. I have lessons to finish.” HILARY FOLLOWED PHILOMENA through a maze of dark stone walls and high archways. From the inside, the building seemed more like a fortress

I’m worried that there are too many women out there who know the difference between right and wrong but don’t have the guts to say it to the people in their own lives who are causing the problem. What is stopping you? Who are you afraid of? Men, why? Other women? Well, that’s just dumb. The reason men progressed above us in society is because they dominated us with actions and attitude. It’s that simple. To re-address the balance, we have to do the same thing. If someone is overpowering you and stopping you getting to where you want to be, then STOP letting them do it. If someone is objectifying you for your sexuality, STOP allowing yourself to be

lie-down.

blood run

i'm not quite sure how many different people i've kissed since our lips last touched in that new hampshire greyhound bus station. i'm not sure how many separate hands i have held since i last wrapped my fingers between yours to get you over that new york city bridge. i'm not sure how many new beds i've climbed out of, how many lies i've told, how many hearts i've broken. all i know is i haven't said i love you to anyone since i last said it to you, face to face, at that airport when i finally realized, we were over.

but you always wanted more. you always looked for someone else. you were never truly happy with the person who was in front of you. nothing i could do could ever change that. - i'm sorry i'm not her

Don’t make a joke right now. None of this is funny.” I tipped my head, squinting one eye. “Well, except for the part where I’m falling in love with a married woman I haven’t even had sex with yet. But I’m sure Porter will spend the rest of his natural life making fun of me for that. Honestly, as long as you’re there laughing too. I’m okay with it.” This time, she kissed me. “Oh, Tanner.” She guided my hands down to her mouth, where she kissed one palm and then the other. “You really suck at casual, honey.” I grinned. “Only with you.

Mais il resterait toujours ceci, qui m'empêcherait d'écrire ma vie, et qui est peut-être la véritable raison de mes échecs, c’est que si je disais certaines choses, si je racontais toute la vérité, qui n'est pas toujours belle, certains imputeraient mes criminalités à tous ceux qui m'aident à porter ma peau. Mais si ce n'est pas pour tout dire, à quoi sert de parler ?