Moi Day Quotes

Fifteen Ways to Stay Alive 1. Offer the wolves your arm only from the elbow down. Leave tourniquet space. Do not offer them your calves. Do not offer them your side. Do not let them near your femoral artery, your jugular. Give them only your arm. 2. Wear chapstick when kissing the bomb. 3. Pretend you don’t know English. 4. Pretend you never met her. 5. Offer the bomb to the wolves. Offer the wolves to the zombies. 6. Only insert a clean knife into your chest. Rusty ones will cause tetanus. Or infection. 7. Don’t inhale. 8. Realize that this love was not your trainwreck, was not the truck that flattened you, was not your Waterloo, did not cause massive haemorrhaging from a rusty knife. That love is still to come. 9. Use a rusty knife to cut through most of the noose in a strategic place so that it breaks when your weight is on it. 10. Practice desperate pleas for attention, louder calls for help. Learn them in English, French, Spanish: May Day, Aidez-Moi, Ayúdame. 11. Don’t kiss trainwrecks. Don’t kiss knives. Don’t kiss. 12. Pretend you made up the zombies, and only superheroes exist. 13. Pretend there is no kryptonite. 14. Pretend there was no love so sweet that you would have died for it, pretend that it does not belong to someone else now, pretend like your heart depends on it because it does. Pretend there is no wreck — you watched the train go by and felt the air brush your face and that was it. Another train passing. You do not need trains. You can fly. You are a superhero. And there is no kryptonite. 15. Forget her name.

que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions où être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instant verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir été sans cette onde où à la fin corps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissent que ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmures haletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amour sans ce ciel qui s'élève sur la poussieère de ses lests que ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'hui regardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seul à errer et à virer loin de toute vie dans un espace pantin sans voix parmi les voix enfermées avec moi Translation... what would I do without this world what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love without this sky that soars above its ballast dust what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness

Moi Aussi I need to know you even as I never know my self that phantom ache of amputated innocence You, the stirrings of a curtain, dust settling on sepia cuckoo clocks covers obscuring Perhaps one day you will become a benign sentence an agency through which to be. Return

Dans les fins de mois, ce qui est le plus dur, c'est les trente derniers jours. The hardest part of ending each month is going through the last 30 days.

Je suis heureuse et fière de moi, même quand je fais les courses. Je sors si j’en ai envie, sinon je reste à la maison pour lire, regarder un film ou bien cuisiner pour moi ou mes amis. Parfois, je mange à table. D’autres fois, je m’assieds par terre, adossée au canapé. J’ouvre une bouteille de vin même quand je suis seule. Je n’ai pas besoin de négocier. Je suis indépendante. Je suis prête à me battre de toutes mes forces pour préserver cette situation. Pour toujours. Pourtant, moi aussi, j’aurais quelquefois besoin qu’on m’enlace. Besoin de baisser la garde et de me perdre dans les bras d’un homme. De me sentir protégée. Même si je me débrouille très bien toute seule, parfois, j’aimerais feindre le contraire juste pour le plaisir que quelqu’un s’occupe de moi. Seulement, je ne veux pas rester avec un homme pour ça. Je ne veux pas devoir accepter des compromis et je n’arrive pas à renoncer à tout ce que j’ai.

Demain, dès l’aube Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps. Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit. Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur. Tomorrow, At Dawn Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside whitens, I will set out. You see, I know that you wait for me. I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain. I can no longer remain far from you. I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, Seeing nothing of outdoors, hearing no noise Alone, unknown, my back curved, my hands crossed, Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as the night. I will not look at the gold of evening which falls, Nor the distant sails going down towards Harfleur, And when I arrive, I will place on your tomb A bouquet of green holly and of flowering heather

The other day Father Prior was telling me about a French writer, Jean-Paul Sartre. An existentialist. ... One phrase of his particularly struck me: 'L'enfer c'est les autres.' Do you think he meant that as a joke?" "I don't think humor's a strong point with existentialists." "I think it's p-p-poppycock. How can Hell be others? God is manifested in others. God is the Other. That's why the self must lose itself in love for the other. It's the self we must leave behind. Better to say Hell is the Self. L'enfer c'est moi.

Again I say, the Christians of to-day are too modest for me .… If Wagner were a Christian, then Liszt was perhaps a Father of the Church! — The need of salvation, the quintessence of all Christian needs, has nothing in common with such clowns; it is the most straightforward expression of decadence, it is the most convincing and most painful affirmation of decadence, in sublime symbols and practices. The Christian wishes to be rid of himself. Le moi est toujours haissable (The Self is always hateful). Noble morality, master-morality, on the other hand, is rooted in a triumphant saying of yea to one's self, — it is the self-affirmation and self-glorification of life; it also requires sublime symbols and practices; but only “because its heart is too full.” The whole of beautiful art and of great art belongs here; their common essence is gratitude. But we must allow it a certain instinctive repugnance to décadents, and a scorn and horror of the latter's symbolism: such things almost prove it. The noble Romans considered Christianity as a foeda superstitio: let me call to your minds the feelings which the last German of noble taste — Goethe — had in regard to the cross.

Giddy? Moi? How did I go from near despair—threatening to walk away from my faith in God forever—to giddy? I realized there could be only one explanation: God. He made good on His promise to love me, warts and all, and He showed up to meet me where I was—bitter and exhausted and spiritually out of gas. I offered Him seven days, He offered me unconditional love for all eternity. And for the first time in my life, I realized it was okay to place value on all that He made me to be.

Many French women (moi included) believe that the right day to cut is on a full moon.

LULLABALOO As I was walking in The park one day I chanced to run into An angelorium. Good morning, he said I answered back, good day. He was speaking Spanish But I used French. Dites moi, Sir Angel Comment va monsieur. He stretched out his hand I grabbed his foot, You should get a good look At a real live angel! As silly as a swan As cold as a crowbar As fat as a duck As ugly as you. I got a little scared But I stuck it out. I tried to touch his feathers His feathers felt as Hard as the hard Shell of a fish, Just think if it was Lucifer! I made him mad He took a swipe at me With his golden sword But I was quick and ducked. That's the looniest angel I ever hope to see. I laughed myself to pieces I said, goodbye, kind sir Be on your way. Have a nice day Get run over by a car, Get killed by a train. So that's the story of the angel. The End.

She speaks French,” Graeme muttered. Traigh turned quite serious and nodded his head. “Aye, she be speakin’ French. Mayhap she learned it from listenin’ to ye and yer French friend speakin’ it these past days.” Though his tone sounded serious, there was a decidedly sarcastic undertone to it. “Ye knew,” Graeme said as he glared angrily at his brother. Traigh feigned innocence. “Moi?” Graeme’s glare intensified. “Why did ye no’ tell me? Why did she no’ tell me?” Traigh smiled thoughtfully and placed a hand on Graeme’s shoulder . “Ye did no’ ask.

Mpengi travelled on foot, living off the land. On the third day he entered another country, but he did not know it. He had voted for Daniel Arap Moi, because the elders of his tribe had shown him against which symbol to make his mark. He did not even know his country was called Kenya. This did not make him stupid. His skills were simply different.

Au-delà du saint utérus maternel tu es la flamme sans mots qui fouette une de ses propres étincelles avec la céleste aile d'une apocalypse que j'aie la force de rester ici et de sentir mes bienfaits éternels pétiller où la nuit est peinte en noir par de meurtrières futilités mais ni la science ni un œil ne voit qu'une petite luciole me transporte dans un nid distant afin que la mort et moi puissions dire au revoir [Tu ești văpaie fără grai de dincolo de matca mumii past the blessed mother's womb you're the wordless flame who whips a blaze of itself with the heavenly wings of an apocalypse let me have the strength to stay here and feel my endless blessings fizz where the night is painted black by murderous futilities but neither science nor an eye can see that a small firefly transports me to a distant nest so death and I can say good-bye] (p. 110-111, "All Souls' Days in Vienna")

Il ne me laisse pas l’aimer. Il ne me laisse pas essayer. Je ne sais pas quoi faire.” He won’t let me love him. He won’t let me try. I don’t know what to do. “I’d give anything to go back, to be braver. I was so scared. I was such a coward, and you died. You died…I never got to tell you how much I loved you. How much you meant to me, how much you changed me. How much I respected you. You were so brave, Dominic, and so strong. I was so privileged to know you. To love you. As much as you tried, you were never a forgettable man. I will miss you every day of my life.” I press my hand to my chest. “Attends-moi mon amour. Jusqu’à ce que nous nous revoyions. Jusqu’à ce que nous puissions sentir la pluie sur nos deux visages. Il doit y avoir une place pour nous dans la prochaine vie. Je ne veux pas d’un paradis où je ne te vois pas.” Until we meet again. Until we can feel the rain on both our faces. There has to be a time for us in the next life. I don’t want any part of a heaven where I don’t see you. At the gate, I glance back at his grave one last time. “A bientôt. Merci.” Until then. Thank you.

I've thought at length about stocks and leftovers. How much should I buy? What should I cook? How long should I keep it? I've thought about it and found an answer: do what you would for a large family. With fish: raw on the first day, cooked the next if it hasn't been eaten, made into terrine on the third and soup on the fourth. That's what my grandmother does. That's what most women do and no one's ever died from it. How do I know? It would have been in the paper. With meat it's the same, except I think tartar is a bit vulgar, so I cook my meat the day I buy it, then it becomes meatballs, soft little meatballs with coriander and cumin, celery tops, fronds of chervil, cream, lemon and tomatoes, roasted in garlic. There's no third chance for meat. Well there is and there isn't. I'm not allowed to write about it. With vegetables it's even more straightforward: raw, cooked, puréed, in soup, as stock. It's the same for fruits. Dairy products are such a help: they hold up well. I have a particular weakness for them. I trust them completely. Juices, of every sort, are kept separately in glass jugs. Very important, glass jugs. That's something else I got from my grandmother.

— Euh… est-ce que je peux faire équipe avec Thermo ? demande Braillard. — Thermo ? répète Raffe, visiblement surpris. La dernière fois que je vous ai assignés ensemble, tu m’as confié que c’était dangereux de travailler avec lui parce qu’il pouvait s’endormir à n’importe quel moment en cours de mission. — Ouais, c’est justement pour ça qu’il faudrait que je veille sur lui. En plus, si je vais avec lui, je n’aurai pas à faire équipe avec vous et votre Fille de l’Homme. — Bien vu, déclare Cyclone. Est-ce que je peux partir avec Braillard et Thermo ? Ils ne s’en sortiront pas, sans moi. Braillard ronchonne. — Pourquoi est-ce qu’ils refusent de faire équipe avec moi ? fais-je. — Parce que personne n’a très envie de tenir la chandelle, annonce Braillard en secouant la tête.

Dans les fins de mois, ce qui est le plus dur, c'est les trente derniers jours. The hardest thing about the end of the month is the last 30 days.

Dans les fins de mois, ce qui est le plus dur, c'est les trente derniers jours. The hardest part of the end of each month is last thirty days.