Mol Quotes

Hey Mol. Hey You. You gonna give up that lucky sweet kiss? If that's what you want. It most definitely is.

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol ... slowly faded, the Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive. It was always there. Like a fruit in season. Every season. As permanent as a government job.

Love potions? For Will 'erondale? 'Tain't my way to turn down payment, but any man who looks like you 'as got no need of love potions, and that's a fact." "No," Will said, a little desperation in his voice. "I was looking for the opposite, really -- something that might put an end to being in love." "An 'atred potion?" Mol still sounded amused. "I was hoping for something more akin to indifference? Tolerance?" She made a snorting noise, astonishingly human for a ghost. "I 'ardly like to tell you this, Nephilim, but if you want a girl to 'ate you, there's easy enough ways of making it 'appen. You don't need my help with the poor thing." And with that she vanished, spinning away into the mists among the graves. Will, looking after her, sighed. "Not for her," he said under his breath, though there was no one to hear him, "for me..." And he leaned his head against the cold iron gate.

Not at all, Shakespeare, but hear this. I’m gonna fuck you, but I’m also gonna make love to you. I’m gonna own every goddamn piece of your soul, and I’m never gonna let you go. You’re gonna scream my name over and over until it’s permanently lodged in your friggin’ throat. You’re not gonna be just a fuck to me, Mol—you’re gonna be my fuckin’ salvation!

One beach-colored. One brown. One Loved. One Loved a Little Less.

I wanna be with you,” he pushed, his big brown eyes almost pleading. “C’mon, Mol. I need you. Tell me you get me. Tell me you’re as fuckin’ into me as I am you.

Mol, it's not probably nothing if they fucking want you to go to Germany." She winced, and he turned to the people-mostly women- who were filling most of those waiting room seat. "Excuse me. This doctor thinks my wife, whom I love more than life, has breast cancer, so I'm going to say fuck probably about ten more times. Is that okay with all of you?

For twenty-eight years of Baby Mol’s life, the sun has never failed to come up, yet every morning she’s ecstatic at its return. To see the miraculous in the ordinary is a more precious gift than prophecy.

Somehow: Molly. He heard her in the entryway. Mol, Molly, oh boy. When they were first married they used to fight. Say the most insane things. Afterward, sometimes there would be tears. Tears in bed? And then they would - Molly pressing her hot wet face against his hot wet face. They were sorry, they were saying with their bodies, they were accepting each other back, and that feeling, that feeling of being accepted back again and again, of someone's affection for you expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you, that was the deepest, dearest thing he'd ever - She came in flustered and apologetic, a touch of anger in her face. He'd embarrassed her. He saw that. He'd embarrassed her by doing something that showed she hadn't sufficiently noticed him needing her. She'd been too busy nursing him to notice how scared he was. She was angry at him for pulling this stunt and ashamed of herself for feeling angry at him in his hour of need, and was trying to put the shame and anger behind her now so she could do what might be needed. All of this was in her face. He knew her so well. Also concern. Overriding everything else in that lovely face was concern. She came to him now, stumbling a bit on a swell in the floor of this stranger's house.

Information can be such a double-edged sword.

What is worry but fear of what the future holds? Baby Mol lives completely in the present and is spared all worry.

Fear is just doubt, disguised.

The acknowledgement of having suffered evil is the greatest step forward in mental health.

God usually answers questions different than the way we want him to. He’s predictably unpredictable. Always the same at surprising us.

Big Ammachi asks Baby Mol the question, the one she has asked every night for over a decade now, a question that counts on Baby Mol’s gift of prophecy.

Wat lijkt jou de grootste tijdverspilling?' 'Jezelf met anderen vergelijken,' zei de mol.

When you lose weight, mol, you will be a suitable match for him.” Sweetie knew in her heart that she was good enough for Ashish just as she was. But why couldn’t her own mother see that? “I’m … I’m sorry you’re so ashamed of me,” she said quietly. “But I’m not ashamed of myself.” Her eyes burned with tears.

A test isn't really a test unless failing it truly tempts you...

Moonlight wreaks havoc on an otherwise sane thinking mind. It makes you think that the impossible is possible, and your dreams, reality.

It’s amazing how one question can be so hard to articulate, and how the whole world can seem to hang on the answer.

Niet elke zelfstandige is een knoeier met een dure BMW.

Europe – medieval, grotesque, monstrous: a symphony in B-mol.

Ik ben zo klein,' zei de mol. 'Ja,' zei de jongen. 'Maar je maakt een groot verschil.

He thinks of his loving sister, and the narrow, confined life she lived that never seemed that way to her, and how much she enriched their lives. He was her “precious baby,” never aging for her, just as she never aged. Strangers might feel sorry for Baby Mol, but if they’d understood how happy she was, how fully she lived in the present, inhabiting each second, they’d have been envious.

Hey, Mol.” “Hey, you.” He rewarded me with a smile, a full smile—he floored me at how stunning he looked. I wondered how it was possible that someone so attractive even existed… and he wanted me.

By the time they return to the lodge in the late afternoon, they’ve seen so many white men—sa’ippus—and even white women, that Baby Mol no longer wants to touch them to see if the color comes off.

I’m sorry if he’s bleeding internally. I hope he’s not. But I’m not wasting a healing spell on a guy that pointed a gun at us.” “Can you do an ‘I’m sorry’ spell? I don’t wanna get too near him.” “It’s not the Staff of Hallmark, Mol.

A vagina or a penis need not cause gender identity from the inside to be relevant in staging oneself as a woman or a man. The extent to which they are relevant depends on the scene. Out in the streets one does not need a penis to perform masculinity. But in communal showers at the swimming pool, it helps a lot. So there they are, the genitals: on stage.

A furious Big Ammachi studies her smiling daughter. What did the stupid boy see? Was it her daughter’s tongue? The family is used to Baby Mol’s habit of parking her tongue on her lower lip, as though there’s no room in her mouth. Her face is broad, or perhaps her prominent forehead just makes it seem so. The soft diamond that babies have in the front of their heads remains visible under Baby Mol’s skin, though she’s going on six. Her features are blunt, that’s true. Unlike her parents, she has a snub nose, and it sits on her face like a berry on a saucer.

Don’t mistake yourself for one of the others, Mol. You’re much, much more. I’ll gladly convince anyone who thinks otherwise.” “Why am I more? I don’t get it.” “You just are. You somehow give me peace in my completely fucked-up world. You get me; no one has before. It’s that simple.

I’m gonna fuck you, but I’m also gonna make love to you. I’m gonna own every goddamn piece of your soul, and I’m never gonna let you go. You’re gonna scream my name over and over until it’s permanently lodged in your friggin’ throat. You’re not gonna be just a fuck to me, Mol—you’re gonna be my fuckin’ salvation!

Big Ammachi feels the muttam sinking beneath her and reaches for a verandah pillar for support. Baby Mol was three before she could walk without clinging to something, and four before she put words together. Big Ammachi was too relieved to have a child who didn’t wish to swing from vines to make much of these things. She seeks out Odat Kochamma. “Be honest—what do you think?” The old lady studies Baby Mol for a while. “Could be something isn’t right. Her voice is so hoarse. And her skin is different, puffy.” It pains the old lady to say this, but Big Ammachi knows she’s right. “But what does it matter?” Odat Kochamma adds. “She’s an angel!

When a person is faced with intense fear or sheer horror, they show their strength not by trying to be though, but by recovering afterwards

Always do what makes YOU happy, it doesn’t matter what other people say, the only exception is when you cause other people to be unhappy

Zeg niet: "Dat kind heeft ADHD". Zeg wel: "Hij draagt het 7R gen".

Voetbal is niet meer dan show van duur betaalde theatermakers voor hersenloze amokmakers.

Live doesn't always give, Sometimes it takes

There is a leader in every manager, there is not a manager in every leader.

Een kunstenaar is een designer die kan aantonen dat hij geleden heeft.

The way he was talking to me earlier… makes me think he’s starting to feel like God’s the cosmic sadist again and he’s the marionette.” “In other words, God’s just torturing him for the kick?” Thomas sighed and set his mostly untouched plate down. “Something like that.” “That’s not a healthy outlook.” “He doesn’t feel loved right now, so it’s the natural one.

Everybody is familiar with the standard names of SI units for length (meter, m), mass (kilogram, kg) and time (second, s) but degrees Kelvin (K) rather than Celsius are used to measure temperature; the ampere (A) is the unit of electric current, the mole (mol) quantifies the amount of substance and the candela (cd) the luminous intensity. More than twenty derived units, including all energy-related variables, have special names and symbols, many given in honor of leading scientists and engineers. The unit of force, kgm/s2 (kilogram-meter per second squared), is the newton (N): the application of 1 N can accelerate a mass of one kilogram by one meter per second each second. The unit of energy, the joule (J), is the force of one newton acting over a distance of one meter (kgm2/s2). Power, simply the energy flow per unit of time (kgm2/s3), is measured in watts (W): one watt equals one J/s and, conversely, energy then equals power 3 times, and hence one J is one watt-second.

The silly chemachen had spent minutes observing Damo, till Unni chased him away. Now he’s too busy gawking at Baby Mol to recall why he’s there, until Big Ammachi asks him about the ledger. His childlike eyes turn uncomprehendingly to her. “That thing under your sweaty armpit,” she says, pointing. He hands it over. “What’s wrong with the little one?” he asks solicitously. She jerks up, following his gaze to where Baby Mol sits on her bench, as she does for hours each day, her legs keeping time.

You’re a lot to take on, you know.” “I know.” He exhaled a long breath with a cocky, crooked smile. “I don’t know what you want from me. You tie me up in knots and I’m not used to it.” Edging in closer, he wrapped his arms around my waist, stating, “Then let me show you what I want. Stop fuckin’ fightin’ this.” I tried to break from his hold. “No, Rome, this is just… just…” “I wanna be with you,” he pushed, his big brown eyes almost pleading. “C’mon, Mol. I need you. Tell me you get me. Tell me you’re as fuckin’ into me as I am you.

The (serious) game played here makes a move that is the other way around: like (humans) subjects, (natural) objects are framed as parts of events that occur and plays that are staged. If an objects is real this is because it is part of a practice. It is a reality enacted.

So what I am trying to relate is not that there are two, five, or seventy variants of atherosclerosis, but that there is multiplicity. That as long as the practicalities of enacting a disease are kept unbracketed, out in the open, the varieties of "atherosclerosis" multiply.

Baby Mol announces her arrival—“an old lady is coming”—minutes before the bow-legged Odat Kochamma waddles in as if she’s heard a silent summons for help. This gray-haired, hook-nosed woman can stand with her feet together and Baby Mol could still pass between her knees. She’s a distant cousin of “Big Appachen,” as Baby Mol calls her father (a name they gradually all take to using when speaking of him in the third person). Big Ammachi finds out later that the old lady wanders among the homes of her various children, staying for a few months with one, then another before moving on. But Parambil is where she will stay.

What Baby Mol has is a well-known affliction. It’s called ‘cretinism’—but the name is not important.” It means nothing to Big Ammachi in any case. “There’s a gland here in the neck. The thyroid. You’ve seen it swell into a goiter in some people?” She has. “That gland produces a vital substance for the body to grow and the brain to develop. Sometimes at birth the gland doesn’t work. Then children develop like Baby Mol. The tongue. The broad face. The hoarse voice. The thickened skin. She’s a smart child, but she’s slow to learn what others her age know.” He’s listed all the things about her daughter that she resisted seeing.

Quella prima notte, il giorno dell'arrivo di Sophie Mol, Velutha guardò la sua amante che si rivestiva. Quando fu pronta, Ammu si accovacciò di fronte a lui. Lo toccò leggermente con le dita e lasciò una traccia di pelledoca sulla pelle. Come un gesso morbido sulla lavagna. Come la brezza in una risaia. Come le scie dei jet in un cielo celeste da chiesa. Lui le prese il viso tra le mani e lo attirò verso il suo. Chiuse gli occhi e le annusò la pelle. Ammu rise. Sì, Margaret, pensò. Lo facciamo anche fra noi. Baciò gli occhi chiusi di Velutha e si alzò. Velutha, con la schiena appoggiata al mangostano, la guardò andar via. Aveva una rosa secca tra i capelli. Si girò per dirlo un'altra volta: "Naaley". Domani.

Still, to say that it all began when Sophie Mol came to Ayemenem is only one way of looking at it. Equally, it could be argued that it actually began thousands of years ago. Long before Marxists came. Before the British took Malabar, before the Dutch Ascendency, before Vasco da Gama arrived, before the Zamorin's conquest of Calicut. Before three purple-robed Syrian Bishops murdered by the Portugese were found floating in the sea, with coiled sea serpents riding on their chests and oysters knotted in their tangled beards. It could be argued that it began long before Christianity arrived in a boat and seeped into Kerala like tea from a teabag. That it really began in the days when the Love Laws were made. The laws that lay down who should be loved, and how. And how much.

With a slight smile on her face, she lies down on one side of the bed and pats the empty spot next to her. Confused, I follow suit, the both of us staring up at the ceiling silently. Right as I begin to ask her what she's doing, a burst of music fills the room. My eyes flick to where she holds her phone up, "Sunglasses at Night" playing from the speakers. "Mol—" "Shh," she hushes, laying her hand over mine. "Don't be rude. Olivia might be trying to listen, too." I can't breathe. A fire explodes in my chest, burning a path down to our entwined hands. I hope to God that it burns her, too. I want the flames to melt our hands together so she can never let go. If she wanted me to fall in love with her, she only needed to tell me. Now, she has no choice in the matter. Though, I suppose she never really did.

WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE. JO BITE HUE KAL ME THE. BITAYA THA EK WAQT UN DOSTO KE SATH BHULE BISRE UN RATO KE SATH. JITE THE HUM BHI GURUR ME ZINDAGI NA HARNE KE SURAT ME YE ZINDAGI. MILI THI JAB PAHLI NAZAR TUJHSE. GUM HO GAYA THA YE DIL KAHI MUJHSE. RUK GAYA THA WAQT JAISE. THAM GAYI THI YE SAANSE VAISE. WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE. JO BITE HUE KAL ME THE WO CHUP CHUP KAR TUJHE DEKHNA. WO KHAWABHO ME BHI TUJHE DEKHNA WO DUAON ME TUJHE MANGNA WO NIGAHON ME TUJHE BAITHANA YAAD HAI WO SAB…. WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE JO BITE HUE KAL ME THI TAB DIKHAYA TUNE. SACH HI BATAYA TUNE BIKTI HAI JAHAN ME SURAT NA HAI SIRAT KA KOI MOL. MILTI HAI MOHABBAT YAHA KAUDIYO KE MOL. ZIDD THI MERI BHI TUJHE PANE KI. EK DIN TUJHE EHSAS DILANE KI. SURAT TO BAS DO DIN KI KAHANI HAI. SIRAT HI ZINDAGI BHAR KAAM ANI HAI. AJ HOTA HAI TUJHE BHI MAHSOOS. JO KAL MUJH PAR THI BITI. AJJ WO TUJHKO HAI JINI . SAHI KAHA HAI KISI NE MOHABBAT KISI KO PAGAL BANA DE. TO KISI KO PATTHAR BANA DE. WO PAL BHI KYA PAL THE. JO BITE HUE KAL ME THE.

Pel motiu que a Tità res no presentava una finalitat (en cap moment i per a ningú), i pel motiu que no actuava cap guillotina de l'evolució, amputant de cada genotip el que no contribuïa a la supervivència, la natura, que no estava frenada ni per la vida que creés ni per la mort que provoqués, podia causar l'alliberament de la matèria, la natura podia mostrar la prodigalitat característica d'ella mateixa, una desolació il·limitada, una magnificència brutal que resultava inútil, un poder etern de creació sense objectiu, sense necessitat, sense significança. Aquesta veritat, que s'emparava gradualment de l'observador, era més pertorbadora que la impressió de ser testimoni d'un mimetisme còsmic de la mort, o la impressió que eren despulles d'éssers desconeguts situades per sota de l'horitzó curull de tempestes. Per tant, calia capgirar la manera tradicional de pensar, que només seguia una sola direcció: aquestes formes eren semblants a ossos, costelles, cranis i ullals no pas perquè haguessin tingut vida alguna vegada (mai no n'havien tinguda), sinó perquè els esquelets dels vertebrats terrestres i la seva pell, i la cuirassa quitinosa dels insectes, i les closques dels mol·luscs presentaven la mateixa disposició estructural, la mateixa simetria i gràcia, ja que la natura podia crear-les, tot i que manquessin i sempre haguessin de mancar la vida i la finalitat pròpia de la vida.

He swore sharply, David Jones’s still-so-familiar voice coming out of that stranger’s body. “Do you have any idea how unbelievably hard it’s been to get you alone?” Had she finally started hallucinating? But he took off his glasses, and she could see his eyes more clearly and . . . “It’s you,” she breathed, tears welling. “It’s really you.” She reached for him, but he stepped back. Sisters Helen and Grace were hurrying across the compound, coming to see what the ruckus was, shading their eyes and peering so they could see in through the screens. “You can’t let on that you know me,” Jones told Molly quickly, his voice low, rough. “You can’t tell anyone—not even your friend the priest during confession, do you understand?” “Are you in some kind of danger?” she asked him. Dear God, he was so thin. And was the cane necessary or just a prop? “Stand still, will you, so I can—” “No. Don’t. We can’t . . .” He backed away again. “If you say anything, Mol, I swear, I’ll vanish, and I will not come back. Unless . . . if you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—” “No!” was all she managed to say before Sister Helen opened the door and looked from the mess on the floor to Molly’s stricken expression. “Oh, dear.” “I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Jones said in a British accent, in a voice that was completely different from his own, as Helen rushed to Molly’s side. “My fault entirely. I brought Miss Anderson some bad news. I didn’t realize just how devastating it would be.” Molly started crying. It was more than just a good way to hide her laughter at that accent—those were real tears streaming down her face and she couldn’t stop them. Helen led her to one of the tables, helped her sit down. “Oh, my dear,” the nun said, kneeling in front of her, concern on her round face, holding her hand. “What happened?” “We have a mutual friend,” Jones answered for her. “Bill Bolten. He found out I was heading to Kenya, and he thought if I happened to run into Miss Anderson that she would want to know that a friend of theirs recently . . . well, passed. Cat’s out of the bag, right? Fellow name of Grady Morant, who went by the alias of Jones.” “Oh, dear,” Helen said again, hand to her mouth in genuine sympathy. Jones leaned closer to the nun, his voice low, but not low enough for Molly to miss hearing. “His plane went down—burned—gas tank exploded . . . Ghastly mess. Not a prayer that he survived.” Molly buried her face in her hands, hardly able to think. “Bill was worried that she might’ve heard it first from someone else,” he said. “But apparently she hadn’t.” Molly shook her head, no. News did travel fast via the grapevine. Relief workers tended to know other relief workers and . . . She could well have heard about Jones’s death without him standing right in front of her. Wouldn’t that have been awful?

He walked past the village school that his great-grandfather built for Untouchable children. Past Sophie Mol’s yellow church. Past the Ayemenem Youth Kung Fu Club. Past the Tender Buds Nursery School (for Touchables), past the ration shop that sold rice, sugar and bananas that hung in yellow bunches from the roof. Cheap soft-porn magazines about fictitious South Indian sex-fiends were clipped with clothes pegs to ropes that hung from the ceiling. They spun lazily in the warm breeze, tempting honest ration-buyers with glimpses of ripe, naked women lying in pools of fake blood.

Un attimo, Mol. Non è solo per questo che sono venuto stasera.’’ ‘‘Molto bene. Cos'altro vuoi?’’ brontolò lo spettro. Will esitò. Non era qualcosa di cui era stato incaricato da Magnus; era qualcosa che voleva sapere per sé. ‘‘Un filtro d’amore…’’ ‘‘Un filtro d'amore? Per Will 'erondale? Lungi da me rinunciare a un compenso, ma chiunque abbia il tuo aspetto non sa che farsene dei filtri d'amore, su questo non ci piove.’’ ‘‘No’’ disse Will, con una sfumatura di disperazione nella voce. ‘‘In realtà cercavo l'opposto... qualcosa che potesse far cessare di amare.’’ […] Molly fece un rumore sbuffante, sorprendentemente umano per uno spettro. ‘‘Non mi piace per niente dirtelo, Nephilim, ma ci sono metodi piuttosto semplici per farsi odiare da una ragazza. Non ti serve il mio aiuto con quella poveretta.’’ E scomparve, scivolando via nella nebbia tra le tombe. Seguendola con lo sguardo, Will sospirò. ‘‘Non è per lei’’ disse sottovoce, sebbene non ci fosse nessuno a sentirlo. ‘‘È per me…’’ E appoggiò la testa al freddo cancello di ferro.

Satire zoekt de macht, niet de weerlozen.

Achoo, Jose, Yako, Anian, Elayan, Kuttan, Vijayan, Vawa, Joy, Sumathi, Ammal, Annamma, Kanakamma, Latha, Sushila, Vi-jayamma, Jollykutty, Mollykutty, Lucykutty, Beena Mol (girls with bus names).

hurt and then I smiled a weird smile because I wanted to make a good

behind

Johnny de Mol Sr. KNIL agency en Bullguard.

I licked it, Mols. That means it’s mine.

in Solution Most chemical reactions that occur on the earth’s surface, whether in living organisms or among inorganic substances, take place in aqueous solution. Chemical reactions carried out between substances in solution obey the requirements of stoichiometry discussed in Chapter 2, in the sense that the conservation laws embodied in balanced chemical equations are always in force. But here we must apply these requirements in a slightly different way. Instead of a conversion between masses and number of moles, using the molar mass as a conversion factor, the conversion is now between solution volumes and number of moles, with the concentration as the conversion factor. For instance, consider the reaction that is used commercially to prepare elemental bromine from its salts in solution: 2 Br � (aq) � Cl2(aq) 02 Cl � (aq) � Br2(aq) Suppose there is 50.0 mL of a 0.0600 M solution of NaBr. What volume of a 0.0500 M solution of Cl2 is needed to react completely with the Br � ? To answer this, find the number of moles of bromide ion present: 0.0500 L � (0.0600 mol L �1 ) � 3.00 � 10 �3 mol Br � Next, use the chemical conversion factor 1 mol of Cl2 per 2 mol of Br � to find moles Cl2 reacting � 3.00 � 10 �3 mol Br � a 1 mol Cl2 2 mol Br � b � 1.50 � 10 �3 mol Cl2 Finally, find the necessary volume of aqueous chlorine: 1.50 � 10 �3 mol � 3.00 � 10 �2 L solution 0.0500 mol L �1 The reaction requires 3.00 � 10 �2 L, or 30.0 mL, of the Cl2 solution.(In practice, an excess of Cl2 solution would be used to ensure more nearly complete conversion of the bromide ion to bromine. ) The chloride ion concentration after completion of the reaction might also be of interest. Because each mole of bromide ion that reacts gives 1 mol of chloride ion in the products, the number of moles of Cl � produced is 3.00 � 10 �3 mol. The final volume of the solution is 0.0800 L, so the final concentration of Cl � is [Cl � ] � 3.00 � 10 �3 mol � 0.0800 L 0.0375 M Square brackets around a chemical symbol signify the molarity of that species.

Het eindigt niet "Believe in God", het eindigt "Believe in Good"...religies zijn de besparing van één ootje.

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol slowly faded, the Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive.

their English aunt, Margaret Kochamma—and their cousin, Sophie Mol, who were coming from London to spend Christmas at Ayemenem.

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined. Over the years, as the memory of Sophie Mol (the seeker of small wisdoms: Where do old birds go to die? Why don’t dead ones fall like stones from the sky?

I reckon he's worth talkin about, Mol.

mou /mu, mɔl/ mol I. adj 1. (pas ferme) [coussin, matière] soft; [tige, étoffe] limp; [choc] dull 2. (sans tenue) [trait du visage] weak; [chair, ventre] flabby; [cheveux] limp 3. (apathique) [personne, enfant] listless; [poignée de main] limp; [croissance, reprise économique] sluggish 4. (sans énergie) [parent, professeur] soft, overindulgent 5. (sans conviction) (péj) [version, libéralisme] watered-down; [discours, résistance] feeble, weak II. nm 1. (personne) (pej) wimp (familier) (péj) 2. (en boucherie) lights (pl) (GB), lungs (pl) (US) 3. (de corde) slack • avoir du ~ | to be slack • donner du ~ | to let (the rope) out a bit • donner/laisser du ~ à qn (informal) | (fig)to give sb/to let sb have a bit of leeway III. Idiome • bourrer le mou à qn◑ | to have sb on (familier) (GB), to put sb on (US)

Now you’re sounding like Chief of Police Martin Brody in Jaws. You’re not suggesting a Great White got Boscombe, are you?’ Jess had her bottle to her lips and almost choked on her beer. She grabbed a tea towel and wiped up the spill from around her mouth. ‘I love that film. Mol says the CGI is pants, but it still scared me silly.’ ‘I

Life's always bringin' the grave to us, kid." "Yeah, but why bring it so early to some and so late to others?" "I'm afraid Hamlet's mum was right about that, Mol," Greta says. "I forgot what she said about it." "She said all lives must die." Greta says. "And she said we all know that shit's common." "That shit's comin'?" Molly ponders. "Common," Greta clarifies. "That shit's all too common." Greta drags on her smoke, rests her head back on a rock. "But I guess it's always comin', too.

The bird strike hadn’t only cost Kaz an eye. Without binocular vision, he’d lost his medical as both a test pilot and an astronaut selectee who’d been assigned to fly on MOL, the military’s planned Manned Orbiting Laboratory spy space station. His work and dreams had disappeared in a bloody flurry of feathers.

Odat Kochamma, hearing the disembodied foreign voice, comes at once, grabbing the first thing she finds on the clothesline to cover her head—it happens to be Baby Mol’s underwear. Philipose sees her in the doorway, making the sign of the cross, with the strange cloth hanging over her forehead. “Stand up, monay!” she says sternly. “A voice from nowhere is the voice of God!

What is worry but fear of what the future holds? Baby Mol lives completely in the present and is spared all worry. Unlike her daughter, Big Ammachi, now seventy-nine, increasingly inhabits the past, reliving the memories of her years in this house. Her life before Parambil, that fleeting childhood,

In the majority of endurance-trained athletes, the AeT corresponds to the point where the blood lactate concentration has risen modestly (1mMol/L) above a baseline reading to a value of about 2mMol/L.

Sophie Mol eventually found what she had been looking for. Presents for her cousins. Triangular towers of Toblerone chocolate (soft and slanting in the heat). Socks with separate multicolored toes. And two ballpoint pens—the top halves filled with water in which a cut-out collage of a London streetscape was suspended. Buckingham Palace and Big Ben. Shops and people. A red doubledecker bus propelled by an air bubble floated up and down the silent street. There was something sinister about the absence of noise on the busy ballpoint street. Sophie Mol put the presents into her go-go bag and went forth into the world. To drive a hard bargain. To negotiate a friendship. A friendship that, unfortunately, would be left dangling. Incomplete. Flailing in the air with no foothold. A friendship that never circled around into a story which is why, far more quickly than ever should have happened, Sophie Mol became a Memory, while The Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive. Like a fruit in season. Every season.

Quan­do in­fi­ne re­cu­pe­rò il fia­to fece usci­re tut­ti per par­la­re da solo col suo me­di­co. «Non mi im­ma­gi­na­vo che que­sta stron­za­ta fos­se così gra­ve da far pen­sa­re all'olio san­to» gli dis­se. «Io, che non ho la gio­ia di cre­de­re nel­la vita dell'al­tro mon­do.» «Non si trat­ta di que­sto» dis­se Ré­vé­rend. «E' noto che si­ste­ma­re le fac­cen­de del­la co­scien­za in­fon­de all'am­ma­la­to uno sta­to d'ani­mo che fa­ci­li­ta mol­to l'in­com­ben­za del me­di­co.» Il ge­ne­ra­le non pre­stò at­ten­zio­ne alla mae­stria del­la ri­spo­sta, per­ché lo fece rab­bri­vi­di­re la ri­ve­la­zio­ne ac­ce­can­te che la fol­le cor­sa fra i suoi mali e i suoi so­gni ar­ri­va­va in quel mo­men­to alla meta fi­na­le. Il re­sto era­no te­ne­bre. «Caz­zo» so­spi­rò. «Come farò a usci­re da que­sto la­bi­rin­to?» Esa­mi­nò il lo­ca­le con la chia­ro­veg­gen­za del­le sue in­son­nie, e per la pri­ma vol­ta vide la ve­ri­tà: l'ul­ti­mo let­to pre­sta­to, la toe­let­ta di pie­tà il cui fo­sco spec­chio di pa­zien­za non l'avreb­be più ri­pe­tu­to, il ba­ci­le di por­cel­la­na scro­sta­ta con l'ac­qua e l'asciu­ga­ma­no e il sa­po­ne per al­tre mani, la fret­ta sen­za cuo­re dell'oro­lo­gio ot­ta­go­na­le sfre­na­to ver­so l'ap­pun­ta­men­to ine­lut­ta­bi­le del 17 di­cem­bre all'una e set­te mi­nu­ti del suo po­me­rig­gio ul­ti­mo. Al­lo­ra in­cro­ciò le brac­cia sul pet­to e co­min­ciò a udi­re le voci rag­gian­ti de­gli schia­vi che can­ta­va­no il sal­ve del­le sei nei fran­toi, e vide dal­la fi­ne­stra il dia­man­te di Ve­ne­re nel cie­lo che se ne an­da­va per sem­pre, le nevi eter­ne, il ram­pi­can­te le cui nuo­ve cam­pa­nu­le gial­le non avreb­be vi­sto fio­ri­re il sa­ba­to suc­ces­si­vo nel­la casa sbar­ra­ta dal lut­to, gli ul­ti­mi ful­go­ri del­la vita che mai più, per i se­co­li dei se­co­li, si sa­reb­be ri­pe­tu­ta.

Which Pokemon can count to 3 in Spanish? A: Arctic-uno, Zap-dos, Mol-tres.

Is jouw glas half leeg of half vol?' vroeg de mol. 'Ik ben geloof ik al blij dat ik een glas héb.' Zei de jongen.

Nederland is alleen met zichzelve gelukkig en vraagt zich niet af, hoe het met mij of mijn familie gaat, want Linda de Mol met haar Viagra partij zijn nou eenmaal evenwichtig. Ik zou zeggen, je krijgt hier meer dan spijt van. Nazi NSDAP Holland.

Life is an endless question that you can't answer

Time is the ultimate form of socialism. Each receives the same amount equally, yet how we manage our time is reflected by our lives. We all can agree, no one comes out equal. For a country to govern by socialism will fail as there will always be the weak and strong. Social justice is fantasy. Nothing can be equal in the end if we have true freedom to choose our own fate. In place of socialism, a government should rule by protection. Protecting the freedoms of each citizen, each of us can choose his own destiny. Some may choose material happiness, while others may choose immaterial joy

No prisoners? He asks. Off with her mol-ie head! I reply. Want to go first? He asks, ever the gentlemen. After you, kind sir. He dips his chin in confirmation.