Molly Williams Quotes

He never saw Molly again.

It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries of digitalized pop; it was worship, Molly said, and a sense of community.

He'd never slept with Molly before. Before, the bed had been a place of brief coming together and of leaving. It felt god to lie beside her with the early sun beyond the window and the cabin full of qiet. It was peaceful and healing to be with her and not be cut apart by guilt.

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Molly and Armitage ate in silence, while Case sawed shakily at his steak, reducing it to uneaten bite-sized fragments, which he pushed around in the rich sauce, finally abandoning the whole thing. ‘Jesus,’ Molly said, her own plate empty, ‘gimme that. You know what this costs?’ She took his plate. ‘They gotta raise a whole animal for years and then they kill it. This isn’t vat stuff.’ She forked a mouthful up and chewed. ‘Not

there would be no sign that Molly Nurmi had ever been. In the time before the cold science of the whites came to Iron Lake, the Anishinaabe believed the water was bottomless. There was a tradition among the Iron Lake Ojibwe. Before they were married, a couple would take strands of their hair and braid a cord. On the day they were wed, they tied the cord around a stone, canoed to the middle of the lake, and dropped the stone into the water. The stone descended forever, they believed

KEY PLAYERS J. Edgar Hoover: Director of the FBI. Tom White: Agent in charge of the Osage murders investigation. William K. Hale: The so-called “King of the Osage Hills”—was later convicted of first-degree murder in the investigation. Ernest Burkhart: Nephew of William Hale. Conspired with his uncle to murder several Osage for their wealth. Byron Burkhart: Nephew of William Hale, and brother to Ernest Burkhart. Mollie Burkhart: Wife of Ernest Burkhart. Was almost a victim of the deadly conspiracy.

La prima volta che ti ho mostrato la biblioteca, tu mi hai detto che il tuo libro preferito era II vasto, vasto mondo. Pensavo che magari ti avrebbe fatto piacere sapere che l'ho letto.’’ '‘E l'hai trovato di tuo gradimento?’’ ‘‘Per niente. Penso che sia melenso e sentimentale.''
 ‘‘Bene, tutti i gusti sono gusti’’ replicò Tessa amabilmente, sapendo che lui stava cercando di stuzzicarla. ‘‘Il piacere dell'uno è il veleno dell'altro, non trovi?’’ Era la sua immaginazione, o sembrava deluso? ‘‘Hai qualche altra segnalazione di autori americani?’’ 
‘‘A che scopo, se disprezzi i miei gusti? Penso che dovreste riconoscere che siamo piuttosto lontani in fatto di letture, e cercare altrove delle segnalazioni, signor Herondale.’’ Le parole non le erano ancora uscite di bocca, che si morse la lingua. Aveva esagerato.
 E infatti Will non gliela lasciò passare. ‘‘Signor Herondale! Io pensavo…’’ 
‘‘Cosa pensavi?’’ Il tono di Tessa era glaciale. 
‘‘Che potessimo almeno parlare di libri.’’ 
‘‘E l'abbiamo fatto. Tu hai insultato i miei gusti’’ disse Tessa. ‘‘E sappi che II vasto, vasto mondo non è il mio libro preferito. È semplicemente una storia che mi è piaciuta, come La mano nascosta o... Sai, forse potresti suggerire tu qualcosa a me, in modo che possa giudicare i tuoi, di gusti.’’
 Will si sedette sul tavolo più vicino, con le gambe penzoloni, riflettendo chiaramente sulla questione. ‘‘Il castello di Otranto…’’
 ‘‘Non è quel libro in cui il figlio dell'eroe muore schiacciato da un enorme elmo che cade dal cielo? E hai definito insulso II racconto di due città!’’ esclamò Tessa, che sarebbe morta piuttosto di ammettere che aveva letto II castello di Otranto e le era piaciuto. 
‘‘Il racconto di due città…’’ Will annuì. ‘‘Dopo che ne abbiamo parlato, l'ho riletto. Avevi ragione: non è affatto sciocco.’’
 ‘’No?’’
 ‘‘No. C'è dentro troppa disperazione.’’ 
Tessa incrociò il suo sguardo, e le sembrò di cadere dentro quegli occhi azzurri come laghi. ‘’Disperazione?’’ ‘‘Be', per Sydney non c'è futuro, con o senza amore, non trovi? Sa che senza Lucie non può salvarsi, ma tenerla accanto a sé significherebbe umiliarla.’’ 
Tessa scosse la testa. ‘‘Non è così che lo ricordo. Il suo sacrificio è nobile…’’ ‘‘Non gli rimane altro’’ insistette Will. ‘‘Non ricordi cosa dice a Lucie? "Se per voi fosse stato possibile... ricambiare l'amore dell'uomo che vedete davanti a voi - di questo povero sciagurato che si è buttato via, di questo ubriacone senza redenzione - egli, nonostante la sua gioia, in questo istante sarebbe stato consapevole che vi avrebbe trascinato nell'infelicità, trascinato nella sofferenza e nel pentimento, che vi avrebbe fatto avvizzire, vi avrebbe rovinato facendovi precipitare con lui nel fango..." Un ciocco cadde nel caminetto tra una pioggia di scintille, facendo trasalire entrambi e interrompendo Will.
 Tessa ebbe un tuffo al cuore e guardò altrove. Stupida, si disse, stizzita. Ricordava come l'aveva trattata, e tuttavia permetteva che le ginocchia le diventassero molli sentendolo citare Dickens. ‘‘Ne hai imparato a memoria un bel po', non c'è che dire. Davvero impressionante.’’ Will scostò il colletto della camicia, scoprendo la curva armoniosa della clavicola. Tessa non si accorse subito che le stava mostrando un marchio collocato pochi centimetri sopra il cuore.
‘’Mnemosyne’’ disse il Nephilim. ‘‘La runa della Memoria. È fissa.’’ Tessa distolse lo sguardo. ‘‘È tardi. Devo ritirarmi... sono esausta.’’ Gli passò davanti e si avviò verso la porta. ‘‘Vathek, di William Beckford. Se hai trovato di tuo gradimento II castello di Otranto, credo che ti piacerà.’’ ‘‘Oh, bene. Grazie. Me ne ricorderò’’ disse Tessa. Poi si rese conto di non aver affatto ammesso che II castello di Otranto le era piaciuto. Will non replicò. Era ancora accanto al tavolo. Aveva lo sguardo fisso a terra, il viso nascosto dai capelli scuri. Prima di potersi frenare Tessa disse: ‘‘Buonanotte, Will.’’ Lui alzò lo sguardo. ‘‘Buonanotte, Tessa.

DOC    (Goes into living room) ’Bout time for Fibber McGee and Molly.

Tell us what happened,” Anne said, putting her arm around her sister. So Molly told them all about her trip, from the time she and Sultan turned off the main road by the red barn to the moment she and Uncle William rode into the Randalls’ yard. “I’m very proud of you, Molly,” Pa said, “even if you did cause us all a great deal of worry.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Thank you for bringing her back, Will.” “I think it’s time we had our meal,” Ma suggested gently. “You must be very hungry, Molly.” “I’m starving,” Molly told her. “All I’ve had to eat today is some salt pork that tasted terrible.” She looked at her uncle and grimaced. “Sorry, Uncle William.” “That’s all right, Molly,” her uncle said with a laugh. “I think it tastes terrible, too. But I’m a soldier, so I have to eat it.

He took Molly’s small hand and pressed it between his big ones. “Thank you for riding here to warn me, niece,” he said, smiling warmly. “That was very brave of you.” “I couldn’t have done it without Sultan,” Molly told him. “He flew like the wind almost all the way. I used to be afraid to ride him, but not anymore. Now I can’t even understand why I was ever afraid of him.” “Sometimes it takes a crisis for us to discover what we really can do when we have to,” her uncle said. “You had to ride Sultan, so you did. Now you know how easy it is. It’s as simple as that.” At that moment, Corporal Henshaw jogged over to them. He saluted to Uncle William and said, “The men are ready to go, sir.” “Right,” Uncle William said. Then he turned to Molly. “It’s much too dark and dangerous for you to return to Yorktown now. You and Sultan will have to ride with us to the safety zone and spend the night. I know you’re worn out, and Sultan is, too, but do you think you could manage just a few more miles?” She patted Sultan’s neck. “After what Sultan and I just went through to get here, five more miles seems like nothing at all!

Molly!” exclaimed her father, dropping his end of the box and rushing over to her. “Are you hurt?” “N-No, I don’t think so,” she stammered, as she struggled to get up. Pa helped her to her feet. “How long have you been hiding up there, young lady?” he asked her sternly. “And how much did you hear?” Molly told him how she had crept out of the house after hearing Flora whinny, and what she had seen and heard. When she finished, Uncle William began to chuckle. “You’d make a good spy, Molly,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I can’t believe you were hiding in the hayloft all this time, and we never even suspected it! Until you fell into the haystack, that is.” “She has to learn that this isn’t a game, Will,” Molly’s father said sharply. He looked at his daughter with a serious expression. “We’re all in danger Molly. No one must ever know about our smuggling muskets, or that Richard Butler is an American spy. Do you understand that?” “Yes, Pa,” Molly said soberly. “I understand. I won’t let you down, I promise.” “Good,” Pa said briskly. “Now, I want you to go back to the house with Ethan. You can help him pack some food to take with him.” Molly nodded and started for the door. “I think you’d better use the window, like the rest of us,” Uncle William said, with a grin. “Unless you’d rather go out the way you came in--through the hayloft.” “I think I’ve had enough of that hayloft for one night,” Molly replied, smiling back at him.

Whereas his father only ruled him, Aunt Molly owned him outright, at least when he was in the house where she could get at him.

Books When Books Went to War, Molly Guptill Manning Books as Weapons, John B. Hench The Book Thieves: The Nazi Looting of Europe’s Libraries and the Race to Return a Literary Inheritance, Anders Rydell The Berlin Stories, Christopher Isherwood The Rise and the Fall of the Third Reich, William L. Shirer The Death of Democracy, Benjamin Carter Hett In the Garden of Beasts, Erik Larson Gay Berlin, Robert Beachy Articles Leary, William M. “Books, Soldiers and Censorship during the Second World War.” American Quarterly Von Merveldt, Nikola. “Books Cannot Be Killed by Fire: The German Freedom Library and the American Library of Nazi-Banned Books As Agents of Cultural Memory.” John Hopkins University Press Appelbaum, Yoni. “Publishers Gave Away 122,951,031 Books During World War II.” The Atlantic “Paris Opens Library of Books Burnt by Nazis.” The Guardian Archives Whisnant, Clayton J. “A Peek Inside Berlin’s Queer Club Scene Before Hitler Destroyed It.” The Advocate “Between World Wars, Gay Culture Flourished in Berlin.” NPR’s Fresh Air More The Great Courses: A History of Hitler’s Empire, Thomas Childers “Hitler: YA Fiction Fan Girl,” Robert Evans, Behind the Bastards Podcast Magnus Hirschfeld, Leigh Pfeffer and Gretchen Jones, History Is Gay Podcast “Das Lila Lied,” composed by Mischa Spoliansky, lyrics by Kurt Schwabach

As they worked, Case gradually became aware of the music that pulsed constantly through the cluster. It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries of digitalised pop; it was worship, Molly said, and a sense of community.

She’d decided a stranger had walked into the community and violated it, sliced into her world, taken her child away from her. Too much faith had been shattered already for Molly Cochran to allow for the possibility that it wasn’t a stranger at all who’d abducted and murdered her child.

Easy,” Case said, forcing himself to catch up with the striding figure. “Gotta do this right.” Maelcum halted, turned, glowering at him, the Remington in his hands. “Right, mon? How’s right?” “Got Molly in there, but she’s out of it. Riviera, he can throw holos. Maybe he’s got Molly’s fletcher.” Maelcum nodded. “And there’s a ninja, a family bodyguard.” Maelcum’s frown deepened. “You listen, Babylon mon,” he said. “I a warrior. But this no m’ fight, no Zion fight, Babylon fightin’ Babylon, eatin’ i’self, ya know? But Jah seh I an’ I t’ bring Steppin’ Razor outa this.” Case blinked. “She a warrior,” Maelcum said, as if it explained everything. “Now you tell me, mon, who I not t’ kill.

She’d almost told him she loved him. So many times, she’d been on the edge of letting the words spill out, but her past had kept her cautious. And now she was glad, very glad, she hadn’t. Let him go back to a woman who didn’t care. Molly didn’t care either. What ran down her cheeks and tasted of salt wasn’t tears but good cleansing sweat. It poured from every part of her body. When she finally stood and ran outside, she trailed steam like a thing that had been through fire. As she dropped into the hole she’d cleared of ice, the bitterly cold water of the lake squeezed her hard, wrung her out, and left her wonderfully empty.

When they’d strung the cables, according to some complex scheme of Molly’s, they hung them with battered sheets of yellow plastic. As they worked, Case gradually became aware of the music that pulsed constantly through the cluster. It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries of digitalized pop; it was worship, Molly said, and a sense of community. Case heaved at one of the yellow sheets; the thing was light but still awkward. Zion smelled of cooked vegetables, humanity, and ganja.

And for their incredible scholarship and friendship, my thanks to: Andrea Ballestero, Lauren Berlant, Alex Blanchette, David Bond, John Borneman, Ella Butler, Summerson Carr, Molly Cunningham, Paul Edwards, Didier Fassin, Cassie Fennell, Elaine Gan, Stefanie Graeter, Hugh Gusterson, Orit Halprin, Isao Hashimoto, Gabrielle Hecht, Stefan Helmreich, John Jackson, Cory Kratz, Max Liboiron, Mark Maguire, Kai Mah, Kate Mariner, Andrew Mathews, Amy McLachlan, Greg Mello, Ned O’Gorman, Trevor Paglen, Juno Parrenas, Columba Peoples, Kareem Rabie, Laurence Ralph, Patrick Rivers, Michael Rossi, Nick Shapiro, Audra Simpson, Sverker Sorlin, Christian Tompkins, Anna Weichselbraun, Kaya Williams, and Jessica Winegar.

Munger describes himself as a collector of “absurdities,” “asininities,” and “inanities.” His daughter Molly recalls listening in her youth to his many cautionary tales “about people doing stupid things,” which often included “a tinge of ingratitude and poor moral judgment.” A typical story would feature the cosseted heir to a fortune who turned with bitter resentment against his father.

He sat beside Molly in filtered sunlight on the rim of a dry concrete fountain, letting the endless stream of faces recapitulate the stages of his life.

What’s that smell?” he asked Molly, wrinkling his nose. “The grass. Smells that way after they cut it.

This city is full of girls like your Molly. It is impossible to stop the trade.” “It is indeed,” Miss LaSalle said, “since there are so many men who take advantage of it.

Sometimes I have moments of pure astonishment when I realize that William, it seems, is very sure that he knows all of me. He believes that I am the person he sits across from at dinner every evening; he thinks he understands the woman with whom he lies at night. I suppose this means that I am a good wife. But I cannot think of a single time that I have shared more than the barest surface of my thoughts with him, and keeping myself always in check can sometimes feel so very draining.