Mozzie Quotes

If you want a happy ending, it just depends on where you close the book!

Fate has a way of putting in front of us, that wich we most try to leave behind.

Exasperated, Dee began, “Molly-” “I’m not hearing you.  I can’t hear you.  Can you hear anything, Del?” “Only some whining.  I thought it was a mozzie.  If it keeps going, I’m getting the fly swat and smack it a good one.

Us f’gotten slaves was bein’ drained by hunger’n’pain an’ the mozzies from the slopin’ pond now an’ we was envyin’ that Hawi boy diresome, till at a nod from Lyons they ripped down Elfy’s pants an’ held him an’ busted that boy’s ring, oilin’ his hole up with lardbird fat b’tween turns.

Watching Steve around the camp was witnessing a man at one with his environment. Steve had spent all his life perfecting his bush skills, first learning them at his father’s side when he was a boy. He hero-worshiped Bob and finally became like his dad and then some. Steve took all the knowledge he’d acquired over the years and added his own experience. Nothing seemed to daunt him, from green ants, mozzies, sand flies, and leeches, to constant wet weather. On Cape York we faced the obvious wildlife hazards, including feral pigs, venomous snakes, and huge crocodiles. I never saw Steve afraid of anything, except the chance of harm coming to someone he loved. He learned how to take care of himself over the years he spent alone in the bush. But as his life took a sharp turn, into the unknown territory of celebrity-naturalist, he suddenly found himself with a whole film crew to watch out for. Filming wildlife documentaries couldn’t have happened without John Stainton, our producer. Steve always referred to John as the genius behind the camera, and that was true. The music orchestration, the editing, the knowledge of what would make good television and what wouldn’t--these were all areas of John’s clear expertise. But on the ground, under the water, or in the bush, while we were actually filming, it was 100 percent Steve. He took care of the crew and eventually his family as well, while filming in some of the most remote, inaccessible, and dangerous areas on earth. Steve kept the cameraman alive by telling him exactly when to shoot and when to run. He orchestrated what to film and where to film, and then located the wildlife. Steve’s first rule, which he repeated to the crew over and over, was a simple one: Film everything, no matter what happens. “If something goes wrong,” he told the crew, “you are not going to be of any use to me lugging a camera and waving your other arm around trying to help. Just keep rolling. Whatever the sticky situation is, I will get out of it.” Just keep rolling. Steve’s mantra.

Watching Steve around the camp was witnessing a man at one with his environment. Steve had spent all his life perfecting his bush skills, first learning them at his father’s side when he was a boy. He hero-worshiped Bob and finally became like his dad and then some. Steve took all the knowledge he’d acquired over the years and added his own experience. Nothing seemed to daunt him, from green ants, mozzies, sand flies, and leeches, to constant wet weather. On Cape York we faced the obvious wildlife hazards, including feral pigs, venomous snakes, and huge crocodiles. I never saw Steve afraid of anything, except the chance of harm coming to someone he loved.

Si decise a entrare. Nel salone era ammassata tutta l’aristocrazia di Firenze: Frescobaldi, Spini, Mozzi, Donati, Adimari, Della Tosa, Pazzi, Sacchetti

(...) Dritto sul cassero di poppa, Julian inspirò e si riempì le narici e i polmoni dell’aria pungente di sale, ovattata e gentile che sottolinea l’approssimarsi del crepuscolo sul mare, il suo udito si perse dietro alla lusinga dei sordi muggiti delle onde contro lo scafo e degli scricchiolii del vento in mezzo al sartiame. La sua pelle, attraverso la stoffa della camicia, si godette la frescura della brezza che giungeva da nord est. Le mani piantate sulla ringhiera dai ghirigori dorati, contemplò la quotidianità che lo avvolgeva e che più di tutto lo faceva sentire di nuovo padrone del suo elemento: gli uomini ai bracci che assecondavano le impalpabili mutazioni delle correnti, i carpentieri che rifinivano con la pece alcuni interstizi sulla tolda, i mozzi che aveva reclutato durante l’ultimo viaggio in Scozia che catramavano il sartiame e spalmavano di grasso gli alberi, i gabbieri fiamminghi che governavano le vele con la solita, immancabile meticolosità, lanciandosi ammonimenti nella loro lingua che conosceva solo un poco, le vedette in alto sulle coffe che frugavano l’orizzonte. Era di nuovo a casa. E si concentrò sull’ipnotico rollio della Lucky Chance, che si muoveva sotto di lui con la sensualità di un’amante, che con la stessa possessività lo reclamava come parte di sé, del progetto di libertà e di dominio dei mari che da una vita intera condividevano, tutti e due. La sua nave lo aveva riconosciuto, aveva riconosciuto sopra ogni altro il suo tocco, la sua andatura, la cadenza della sua voce e, ne era certo, perfino la sua inquietudine. Non le serviva niente di più per lasciarsi domare, per lasciarsi andare. Nemmeno lui necessitava di altro per ritrovare intatti lucidità e freddezza, implacabilità di pensiero e d’azione. (...)

upset?” “Of course. Once a boy told Lyn she had two mozzie bites instead of tits and she cried for a whole week.” “Really? Did she?” Kara sat up, invigorated. “I can’t imagine her, young, and getting all upset.

If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story