N Cousin Quotes

Going where no man has gone before is more difficult than it sounds. Our cousins and ancestors were no less curious than we are, and were perhaps bolder. This world is their tomb. You should look under the bed.

Hey, have you heard that one about the difference between me, Wit, and my loutish cousin, Hilarity? No? Okay, so I walk into a bar, you see, very unassuming, and order a martini. Then the bartender, Hilarity, hauls off and squirts me in the face with a seltzer bottle, ruining my n ice new camel hair suit, dousing my monocle and my watch fob, soaking my cravat. So, do I let him have what for, and blow my top? I do not. I simply say: Sorry, I believe I said 'very dry'.

Meanwhile there have always been people who hate New York without ever setting foot in it—because they hear too much about it and get tired of the hype, because they “lost” a cousin who moved here from TinyRepublicanVille and turned socialist, because they secretly wish they could live here, too, but are too scared to try, whatever.

Family is, of course, wonderful. Three cheers for family, et cetera. At another time, we could even peruse old photo albums and speak of cousins; unfortunately, we really do have urgent business to attend to.

Hassan said, "I'm a Kuwaiti exchange student; my dad's an oil baron." Colin shook his head, "Too obvious. I'm a Spaniard. A refugee. My parents were murdered by Basque separatists." "I don't know if Basque is a thing or a person and neither will they, so no. Okay, I just got to America from Honduras. My name is Miguel. My parents made a fortune in bananas, and you are my bodyguard, because the banana workers' union wants me dead." Colin shot back, "That's good, but you don't speak Spanish. Okay, I was abducted by Eskimos in the Yukon Terr-no, that's crap. We're cousins from France visiting the United States for the first time. It's out high school graduation trip." "That's boring, but we're out of time. I'm the English speaker?" asked Hassan. "Yeah, fine." "Okay, they're coming," said Hassan. "What's your name?" "Pierre." "Okay. I'm Salinger, pronounced SalinZHAY." ........ "He has Tourette's?" asked Katrina. "MERDE!" (Shit) shouted Colin. "Yes," said Hassan excitedly. "same word both language, like hemorrhoid. That one we learned yesterday because Pierre had the fire in his bottom. He has Toorettes. And the hemorrhoid. But, is good boy. "Ne dis pas que j'ai des hemorroides! Je n'ai pas d'hemorroide," (Don't say I have hemorrhoids! I don't have hemorrhoids.) Colin shouted, at once trying to continue the game and get Hassan on to a different topic. Hassan looked at Colin, nodded knowingly, and then told Katrina, "He just said that your face, it is beautiful like the hemorrhoid.

There is water somewhere in the world that ran down the body of the Word Himself as John, His cousin, baptized Him. No doubt it is water still, uncherished by man, known only by the Author of this story.

Bein married to Joe … aw, shit! What’s any marriage like? I guess they are all different ways, but there ain’t one of em that’s what it looks like from the outside, I c’n tell you that. What people see of a married life and what actually goes on inside it are usually not much more than kissin cousins. Sometimes that’s awful, and sometimes it's funny, but usually it’s like all the other parts of life - both things at the same time.

Chaque fois que je pense a lui, je me souviens d'une anecdote qu'on m'a racontée : un jour, les Gardes rouges fouillèrent sa maison, et trouvèrent un livre caché sous son oreiller, écrit dans une langue étrangère, que personne ne connaissait. La scène n'était pas sans ressemblance avec celle de la bande du boiteux autour du Cousin Pons. Il fallut envoyer ce butin à l'Université de Pékin pour savoir enfin qu'il s'agissait d'une Bible en latin. Elle coûta cher au pasteur car, depuis, il était forcé de nettoyer la rue, toujours la même, du matin au soir, huit heures par jour, quel que fût le temps. Il finit ainsi par devenir une décoration mobile du paysage.

Du manque de religion, répondit le médecin, et de l’envahissement de la finance, qui n’est autre chose que l’égoïsme solidifié. L’argent autrefois n’était pas tout, on admettait des supériorités qui le primaient. Il y avait la noblesse, le talent, les services rendus à l’État ; mais aujourd’hui la loi fait de l’argent un étalon général, elle l’a pris pour base de la capacité politique ! Certains magistrats ne sont pas éligibles, Jean-Jacques Rousseau ne serait pas éligible

It is already the fashion to diminish Eliot by calling him derivative, the mouthpiece of Pound, and so forth; and yet if one wanted to understand the apocalypse of early modernism in its true complexity it would be Eliot, I fancy, who would demand one's closest attention. He was ready to rewrite the history of all that interested him in order to have past and present conform; he was a poet of apocalypse, of the last days and the renovation, the destruction of the earthly city as a chastisement of human presumption, but also of empire. Tradition, a word we especially associate with this modernist, is for him the continuity of imperial deposits; hence the importance in his thought of Virgil and Dante. He saw his age as a long transition through which the elect must live, redeeming the time. He had his demonic host, too; the word 'Jew' remained in lower case through all the editions of the poems until the last of his lifetime, the seventy-fifth birthday edition of 1963. He had a persistent nostalgia for closed, immobile hierarchical societies. If tradition is, as he said in After Strange Gods--though the work was suppressed--'the habitual actions, habits and customs' which represent the kinship 'of the same people living in the same place' it is clear that Jews do not have it, but also that practically nobody now does. It is a fiction, a fiction cousin to a myth which had its effect in more practical politics. In extenuation it might be said that these writers felt, as Sartre felt later, that in a choice between Terror and Slavery one chooses Terror, 'not for its own sake, but because, in this era of flux, it upholds the exigencies proper to the aesthetics of Art.' The fictions of modernist literature were revolutionary, new, though affirming a relation of complementarity with the past. These fictions were, I think it is clear, related to others, which helped to shape the disastrous history of our time. Fictions, notably the fiction of apocalypse, turn easily into myths; people will live by that which was designed only to know by. Lawrence would be the writer to discuss here, if there were time; apocalypse works in Woman in Love, and perhaps even in Lady Chatterley's Lover, but not n Apocalypse, which is failed myth. It is hard to restore the fictive status of what has become mythical; that, I take it, is what Mr. Saul Bellow is talking about in his assaults on wastelandism, the cant of alienation. In speaking of the great men of early modernism we have to make very subtle distinctions between the work itself, in which the fictions are properly employed, and obiter dicta in which they are not, being either myths or dangerous pragmatic assertions. When the fictions are thus transformed there is not only danger but a leak, as it were, of reality; and what we feel about. all these men at times is perhaps that they retreated inso some paradigm, into a timeless and unreal vacuum from which all reality had been pumped. Joyce, who was a realist, was admired by Eliot because he modernized myth, and attacked by Lewis because he concerned himself with mess, the disorders of common perception. But Ulysses ,alone of these great works studies and develops the tension between paradigm and reality, asserts the resistance of fact to fiction, human freedom and unpredictability against plot. Joyce chooses a Day; it is a crisis ironically treated. The day is full of randomness. There are coincidences, meetings that have point, and coincidences which do not. We might ask whether one of the merits of the book is not its lack of mythologizing; compare Joyce on coincidence with the Jungians and their solemn concordmyth, the Principle of Synchronicity. From Joyce you cannot even extract a myth of Negative Concord; he shows us fiction fitting where it touches. And Joyce, who probably knew more about it than any of the others, was not at tracted by the intellectual opportunities or the formal elegance of fascism.

I would expect such behavior from the children,not from their mother." She tsked at him, not even a little daunted. "Aren't you the least bit curious?" "Certainly,but I can wait until-" "But I can't wait," she cut in passionately. "Come with me, Warren. I'll be careful with it. And if it's nothing more'n a simple gift, albeit a mysterious one, then I'll have the box wrapped up again perfectly, so no one will know we tampered with it." "You're serious about this?" he asked. "You're actually going to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night like an errant schoolgirl-" "No,no,we are, like two perfectly sensible adults making a reasonable effort to solve a mystery that has been around far too long." He chuckled at that point, used to his wife's strange logic, and used to her ignoring any of his attempts at sternness.But then that was the magic of Amy.She was unlike any other woman he'd ever known. He gave in gracefully with a smile. "Very well,fetch our robes and some shoes.I would imagine the fire has been banked in the parlor, so it will be a mite chilly." It wasn't that long before they were standing next to The Present, Warren merely curious, Amy finding it hard to contain her excitement, considering what she expected to find beneath the pretty cloth wrapping.The parlor wasn't chilly at all,since whoever had lef the room last had closed the doors to contain the earlier warmth, and Warren had closed them again before he lit several of the lamps. But the doors opened once more, giving Amy quite a start since she was just reaching for The Present when it happened, and Jeremy said as he entered the room, "Caught in the act,eh? Amy,for shame." Amy,noticeably embarrassed despite the fact that Jeremy wasn't just her cousin, but one of her closest friends, said stiffly, "And what,pray tell, are you doing down here at this hour?" He winked at her and said dryly, "Same thing you are, I would imagine." She chuckled then. "Scamp. Close the door while you're at it." He started to,but stepped out of the way instead as Reggie sauntered in, barefoot and still in the process of tying her bed robe. When everyone else there just stared at her, she huffed indignantly, "I did not come down here to open The Present-well, maybe I did, but I would have chickened out before actually doing so." "What a whopper, Reggie," Derek said as he came in right behind her. "Nice try, though. Mind if I borrow that lame excuse? Better than having none a'tall.

Wafa a peur, parfois, de vieillir dans un de ce parcs. De sentir ce genoux craquer sur ce vieux bancs gelés, de n'avoir même plus la force de soulever un enfant. Alphonse va grandir. Il ne remettra plus les pieds dans un square, un après-midi d'hiver. Il ira au soleil. Il prendra des vacances. Peut-être même qu'un jouril dormira dans une des chambres du Grand Hôtel, où elle massait les hommes. Lui, qu'elle a élevé, il se fera servir par une de ses soeurs ou un de ses cousins, sur la terrasse pavée de carreaux jaunes et bleus. "Tu vois, tout se retourne et tout s'inverse. Son enfance et ma vieillesse. Ma jeunesse et sa vie d'homme. Le destin est vicieux comme un reptile, il s'arrange toujours pour nous pousser du mauvais côté de la rampe." La pluie tombe. Il faut rentrer.

Friends and family arrived at the church: Becky and Connell, my two lifelong friends and bridesmaids. Marlboro Man’s cousins and college friends. And Mike. My dear brother Mike, who hugged everyone who entered the church, from the little old ladies to the strapping former college football players. And just as I was greeting my Uncle John, I saw Mike go in for the kill as Tony, Marlboro Man’s good college friend, entered the door. “Wh-wh-wh-what is you name?” Mike’s thundering voice echoed through the church. “Hi, I’m Tony,” Marlboro Man’s friend said, extending his hand. “It’s n-n-n-nice to meet you, Tony,” Mike shouted back, not letting go of Tony’s hand. “Nice to meet you too, Mike,” Tony said, likely wondering when he would get his hand back. “You so handsome,” Mike said. Oh, Lord. Please, no, I thought. “Why…thank you, Mike,” Tony replied, smiling uncomfortably. If it hadn’t been my wedding rehearsal, I might have popped some popcorn, sat back, and enjoyed the show. But I just couldn’t watch. Mike’s affection had never been any respecter of persons.

How I Got That Name Marilyn Chin an essay on assimilation I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin Oh, how I love the resoluteness of that first person singular followed by that stalwart indicative of “be," without the uncertain i-n-g of “becoming.” Of course, the name had been changed somewhere between Angel Island and the sea, when my father the paperson in the late 1950s obsessed with a bombshell blond transliterated “Mei Ling” to “Marilyn.” And nobody dared question his initial impulse—for we all know lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency. And there I was, a wayward pink baby, named after some tragic white woman swollen with gin and Nembutal. My mother couldn’t pronounce the “r.” She dubbed me “Numba one female offshoot” for brevity: henceforth, she will live and die in sublime ignorance, flanked by loving children and the “kitchen deity.” While my father dithers, a tomcat in Hong Kong trash— a gambler, a petty thug, who bought a chain of chopsuey joints in Piss River, Oregon, with bootlegged Gucci cash. Nobody dared question his integrity given his nice, devout daughters and his bright, industrious sons as if filial piety were the standard by which all earthly men are measured. * Oh, how trustworthy our daughters, how thrifty our sons! How we’ve managed to fool the experts in education, statistic and demography— We’re not very creative but not adverse to rote-learning. Indeed, they can use us. But the “Model Minority” is a tease. We know you are watching now, so we refuse to give you any! Oh, bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots! The further west we go, we’ll hit east; the deeper down we dig, we’ll find China. History has turned its stomach on a black polluted beach— where life doesn’t hinge on that red, red wheelbarrow, but whether or not our new lover in the final episode of “Santa Barbara” will lean over a scented candle and call us a “bitch.” Oh God, where have we gone wrong? We have no inner resources! * Then, one redolent spring morning the Great Patriarch Chin peered down from his kiosk in heaven and saw that his descendants were ugly. One had a squarish head and a nose without a bridge Another’s profile—long and knobbed as a gourd. A third, the sad, brutish one may never, never marry. And I, his least favorite— “not quite boiled, not quite cooked," a plump pomfret simmering in my juices— too listless to fight for my people’s destiny. “To kill without resistance is not slaughter” says the proverb. So, I wait for imminent death. The fact that this death is also metaphorical is testament to my lethargy. * So here lies Marilyn Mei Ling Chin, married once, twice to so-and-so, a Lee and a Wong, granddaughter of Jack “the patriarch” and the brooding Suilin Fong, daughter of the virtuous Yuet Kuen Wong and G.G. Chin the infamous, sister of a dozen, cousin of a million, survived by everbody and forgotten by all. She was neither black nor white, neither cherished nor vanquished, just another squatter in her own bamboo grove minding her poetry— when one day heaven was unmerciful, and a chasm opened where she stood. Like the jowls of a mighty white whale, or the jaws of a metaphysical Godzilla, it swallowed her whole. She did not flinch nor writhe, nor fret about the afterlife, but stayed! Solid as wood, happily a little gnawed, tattered, mesmerized by all that was lavished upon her and all that was taken away!

JULIETTE.—Oh! manque, mon coeur! Pauvre banqueroutier, manque pour toujours; emprisonnez-vous, mes yeux; ne jetez plus un seul regard sur la liberté. Terre vile, rends-toi à la terre; que tout mouvement s’arrête, et qu’une même bière presse de son poids et Roméo et toi. LA NOURRICE.—O Tybalt, Tybalt! le meilleur ami que j’eusse! O aimable Tybalt, honnête cavalier, faut-il que j’aie vécu pour te voir mort! JULIETTE.—Quelle est donc cette tempête qui souffle ainsi dans les deux sens contraires? Roméo est-il tué, et Tybalt est-il mort? Mon cousin chéri et mon époux plus cher encore? Que la terrible trompette sonne donc le jugement universel. Qui donc est encore en vie, si ces deux-là sont morts? LA NOURRICE.—Tybalt est mort, et Roméo est banni: Roméo, qui l’a tué, est banni. JULIETTE.—O Dieu! la main de Roméo a-t-elle versé le sang de Tybalt? LA NOURRICE.—Il l’a fait, il l’a fait! O jour de malheur! il l’a fait! JULIETTE.—O coeur de serpent caché sous un visage semblable à une fleur! jamais dragon a-t-il choisi un si charmant repaire? Beau tyran, angélique démon, corbeau couvert des plumes d’une colombe, agneau transporté de la rage du loup, méprisable substance de la plus divine apparence, toi, justement le contraire de ce que tu paraissais à juste titre, damnable saint, traître plein d’honneur! O nature, qu’allais-tu donc chercher en enfer, lorsque de ce corps charmant, paradis sur la terre, tu fis le berceau de l’âme d’un démon? Jamais livre contenant une aussi infâme histoire porta-t-il une si belle couverture? et se peut-il que la trahison habite un si brillant palais? LA NOURRICE.—Il n’y a plus ni sincérité, ni foi, ni honneur dans les hommes; tous sont parjures, corrompus, hypocrites. Ah! où est mon valet? Donnez-moi un peu d’aqua vitæ….. Tous ces chagrins, tous ces maux, toutes ces peines me vieillissent. Honte soit à Roméo! JULIETTE.—Maudite soit ta langue pour un pareil souhait! Il n’est pas né pour la honte: la honte rougirait de s’asseoir sur son front; c’est un trône où on peut couronner l’honneur, unique souverain de la terre entière. Oh! quelle brutalité me l’a fait maltraiter ainsi? LA NOURRICE.—Quoi! vous direz du bien de celui qui a tué votre cousin? JULIETTE.—Eh! dirai-je du mal de celui qui est mon mari? Ah! mon pauvre époux, quelle langue soignera ton nom, lorsque moi, ta femme depuis trois heures, je l’ai ainsi déchiré? Mais pourquoi, traître, as-tu tué mon cousin? Ah! ce traître de cousin a voulu tuer mon époux.—Rentrez, larmes insensées, rentrez dans votre source; c’est au malheur qu’appartient ce tribut que par méprise vous offrez à la joie. Mon époux vit, lui que Tybalt aurait voulu tuer; et Tybalt est mort, lui qui aurait voulu tuer mon époux. Tout ceci est consolant, pourquoi donc pleuré-je? Ah! c’est qu’il y a là un mot, plus fatal que la mort de Tybalt, qui m’a assassinée.—Je voudrais bien l’oublier; mais, ô ciel! il pèse sur ma mémoire comme une offense digne de la damnation sur l’âme du pécheur. Tybalt est mort, et Roméo est….. banni! Ce banni, ce seul mot banni, a tué pour moi dix mille Tybalt. La mort de Tybalt était un assez grand malheur, tout eût-il fini là; ou si les cruelles douleurs se plaisent à marcher ensemble, et qu’il faille nécessairement que d’autres peines les accompagnent, pourquoi, après m’avoir dit: «Tybalt est mort,» n’a-t-elle pas continué: «ton père aussi, ou ta mère, ou tous les deux?» cela eût excité en moi les douleurs ordinaires. Mais par cette arrière-garde qui a suivi la mort de Tybalt, Roméo est banni; par ce seul mot, père, mère, Tybalt, Roméo, Juliette, tous sont assassinés, tous morts. Roméo banni! Il n’y a ni fin, ni terme, ni borne, ni mesure dans la mort qu’apporte avec lui ce mot, aucune parole ne peut sonder ce malheur.

Arrête de pleurnicher, mon vieux. Tu peux me dire depuis quand on tient compte des liens familiaux, en Islande ? Tout le monde est cousin dans l'île ! Je n'ai aucune intention de parler seule à cette femme, je ne connais pas assez bien l'affaire pour ça. Alors tes beaux principes, tu vas t'asseoir dessus et te vautrer dans le fumier comme tout le monde.

My fucking cousin was a psychopath. “Man,

Instead of shaking it, Armand slowly brought her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her knuckles. Gwen’s breath hitched and her eyes widened. Jacque wanted to smash his fist into his cousin’s pearly whites. The bastard was purposely taunting both him and Louis by turning on the charm. Women loved Armand. Young and old, pretty or plain, it didn’t matter. He

never had any trouble understanding why Virginia Woolf killed herself. I’d read biographies describing how the writer was molested by a cousin during childhood and developed a classic case of posttraumatic stress disorder, which seems to have left her half sentient, never fully engaged with the events around her. She could see beauty but not feel connected to it, yearn for love but not participate in it. She experienced things flattened, diminished, once removed. She was anesthetized to physical suffering (she seems to have drowned herself without flinching) but also to happiness. Psychologists call it psychic numbing or, in Virginia Woolf’s words “living behind a pane of glass.

Hi, Mad,” Piper’s voice sang out in her ear. “Oh, it’s you,” Madison said, falling back on the pink brocade duvet covering her double bed. “Of course it’s me. I always call you at this time,” Piper said. “Who’d you think it was?” “I thought you were Blue,” she said with a giggle. “But that’s, of course, impossible, since Blue doesn’t even know my name.” “Just what are you talking about?” Piper demanded. “And who is Blue?” “Blue”--Madison grabbed one of her pink furry pillows that lined her headboard and hugged it to her chest--“is my Heart-2-Heart partner. And I think I’m in love.” “What?” Piper screeched into the phone. “We were just assigned our partners yesterday. I have spent almost every spare minute with you, except for a few hours last night and the two hours since we left Giorgio’s. When could you possibly have found the time to fall in love?” “Okay,” Madison said, rolling over onto her stomach. “Maybe not love with a capital L. But a very strong like. Blue is funny and smart--he knows how flies land on the ceiling upside down. And talented--he can do a backflip. Or at least he could when he was nine at his cousin’s house in Issaquah.” “He put all that in one letter?” Piper asked. Madison giggled. “Of course not. We’ve e-mailed several letters. In fact, I’m expecting one now.” “Geez,” Piper said a little wistfully. “I haven’t even checked to see if my Heart-2-Heart pal wrote back.” Madison plucked at the fuzzy strands of yarn on her pillow. “You should. I love this program! We can tell each other anything. It’s so great!” “And this guy’s name is Blue?” Piper’s voice sounded doubtful. “I don’t remember any kid at school named Blue. There was that one guy we called Green in our chem lab, remember? But I think we called him that because his last name was Green and we could never remember his first name.

« Ô Dieu ! m’écriai-je, comment cela est-il possible ? Ô monstre superbe ! ô beau reptile, comme tu enlaces ! comme tu ondoies, douce couleuvre, avec ta peau souple et tachetée ! comme ton cousin le serpent t’a appris à te rouler autour de l’arbre de la vie, avec la pomme dans les lèvres ! Ô Mélusine ! ô Mélusine ! les cœurs des hommes sont à toi. Tu le sais bien, enchanteresse, avec ta moelleuse langueur qui n’a pas l’air de s’en douter. Tu sais bien que tu perds, tu sais bien que tu noies ; tu sais qu’on va souffrir lorsqu’on t’aura touchée ; tu sais qu’on meurt de tes sourires, du parfum de tes fleurs, du contact de tes voluptés ; voilà pourquoi tu te livres avec tant de mollesse, voilà pourquoi ton sourire est si doux, tes fleurs si fraîches ; voilà pourquoi tu poses si doucement ton bras sur nos épaules. Ô Dieu ! ô Dieu ! que veux-tu donc de nous ? »

Haiti Haïti, mon pays, wounded mother I'll never see. Ma famille set me free. Throw my ashes into the sea. Mes cousins jamais nés hantent les nuits de Duvalier. Rien n'arrete nos esprits. Guns can't kill what soldiers can't see. In the forest we lie hiding, unmarked graves where flowers grow. Hear the soldiers angry yelling, in the river we will go. Tous les morts-nés forment une armée, soon we will reclaim the earth. All the tears and all the bodies bring about our second birth.

We are not surprised at Romeo loving Juliet, though he is a Montague and she is a Capulet. But if we found in addition that Lady Capulet was by birth a Montague, that Lady Montague was a first cousin of old Capulet, that Mecutio was at once the nephew of a Capulet and the brother-in-law of a Montague, that count Paris was related on his father’s side to one house and on his mother’s side to the other, that Tybalt was Romeo’s uncle’s stepson and that the Friar who had married Romeo and Juliet was Juliet’s uncle and Romeo’s first cousin once removed, we would probably conclude that the feud between the two houses was being kept up for dramatic entertainment of the people of Verona.

He could never date the cousin of the woman that tore his world apart, and I couldn’t blame him.

La lutte libérale contre la Restauration et l’ouverture faite aux hommes de lettres dans la période orléaniste avaient favorisé, sinon une politisation de la vie intellectuelle, du moins une sorte d’indifférenciation de la littérature et de la politique, comme en témoigne la floraison des politiciens littérateurs et des littérateurs politiciens, Guizot, Thiers, Michelet, Thierry, Villemain, Cousin, Jouffroy ou Nisard. La révolution de 1848, qui déçoit ou inquiète les libéraux, et surtout le second Empire renvoient la plupart des écrivains dans une sorte de quiétisme politique, inséparable d’un repliement hautain vers l’art pour l’art, défini contre l’« art social ». On se rappelle Baudelaire fulminant contre les socialistes : « Crosse religieusement les omoplates de l’anarchiste21 ! » Ou Leconte de Lisle faisant la leçon à Louis Ménard resté fidèle à ses idéaux politiques : « Vas-tu passer ta vie à rendre un culte à Blanqui qui n’est ni plus ni moins qu’une sorte de hache révolutionnaire, hache utile en son lieu, je le veux bien, mais hache enfin ! Va ! Le jour où tu auras fait une belle œuvre, tu auras plus prouvé ton amour de la justice et du droit qu’en écrivant vingt volumes d’économie22. » Mais l’expression la plus typique de ce désenchantement se trouve chez Flaubert, Taine ou Renan qui, réfugiés dans leur œuvre, gardent le silence sur les événements politiques.

Les pulsions sexuelles que vous voulez réprimer finissent par déborder. Vous avez beau nous encadrer en séparant les cousins des cousines dès le début de l’adolescence ; vous ne le savez pas, mais vous n’avez jamais réussi à éteindre la braise qui consume nos corps.

There was a new strength inside him, and he was wealthy with a love for the world, for the smell of the breeze and the texture of stone, for the height of the hill and the deep moss green of the fields that spread beneath him, for the gently journeying clouds wandering far from their mother the sea. He had smelled his aunt Dotty baking bread and heard his mother singing in her garden, he had stood beside his father and his uncles, he had seen his sisters smile and heard his cousins laugh, he had felt a ball hit the sweet, sweet spot on a wooden bat, and he had held a breathing frog in his hands… These and a thousand other things made him rich.

De retour à la caserne, le fusil rangé au râtelier, après ablutions et avoir revêtu notre tenue kakie, nous nous répandions dans la ville. Certains d'entre nous, les plus mâles sinon les plus hardis, avaient rendez-vous dans les cafés avec de jeunes femmes dont les maris creusaient ailleurs. Pâles, les yeux cernés, le sein mobile, ces jeunes et frémissantes créatures s'accrochaient au présent : nos uniformes. Carapaces dont elles nous débarrassaient dans le secret de chambres initiatiques où elles n'avaient pas tardé à nous entrainer. Comme il était bon de quitter leggings, ceinturon, drap, flanelle, et, enfin nus, de se ressembler ! Comme il était bon d'inventer notre légende, d'afficher l'insolence de nos vingt ans ! En avance de plusieurs lunes sur notre dépucelage, expertes et ne demandant qu'à l'être davantage, ces jeunes mariées fleurant la veuve nous étourdissaient de voluptés pressenties. Ô fièvres des lits adultères ! Le sentiment de se trouver en marge de notre destin (mais le destin nous avait placés là, à cette date et en ce lieu) portait nos étreintes à des violences extrêmes, parfois proches du désespoir. Cette guerre nébuleuse, fantomatique, dont on osait croire qu'elle allait, un beau jour, s'évanouir par miracle, prit soudain son véritable visage. Le 10 mai 1940, la foudre s'abattit sur une fraction du globe. Les Prussiens - encore eux ! -, enflés de leurs nombreux cousins, attaquaient la Belgique, la Hollande et le Luxembourg. Sans aucun "préavis". Sans avoir pris de gants ! Le monde civilisé était horrifié ; il ne trouvait point de termes assez durs pour dénoncer cette « odieuse agression », cette « barbarie d'un autre âge », pour flétrir la violation de neutralité de ces trois petits (et courageux) pays qui ne demandaient qu'à rester neutres !

Je lui ai rappelé que, tout le monde le sait, l’alcool est un stimulant sexuel, elle m’a contredit en affirmant que la femme de mon cousin, qui est médecin, lui a expliqué un jour qu’au contraire l’alcool endort les terminaisons nerveuses des organes sexuels, diminue le degré de lubrification du vagin et en plus réduit la concentration d’hormones dans l’organisme, par conséquent, c’est une légende, cette histoire d’alcool qui stimule le sexe. Je n’en pouvais plus, je lui ai opposé que ces arguments ne tenaient pas debout, qu’ils se réfèrent à la performance sexuelle, pas au désir et en plus, comment diable elle en était arrivée à parler de ça avec la femme de mon cousin ? ! (p. 40)

was a formative presence in global diplomacy.86 Cousin Alice pronounced calling and card-leaving “a Washington mania that no sane human beings should let themselves in for.”87 It was also work: it took patience and stamina and kindness; Alice did not want the authority of donkey work, nor did she have the impulse to be kind. Her object was to be feared—to be the alpha female whose invitations to her own select circle were coveted.88 Eleanor’s authority rested on being in earnest and in her instinct for knowing just when someone needed a bunch of violets or a small present for a voyage to France. She never shirked from the toil of the card case; she never claimed “delicacy,”89 or “a brief illness,” code among official ladies for marital strain, excessive menstruation, or depression.90 She made one exception to her all-in cooperation as a naval wife. To staff the gloomy house on N Street, she had brought from New York four servants, all white, who joined Auntie Bye’s two oldest retainers, both African-American. But Franklin’s boss, devoutly Christian, had also been North Carolina’s all too effective collaborator in resisting Reconstruction’s political empowerment of formerly enslaved African Americans.91 In 1898, as editor of the state’s most prominent newspaper, Daniels served as the propaganda wing of a conspiracy to overthrow the elected multiracial government

Pendant des siècles et des siècles, les pédophiles ont abusé et joui des enfants en presque totale impunité. En ces années 1950, ces pervers ordinaires n'avaient guère à craindre de la justice. Au reste, le principe prévalant de l'époque était de laver son linge sale en famille -lieu de la plupart des crimes, comme vous le savez ; le linge pouvait d'ailleurs rester longtemps à stagner et puer dans la panière, ça ne changeait rien à la croyance. De même, le silence était d'or ; on apprenait aux femmes, dès leur plus jeune âge, la discrétion. Rien ne servait de dévoiler, de mettre sur la place publique ces façons impudiques d'hommes un peu trop portés sur la chose.

Besties. Another word I don’t like. It’s just stupid. Bestie and best friend take the exact same amount of time to say. It ain’t like an abbreviation. That’s like me calling my teammates my teamies. Anyway, not only are Taylor and TeeTee best friends, but they’re also cousins (cuzzies) and pretend to be sisters (sissies). They’re like attached at the ponytail and call themselves T-N-T, which is funny because most of the time I just wished they’d explode.

I never had any trouble understanding why Virginia Woolf killed herself. I’d read biographies describing how the writer was molested by a cousin during childhood and developed a classic case of posttraumatic stress disorder, which seems to have left her half sentient, never fully engaged with the events around her. She could see beauty but not feel connected to it, yearn for love but not participate in it. She experienced things flattened, diminished, once removed. She was anesthetized to physical suffering but also to happiness. Psychologists call it psychic numbing or, in Virginia Woolf’s words “Living behind a pane of glass.

Arrête avec le Drame, Marcus. Il n’y a pas un Drame mais des drames. Le drame de ta tante, de tes cousins. Le drame de la vie. Il y a eu des drames, il y en aura d’autres et il faudra continuer à vivre malgré tout. Les drames sont inévitables. Il n’ont pas beaucoup d’importance, au fond. Ce qui compte, c’est la façon dont on parvient à les surmonter. (P. 588).

Ah, yes.” I did not try to mimic Scimina’s tone. My mother had tried, on multiple occasions, to teach me how to sound friendly when I did not feel friendly, but I was too Darre for that. “Greetings, Cousin.

In a multifaceted, trend-setting career, he had truly become the most broadly talented and broadly influential figure in American popular music history. He had been much more than the Father of Bluegrass: He had been an uncle to country music, a first cousin to the folk revival, and a grandfather to rock ‘n’ roll.166

The sisters stared at the list of names, written out in elegant Urdu script- great-grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, long gone and nearly forgotten, as if they had never existed at all. They were real people, thought Maya, and they are a part of me. And they live on through us.

S'il arrive que le travail, sans être une drogue, devienne un réflexe d'autodéfense, il n'en demeure pas moins un parent pauvre du bonheur, un cousin très éloigné de la joie.

Director: Saravana Rajan Producer: Dayanidhi Azhagiri Written : Saravana Rajan Starring: Jai,Swati Reddy Music: Yuvan Shankar Raja Cinematography: Venkatesh S. Release Date: Jan 24, 2014 Editing: Praveen K. L, N. B. Srikanth Director Saravana Rajan’s debut comedy thriller ‘Vadacurry’ features actors Swati Reddy and Jai in lead role. ‘Vadacurry’ is produced by Dhayanidhi Alagiri with Yuvan Shankar Raja’s music. Bollywood actress Sunny Leone has shaken her legs for ‘Vadacurry’ Tamil film’s dream song with actor Jai in Bangkok. The shooting of the song was held in December 2013. It’s a dream sequence of Jai’s character in the ‘Vadacurry’ where, Sunny will be grooving with him. Sunny was given half-sari, bangles and anklets to portray a typical south Indian look in this song. However, the hot diva loved trying these accessories to shake her legs for her debut film in Kollywood ‘Vadacurry’. ‘Vadacurry’ Tamil movie’s cinematography is handled by Venkatesh. ‘Vadacurry’ team started rolling on floors from August 19, 2013. Interestingly, ‘Vadacurry’ Tamil movie’s music composer Yuvan Shankar Raja is cousin of director Saravana Rajan. Director Saravana Rajan has followed the steps of his tutor Venkat Prabhu in coining food names as title for his movie ‘Vadacurry’ that matched with Venkat Prabhu’s recent release ‘Biriyani’. The charming beauty Anusha Dhayanidhi has made a debut as costume designer in ‘Vadacurry’. Anusha Dhayanidhi has transformed the looks of female lead Swathi in ‘Vadacurry’ Tamil film. It should be noted that ‘Subramaniyapuram’ pairs, who had portrayed good chemistry have joined this comedy entertainer ‘Vadacurry’. However, ‘Vadacurry’ Tamil film is ready to be served on 24January, 2014 to give a punch of full-on comedy with its taste and essence.

By contrast, keep on with various versions of old-fashioned monarchy, or with slow or fast socialism, with its betterment-killing policies protecting the favored classes, especially the rich or the Party or the cousins, Bad King John or Robin Hood—in its worst forms a military socialism or a tribal tyranny, and even in its best a stifling regulation of new cancer drugs—and you get the grinding routine of human tyranny and poverty, with their attendant crushing of the human spirit. The agenda of modern liberalism, ranged against tyranny and poverty, is achieving human flourishing in the way it has always been achieved. Let my people go. Let ordinary people have a go. Stop pushing people around.

Dad didn't hate weddings," Mae said. Her mom's brow creased. "Yes, he did," she said with a chuckle. "He was always going on about how he could go the rest of his life without hearing the wedding march ever again." "No, he didn't," Mae said more firmly. She set her fork down. "He hated going to your family's weddings. Because it meant being around a bunch of white people who were just subtle enough to keep their racism discreet." That did it. Susan froze. John took a long drink from his wineglass. Connor's gaze steadied on Mae, a haze of uncertainty in his eyes. Madison jerked her head back. Sierra watched her, looking vaguely curious. Her mom stared, mouth open. "It was inevitable," Mae continued. "Whenever we had to be around the Parkers. Someone would always say something borderline. Dad and I would exchange a look, like, Here we go. Every wedding, every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every Easter, we would sit across from each other at a table full of white people and share our silent little looks." Her face was burning. Every pair of eyes at the table was laser-focused on her. Even Jayla, sitting one table over with the wedding party, was staring. Mae's mom opened her mouth, which just reminded Mae she had more to say. "I wish you'd told me about grandma being racist to Althea." It was mortifying, spilling her guts in front of her in-laws, but it was freeing, too. Like she was invincible. Like even though she was about to wreck her entire life, at least no one could stop her. You couldn't stop a hurricane. "You said you didn't want me to feel different around her, but, Mom, I already did. And I wish you'd told me I had a sister. Do you know how much less alone I would have felt, knowing Sierra was my sister? Being around family that looked like me? Instead of a grandpa who said the n-word in front of me when I was eight? Or my husband's mom asking me how dark my skin gets in the sun?" Susan paled. "Or a cousin who--- you know what, Madison," Mae said, catching her eye across the table, "it is racist to say you refuse to shop at Black-owned businesses, and I shouldn't have defended you when Sierra called you on it." Madison's cheeks reddened, and she looked like she was going to object, but Mae wasn't done. "Is it any wonder that I would drive to Hobson and sacrifice so much to stay there, burning through all my PTO, giving up my entire honeymoon, because I finally had a family that didn't make me feel out of place?

Is Lena getting married today?” Jenny asks my aunt. Her voice has always reminded me of bees droning flatly in the heat. “Don’t be stupid,” my aunt says, but without irritation. “You know she can’t marry until she’s cured.” I take my towel from the bin and straighten up. That word—marry—makes my mouth go dry. Everyone marries as soon as they are done with their education. It’s the way things are. “Marriage is Order and Stability, the mark of a Healthy society.” (See The Book of Shhh, “Fundamentals of Society,” p. 114). But the thought of it still makes my heart flutter frantically, like an insect behind glass. I’ve never touched a boy, of course—physical contact between uncureds of opposite sex is forbidden. Honestly, I’ve never even talked to a boy for longer than five minutes, unless you count my cousins and uncle and Andrew Marcus, who helps my uncle at the Stop-N-Save and is always picking his nose and wiping his snot on the underside of the canned vegetables. And if I don’t pass my boards—please God, please God, let me pass them—I’ll have my wedding as soon as I’m cured, in less than three months. Which means I’ll have my wedding night.

A Paris, où les pavés ont des oreilles, où les portes ont une langue, où les barreaux des fenêtres ont des yeux, rien n'est plus dangereux que de causer devant les portes cochères.