Na Sayings And Quotes

He sighed, and his eyes closed. "You were right," he murmured, his voice nearly lost in the darkness. "I couldn't do it alone. I should have listened to you back in Tir Na Nog." "Yes, you should have," I whispered. "Remember that, so that next time you can just agree with whatever I say and we'll be fine.

Farsi Couplet: Mun tu shudam tu mun shudi,mun tun shudam tu jaan shudi Taakas na guyad baad azeen, mun deegaram tu deegari English Translation: I have become you, and you me, I am the body, you soul; So that no one can say hereafter, That you are someone, and me someone else.

My eyes burn with tears, and I'm so tired. So tired of holding back everything I feel and want to say. So tired of being someone I'm not and making mistakes that I didn't have any fun making.

Oh my. He's English. "Er. Does Mer live here?" Seriously, I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent. The boy clears his throat. "Meredith Chevalier? Tall girl? Big, curly hair?" Then he looks at me like I'm crazy or half deaf, like my Nana Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, "What kind of salad dressing would you like?" or "Where did you put Granddad's false teeth?" "I'm sorry." He takes the smallest step away from me. "You were going to bed." "Yes! Meredith lives here. I've just spent two hours with her." I announce this proudly like my little brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. "I'm Anna! I'm new here!" Oh, [Gosh]. What. Is with. The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it's all so humiliating. The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely - straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I'm a sucker for smiles like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin. "Étienne," he says. "I live one floor up." "I live here." I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused. He raps twice on Meredith's door. "Well. I'll see you around then, Anna." Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na.

There's an old folk saying that goes: whenever you delete a sentence from your NaNoWriMo novel, a NaNoWriMo angel loses its wings and plummets, screaming, to the ground. Where it will likely require medical attention.

Aqalmandi Ka Takaza Tou Yehi Hai Kay Insan Khuda Kay Tasawar Ko Sha'ori Tor Par Thek Tarah Say Samajh Lay. Aisa Na Hoa Tou Koi Aur Sha'ay Khuda Ban Kar Apni Pooja Karwaney Lagay Gi".

My queen,” he breathed, one hand reaching up to frame my cheek, making my stomach jump and twirl. “I belong to you. No matter what Mab says, no matter how long I’ve been in Tir Na Nog, my life is yours. Nothing will ever make me leave your side.

Say it again, Na’Chi.” “I love you, Light Blade,

Haleine contre haleine, échauffe-moi la vie, Mille et mille baisers donne-moi je te prie, Amour veut tout sans nombre, amour n’a point de loi Translated: Breath against breath warms my life. A thousand kisses give me I pray thee. Love says it all without number, love knows no law.

He pulled back to roughly say, “Ty dazhe na vkus sladkaya.

Did you say you were going into Tir Na Nog? Lemme guess - you met with our lovely queen, she threatened to turn you into lemurs or something ridiculous and then she told you to go complete some ludicrously impossible task for her. Am I right?” When we nodded, he shook his head. “I thought so. Well, you know what this means, don’t you?” “Yes.” Keirran’s eyes were hard as he faced Puck, his expression one of grim determination. “We have to find a way into Winter.

as jolaha ka maram na jana, jinh jag ani pasarinhh tana; dharti akas dou gad khandaya, chand surya dou nari banaya; sahastra tar le purani puri, ajahu bine kathin hai duri; kahai kabir karm se jori, sut kusut bine bhal kori; No one could understand the secret of this weaver who, coming into existence, spread the warp as the world; He fixed the earth and the sky as the pillars, and he used the sun and the moon as two shuttles; He took thousands of stars and perfected the cloth; but even today he weaves, and the end is difficult to fathom. Kabir says that the weaver, getting good or bad yarn and connecting karmas with it, weaves beautifully.

Naogopa simba na meno yake siogopi mtu kwa maneno yake (I fear a lion with his strong teeth but not a man with his words)

Who says you’ll get hurt again?” I pouted. “Have you met you?” “Right.

He were found drowned. He were coming home very hopeless o' aught on earth. He thought God could na be harder than men; mappen not so hard; mappen as tender as a mother; mappen tenderer. I'm not saying he did right, and I'm not saying he didn't wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do like things.

He turns back to me. "So did you enjoy the book?' "I did." Discomfort lingers between us. "Did you?" St. Clair considers it for a moment. "I like the author's name the best," he finally says, "Ba-nah-na.

A: Tsk! Ano ba naman 'tong araw na 'to? Ang ineeeht! Hwooh! B: Natural! Ano gusto mo? Malamig s'ya? E 'di dedbol na tayo n'un! Hwaha! A: Tangek! All I'm saying is... tsk! 'Wag na tayo dito sa labas... Kanina pa tayo nasa araw eh! D'un na -- B: Huwow! And all this time akala ko nasa earth tayo!! Hwow! Teka lang! Huwow!

Gunaah ka bojh kiya hota hai aur aadmi apnay gunaah kay bojh ko kiss tarah qayaamat kay din apni pusht say utaar phainkna chahay ga kiss tarah uss say door bhaagna chahay ga kiss tarah doosray kay kandhay per daal dena chahay ga,yeh uss ki samajh mai Haram Shareef mai pohanch kar aya tha.Wahan kharay ho kar woh apnay paas mojood aur anay wali saari zindagi ki daulat kay aiwaz bhi kisi ko woh guna ah baichna chahta tu koi yeh tijarat na karta.Kaash aadmi kisi maal kay aiwaz apnay gunaah baich sakta.Kisi ujrat kay taur per doosron ki naikiyaan mangnay ka haq rakhta.Laakhon loagon kay iss hujoom mai 2 sufaid chaadarain orhay,kaun janta tha kay Salaar Sikandar kaun tha?Uss ka I.Q Level kiya tha.Kissay parwah thi?Uss kay paas kaun kaunsi aur kahan ki Degree thi.Kissay hosh tha?Uss nay zindagi kay Maidaan mai kitnay taleemi record toray aur banaye thay.Kissay khabar thi woh apnay zehan kay kaun say maidaan taskheer karnay wala tha.Kaun rashk karnay wala tha?Woh wahan uss hujoom mai thokar kha kar girta,Bhagdar mai ronda jata.Uss kay ooper say guzarnay wali khalqat mai say koi bhi yeh nahin sochta kay unhone kaisay dimaagh ko kho diya hai.Kiss I.Q Level kay nayaab aadmi ko kis tarah khatam kar diya tha.Ussay duniya mai apni auqaat,apni ahmiyat ka pata chal gaya tha.Agar kuch mughaalita reh bhi gaya tha tu ab khatam hogaya tha.Agar kuch shubah baaqi tha,tu ab door hogaya tha.Fakhar,takabbur,rashk,ana,khudpasandi,khud sataayishi kay her bachay hue tukray ko nichor kar uss nay andar say phaink diya tha.Woh in hi alaaishon ko door karwanay kay liye wahan aya tha.

han dil udaas ha magar ab na teri koi aas ha zamana chora tujhay apna banaya tu ne hamein thukraya zamana apnaya ab jab zaroorat hay mujhay zamany ki tujhay b nahi koi zarorat ab laut any ki teri in adaaon ko jan gya mein yeh wohi adat purani c masoom dilon say khelna han yeh wohi kahani c rabba tu dikha dena issy bhala rasta kahin na le bethy baduwa kisi tootay dil say ye larki jan k jo bani anjani c.........xx

There are many versions of a story. Many sides and lenses that can distort, change, illuminate what is seen and unseen. What is heard and unheard. What is felt and unfelt. In the end, truth is but a facet of a diamond, a spark of ray from the sun, a forget-me-not flower seen from the eyes of a bee. What lives and breathes as reality is a perception, so who is to say what is possible and impossible?

I love that accent you have when you say hello You relocated from New York a month ago That minivan that you drive really gets me going And if it feels like it's right Then it can't be wrong No one understands the chemistry we have And it came out of nowhere Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah It's not like we planned this, it's getting out of hand And now we're gonna go there Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Walk my way Mrs All American Say my name No need to pretend Don't be shy Mrs All American I'll show you why You're not gonna walk away Yeah Not just a neighbour Oh hey there I'll ring your bell Open your door, pucker up And I'll kiss you well My lips are sealed There's nobody that I would tell Your secret's mine, close your eyes And I'll make you melt No one understands the chemistry we have And it came out of nowhere Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah It's not like we planned this, it's getting out of hand And now we're gonna go there Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Walk my way Mrs All American Say my name No need to pretend Don't be shy Mrs All American I'll show you why You're not gonna walk away Oh yeah Na na na na na na na na You know what she like Na na na na na na na na You know what she like Na na na na na na na na Ah you know what she like Na na na na na na na Walk my way Mrs All American Say my name No need to pretend Don't be shy Mrs All American I'll show you why You're not gonna walk away (Walk my way) Oh yeah (Say my name) You're not gonna walk away (Don't be shy) (I'll show you why) You're not gonna walk away

Katika maisha watu watakufitini, watakurubuni na watakukatisha tamaa. Sema hapana kwa ndiyo nyingi.

Mtu akikushauri kufanya kitu ambacho ni kinyume na takdiri ('destiny') ya maisha yako, hata kama huyo mtu hana nia mbaya na wewe, sema 'hapana' kwa hiyo 'ndiyo' yake.

Lucia opened the door. "They say not to discuss politics and religion on the first date." “Well, then.” I gave her a huge smile. “We’re screwed.

Da je na svetu više ludaka poput nas, svet bi bio normalnije mesto.

Considera quem te aponta os defeitos como se te desvendasse tesouros. Segue o sábio que te reprova os erros. Na verdade, estar em tal companhia é um grande bem, e não um mal.

Bahala na," as the Filipinos say, which is an untranslatable phrase containing the same germ of philosophy as the Arabic "inshalla" or the Spanish "mañana" or the English "you must have me mixed up with somebody who gives a shit".

...in one of his Irish Times columns written under the name of Myles na gCopaleen, [Flann] O’Brien offered a service to readers who owned books but did not open them. For a fee, books would be handled, with passages underlined or spines damaged or words such as ‘Rubbish’ or ‘Yes, but cf Homer, Od. iii, 151’ or ‘I remember poor Joyce saying the same thing to me’ written in the margins. Or inscriptions on the title page such as ‘From your devoted friend and follower, K. Marx.’" --"Flann O'Brien's Lies," Colm Tóibin, London Review of Books, Jan. 5, 2012

If an inmate swears at a guard, fights, or hides contraband like cigarettes or candy [Sheriff Arpaio has banned coffee, cigarettes, hot lunches, girlie mags & TV], she's kicked out of the tents and sent to lockdown--a tiny cell 10x12 feet that houses 4 women, instead of the 2 it was built for. There's no tv, no phone, & no a/c. Even though most of these women have drug problems, programs like NA or AA are considered 'privileges' forbidden to those locked down. The only way to get out of lockdown is to volunteer for the chain gang--the first & only female chain gang in the United States (as of Aug 1997). Volunteers sign a paper that says they know & accept the conditions on the chain--cleaning Phoenix streets, painting the center strip of miles of highway, & burying AZ's indigent. The accusation of 'cruel & unusual punishment' is quashed by the argument that the chain gang is purely voluntary. After all, if you prefer, you can spend the whole year in lockdown.

Kids can say anything in a mocking, singsong voice, and make it sound uncool. “You have ears. Nyah-nyah-na-nyah-nyah, you have eee-ars and they’re on the side of your fay-ace!

and as I said before, though I should na' say it, I'm a good hand, measter, and a steady man—specially when I can keep fro' drink; and that

A saying still used in Portugal is Anda Mouro na costa (literally, “there are Moors off the coast”). It indicates that trouble is afoot,

Failure is the breeding ground of innovation. How so, you say? Consider Thomas Edison's approach to failure: 'I have not failed, I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.

It is indeed a tricky name. It is often misspelt, because the eye tends to regard the "a" of the first syllable as a misprint and then tries to restore the symmetrical sequence by triplicating the "o"- filling up the row of circles, so to speak, as in a game of crosses and naughts. No-bow-cough. How ugly, how wrong. Every author whose name is fairly often mentioned in periodicals develops a bird-watcher's or caterpillar-picker's knack when scanning an article. But in my case I always get caught by the word "nobody" when capitalized at the beginning of a sentence. As to pronunciation, Frenchmen of course say Nabokoff, with the accent on the last syllable. Englishmen say Nabokov, accent on the first, and Italians say Nabokov, accent in the middle, as Russians also do. Na-bo-kov. A heavy open "o" as in "Knickerbocker". My New England ear is not offended by the long elegant middle "o" of Nabokov as delivered in American academies. The awful "Na-bah-kov" is a despicable gutterism. Well, you can make your choice now. Incidentallv, the first name is pronounced Vladeemer- rhyming with "redeemer"- not Vladimir rhyming with Faddimere (a place in England, I think).

If I was a betting man, I'd say you intentionally collided with me just to start up a conversation" he starts "but sweetheart, all you had to do was stop by and say hello... no concussions necessary.

Somehow you don't question things until you come face to face with the person and suddenly- suddenly you realize that behind all them stories it have a flesh- and- blood, breathing, feeling person who capable of hurting, yes! Well, ask her, na. Ask her if she want to garden. I think about starting a plot for the old people to have something to do. Some people say that gardening good for old people. I am proof of that!

They're kicking us out saying it's time to close We're leaning on each other try'na beat the cold Carry your shoes and I give you my coat Walking these streets like they're paved gold Anymore excuses is not to go Neither one of us want to take that taxi home Singing our hearts, standing on chairs Spending the time like we were millionaires Laughing our heads off, the two of us stared Spending the time like we were millionaires Lost my heart and I hope to die Seeing that sunlight hit your eyes Been up all night but you still look amazing to me Half the time of the night you only dream About if God came down he could take me now Cause in my mind, yeah we will always be

Buckin’ is one ay Na Na’s favourite words likesay, along wi ‘pish’. Naebody says ‘pish’ like Na Na. She sortay drags oot the sssshhh, it’s likesay, ye kin see the steam rising oaf the yellay jet as it hits the white porcelain, ken?

Okuko si na ya anaghi eti ka egbe ji ya haa ya; kama na ya na-eti ka oha nuru olu ya. The chicken carried away by a hawk says that it is crying not so that the thing carrying it will let it go, but so that the public will hear its voice and be witness.

A rua exprimia a perturbadora angústia de uma colectividade; não era um indivíduo orgulhoso a gabar-se da sua história. Era humana e grande na sua aflição por gritar a dor de toda uma multidão. E Sayed Karam assistia impotente a este grito dos homens através da matéria.

I remembered Sant Kabir's famous doha that my mother often quoted: Jako rakhe Saiyan, maar sakey na koy Baal na banko kar sakey, jo jag bairi hoy He whom God protects, no one can kill. Even if the whole world turns into his enemy, not even a hair of his can they harm.

Katika maisha watu wengi hawataki kukuona ukiendelea kwa sababu ukiendelea unakuwa kioo kwao. Ghafla wataanza kukutazama. Wanajua wana akili kama wewe, wamesoma kama wewe, au wana akili kuliko wewe, au wamesoma kuliko wewe, na labda wanazijua sifa zako za udhaifu na sifa zako za ushupavu toka utotoni kwako. Lakini ghafla unakuwa kioo, na wanapojitazama katika hicho kioo, wanajiona taswira zao isipokuwa sasa hawapo mahali ambapo wewe upo. Katika maisha watu watakushauri, watakufitini, watakurubuni na watakukatisha tamaa. Sema hapana kwa ndiyo nyingi kwa sababu hawaoni unachokiona, hawajui unachokifanya na hawajui unapoelekea. Unachokiona ni takdiri ya maisha yako, unachokifanya ni kupanda mbegu na kuzimwagilia kwa imani, na unapoelekea ni kileleni. Hivyo, songa mbele, kuwa wewe daima, wape muda, wape nafasi.

Are you anywhere near Champaign-Urbana?" "No." "I went there once. I thought from its name that it would be a different kind of place. I kept saying to myself, 'Champagne, urbah na, champagne, urbah na! Champagne! Urbana'" He sighed. "It was just this thing in the middle of a field.

See you at breakfast?" "Yeah.See ya." I try to say this casually,but I'm so thrilled that I skip from her room and promptly slam into a wall. Whoops.Not a wall.A boy. "Oof." He staggers backward. "Sorry! I'm so sorry,I didn't know you were there." He shakes his head,a little dazed. The first thing I notice is his hair-it's the first thing I notice about everyone. It's dark brown and messy and somehow both long and short at the same time. I think of the Beatles,since I've just seen them in Meredith's room. It's artist hair.Musician hair. I-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-really-do-hair. Beautiful hair. "It's okay,I didn't see you either. Are you all right,then?" Oh my.He's English. "Er.Does Mer live here?" Seriously,I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent. The boy clears his throat. "Meredith Chevalier? Tall girl? Big,curly hair?" Then he looks at me like I'm crazy or half deaf,like my Nanna Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, "What kind of salad dressing would you like?" or "Where did you put Granddad's false teeth?" "I'm sorry." He takes the smallest step away from me. "You were going to bed." "Yes! Meredith lives there.I've just spent two hours with her." I announce this proudly like my brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. "I'm Anna! I'm new here!" Oh God. What.Is with.The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it's all so humiliating. The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely-straight on top and crooked on the bottom,with a touch of overbite. I'm a sucker for smiles like this,due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin. "Etienne," he says. "I live one floor up." "I live here." I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused. He raps twice on Meredith's door. "Well. I'll see you around then, Anna." Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na. My heart thump thump thumps in my chest.

In view of the possibility of finding meaning in suffering, life's meaning is an unconditional one, at least potentially. That unconditional meaning, however, is paralleled by the unconditional value of each and every person. It is that which warrants the indelible quality of the dignity of man. Just as life remains potentially meaningful under any conditions, even those which are most miserable, so too does the value of each and every person stay with him or her, and it does so because it is based on the values that he or she has realized in the past, and is not contingent on the usefulness that he or she may or may not retain in the present. More specifically, this usefulness is usually defined in terms of functioning for the benefit of society. But today's society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness. If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that na individual's value stems only from his present usefulness, then, believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler's program, that is to say, "mercy" killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, or whatever handicap they may suffer. Confounding the dignity of man with mere usefulness arises from a conceptual confusion that in turn may be traced back to the contemporary nihilism transmitted on many an academic campus and many an analytical couch. Even in the setting of training analyses such an indoctrination may take place. Nihilism does not contend that there is nothing, but it states that everything is meaningless. And George A. Sargent was right when he promulgated the concept of "learned meaninglessness." He himself remembered a therapist who said, "George, you must realize that the world is a joke. There is no justice, everything is random. Only when you realize this will you understand how silly it is to take yourself seriously. There is no grand purpose in the universe. It just is. There's no particular meaning in what decision you make today about how to act." One must generalize such a criticism. In principle, training is indispensable, but if so, therapists should see their task in immunizing the trainee against nihilism rather than inoculating him with the cynicism that is a defense mechanism against their own nihilism.

And there has been no attempt to investigate it,' I said, 'to see what it really is?' 'Eh, Cornel,' said the coachman's wife, 'wha would investigate, as ye call it, a thing that nobody believes in? Ye would be the laughing-stock of a' the country-side, as my man says.' 'But you believe in it,' I said, turning upon her hastily. The woman was taken by surprise. She made a step backward out of my way. 'Lord, Cornel, how ye frichten a body! Me! there's awful strange things in this world. An unlearned person doesna ken what to think. But the minister and the gentry they just laugh in your face. Inquire into the thing that is not! Na, na, we just let it be.' ("The Open Door")

Until my grandfather finishes his dictionary, which probably won’t ever happen, the biggest dictionary in the world will still be the Oxford English Dictionary. It’s enormous. We don’t have one. It’s too expensive. Instead we have a condensed OED. The cover is as navy as a bruise. I looked up the word navy in it and found that this word shares a history with nausea and navel from the Sanskrit na or sna or snu, which means to bathe as in the word snake. Unwound language can look like the white cord of unwound brain. It can be dangerous to unwind some words. Jude wasn’t in the Navy. He was in the Army and army comes from ar—to fit, to join, see art, see inertia, the dictionary says.

Every inch of me vibrated beneath the surface, hummed and inflamed whenever my body touched his. I rolled my hips and arched closer against him, feeling incredible heat beyond his expensive black suit, and then I licked the inside of his mouth. Like a reflex, he sucked on my tongue. Heat, tiny pricks of heat, consumed me from the inside out. He pulled back to roughly say, “Ty dazhe na vkus sladkaya.

Before you are admitted to British citizenship you are not even considered a natural human being. I looked up the word natural (na’tural) in the Pocket Oxford Dictionary (p. 251); it says: Of or according to or provided by nature, physically existing, innate, instinctive, normal, not miraculous or spiritual or artificial or conventional.... Note that before you obtain British citizenship, they simply doubt that you are provided by nature.

There is a popular saying in Igbo 'Amakam ihe na Ozubulu, puta Nnewi buru ewu'. This means, you can be so enlightened in a particular place and when you step outside that place, you become ignorant. Again, the Igbos say "Agwo otu onye furu na agho eke" - A snake seen my one man is usually described as a Python! Always try to see what and how others are doing. It will help you stop wallowing in an imaginary self glorification! Remember to be humble.

I think that is called the ‘Golden Rule,’ Brennus. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’” I say with a crooked smile. Faolan looks at me strangely, asking, “Dat’s a rule? Den whah’s da ‘Silver Rule?’” Before I can answer, Eion chimes in, “Da ‘Silver Rule’ must be whah ye do when the ‘Golden Rule’ does na work. It must be, ‘Kill all da others before dey kill all of yous.’” Lachlan smiles at me and says, “Da ‘Golden Rule’ should really be, ‘Ye will bleed if ye do na do whah I’m telling ye.

But wha cookit the parridge for him?” exclaimed the Baillie, “I wad like to ken that;—wha, but your honour’s to command, Duncan Macwheeble? His honour, young Mr Waverley, pat it a’ in my hand frae the beginning—frae the first calling o’ the summons, as I may say. I circumvented them—I played at bogle about the bush wi’ them—I cajolled them; and if I have na gien Inch-Grabbit and Jamie Howie a bonnie begunk, they ken themselves. Him a writer! I did na gae slap-dash to them wi’ our young bra’ bridegroom, to gar them haud up the market; na, na; I scared them wi’ our wild tenantry, and the Mac-Ivors, that are but ill settled yet, till they durst na on ony errand whatsoever gang ower the door-stane after gloaming, for fear John Heatherblutter, or some siccan dare-the-diel, should take a baff at them: then, on the other hand, I beflum’d them wi’ Colonel Talbot—wad they offer to keep up the price again the Duke’s friend? did na they ken wha was master? had na they seen aneuch, by the example of mony a poor misguided unhappy body”—

I'm sorry for you." "Why?" asked Tiktok. "Because you have no brains, as I have," said the Scarecrow. "Oh, yes, I have," returned Tiktok. "I am fit-ted with Smith & Tin-ker's Im-proved Com-bi-na-tion Steel Brains. They are what make me think. What sort of brains are you fit-ted with?" "I don't know," admitted the Scarecrow. "They were given to me by the great Wizard of Oz, and I didn't get a chance to examine them before he put them in. But they work splendidly and my conscience is very active. Have you a conscience?" "No," said Tiktok. "And no heart, I suppose?" added the Tin Woodman, who had been listening with interest to this conversation. "No," said Tiktok. "Then," continued the Tin Woodman, "I regret to say that you are greatly inferior to my friend

The non-event is not when nothing happens. It is, rather, the realm of perpetual change, of a ceaseless updating, of an incessant succession in real time, which produces this general equivalence, this indifference, this banality that characterizes the zero degree of the event. A perpetual escalation that is also the escalation of growth - or of fashion, which is pre-eminently the field of compulsive change and built-in obsolescence. The ascendancy of models gives rise to a culture of difference that puts an end to any historical continuity. Instead of unfolding as part of a history, things have begun to succeed each other in the void. A profusion of language and images before which we are defenceless, reduced to the same powerlessness, to the same paralysis as we might show on the approach of war. It isn't a question of disinformation or brainwashing. It was a naIve error on the part of the FBI to attempt to create a Disinformation Agency for purposes of managed manipulation - a wholly useless undertaking, since disinformation comes from the very profusion of information, from its incantation, its looped repetition, which creates an empty perceptual field, a space shattered as though by a neutron bomb or by one of those devices that sucks in all the oxygen from the area of impact. It's a space where everything is pre-neutralized, including war, by the precession of images and commentaries, but this is perhaps because there is at bottom nothing to say about something that unfolds, like this war, to a relentless scenario, without a glimmer of uncertainty regarding the final outcome.

Now everyone knows that to try to say something in the mainstream Western media that is critical of U.S. policy or Israel is extremely difficult; conversely, to say things that are hostile to the Arabs as a people and culture, or Islam as a religion, is laughably easy. For in effect there is a cultural war between spokespersons for the West and those of the Muslim and Arab world. In so inflamed a situation, the hardest thing to do as an intellectual is to be critical, to refuse to adopt a rhetorical style that is the verbal equivalent of carpet-bombing, and to focus instead on those issues like U.S. support for unpopular client re­gimes, which for a person writing in the U.S. are somewhat more likely to be affected by critical discussion. Of course, on the other hand, there is a virtual cer­tainty of getting an audience if as an Arab intellectual you passionately, even slavishly support U.S. policy, you attack its critics, and if they happen to be Arabs, you invent evi­dence to show their villainy; if they are American you confect stories and situations that prove their duplicity; you spin out stories concerning Arabs and Muslims that have the effect of defaming their tradition, defacing their history, accentuating their weaknesses, of which of course there are plenty. Above all, you attack the officially ap­ proved enemies-Saddam Hussein, Baathism, Arab na­tionalism, the Palestinian movement, Arab views of Israel. And of course this earns you the expected accolades: you are characterized as courageous, you are outspoken and passionate, and on and on. The new god of course is the West. Arabs, you say, should try to be more like the West, should regard the West as a source and a reference point. · Gone is the history of what the West actually did. Gone are the Gulf War's destructive results. We Arabs and Mus­lims are the sick ones, our problems are our own, totally self-inflicted. A number of things stand out about these kinds of performance. In the first place, there is no universalism here at all. Because you serve a god uncritically, all the devils are always on the other side: this was as true when you were a Trotskyist as it i's now when you are a recanting former Trotskyist. You do not think of politics in terms of interrelationships or of common histories such as, for instance, the long and complicated dynamic that has bound the Arabs and Muslims to the West and vice versa. Real intellectual analysis forbids calling one side innocent, the other evil. Indeed the notion of a side is, where cultures are at issue, highly problematic, since most cultures aren't watertight little packages, all homogenous, and all either good or evil. But if your eye is on your patron, you cannot think as an intellectual, but only as a disciple or acolyte. In the back of your mind there is the thought that you must please and not displease.

On the 27th morning, at around 8 a.m. the train left Godhra Station. The karsevaks were loudly chanting the Ram Dhoon. The train had hardly gone a few meters, when it suddenly stopped. Somebody had perhaps pulled the chain to stop the train. Before anybody could know what had happened, we saw a huge mob approaching the train. People were carrying weapons like Gupti, Spears, Swords and such other deadly weapons in their hands and were throwing stones at the train. We all got frightened and somehow closed the windows and the doors of the compartment. People outside were shouting loudly, saying ‘Maro, Kato’ and were attacking the train. A loudspeaker from the Masjid (i.e. Mosque) closeby was also very loudly shouting ‘Maro, Kato, Laden na dushmano ne Maro.’ (“Cut, kill, kill the enemies of Laden”)These attackers were so fierce that they managed to break the windows and close the doors from outside before pouring petrol inside and setting the compartment on fire so that nobody could escape alive. A number of attackers entered the compartment and were beating the karsevaks and looting their belongings. The compartments were drenched in petrol all over. We were terrified and were shouting for help but who was there to help us? A few policemen were later seen approaching the compartment but they were also whisked away by the furious mob outside. There was so much of smoke in the compartment that we were unable to see each other and also getting suffocated. Going out was too difficult, however, myself and Pooja somehow managed to jump out through the windows. Pooja was hurt in her back and was unable to stand up. People outside were trying to hold us to take us away but we could escape and run under the burning train and succeeded in crawling towards the cabin. I have seen my parents and sisters being burnt alive right in front of my eyes.” Luckily, Gayatri was not hurt too badly. “We somehow managed to go up to the station and meet our aunty (Masi). After the compartments were completely burnt, the crowd started withering. We saw that even amongst them were men, women and youngsters like us, both male and female.

Insofar as the feeling of meaninglessness is concerned, however, we should not overlook and forget that, per se, it is not a matter of pathology; rather than being the sign and symptom of a neurosis, it is, I would say, the proof of one's humanness. But although it is not caused by anything pathological, it may well cause a pathological reaction; in other words, it is potentially pathogenic. Just consider the mass neurotic syndrome so pervasive in the young generation: there is ample empirical evidence that the three facets of this syndrome-depression, aggression, addiction-are due to what is called in logotherapy "the existential vacuum," a feeling of emptiness and meaninglessness. It goes without saying that not each and every case of depression is to be traced back to a feeling of meaninglessness, nor does suicide-in which depression sometimes eventuates-always result from an existential vacuum. But even if each and every case of suicide had not been undertaken out of a feeling of meaninglessness, it may well be that na individual's impulse to take his life would have been overcome had he been aware of some meaning and purpose worth living for. If, thus, a strong meaning orientation plays a decisive role in the prevention of suicide, what about intervention in cases in which there is a suicide risk?

Reaching into his sporran, he pulled out a small bundle wrapped in fine linen. “I want to give ye somethin’, somethin’I want ye to wear this day.”Carefully, he unfolded the linen and held his hand out to her. Josephine’s eyes widened with curiosity and joy. “’Tis beautiful, Graeme!” “It be a brooch that each MacAulay lad receives when he turns six and ten. I want ye to have it.” Josephine carefully took it and studied it closely. Made of pewter, in the center of the brooch were two hands, one decidedly masculine, the other feminine. The masculine hand held the feminine hand in his palm. In the center of her palm was a tiny ruby. To one side, the circle had been engraved to look like stars twinkling near a crescent moon. On the other were the words aeterna devotione. Eternal devotion. Tears filled her eyes as she looked into his. “Ye want me to have this?” “Aye, I do, Joie,”he said as he placed a kiss on her forehead. “Me great-great-great grandfather presented a brooch just like this to his wife, me great-great-great grandmum. But no’until the first anniversary of their weddin’day. ’Twas a symbol of the great love they had found with one another. ’Tis tradition for the MacAulay men to only give their brooch to a woman who has stolen their heart, a woman they love and trust above all else.” Tears trailed down her cheeks, her heart beating so rapidly she was certain it would burst through her breastbone at any moment. “I do no’quite understand how it happened, or how it happened so quickly, Joie, but it has. Amorem in corde meo ut arctius coccino colloeandus arctius ideo astra,”Graeme said first in Latin and then again in Gaelic, “Toisc go bhfuil do ghrá eitseáilte isteach i mo chroí i corcairdhearg, mar sin tá sé eitseáilte amonst na réaltaí.”He placed a tender kiss on her cheek. “As yer love be etched into me heart in crimson, so it be etched amongst the stars,”he told her. “As me grandda said those words to me grandmum all those many years ago, I say them to ye.

NOTE: The character of Aoleon is deaf. This conversation takes place in the book via sign language... “Feeling a certain kind of way Aoleon?” She snapped-to and quickly became defensive. “What in the name of the Goddess are you on about?” Shades of anger and annoyance. The old Aoleon coming out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t poke at you like that. It’s okay you know. There’s nothing wrong about the way you feel.” As if suddenly caught up in a lie, Aoleon cleared her throat and ran her fingers absentmindedly over her ear and started to fidget with one of the brass accents in her snowy hair. A very common nervous reaction. “No…I mean…well I was…uh...” “Aoleon, I know about you and Arjana.” he admitted outrightly as he pointed at the drawing. She coughed, stuttered, smiled, but could bring herself to fully say nothing. Words escaped her as she looked about the room for answers. “My sight is Dįvįnë, lest we forget. I knew you were growing close.” “Yes. Well…she’s…something else.” “Indeed?” he responded. Images flashed briefly in Aoleon’s head of her father’s old friend. Verging on her fiftieth decade of life. She was a fierce woman by all accounts. One who’d just as soon cut you with words as she would a blade. Yet, she was darling and caring towards those she held close to her. Lovely to a fault; in a wild sort of way. Dark skin, the colour of walnut stained wood. Thick, kinky hair fashioned into black locs that faded into reddish-brown tips that were dyed with Assamian henna; the sides of her head shaved bare in an undercut fashion. Tattoos and gauged ears. Very comfortable with her sexuality. Dwalli by blood, but a native of the Link by birth although she wasn’t a Magi. Magick was her mother’s gift. “I heard her say something very much the same about you once Aoleon.” “Really?” Aoleon perked up right away. “Did she?” “Yes. After she first met you in fact. Nearly exactly.” Aoleon’s smile widened and she beamed happiness. She sat up assertively and gave a curt nod. “Well, of course she did.” “She’s held such a torch for you for so long that I was starting to wonder if anything would actually come of it.” “Yeah. Both you and Prince Asshole.” Aoleon exclaimed with a certainty that was absolute as she once again tightened up with defensiveness. Samahdemn walked his statement back. “Peace daughter. I didn't know your brother had been giving you a row about her. Then again, he is your brother. So anything is possible.” Aoleon sighed and nodded. “Not so much problems as he’s been giving me the silent treatment over it. Na’Kwanza. It’s always Na’ Kwanza.” Samahdemn nodded knowingly and waived a dismissive hand. “He’s just jealous. He always has been.” “So I’ve noticed.” “Why would you hide it? Why not tell me?” “I don’t know.” she said; shrugging her shoulders. “I didn’t know how you’d take it I suppose.” “Seriously? You were afraid of rejection? From me? Love, have I ever held your individuality against you? Have I ever not supported you or your siblings?” She shook her head; a bit embarrassed that she hadn't trusted him. "No, I suppose not." -Reflections on the Dįvonësë War: The Dįvįnë Will Bear Witness to Fate

A folded triangle of paper landed in the center of his notebook. Normally he’d unfold it discreetly, but Beamis was so clueless that the note could have hit him in the head and he wouldn’t notice. Loopy script in purple pen. The paper smelled like her. What’s your #? Wow. Hunter clicked his pen and wrote below her words. I have a theory about girls who ask for your number before asking for your name. Then he folded it up and flicked it back. It took every ounce of self-control to not watch her unfold it. The paper landed back on his desk in record time. I have a theory about boys who prefer writing to texting. He put his pen against the paper. I have a theory about girls with theories. Then he waited, not looking, fighting the small smile that wanted to play on his lips. The paper didn’t reappear. After a minute, he sighed and went back to his French essay. When the folded triangle smacked him in the temple, he jumped a mile. His chair scraped the floor, and Beamis paused in his lecture, turning from the board. “Is there a problem?” “No.” Hunter coughed, covering the note with his hand. “Sorry.” When the coast was clear, he unfolded the triangle. It was a new piece of paper. My name is Kate. Kate. Hunter almost said the name out loud. What was wrong with him? It fit her perfectly, though. Short and blunt and somehow indescribably hot. Another piece of paper landed on his notebook, a small strip rolled up tiny. This time, there was only a phone number. Hunter felt like someone had punched him in the stomach and he couldn’t remember how to breathe. Then he pulled out his cell phone and typed under the desk. Come here often? Her response appeared almost immediately. First timer. Beamis was facing the classroom now, so Hunter kept his gaze up until it was safe. When he looked back, Kate had written again. I bet I could strip na**d and this guy wouldn’t even notice. Hunter’s pulse jumped. But this was easier, looking at the phone instead of into her eyes. I would notice. There was a long pause, during which he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Then a new text appeared. I have a theory about boys who picture you na**d before sharing their name. He smiled. My name is Hunter. Where you from? This time, her response appeared immediately. Just transferred from St. Mary’s in Annapolis. Now he was imagining her in a little plaid skirt and knee-high socks. Another text appeared. Stop imagining me in the outfit. He grinned. How did you know? You’re a boy. I’m still waiting to hear your theory on piercings. Right. IMO, you have to be crazy hot to pull off either piercings or tattoos. Otherwise you’re just enhancing the ugly. Hunter stared at the phone, wondering if she was hitting on him—or insulting him. Before he could figure it out, another message appeared. What does the tattoo on your arm say? He slid his fingers across the keys. It says “ask me about this tattoo.” Liar. Mission accomplished, I’d say. He heard a small sound from her direction and peeked over. She was still staring at her phone, but she had a smile on her face, like she was trying to stifle a giggle. Mission accomplished, he’d say.

Not much has changed. The more time I spend with him, the more I realize that. They say time heals, but time doesn't make you forget.

The moment I saw him, I turned to a friend, and said: “He’s the one.” He was gorgeous. […] Na he was so funny. Not Jim Carrey funny, but a quiet kind of funny. Which is exactly the kind of funny that I wanted. […] We’ve been together for twenty years now. […] Our kids are getting older, and we’re at the point where we have to reconnect. Sometimes we come home from work and don’t say a word to each other. Sometimes we’ll take a road trip and I’ll realize that it’s just been me and the kids talking the entire time. Or if we’re in bed together, we’ll face the other way. He thinks that just being together is enough, and it’s do hard for me to tell him that I’m lonely.

The same, Saira believes, goes for his creativity. ‘He just says it comes from God, which is the truth. I must say he’s God’s gifted child. One song of his made me cry when my mother was on her deathbed. It was a song he sang called “Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo”. I would keep listening to it and keep crying. It was not his composition, but the way he sang it was just out of this world.

argument na moją obronę, myślę: 'This is why I say McEnroe’s an idiot. I hesitate because it’s possible he was just trying to say something interesting – an unfashionable impulse, these days, and one to be treasured. You don’t want to slap down everyone who says something stupid in the heat of the moment, while trying to spice up a broadcast or interview, lest we hurtle even faster towards an entirely empty and monotonous public discourse'.

They say there is a fine line between love and hate. I once loved Kaleib like a brother, now I hated him with the same conviction.

Simdi su sahneyi gozumuzde canlandiralim: Mevsimlerden ilkbahari yasiyor Ankara. Fazil Say son kez Cankaya tepelerinden yavas yavas iniyor ve kuzeye, Ulus Meydani'na, Ata'sinin heybetli bir sekilde at ustunde oturdugu anita yoneliyor. Oradan Yenisehir otobusune binip Kizilay'a geliyor. Kizilay Meydani'nda Alman mimar Clemens Holzmeister'in planlarina gore Avusturyali heykeltiraslardan Anton Hanak ve Josef Thorak'in diktigi anita bakmak icin kisa bir mola veriyor. Anit, askerin halka nasil yardima kostugunu canlandirir. Anita biraz daha yaklastiginizda taslara kazinmis Ataturk'un su sozlerini okursunuz: "Turk, ogun, calis, guven.

The first step in the mental training is to become the master of external things. He who is addicted to worldly pleasures, however learned or ignorant he may be, however high or low his social position may be, is a servant to mere things. He cannot adapt the external world to his own end, but he adapts himself to it. He is constantly employed, ordered, driven by sensual objects. Instead of taking possession of wealth, he is possessed by wealth. Instead of drinking liquors, he is swallowed up by his liquors. Balls and music bid him to run mad. Games and shows order him not to stay at home. Houses, furniture, pictures, watches, chains, hats, bonnets, rings, bracelets, shoes—in short, everything has a word to command him. How can such a person be the master of things? To Ju (Na-kae) says: "There is a great jail, not a jail for criminals, that contains the world in it. Fame, gain, pride, and bigotry form its four walls. Those who are confined in it fall a prey to sorrow and sigh for ever." To

The child bounded onto the bed, landing on all fours, her round face wreathed in a smile. “Hein nei nan-ne-i-cut?” “What is your name?” Hunter translated, tousling the imp’s hair as he hunkered beside the bed. “Loh-rhett-ah, eh? Tohobt Nabituh, Blue Eyes.” To Loretta, he said, “Warrior’s daughter, To-oh Hoos-cho, Blackbird.” Blackbird giggled and glanced at her grandmother, who stood watching from across the room. “Loh-rhett-ah!” Loretta scooted toward the head of the bed to press her back against the taut leather wall. The little girl followed, reaching out with a small brown hand to lightly touch the flounces on Loretta’s bloomers. Loretta stared at her. At last, a Comanche she didn’t detest on sight. She was tempted to grab hold of her and never let go. Loretta guessed her to be about three years old, possibly four. While Blackbird satisfied her curiosity about Loretta and examined her form head to toe, Hunter carried on an unintelligible conversation with his mother. From the gestures he made, Loretta guessed he was relating that his captive refused to eat or drink and that her voice had returned. A look of concern flashed across the older woman’s dark face. Hunter rose and thumped the heel of his hand against his forehead, rolling his eyes toward the smoke hole above the firepit. “Ai-ee!” Woman with Many Robes crossed the packed grass-and-dirt floor and leaned forward to peer at Loretta. After babbling shrilly for several seconds, all the while waving her spoon, she crooned, “Nei mi-pe mah-tao-yo,” and placed a gentle hand on Loretta’s hair. “My mother says the poor little one must have no fear.” Woman with Many Robes cast her son a suspicious glance. When it became apparent that he planned to say no more, she brandished her spoon at him. With great reluctance he cleared his throat, eyed the people crowding the doorway, and said, in a very low voice, “You will have no fear of me, eh? If I lift my hand against you, I will be a caum-mom-se, a bald head, and she will thump me with her spoon.” He hesitated and looked as if he found it difficult not to smile. “She will make the great na-ba-dah-kah, battle, with me. And in the end, she will win. She is one mean woman.

But they say that people who aren't confident in themselves tend to be more flashy

Ai-ee!” Woman with Many Robes crossed the packed grass-and-dirt floor and leaned forward to peer at Loretta. After babbling shrilly for several seconds, all the while waving her spoon, she crooned, “Nei mi-pe mah-tao-yo,” and placed a gentle hand on Loretta’s hair. “My mother says the poor little one must have no fear.” Woman with Many Robes cast her son a suspicious glance. When it became apparent that he planned to say no more, she brandished her spoon at him. With great reluctance he cleared his throat, eyed the people crowding the doorway, and said, in a very low voice, “You will have no fear of me, eh? If I lift my hand against you, I will be a caum-mom-se, a bald head, and she will thump me with her spoon.” He hesitated and looked as if he found it difficult not to smile. “She will make the great na-ba-dah-kah, battle, with me. And in the end, she will win. She is one mean woman.” Woman with Many Robes stroked Loretta’s hair and nodded, saying something more. She no sooner finished than Blackbird burst into giggles and rolled away from Loretta, planting a hand on her tummy. Whatever it was the woman had said, the child thought it hilarious. “You must eat,” Hunter translated. “And drink. Soon you will feel better, eh? And she will trade with the Comanchero for you a big spoon. If I ever again strike fear into your heart, you can do your own thumping.” Loretta concurred with Blackbird. She’d need much more than a spoon to do battle with Hunter.

- there were young people feeling passionately under one label, or another but they were more or less pigeonholed but what you stand for, it seems thought wrote this letter and the guy wrote that book, they belong to nobody but themselves, but we know something is there, you know? But outwardly you say 'cool, cool'... I suppose you have to be that because the chips on the table are so... blue

- there were young people feeling passionately under one label, or another but they were more or less pigeonholed but what you stand for, it seems thought wrote this letter and the guy wrote that book, they belong to nobody but themselves, but we know something is there, you know? But outwardly you say 'cool, cool'... I suppose you have to be that because the chips on the table are so... blue

- there were young people feeling passionately under one label or another.. but they were more or less pigeonholed but, what you stand for it seems thought wrote this letter and the guy wrote that book, they belong to nobody but themselves, but we know something is there, you know, but outwardly you say 'cool, cool... I suppose you have to be that because the chips on the table are so, blue...

A pompous, arrogant, narcissistic intellectual came up to me at a conference and said rather boastfully. "You must feel really good about yourself to be the nice guy all the time! But let me tell you something - it takes balls to say what's really on your mind. You might have heard, the best defense is a good offense..." He went on and on for a while, and the more he spoke the more his intolerant nature became evident. I listened to everything he had to say, then heaved a soft sight, and replied with a smile. "You are absolutely right! Ama senin gibi şerefsiz olmak insanın lazım yok - porque, no soy un hijo de puta como tú - nu okka chetta na kodakkala behave cheskovachhu, kaani naaku anthaa scene ledu." He looked rather annoyed, because all my words went over his head, so he flared out, "don't beat around the bush, man - say, what you want to say!" I spoke calmly. "I'd love to speak my mind, but I wouldn't want to give anyone an inferiority complex. Bad behavior don't make us cool, it only exposes the fool we are. If bad behavior made the world better, we'd already be living in utopia, instead of still struggling for basic human rights." I didn't want the argument to linger any longer, so I asked him to join me for lunch. You see, self-regulation is not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of strength. It doesn't take any character for the animal to be animal, but the true test of character is to behave human, upon conquering our inner animal.

a toy poodle puppy, “like all good parents, we went out and read a book about how to raise a dog,” Jay tells me. The book claimed that dog names should ideally have two syllables and hard consonants. The Neitzes brainstormed a few options, and Maureen, in joking reference to Jay’s research on vision, suggested Retina. (I point out that Retina has three syllables. “Yes, but our version has two,” Jay says. “Ret-na.”) Black, fluffy, and very cute, Retina became a part of history. She was one of the dogs who first confirmed what colors dogs actually see. In the 1980s, when the Neitzes were getting their PhDs, many people believed that dogs were color-blind. In The Far Side, cartoonist Gary Larson drew a dog praying at its bedside for “Mom, Dad, Rex, Ginger, Tucker, me, and all the rest of the family to see color.” Scientists bought into this myth, too: One textbook claimed that “on the whole, mammals appear not to have color vision except for the primates

Very well. What does it say?” Ph'nglui syha'h fhtagn gn'thor ah'n'ghft ya Bthnknahorr ot n'gha ahor mgah'n'ghft ya Gof'n ot gn'th l' ephainog ya Gn'thor na'ah'ehye Vulgtmnah k'yarnak S'uhn mgepah'ehye Mgepnah lw'nafh mgepuaaah Syha'h fhtagn ah nafl ah'ehye ya Bthnknahorr ot gn'thor ahor hafh ya Gof'n ot n'gha ephaiuaaah fahf ah

kitne shiirii.n hai.n tere lab ki raqiib gaaliyaa.n khaa ke be-mazaa na hu.aa The poet/lover says that the beloved’s lips are so sweet that his rival liked even the abuses she hurled at him.

rago.n me.n dau.Dte phirne ke ham nahii.n qaa.il jab aa.nkh hii se na Tapkaa to phir lahuu kyaa hai The poet/lover says that the true blood is the one that falls from the eyes like tears when he cries in love. If it only keeps running around in the veins (life continues to be normal), he will be disappointed in his blood.

Na to tamahine ka pai i ta kina mai ai teni ke keno ki konei. It was this lovely girl who brought the seal here. Visits were often made by the sea, so the beautiful young woman draws lovers to her as though they were seals coming in from the sea. Maori proverb

Pektusan kaya kita, para naman malaman mo na MAHAL KITA.

A greater sense of do-it-yourself (DIY) politics is exposed by the fact Cascadians are more likely to disagree that “voting is the only way people like me can have a say about how the government runs things” (54 percent disagree versus 37 percent, RoNA).

my worshipers, the daughter of my dispersed ones,         shall bring my offering.     11  z “On that day  a you shall not be put to shame         because of the deeds by which you have rebelled against me;     for then  b I will remove from your midst         your proudly exultant ones,     and  c you shall no longer be haughty         in my holy mountain.     12 But I will leave in your midst         a people  d humble and lowly.      e They shall seek refuge in the name of the LORD,         13  f those who are left in Israel;     they  g shall do no injustice         and speak no lies,      h nor shall there be found in their mouth         a deceitful tongue.      i For they shall graze and lie down,         and none shall make them afraid.” Israel’s Joy and Restoration     14[†]  j Sing aloud, O daughter of Zion;         shout, O Israel!     Rejoice and exult with all your heart,         O daughter of Jerusalem!     15 The LORD has taken away the judgments against you;         he has cleared away your enemies.      k The King of Israel,  l the LORD, is in your midst;         you shall never again fear evil.     16  z On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem:     “Fear not, O Zion;          m let not your hands grow weak.     17  l The LORD your God is in your midst,          n a mighty one who will save;      o he will rejoice over you with gladness;         he will quiet you by his love;     he will exult over you with loud singing.     18 I will gather those of you who mourn  p for the festival,         so that you will no longer suffer reproach. [3]     19 Behold, at that time  q I will deal         with all your oppressors.     And  r I will save the lame         and gather the outcast,     and I will change  s their shame into  t praise         and renown in all the earth.     20  u At that time I will bring you in,         at the time when I gather you together;     for I will make you renowned and praised         among all the peoples of the earth,      v when I restore your fortunes         before your eyes,” says the LORD.

Why are our people going out there,” said Mr. Boggis of the Thieves’ Guild. Because they are showing a brisk pioneering spirit and seeking wealth and … additional wealth I na new land,” said Lord Vetinari. “What’s in it for the Klatchians?” said Lord Downey. “Oh, they’ve gone out there because they are a bunch of unprincipled opportunists always ready to grab something for northern,” said Lord Vetinari. “A mastery summation, if I may say so, my lord,” said Mr. Burleigh. The Patrician looked down again at his notes. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, I seem to have read those last to sentences in the wrong order…

Listen, dis foreign TV channels dey spoil de image of our country. Dese white stations dey make billions of dollars to sell your war and blood to de world… We no bad like dis. OK, why dem no dey show corpses of deir white people during crisis for TV? Abi, people no dey kill for America or Europe?” “You dey speak grammar!” someone shouted. “Wetin concern us wid America and Europe? Abeg, give us cable TV.” “Remove dis toilet pictures!” said another. “So our barracks be toilet now?” the police answered. "What an insult!“ "You na mad mad police,” Monica said. “Ok, cable TV no be for free anymore!” the police said. “But it’s our pictures we are watching on cable TV,” Madam Aniema said. “Why should we pay you to see ourselves and our people?” The police answered, “Because government dey complain say cable TV dey misrepresent dis religious crisis.

So he sings,” he continued as if Denny had said nothing. “His solo mio, that with her in his life he is rich because she is so beautiful that she makes the sun more beautiful, you understand?” And at that he dropped the hoe, closed his eyes and spread out his arms wide and with the fading sun shining on his handsome face he sang: Che bella cosa è na jurnata 'e sole n'aria serena doppo na tempesta! Pe' ll'aria fresca pare già na festa Che bella cosa e' na jurnata 'e sole Ma n'atu sole, cchiù bello, oi ne' 'O sole mio sta 'nfronte a te! 'O sole, 'o sole mio sta 'nfronte a te! sta 'nfronte a te! It looked like fun. We dropped our tools and joined him, belting out something that sounded remarkably like Napolitano. We sang as loud as we could, holding on to each note as long as we could before we ran out of breath, and then we sang again, occasionally dropping to one knee, holding our hands over our hearts with exaggerated looks of deep pain. Although we made the words up, we sang with the deepest passion, with the best that we had, with all of our hearts, and that made us artists, great artists, for in that song, we had made all that art is: the creation of something from nothing, fashioned with all of the soul, born from joy. And as that beautiful summer sun set over Waterbury, the Brass City, the City of Churches, our voices floated above the wonderful aromas of the garden, across the red sky and joined the spirits in eternity.

What did he do?” I whipped around, startled. I had been so immersed in my own thoughts that I hadn’t even noticed Philantha standing into the doorway to one of the sitting rooms. “Pardon?” “Well, in my experience, it’s usually the man who bumbles about causing most of the problems in relationships of romance,” she said. “So, naturally, I assumed that your young man has done or said or thought something that caused you to come bursting in like a hurricane. Am I correct?” I shook my head so violently the braid coiled around my head threatened to come loose. “We’re not in a…relationship of romance. He’s just my friend.” Philantha made a sound surprisingly like a snicker. “Truly?” she asked. “I suppose that’s why he’s been with you most evenings.” “Like I said, we’re friends. And we haven’t seen each other in a long time.” She raised an eyebrow. “I may not care about it--or at least I didn’t, until recently--but I do hear some of the court gossip when I visit the college. The noble students, they bring it with them, you know. And one of the stories is how the Earl of Rithia and his wife are scrambling to find eligible matches for their son.” I felt suddenly dizzy for no reason, and a hot flush--disturbingly like the jealous feeling I had experienced at the inn--rushed through me. “Matches?” I repeated. “Girls, young women, marriageable prospects. Strange, how suddenly they started. Right after the princess came back, it’s been noted. As if they had had hope for another match before, and it was ruined.” “Me?” I asked. “People think Kiernan’s parents wanted him to marry me? That’s…ridiculous. Princesses don’t marry earls--a duke, maybe, but not an earl, not unless he’s foreign and brings some grand alliance. And besides, we’re just--” “Friends,” Philantha finished. “I know. That’s what you keep saying.” She eyed me, before saying, “They haven’t had much luck, though, from the gossip. He’s polite to everyone they trot out, but nothing more. But that’s neither here nor there, since you don’t love him.” I glared at her, my face and chest still filled with that rush of heat. “In fact, he’s made you angry, hasn’t he?” “He did. Well, I said…Yes, we fought. He says that Na--the princess--wants to see me. And I told him that he couldn’t bring her to me, that I didn’t want to see her. He said that if she asked, he would have to. But he’s wormed his way out of stickier situations than that. He could find a way to avoid it, if he wanted to.” “Then perhaps he doesn’t want to,” Philantha answered before gliding away up the stairs and out of sight. I had plenty of time to mull over Philantha’s words, because I didn’t see Kiernan for the next three days. It was the longest we had been parted since I returned to the city, and even through my anger at him it drove me to distraction. I mangled my spells even worse than usual, spilled ink, and tripped so frequently that Philantha threatened to call Kiernan to the house herself and turn him into a sparrow if we didn’t make up. Her eyes glinted dangerously when she said it, and only that was enough to force away a bit of my muddleheadedness.

Aloha,” Gray added, but it sounded way too forced, like when upper-middle class white people walk into a Mexican bakery and say, “Hola,” so he vowed to probably never say it again.

Oisin had been carried away to the Land of Youth, under the western ocean. Both of them return to their mortal existence, and to Ireland, when Patrick is in the land, winning it from Crom Cruach to Christ. Patrick meets and converts each of them. They attach themselves to his company, and travel Ireland with him. When the Saint is wearied from much travelling and work, or, as often happens, from the perversity of the people he has to deal with, Oisin or Caoilte refresh and beguile him with many a sweet tale of the Fian — all of which, says the tradition, the pleased Patrick had his scribe Breogan write down and preserve for posterity. These tales make the Agallam na Seanorach. The

LIFE" wHat is tHIs? I tHInk itz n0tHIng n0thIng n0thIng I mEt maNy p30pLe in mY LiFe...buT 0nE daY AccIdentLy G0D haVe sh0wn mE a beAutIfuL m0vemEnt buT I waX n0t awAre ab0uT tHIs dat itZ m0rE pAinFuLL . I Can't eXpLaIn in Few W0rdZ .In sh0rt juS waNa saY L0st mY eVerytHing buT aLL g0ex In vAin.....In 0ther xEnce My Life br0keD mE in unLimItED piceS.....buT wHen these past m0vemEnts runz In mY mInd jus FeeLing huRteD & i can't xpLain dat wat i feeL ...

Kotov looked like an abandoned statue on the beach in the Plaza de Cataluna. The spring was at is height and the warm un bathed the city. The adviser, with his face slightly raised, was receiving the heat like a lizard slothful from the rays that were injecting him with life. He had even taken off his jacket and the printed kerchief he regularly wore after Ramon sat down at his side. 'What a marvelous country!' he said at last, and smiled. 'I could live here for the rest of my life.' 'Despite the Spaniards?' 'Precisely because of you. Where I come from, the people are like stones. You are all flowers. My country smells like smoked herring and hops; here it smells of olive oil and wine.' 'Your pals say we're primitive and practically dumb.' 'Don't pay too much attention to those lunatics. They confuse ideology with mysticism, and they are no more than walking machines - worse still, they're fanatics. Here they make themselves look tough, but you should see them when Moscow calls for them... Na khuy. They shit themselves. Don't look to them as an example; you don't want to be like them. You can be so much more.' p. 162

Rekoh: Umorio sam se od svih tih boja i smicalica. Uvijek sam tragao za nekim tko nije toliko zemaljski. Upita: A koliko si ti nebeski? Koliko ti je srce nebesko? Što sam trebao reći? Rekao sam: Toliko da mi na Zemlji ponestaje daha i da mi Zemlja tjeskobno stišće srce. Upitah: Kako bi bilo kad biste uvijek bili tu i uvijek se smijali? Mislim da bi i Zemlja i nebo bili ispunjeni mirisom bagremova cvijeta. Reče: Cijenite trenutke. Prolaze poput oblaka.

Baddygirl 2 [Intro] Flawless bitches say “Hey, what’s up M.I.A.?” It’s for the women and of course Beyoncé [Hook] Baddygirl baddygirl, bad-a-bad-a-bad-a-baddygirl Goodygirl goodygirl, good-a-good-a-good-a-goodygirl [Verse 1] Baddygirl goody girl, yea more than butts and titties girl Bust out some shots then we clever and we pretty girl Study at uni and we work at every city girl We be the women with the kiddie gettin’ money girl [Hook] [Bridge] Baddygirl baddygirl, baddygirl baddygirl Baddygirl baddygirl, baddygirl baddygirl Baddygirl Baddygirl Baddygirl Baddygirl Baddy baddy baddy baddy Baddygirl baddygirl [Verse 2] I woke up like this, I went to bed like this We do everything just like this Pretty and witty we're more than just a slutty girl On a committee for Haiti or political We do it boss, big and heavy like a fatty girl Necessity, unity in every girl My surfboard bitches ride waves love all day Man I can hear everything you say My surfboard bitches ride waves love all day Men and women are 50/50 [Intro] [Hook] [Beyoncé sample] Na-na-na, diva is a female version of a hustla, of a hustla, of a, of a hustla... Na-na-na, diva is a female version of a hustla, of a hustla, of a, of a hustla... Stop the track, lemme state facts I told you, gimme a minute and I'll be right back Fifty million 'round the world and they say that I couldn't get it I done got so sick and filthy with Benjis, I can't spend it How you gon' be talkin' shit? You act like I just got up in it Been the number one diva in this game for a minute! I know you read the paper - the one that they call the Queen Every radio 'round the world know me cause that's where I be (first!)

You have worried, and though, have had painful memories, and learned about an unknown world… You have also cried a lot. To know people... is to know love

You go think say e don finish, But if determination dey, all na stages.

My precious things… are things I’ve made for myself.

तुम यही थे, तुम यही हो, तुम रहोगे साथ सदा, तुम दूर हो गए हमसे पर, ना हुए जुदा।

At last the priest gives us his final prayers, saying the words “Na zisete,” which Yelena had told me before is an ancient blessing meaning, “May you live!” With those words, Yelena and I become man and wife. She looks up into my face, her eyes brilliant with tears. I bend down to kiss her. Her lips are just as sweet as the very first time I tasted them. We turn to face our families, her hand locked in mine, both of us smiling with all our might. What happens next seems to happen in slow motion, like a nightmare. And just like a nightmare, I’m frozen in place, unable to move.

अब तेरी प्यारी वो बातें, मेरे चहेरे का नूर है, तू नही है पर मेरी साँसें, तेरी खुश्बू से भरपूर है,

rahiye ab aisii jagah chal kar jahaa.n ko.ii na ho ham-suKHan ko.ii na ho aur ham-zabaa.n ko.ii na hoThe poet/lover is fed up with the people who can’t understand what he is trying to say, even those who speak the same language as he does. He is so disappointed and frustrated that he wants to go to some isolated place where there is nobody to talk to.

A láska, na své nejelementárnější úrovni, není ničím než takovým paradoxním gestem prolomení řetězce odplaty.