Nine Sols Quotes

I don't get the obsession with strangers, her first husband, Sol, once said to her, and Frances had struggled to explain that strangers were by definition interesting. It was their strangeness. The not-knowing. Once you knew everything there was to know about someone, you were generally ready to divorce them.

David turned on the TV and sat on the couch. He could grade the Calc I homework but that always depressed him. It would almost put him in mourning, sitting Shiva, but it had to be done. He would get up early in the morning and do it. He chuckled. The TV had a stupid dog commercial. Cocker Spaniel mix. Same kind of mutt Miriam brought into their marriage. She was a dog person. Named it Lucky. Lucky died of poisoning while David was at home one afternoon. Somehow the dog had gotten into Clorox. Not so lucky. That had been their only fight. David did not want to get another dog. Claimed it would remind him of Lucky. When David was little, about eight or nine years old, he had learned Clorox would kill a dog. Their neighbor had a German shepherd. Sol would throw rocks at it when they walked to school. One day the dog got out and bit Sol, and if the neighbors had not stopped it, the dog may have mauled Sol to death. The dog’s name was Roxx, short for Roxanne. It was found dead a couple of days later. Poisoned. David was not a dog person.

If you ever find someone who makes you want to rip your heart out and hand it to that person on a silver platter. If you ever find someone who warms not only your bed, but also your heart and soul... hold on to them forever. They're your sun. They're what's bringing light into your life. If they can ease your pain with just being there, lighten your mood, brighten your days by simply being in your life. Colin, Eira, el or ella es tu sol - he or she is your sun.

Eres el amor de mi vida, mi sol

It is nine o'clock, and London has breakfasted. Some unconsidered tens of thousands have, it is true, already enjoyed with what appetite they might their pre-prandial meal; the upper fifty thousand, again, have not yet left their luxurious couches, and will not breakfast till ten, eleven o'clock, noon; nay, there shall be sundry listless, languid members of fast military clubs, dwellers among the tents of Jermyn Street, and the high-priced second floors of Little Ryder Street, St. James's, upon whom one, two, and three o'clock in the afternoon shall be but as dawn, and whose broiled bones and devilled kidneys shall scarcely be laid on the damask breakfast-cloth before Sol is red in the western horizon. I wish that, in this age so enamoured of statistical information, when we must needs know how many loads of manure go to every acre of turnip-field, and how many jail-birds are thrust into the black hole per mensem for fracturing their pannikins, or tearing their convict jackets, that some M'Culloch or Caird would tabulate for me the amount of provisions, solid and liquid, consumed at the breakfasts of London every morning. I want to know how many thousand eggs are daily chipped, how many of those embryo chickens are poached, and how many fried; how many tons of quartern loaves are cut up to make bread-and-butter, thick and thin; how many porkers have been sacrificed to provide the bacon rashers, fat and streaky ; what rivers have been drained, what fuel consumed, what mounds of salt employed, what volumes of smoke emitted, to catch and cure the finny haddocks and the Yarmouth bloaters, that grace our morning repast. Say, too, Crosse and Blackwell, what multitudinous demands are matutinally made on thee for pots of anchovy paste and preserved tongue, covered with that circular layer - abominable disc! - of oleaginous nastiness, apparently composed of rancid pomatum, but technically known as clarified butter, and yet not so nasty as that adipose horror that surrounds the truffle bedecked pate  de  foie gras. Say, Elizabeth Lazenby, how many hundred bottles of thy sauce (none of which are genuine unless signed by thee) are in request to give a relish to cold meat, game, and fish. Mysteries upon mysteries are there connected with nine o'clock breakfasts.

creation of a team of nine design-thinking coaches—“innovation catalysts”—from across Intuit who were made available to help any work group create prototypes, run experiments, and learn from customers. The process includes a “painstorm” (to determine the customer’s greatest pain point), a “sol-jam” (to generate and then winnow possible solutions), and a “code-jam” (to write code “good enough” to take to customers within two weeks). Design for Delight has enabled employees throughout Intuit to move from satisfying customers to delighting them.

Costco cofounder and CEO James Sinegal recalls—and lives by—Sol Price’s principles. “Many retailers look at an item and say, ‘I’m selling this for ten bucks. How can I sell it for eleven?’ We look at it and say, ‘How can we get it to nine bucks?’ And then, ‘How can we get it to eight?’ It’s contrary to the thinking of a retailer, which is to see how much more profit you can get out of it. But once you start doing that, it’s like heroin.” There was another element, too. “You had to be a member of the club. People paid us to shop there.

Resultava clar que vivint tan bé, a la força ens esperava quelcom terrible. Si no succeïa espontàniament, nosaltres mateix organitzaríem la tragèdia. Com ens arribaria l'infortuni? Malalties, desavinences, guerres, ruïna definitiva? L'espasa de Damocles no amenaça tan sols els tirans: tota la Humanitat viu l'angoixa del Mal que és necessari, sembla, per poder copsar el Bé, és a dir, la salvació eterna.

A pile of books filled her lap. They were all the books she’d ever written, including foreign language editions. The books were open at the top like cereal boxes. Frances dipped her hand into each book and pulled out great handfuls of words to scatter across the sky. ‘Got one!’ said Sol, from the back of the sleigh,

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