O Sacks Quotes

There are more balls in twenty feet of street here then there are in all of Dublin, and I'm proud to be swaying in the nut sack.

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium-- Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.-- ''[kisses her]'' Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-- Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sack'd; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colours on my plumed crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel, And then return to Helen for a kiss. O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appear'd to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms; And none but thou shalt be my paramour!

Oh aye. He's as dangerous as a sack of blackmark vipers. A right cunt and no mistake.' The boy raised his eyebrows, mouth slightly agape. Mia met his tare, scowling. 'What?' 'My mother said that's a filthy word,' Tric Frowned. 'The filthiest. She told me never to say it. Especially in front of dona.' 'O, really.' The girl took another pull on her cigarillo, eyes narrowed. 'And whys that?' 'I don't know.' Tric found himself mumbling. 'It's just what she said.

They looked like the people you see on the six o’clock news—refugees, sent to wait in some strange ugly place, with all their boxes and sacks around them. It suddenly occurred to me that this was just the way it must have been for the real Holy Family, stuck away in a barn by people who didn’t much care what happened to them. They couldn’t have been very neat and tidy either, but more like this Mary and Joseph

Sing, O Muse, of the man of many devices, who wandered full many ways after he had sacked the sacred citadel of Troy. Many were the men whose cities he saw and whose mind he learned, aye, and many the woes he suffered in his heart upon the sea, seeking to win his own life and the return of his comrades. Yet even so he saved not his comrades, though he desired it sore, for through their own blind folly they perished—fools, who devoured the kine of Helios Hyperion; but he took from them the day of their returning. Of these things, goddess, daughter of Zeus, beginning where thou wilt, tell thou even unto us.

I passed the time browsing in the windows of the many tourists shops that stand along it, reflecting on what a lot of things the Scots have given the world—kilts, bagpipes, tam-o’-shanters, tins of oatcakes, bright yellow sweaters with big diamond patterns, sacks of haggis—and how little anyone but a Scot would want them. Let

Opening up their sack, the children chorus, “Oh Snowman, what have we found?” They lift out the objects, hold them up as if offering them for sale: a hubcap, a piano key, a chunk of pale-green pop bottle smoothed by the ocean. A plastic BlyssPluss container, empty; a ChickieNobs Bucket O’Nubbins, ditto. A computer mouse, or the busted remains of one, with a long wiry tail.

If only I'd listened to my Uncle Poo-poo and gone into dentistry," whined Pepsi. "If I'd stayed home, I'd be big in encyclopedias by now," sniffled Moxie. "And if I had ten pounds o' ciment and a couple o' sacks, you'd a' both gone for a stroll in that pond an hour ago," said Spam.

A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it, makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit.

At eight o'clock the street filled up with Italians, as though the town had been turned upside down like a sack and its people spilled into the morning.

They pretended they were trying to dissuade people from vice by enumerating its horrors. But they were really only making it more spicy by telling the truth about it. O esca vermium, O massa pulveris! What nauseating embracements! To conjugate the copulative verb, boringly, with a sack of tripes – what could be more exquisitely and piercingly and deliriously vile?

O bid me mount and sail up there Amid the cloudy wrack, For Peg and Meg and Paris' love That had so straight a back, Are gone away, and some that stay Have changed their silk for sack.

Besides the neutral expression that she wore when she was alone, Mrs. Freeman had two others, forward and reverse, that she used for all her human dealings. Her forward expression was steady and driving like the advance of a heavy truck. Her eyes never swerved to left or right but turned as the story turned as if they followed a yellow line down the center of it. She seldom used the other expression because it was not often necessary for her to retract a statement, but when she did, her face came to a complete stop, there was an almost imperceptible movement of her black eyes, during which they seemed to be receding, and then the observer would see that Mrs. Freeman, though she might stand there as real as several grain sacks thrown on top of each other, was no longer there in spirit.

That night when I went to bed, I laid there in the dark and pictured a clothesline full of somebody's else's troubles. I knew for sure there were a lot of them I'd rather pluck off of that line than mine. I imagined what the other troubles might be. There would probably be toothaches and failed math tests. Lost cats and ugly hair. Cheating boyfriends and broken-down cars. But none of those could hold a candle to my troubles, weighing down that clothesline like a sack full of bricks.

Reaching up to a shelf, she grabbed a sack labeled “C8H10N4O2,” dumped some into a mortar, ground it with a pestle, overturned the resulting dirtlike substance onto a strange little scale, then dumped the scale’s contents into a 6- x 6-inch piece of cheesecloth and tied the small bundle off.

Bismutul este elementul chimic cu numărul 83. Mă îndoiesc că voi mai prinde cea de-a optzeci și treia aniversare, dar îmi dă un fel de speranță, de încurajare faptul că sunt înconjurat de numărul 83. Mai mult chiar, mereu am avut o slăbiciune pentru bismut, metal cenușiu fără mari pretenții, adeseori trecut cu vederea, nebăgat în seamă nici chiar de cei pasionați de metale. În profesia mea de doctor, m-am simțit mereu apropiat sufletește de cei marginalizați sau tratați necorespunzător, afinitate prelungită și la universul anorganic; de aici slăbiciunea mea față de bismut.” ”Nu neg că mi-e teamă. Și totuși, predominant în mine rămâne sentimentul de recunoștință. Am dăruit dragoste și am primit dragoste în dar; am fost binecuvântat cu multe lucruri minunate, și la rându-mi am întors lumii din zestrea mea; m-am bucurat de cărți, de colindat prin lume, de idei și de scris. Mai presus de orice, am fost o ființă gânditoare, un animal cu rațiune, născut pe o planetă frumoasă, ceea ce în sine e un privilegiu enorm și o aventură unică.

But if Diana hath wished to receive my body, shall I, being mortal, become an opponent to the Goddess! But it can not be. I give my body for Greece. Sacrifice it, and sack Troy. For this for a long time will be my memorial, and this my children, my wedding, and my glory. But it is meet that Greeks should rule over barbarians, O mother, but not barbarians over Greeks, for the one is slavish, but the others are free.

Epistle to Miss Blount, On Her Leaving the Town, After the Coronation" As some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care Drags from the town to wholesome country air, Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh; From the dear man unwillingly she must sever, Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, She sighed not that They stayed, but that She went. She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks, She went from Opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day; To pass her time ‘twixt reading and Bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea, Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire; Up to her godly garret after seven, There starve and pray, for that’s the way to heaven. Some Squire, perhaps, you take a delight to rack; Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack, Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries – No words! Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things – but his horse. In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, Your dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See Coronations rise on every green; Before you pass th’ imaginary sights Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and gartered Knights; While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes; Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. Thus vanish scepters, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls. So when your slave, at some dear, idle time, (Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of you: Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite; Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight; Vexed to be still in town, I knit my brow, Look sour, and hum a tune – as you may now.

Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh—but that's no marvel; he drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards-which some of us should be too, but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood; which before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extremes. It illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puff'd up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage—and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.

went into the men’s room and got ready for the night. He was too full and he wanted to hurry and get in the berth and lie down. He thought he would lie there and look out the window and watch how the country went by a train at night. A sign said to get the porter to let you into the uppers. He stuck his sack up into his berth and then went to look for the porter. He didn’t find him at one end of the car and he started back to the other. Going around the corner he ran into something heavy and pink; it gasped and muttered, ‘Clumsy!’ It was Mrs Hitchcock in a pink wrapper, with her hair in knots around her head. She looked at

He had darkened his face and hands with brown shoe polish, so that if he were seen in the act, he would be taken for a colored person. Then he had sneaked into the museum while the guard was asleep and had broken the glass case with a wrench he borrowed from his landlady. Then, shaking and sweating, he had lifted the shriveled man out and thrust him in a paper sack, and had crept out again past the guard who was still asleep. He realized as soon as he got out of the museum that, since no one had seen him to think he was a colored boy, he would be suspected immediately and would have to disguise himself. That was why he had on the black beard and dark glasses.

Rousseau habla de un lenguaje humano original o primordial, en el que todo tiene su nombre natural y auténtico; un lenguaje tan concreto, tan particular, que es capaz de captar la esencia, la mismidad de todo; tan espontáneo que expresa directamente todas las emociones; tan transparente que no caben en él evasivas ni engaños. En éste lenguaje no habría lógica ni gramática ni metáforas ni abstracciones (ni necesidad de ellas, en realidad); no sería un lenguaje meditado, una expresión simbólica del pensamiento y el sentimiento, sino sería, casi mágicamente, inmediato. Quizás sea una fantasía universal la idea de un lenguaje así, de un lenguaje del corazón, de un lenguaje de transparencia y lucidez perfectas, un lenguaje capaz de decirlo todo, sin engañarnos ni embrollarnos nunca, un lenguaje tan puro como la música.

What do they call a bed a rope for?’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Bless your innocence, sir, that ain’t it,’ replied Sam. ‘Ven the lady and gen’l’m’n as keeps the hot-el first begun business, they used to make the beds on the floor; but this wouldn’t do at no price, ‘cos instead o’ taking a moderate twopenn’orth o’ sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, ‘bout six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes right down the room; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across ‘em.’ ‘Well,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘the adwantage o’ the plan’s hobvious. At six o’clock every mornin’ they let’s go the ropes at one end, and down falls the lodgers. Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up wery quietly, and walk away! Beg your pardon, sir,

Învesmântate în acest sentiment al extazului, arzând de o adânca semnificatie divina si filozofica, viziunile lui Hildegard au contribuit la îndrumarea ei catre o viata închinata sfinteniei si misticismului. Sunt un exemplu unic pentru felul în care un eveniment fiziologic, banal, neplacut sau lipsit de sens pentru majoritatea oamenilor, poate deveni, Într-o constiinta privilegiata, substratul unei supreme inspiratii extatice. Pentru a gasi o paralela potrivita, trebuie sa ne întoarcem la Dostoievski, care traia uneori aure epileptice extatice carora le acorda o semnificatie importanta: Exista momente, care nu dureaza decât cinci sau sase secunde, când simti prezenta armoniei vesnice [...] un lucru formidabil e limpezimea teribila cu care se manifesta si încântarea de care te umplu. Daca aceasta stare ar tine mai mult de cinci secunde, sufletul n-ar putea-o îndura si ar trebui sa dispara. În decursul acestor cinci secunde traiesc o întreaga existenta omeneasca, iar pentru asta mi-as da viata fara sa-mi treaca prin minte ca platesc prea scump ...

A gente sai do hospital com um filho nos braços, o título e a alma de mãe, uma vontade imensa de acertar e o comportamento de quem ainda tem chão pela frente. Existe um processo de se tornar mãe. E ee não acontece no parto. Antropologistas o chamam de matrescência. Eu não sei nem descrever o quão maravilhoso foi encontrar essa palavra. A psiquiatra Alexandra Sack, que fala sobre o tema como ninguém, conta que não é por acaso que a palavra matrescência se parece tanto com adolescência. Ambos são períodos de mudanças dramáticas no corpo, nos hormônios, nos sentimentos, na maneira como nos enxergamos e processamos emoções. A diferença é que todos sabem que a adolescência é intensa e difícil. Não temos o mesmo olhar quando o assunto é se tornar mãe. Carregamos expectativas irreais. Recebemos o recém-nascido achando que o instinto saberá de tudo e que o desejo de colocar as necessidades do bebê em primeiro lugar será constante. Só quem já ficou acordada por noites e noites entende que não é bem assim. Conhece o impasse interno. Somos todas mães e vocês sabem do que estou falando. Na matrescência, as pessoas esperam que você aja com maturidade, que encare serena o abrir mão do controle da própria vida, do ritmo, do mundo como conhecia. Mas não é tão simples. A Dra. Alexandra descreve como um "empurra e puxa". A ocitocina, hormônio que aumenta cada vez que você carrega, beija e cheira o seu bebê, avisa o cérebro que isso é amor. E que é dos grandes! Alertando sobre a importância daquele serzinho na sua vida. Por outro lado, nessa mesma mente, há lembranças recentes da vida como ela era. Da identidade que você levou anos e anos para construir e da segurança que isso traz. Do cotidiano, dos relacionamentos, das coisas que, de forma abrupta, abriu mão. É uma luta real, não é hipotética. Sua com você mesma. Exige humildade, coragem, resiliência. E tempo. Sempre ele, o tempo. Trazer uma mãe ao mundo é tão desafiador quanto cuidar de um bebê. Agora imagine fazer os dois simultaneamente. Isso é matrescência. É entrar em uma nova realidade. Um lugar em que cabe a mulher, em que cabe a mãe e em que nasce o doce espaço onde elas se misturam.

Se abrían a sus pies continuamente abismos de amnesia, pero él los salvaba, con ingenio, mediante rápidas fabulaciones y ficciones de todo tipo. Para él no eran ficciones, era como veía de pronto o interpretaba el mundo. El flujo incesante y la incoherencia del mundo no podía tolerarlos, no podía admitirlos ni un instante... substituía aquella cuasicoherencia extraña y delirante, con la que el señor Thomson, con sus invenciones continuas, inconscientes y vertiginosas, improvisaba sin cesar un mundo en torno suyo, un mundo de las Mil y una noches, una fantasmagoría, un sueño de situaciones, imágenes y gentes en perpetuo cambio, en transformaciones y mutaciones continuas, caleidoscópicas. […] Este frenesí puede producir potencialidades de invención y de fantasía sumamente brillantes (un auténtico genio confabulatorio) pues el paciente debe literalmente hacerse a sí mismo (y construir su mundo) a cada instante. Nosotros tenemos, todos y cada uno, una historia biográfica, una narración interna, cuya continuidad, cuyo sentido, es nuestra vida. Podría decirse que cada uno de nosotros edifica y vive una «narración» y que esta narración es nosotros, nuestra identidad.

she picked up a jug of distilled water and poured it into a flask, plugging the flask with a stopper outfitted with a tube wriggling from its top. Next, she clipped the flask onto one of two metal stands that stood between two Bunsen burners and struck a strange metal gadget that sparked like flint striking steel. A flame appeared; the water began to heat. Reaching up to a shelf, she grabbed a sack labeled “C8H10N4O2,” dumped some into a mortar, ground it with a pestle, overturned the resulting dirtlike substance onto a strange little scale, then dumped the scale’s contents into a 6- x 6-inch piece of cheesecloth and tied the small bundle off. Stuffing the cheesecloth into a larger beaker, she attached it to the second metal stand, clamping the tube coming out of the first flask into the large beaker’s bottom. As the water in the flask started to bubble, Mrs. Sloane, her jaw practically on the floor, watched as the water forced its way up the tube and into the beaker. Soon the smaller flask was almost empty and Elizabeth shut off the Bunsen burner. She stirred the contents of the beaker with a glass rod. Then the brown liquid did the strangest thing: it rose up like a poltergeist and returned to the original flask. “Cream and sugar?” Elizabeth

...and the handsome jester, Devil’s Gold, is shaking his bead-covered rattle, making medicine and calling us by name. We are so tired from our long walk that we cannot but admire his gilded face and his yellow magic blanket. And, holding each other’s hands like lovers, we stoop and admire ourselves in the golden pool that flickers in the great campfire he has impudently built at the crossing of two streets in Heaven. But we do not step into the pool as beforetime. Our boat is beside us, it has overtaken us like some faithful tame giant swan, and Avanel whispers: “Take us where The Golden Book was written.” And thus we are up and away. The boat carries us deeper, down the valley. We find the cell of Hunter Kelly,— . St. Scribe of the Shrines. Only his handiwork remains to testify of him. Upon the walls of his cell he has painted many an illumination he afterward painted on The Golden Book margins and, in a loose pile of old torn and unbound pages, the first draft of many a familiar text is to be found. His dried paint jars are there and his ink and on the wall hangs the empty leather sack of Johnny Appleseed, from which came the first sowing of all the Amaranths of our little city, and the Amaranth that led us here. And Avanel whispers:—“I ask my heart: —Where is Hunter Kelly, and my heart speaks to me as though commanded: ‘The Hunter is again pioneering for our little city in the little earth. He is reborn as the humblest acolyte of the Cathedral, a child that sings tonight with the star chimes, a red-cheeked boy, who shoes horses at the old forge of the Iron Gentleman. Let us also return’.” It is eight o’clock in the evening, at Fifth and Monroe. It is Saturday night, and the crowd is pouring toward The Majestic, and Chatterton’s, and The Vaudette, and The Princess and The Gaiety. It is a lovely, starry evening, in the spring. The newsboys are bawling away, and I buy an Illinois State Register. It is dated March 1, 1920. Avanel of Springfield is one hundred years away. The Register has much news of a passing nature. I am the most interested in the weather report, that tomorrow will be fair. THE END - Written in Washington Park Pavilion, Springfield, Illinois.

That black horse we used for packin’ up here is the most cantankerous beast alive,” Jake grumbled, rubbing his arm. Ian lifted his gaze from the initials on the tabletop and turned to Jake, making no attempt to hide his amusement. “Bit you, did he?” “Damn right he bit me!” the older man said bitterly. “He’s been after a chuck of me since we left the coach at Hayborn and loaded those sacks on his back to bring up here.” “I warned you he bites anything he can reach. Keep your arm out of his way when you’re saddling him.” “It weren’t my arm he was after, it was my arse! Opened his mouth and went for it, only I saw him outter the corner of my eye and swung around, so he missed.” Jakes’s frown darkened when he saw the amusement in Ian’s expression. “Can’t see why you’ve bothered to feed him all these years. He doesn’t deserve to share a stable with your other horses-beauties they are, every one but him.” “Try slinging packs over the backs of one of those and you’ll see why I took him. He was suitable for using as a pack mule; none of my other cattle would have been,” ian said, frowning as he lifted his head and looked about at the months of accumulated dirt covering everything. “He’s slower’n a pack mule,” Jake replied. “Mean and stubborn and slow,” he concluded, but he, too, was frowning a little as he looked around at the thick layers of dust coating every surface. “Thought you said you’d arranged for some village wenches to come up here and clean and cook fer us. This place is a mess.” “I did. I dictated a message to Peters for the caretaker, asking him to stock the place with food and to have two women come up here to clean and cook. The food is here, and there are chickens out in the barn. He must be having difficulty finding two women to stay up here.” “Comely women, I hope,” Jake said. “Did you tell him to make the wenches comely?” Ian paused in his study of the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling and cast him an amused look. “You wanted me to tell a seventy-year-old caretaker who’s half-blind to make certain the wenches were comely?” “Couldn’ta hurt ‘t mention it,” Jake grumbled, but he looked chastened. “The village is only twelve miles away. You can always stroll down there if you’ve urgent need of a woman while we’re here. Of course, the trip back up here may kill you,” he joked referring to the winding path up the cliff that seemed to be almost vertical. “Never mind women,” Jake said in an abrupt change of heart, his tanned, weathered face breaking into a broad grin. “I’m here for a fortnight of fishin’ and relaxin’, and that’s enough for any man. It’ll be like the old days, Ian-peace and quiet and naught else. No hoity-toity servants hearin’ every word what’s spoke, no carriages and barouches and matchmaking mamas arrivin’ at your house. I tell you, my boy, though I’ve not wanted to complain about the way you’ve been livin’ the past year, I don’t like these servents o’ yours above half. That’s why I didn’t come t’visit you very often. Yer butler at Montmayne holds his nose so far in t’air, it’s amazin’ he gets any oxhegen, and that French chef o’ yers practically threw me out of his kitchens. That what he called ‘em-his kitchens, and-“ The old seaman abruptly broke off, his expression going from irate to crestfallen, “Ian,” he said anxiously, “did you ever learn t’ cook while we was apart?” “No, did you?” “Hell and damnation, no!” Jake said, appalled at the prospect of having to eat anything he fixed himself.

limp spring onion draped itself over the edge of the wicker basket that displayed the fresh produce in the O’Driscolls’ shop, café and post office. It shared the space with a shrivelled red pepper, while the basket above it held a few sweaty-looking bags of carrots. On the ground was a large sack of potatoes. Brown paper bags dangled from string to allow eager shoppers to make their own selection from the enticing display.

AT THE SOUND of the bell, Sir John forgot all ills. “Squire Shallow,” he shouted merrily, “the lunch bell calls. Come along and don’t forget to bring the bottle of sack. We shall share a celebratory glass over the wizard’s hide. High Ho! Off to R-O-O-O-ASTING a wizard we must go!

Não haverá ninguém como nós quando partirmos, mas pensando bem nunca uma pessoa é como outra. Quem morre não pode ser substituído. Deixa lacunas que não podem ser preenchidas, pois é o destino - destino genético e neural - de todo ser humano ser um indivíduo único, encontrar seu próprio caminho, viver sua própria vida, morrer sua própria morte.

My mom was a devoted wife and mother. The first up every morning, she would don her very practical apron, which was usually made out of floral feed-sack material and went over her head and buttoned or tied behind her back. She'd prepare lunches for my five sisters and me, and one for Dad, too... About three o'clock in the afternoon, Mom would straighten the house, vacuuming and dusting, and by the time we walked in from school, she'd be in the kitchen with her apron on, preparing the evening meal. Every dinner was complete with meat, potatoes, salad, two vegetables, and bread and butter. And the dining table was always set with a vase of fresh flowers or green cuttings. When dinner was just about ready, she'd go freshen up, changing clothes and putting on makeup. When one of my sisters once asked her how come she "got ready" and changed clothes right before dinner, Mom smiled and said, "Because my husband is coming home." When our father walked into the house from work, he was greeted with a delicious home-cooked meal on the table and Mom, all decked out in a fresh, pretty apron. [Dick Amman]

According to Rabbi Sacks, in Jewish tradition the highest spiritual gift is the ability to listen – not only to the voice of God, but also to the cry of other people, the sigh of the poor, the weak, the lonely, the neglected and, yes, sometimes the un-loved or less-loved. That is one of the meanings of the great command: Shema Yisrael, “Listen, O Israel.” Jacob’s other name, we recall, was Israel… He is the most tenacious

There was the night in Ocean City, on the rides, spinning on the Sizzler or riding the bumper cars. The dinner at Mack & Manco Pizza and cheese hoagies from Sack O’ Subs, dripping in oil and red wine vinegar, opened in paper at the beach.

like a sack of unwanted kittens.

On the morning22 of that day between five and six o’clock the prisoners, among them Admiral Canaris, General Oster, General Thomas and Reichgerichtsrat Sack were taken from their cells, and the verdicts of the court martial read out to them. Through the half-open door in one room of the huts I saw Pastor Bonhoeffer, before taking off his prison garb, kneeling on the floor praying fervently to his God. I was most deeply moved by the way this lovable man prayed, so devout and so certain that God heard his prayer. At the place of execution, he again said a short prayer and then climbed the steps to the gallows, brave and composed. His death ensued after a few seconds. In the almost fifty years that I worked as a doctor, I have hardly ever seen a man die so entirely submissive to the will of God.

LOVE IS THE MASTER Love is the One who masters all things; I am mastered totally by Love. By my passion of love for Love I have ground sweet as sugar. O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you; How could I know where I will be blown next? Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny Reveals himself a liar and a fool; What is any of us but a straw in a storm? How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane? God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection; How can we pretend to act on our own? In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack; Sometimes Love hoists me into the air, Sometimes Love flings me into the air, Love swings me round and round His head; I have no peace, in this world or any other. The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river; They have surrendered themselves to Love's commands. Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night, Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.

«Dio pensa in numeri» diceva spesso zia Len. «I numeri sono il modo in cui è assemblato il mondo». Questo pensiero non mi aveva mai abbandonato, e ora mi sembrava davvero di abbracciare tutto il mondo fisico. Avevo cominciato a leggere un po' di filosofia, ormai, e Leibniz, per quanto mi riusciva di penetrarlo, mi affascinava in modo particolare. Parlava di una «matematica divina», con la quale creare la più ricca realtà possibile con i mezzi più economici, e adesso mi sembrava che questo fosse evidente ovunque. La splendida parsimonia grazie alla quale milioni di composti potevano essere ottenuti da qualche decina di elementi, e circa cento elementi dall'idrogeno stesso; l'economia con cui l'intera gamma degli atomi era composta a partire da una o due particelle; e il modo in cui la stabilità e l'identità dell'atomo era garantita dai suoi stessi numeri quantici: ebbene, in tutto questo c'era abbastanza bellezza da far pensare all'opera di Dio.

I’ll be so romantic she’ll want to hop right in the sack”       “‘Atta boy,” I said and handed him the ring box.       “Call her. Ask her out to dinner tomorrow night. Tell her you have something special you want to give her,” Tory said.       He hopped right up, went out to the kitchen, called. We eavesdropped on the half of the conversation we could hear. When it was over, he padded back out to the living room. “It’s on. She said this has all happened so quickly, she’s still sorting it out. That’s why she’s been acting the way she has. But she said she knows she loves me and wants to spend her life with me.”       “Touching.” I tried not to laugh. “Tory and I want to share in this happiness. We’re planning on being at the wedding. That’s okay with you isn’t it?”       “Sure,” he said, brows knitting together in sincerity.       “I’m asking because I don’t want this to get too big. Will your boss be there?”       “Mr. D’Onifrio?”       I nodded.       “Yeah, I talked to him this afternoon. He wanted to know the exact time and place. I told him Friday two o’clock at City Hall, room 410. He told me he’d be there.”       “Just him? Or will other friends come along?”       “The boss won’t come alone. He’ll bring a car full, at least. Three, four guys.”       “We’ll be there, too. Let him know that, okay?”       “Sure. No problem.”       “I’m glad he’s coming. I know he’s pretty busy that day.”       Fish scratched his belly. “Yeah, he’s getting some big award that night. Kinda surprises me, him doing that during meeting time.”       “Meeting time?” Tory asked innocently.       “His bosses are going to be in town. Happens a couple of times a year. Everybody has to walk around

Me wife was attacked and punched in the head,” Ross explained. “And doubtless she has other bruises and wounds from the attack too. Take her above stairs and be sure there is nothing serious. Then see her changed. I’ll—” “There is no time for that now,” Annabel protested at once. “We must get these bluebells strewn about. Your sister and her husband—” “I’ll tend the flowers,” Ross interrupted. He took the sack from her and then urged her toward the stairs. “Let Seonag examine ye and help ye change . . . else I’ll do it.” When he paused on the last word and suddenly turned to look down at her, his eyes going smoky, Annabel felt her own eyes widen. She recognized that look and instinctively knew that his examining would be a lot more involved and take much longer than Seonag’s. She suspected it would include his getting naked too, and for a moment she was tempted, but then Seonag tsked with exasperation and took her arm to pull her away from Ross. “There’s time enough fer yer kind o’ examining later, after yer guests have left,” the maid said to Ross as she urged Annabel up the stairs. Glancing over her shoulder she added, “Now get on with ye and give those flowers to the maids to strew about. Ye don’t want yer wife embarrassed by yer home when yer sister enters.” Recalled

But none of those could hold a candle to my troubles, weighing down that clothesline like a sack full of bricks.

One last time, Bridget pleads her innocence, begging for help. The last thing she sees before the burlap sack is placed over her head is the pious and bearded Reverend Hale, a 56 year old pastor grasping his bible as if it were a weapon. It is a beautiful spring morning. The sun is shining. A sign of God's approval. A ladder is put below the thick branch of an old oak tree. Two men lift Bridget onto it. She feels the noose as it is placed over her head, then tightened around her neck. Suddenly, the ladder is kicked out from beneath her. Bridget slowly strangles. Kicking out hard with her legs, then she is still. The crowd approves. They are safer now. But in reality, no one is safe in Salem.

Come scrittore, trovo che i giardini siano essenziali per il processo creativo: come medico, ogni volta che è possibile, porto i miei pazienti in un giardino. Tutti abbiamo avuto l'esperienza di vagabondare in un giardino rigoglioso o in un deserto senza tempo, di camminare lungo le sponde di un fiume o di un oceano, o di arrampicarci su una montagna, e di trovarci al tempo stesso rasserenati e rinvigoriti, mentalmente coinvolti, rigenerati nel corpo e nello spirito. L'importanza di questi stati fisiologici per la salute dell'individuo e della comunità è fondamentale e di vasta portata; in quarant'anni di esercizio della medicina, ho riscontrato che solo due tipi di «terapia» non farmacologica sono di vitale importanza per i pazienti con neuropatologie croniche: la musica e i giardini.

Si un hombre ha perdido una pierna o un ojo, sabe que ha perdido una pierna o un ojo; pero si ha perdido el yo, si se ha perdido a sí mismo, no puede saberlo, porque no está ahí ya para saberlo.

As it turned out, Moss and the Patriots were hotter than the game-time temperature of 84 degrees. They ran the Jets off the field in a 38–14 rout highlighted by Moss’s 51-yard touchdown against triple coverage and 183 receiving yards on nine catches. “He was born to play football,” Brady said of his newest and most lethal weapon. The quarterback had it all now. He was getting serious with his relatively new girlfriend, Brazilian supermodel Gisele Bündchen (his ex-girlfriend, actress Bridget Moynahan, had just given birth to their son, Jack), and now he was being paired on the field with a perfect partner of a different kind. Brady wasn’t seeing the Oakland Randy Moss. He was seeing the Minnesota Moss, the vintage Moss, the 6´4˝ receiver who ran past defenders and jumped over them with ease. Brady had all day to throw to Moss and Welker, who caught the first of the quarterback’s three touchdown passes. He wasn’t sacked while posting a quarterback rating of 146.6, his best in nearly five years. Man, this was a great day for the winning coach all around. On the other sideline, Eric Mangini had made a big mistake by sticking with his quarterback, Chad Pennington, a former teammate of Moss’s at Marshall, when the outcome was no longer in doubt, subjecting his starter to some unnecessary hits as he played on an injured ankle. Pennington was annoyed enough to pull himself from the game with 6:51 left and New England leading by 17. “That was the first time I’ve ever done that,” Pennington said. Mangini played the fool on this Sunday, and Belichick surely got the biggest kick out of that. But the losing coach actually won a game within the game in the first half that the overwhelming majority of people inside Giants Stadium knew absolutely nothing about. It had started in the days before this opener, when Mangini informed his former boss that the Jets would not tolerate in their own stadium an illegal yet common Patriots practice: the videotaping of opposing coaches’ signals from the sideline. The message to Belichick was simple: Don’t do it in our house. It was something of an open secret that New England had been illegally taping opposing coaches during games for some time, and yet the first public mention of improper spying involving Belichick’s Patriots actually assigned them the collective role of victim. Following a 21–0 Miami victory in December 2006, a couple of Dolphins told the Palm Beach Post that the team had “bought” past game tapes that included audio of Brady making calls at the line, and that the information taken from those tapes had helped them shut out Brady and sack him four times. “I’ve never seen him so flustered,” said Miami linebacker Zach Thomas.

So we seem okay as far as that goes, at least to the sort of people who really care about trying to get their children into Harvard. But I think that some of our snobbier friends suspect that Genie and I may also lead Wolfman-at-full-moontype double lives. Maybe at night we turn into junk-food-loving porkers, sneak off to a trailer park with our brood of kids and grandkids, and lounge in a Winnebago surrounded by brokendown cars up on blocks, watch wrestling on TV, buy liquor with ill-gotten food stamps, scarf corn chips and bean dip, gain weight and put on dreadful sweat pants, sprout mullet haircuts, then trudge the isles of Wal-Mart until dawn breathing the plastic smell and loving it while, with each step, the cheeks of our suddenly gigantic bottoms rise, quiver, fall, and rise again like massive sacks of Jell-O strapped to the hindquarters of water buffalo.

The biblical King David was also a sacred shepherd. His sensual and ecstatic songs of earthly love, so untypical of the Bible, derive from the ancient love rites of the shepherd king and the Goddess—her Canaanite names were Asherah, Astarte, Ashtoreth. The settled people of the Old Testament, like everyone else in the Near East, practiced Goddess worship. The Old Testament is the record of the conquest and massacre of these Neolithic people by the nomadic Hebrews, followers of a Sky God, who then set up their biblical God in the place of the ancient Goddess. The biblical Hebrews were a nomadic pastoral and patriarchal people, tribes of sheepherders and warriors who invaded land belonging to the matriarchal Canaanites. Both Hebrews and Canaanites were Semitic people. The Canaanites lived in agricultural communities and worshiped the orgiastic-ecstatic Moon Mother Astarte. As Old Testament stories relate, the Hebrews sacked, burned, and destroyed village after village belonging to the Canaanites, massacring or enslaving the people—a series of brutal invasions and slaughters described typically by theologians and preachers as “a spiritual victory.” In this way the Hebrews established themselves on the land, along with the worship of their Sky-and-Thunder God Yahweh (Jehovah), calling themselves his “chosen people.” Yahweh’s male prophets and priests, however, despite their political victory over the Canaanites, had to carry on a continuous struggle and fulmination against their own people, who kept “backsliding” into worship of the Great Mother, the Goddess of all their Near Eastern neighbors. For she had originally been the Goddess of the Hebrews themselves. This constant fight against matriarchal religion and custom is the primary theme of the Old Testament. It begins in Genesis, with the takeover of the Goddess’s Garden of Immortality by a male God, and the inversion of all her sacred symbols—tree, serpent, moon-fruit, woman—into icons of evil. Of the two sons of Eve and Adam, Cain was made the “evil brother” because he chose settled agriculture (matriarchal)—the “good brother” Abel was a nomadic pastoralist (patriarchal). The war against the Goddess is carried on by the prophets’ rantings against the “golden calf,” the “brazen serpents,” the “great harlot” and “Whore of Babylon” (the Babylonian Goddess Ishtar), against enchantresses, pythonic diviners, and those who practice witchcraft. It is in the prophets’ war against the Canaanite worship of “stone idols”—the Triple Moon Goddess worshiped as three horned pillars, or menhirs. One of her shrines was on Mount Sinai, which means “Mountain of the Moon.” Moses was commanded by “the Lord” to go forth and destroy these “idols”—who all had breasts. We are told monotheism began with the Jews, that it was the great “spiritual invention” of the religious leader Moses. This is not so. The worship of one God, like everything else in religion, began with the worship of the Goddess. Her universality has been duly noted by everyone who has ever studied the matter. “Monotheism, once thought to have been the invention of Moses or Akhnaton, was worldwide in the prehistoric and early historic world,” i.e., throughout the Paleolithic and Neolithic ages. As E. O. James wrote in The Cult of the Mother Goddess, “It seems that Evans was correct when he affirmed that it was a ‘monotheism in which the female form of divinity was supreme.” The original monotheism of the Goddess is perhaps most clearly shown by the fact that, in Elizabeth Gould Davis’s words, “Almighty Yahweh, the god of Moses and the later Hebrews, was originally a goddess.” His name, Iahu ’anat, derives from that of the Sumerian Goddess Inanna.

A people that has had its ancient laws and customs taken from it, whose language and history count for nothing, and whose temples have been sacked and thrown down is apt to be morose,

La speranza che recuperi la memoria è poca o nulla. Dal punto di vista neuropsicologico lei può fare poco o niente; ma nell'ambito dell'Individuale forse può molto. Un uomo non consiste di sola memoria. Ha sentimento, volontà, sensibilità, coscienza morale... è in queste cose che lei può trovare il modo di arrivare al suo paziente e di cambiarlo." Ormai conosco Jimmie da nove anni, e dal punto di vista neurologico non è minmamente cambiato. Presenta ancora la gravissima, devastante sindorme di Korsakov, non è in grado di ricordare un particolare isolato per più di pochi secondi. Ma dal punto di vista umano, spirituale, egli è a volte un uomo completamente diverso: non più incapace di stare fermo, annoiato e perduto, bensì profondamente attento alla bellezza e all'anima del mondo, ricco di tutte le categorie kierkgaardiane, l'estetica, la morale, la religiosa, la drammatica. La scienza empirica non tiene conto dell'anima, di ciò che costituisce e determina l'individuo; rimane intatta la possibilità di una reintegrazione attraverso l'arte, la comunione, il contatto con lo spirito umano.

Quando, diversi anni fa, cominciai a lavorare con i ritardati, pensai che sarebbe stata un'esperienza deprimente e lo scrissi a Lurija. Con mia sorpresa, egli mi rispose in termini quanto mai positivi: di tutti i suoi pazienti nessuno era a lui più caro di costoro, e considerava le ore e gli anni passati all'istituto per le insufficienze mentali fra i più ricchi e interessanti di tutta la sua vita professionale. Per una sorta di inversione dell'ordine naturale delle cose, la concretezza è spesso vista dai neurologi come qualcosa di spregevole, di indegno d'attenzione, di incoerente e di regredito. Per alcuni, la gloria dell'uomo è tutta nella facoltà di astrazione e categorizzazione; ciò che non lo è rimane subumano, di nessuna importanza o interesse. I semplici non hanno mai conosciuto l'astratto, hanno sempre vissuto la realtà in modo diretto e immediato. Il concreto può diventare un veicolo del mistero, della bellezza e della profondità, può condurre alle emozioni, all'immaginazione, allo spirito non meno di qualsiasi concezione astratta.

For the love of grandma's peach preserves, women's clothing needs new sizing standards, especially that horribly redundant "extra large." That's like saying Ida Mae's not just big. She's big big." Let's try something more reasonable, maybe even introduce southern sizing, like tee-tiny, middlin', over-filled corn muffin, biscuit-fluffy, dumplin' and sack o' taters.

The designs involved two abiding techniques by Roman stonemasons. First, certain parts of each letter was subtly widened – one leg of the A, two opposite sides of the O – in contrast to others. This gave the shape a sense of perspective and graceful solidity. The second technique was to add small finishing strokes (we call them serifs) at the letters' end points. Clear examples include letters E, G, H, S and T.

Noi toți, într-o oarecare măsură, împrumutăm de la alții, de la cultura din jurul nostru. Ideile sunt în aer și ne însușim, uneori fără să ne dăm seama, expresiile și limbajul timpului. Limba în sine e împrumutată, nu inventată. Am găsit-o, am crescut cu ea, deși o folosim și o interpretăm în moduri foarte individuale. Problema însă nu este că "împrumutăm" sau "imităm" sau suntem "influențați" sau "lipsiți de originalitate", ci ce facem cu aceste împrumuturi sau imitații; cât de profund le asimilăm, ni le însușim, cum le combinăm cu propriile noastre experiențe, gânduri și sentimente, cum le punem în relație cu noi înșine și le exprimăm într-un fel nou, personal.

Downside was frowning at the Shanka corpses, weighing his axe and wondering where to start. "Never thought o' myself as a man who fills sacks with heads." "No one sets off in that direction," said Clover, puffing out his cheeks one more time. "But before you know it, there you bloody are.

Pero hemos de decir desde el principio que una enfermedad no es nunca una mera pérdida o un mero exceso, que hay siempre una reacción por parte del organismo o individuo afectado para restaurar, reponer, compensar, y para preservar su identidad, por muy extraños que puedan ser los medios.

Never thought o’ myself as a man who fills sacks with heads.” “No one sets off in that direction,” said Clover, puffing out his cheeks one more time. “But before you know it, there you bloody are.

Think I like this job? Having a Double-O number and so on? I’d be quite happy for you to get me sacked from the Double-O Section. Then I could settle down and make a snug nest of papers as an ordinary Staffer. Right?

Auden is relating his lone adventure with LSD: “I would take it only under medical supervision. My physician came around to St. Mark’s Place at 7 A.M. and administered it. All I felt was a slight schizoid dissociation of my body—as though my body didn’t quite belong to me, but to somebody else. “Around 10 o’clock, when the influence was supposed to be at its peak, we went out to a corner luncheonette for ham and eggs. And then it happened! I thought I saw my mailman doing a strange dance with his arms and legs and mail sack. Well, I never see my mailman before noon—so I was very impressed by the results of LSD. “But the next day, at noon, my mailman showed up very angry. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he wanted to know. ‘I saw you in the coffee shop yesterday and I waved at you and jumped up-and-down to catch your eye, but you looked right at me and didn’t even give me a nod!

That night when I went to bed, I laid there in the dark and pictured a clothesline full of somebody else's troubles. I knew for sure there were a lot of them I'd rather pluck off of that line than mine. I imagined what the other troubles might be. There would probably be toothaches and failed math tests. Lost cats and ugly hair. Cheating boyfriends and broken-down cars. But none of those could hold a candle to my troubles, weighing down that clothesline like a sack full of bricks.

When Mussolini sacked Farinacci a little more than a year later, however, in April 1926, and replaced him with the less headstrong Augusto Turati (1926–29), he was again strengthening the normative state at the expense of the party. It was at this point, most significantly, that he entrusted the Italian police to a professional civil servant, Arturo Bocchini, rather than to a party zealot on the Himmler model. Operating the all-important police force on bureaucratic principles (promotion of trained professionals by seniority, respect for legal procedures at least in nonpolitical cases) rather than as part of a prerogative state of unlimited arbitrary power was Italian Fascism’s most important divergence from Nazi practice.