Okie Quotes

Make it quick," I said when I picked up. "Okay. Two men from the FBI are here." Cookie said. Quickly. Crap. "Men in black are at the office?" "Well, yes, but they're actually in more of a navy." Crapola. I so don't have time for men. In any color. "Okay, two questions. Do they look mad, and are they hot?" After a long, long, pause, Cookie said, "One, not really. Two, no comment at this time. And three, you're on speakerphone." After another long, long pause, I said, "Okie dokie then. Be there in a jiff.

Muchacha, te contaré algo: el mundo está lleno de historias. Todas las personas y todas las cosas tienen historias que contar. A algunas de ellas se llega a través de gente como yo, que las relata para que no se olviden. Otras, en cmbio... se viven. ¿Entiendes? (...) Ahora tú debes decidir (...) si seguirás siendo una oyente o, por el contrario, saldrás en busca de tu propia historia

Ahora tu debes decidir si seguirás siendo una oyente, o, por el contrario, saldrás en busca de tu propia historia. Oki

I tell you this not as aimless revelation but because I want you to know, as you read me, precisely who I am and where I am and what is on my mind. I want you to understand exactly what you are getting: you are getting a woman who for some time now has felt radically separated from most of the ideas that seem to interest people. You are getting a woman who somewhere along the line misplaced whatever slight faith she ever had in the social contract, in the meliorative principle, in the whole grand pattern of human endeavor. Quite often during the past several years I have felt myself a sleepwalker, moving through the world unconscious of the moment’s high issues, oblivious to its data, alert only to the stuff of bad dreams, the children burning in the locked car in the supermarket parking lot, the bike boys stripping down stolen cars on the captive cripple’s ranch, the freeway sniper who feels “real bad” about picking off the family of five, the hustlers, the insane, the cunning Okie faces that turn up in military investigations, the sullen lurkers in doorways, the lost children, all the ignorant armies jostling in the night. Acquaintances read The New York Times, and try to tell me the news of the world. I listen to call-in shows.

When one tries to master something, it ends in either success or failure. But it is in the attempt itself where you find the true value. Believe in your own power and walk your own path.

Oki Doki Loki!

Oh these dumb dumb dumb Okies, they'll never change, how com-pletely and how unbelievably dumb, the moment it comes time to act, this paralysis, scared, hysterical, nothing frightens em more than what they WANT- it's MY FATHER MY FATER MY FATHER all over again!

Dracula shows his fangs, and the Okie flees through a cornfield. Cornstalks smack her face. "Help!" she screams to a sky full of crows. "He's not actually from Europe!

Maybe, God forbid, the place was what it appeared to be—a melange of Okies and thieves and bewildered jíbaros.

The son of an Okie who hadn't had enough sense to leave Oklahoma back in the thirties, Tommy Ladue was the sort of guy who looked like he was wearing overalls even when he wasn't.

You know you're down and out when Okies laugh at you,' she said. With our garbage bag taped window, our tied down hood, and art supplies strapped to the roof, we'd out-Okied the Okies.

She was afraid to touch the dictionary — Oki was even there. Innumerable words reminded her of him. To link whatever she saw and heard with her love was nothing less than to be alive. Her awareness of her body was inseparable from her memory of his embrace.

Something in your brushwork touches the heart, Issun. You never abandoned your life as an artist after all.

Off to California in that tired old VW with the disintegrating fuel pump like a family of dustbowl Okies?

Todas las personas y todas las cosas tienen historias que contar. A algunas de ellas se llega a través de gente como yo, que las relata para que no se olviden. Otras, en cambio… se viven. ¿Entiendes? Viana asintió, aunque no estaba segura de comprenderlo del todo. —Ahora tú debes decidir —concluyó Oki— si seguirás siendo una oyente o, por el contrario, saldrás en busca de tu propia historia.

Un dia, mientras escribia una carta, Otoko abrio el diccionario para consultar el ideograma 'pensar'. Al repasar los restantes significados (añorar, ser incapaz de olvidar, estar triste) sintio que el corazon se le encogia. Tuvo miedo de tocar el diccionario... Aun ahi estaba Oki. Innumerables palabras se lo recordaban. Vincular todo lo que veia y oia con su amor equivalia a estar viva. La conciencia de su propio cuerpo era inseparable del recuerdo de aquel abrazo.

You know you're down and out when the Okies laugh at you.

He was the issue of a gritty pod of dustbowl Okies who blew into Bakersfield back when Steinbeck was trolling the lower depths of Lamont and Weedpatch for protagonists.

I thought that if we had a national character and a national genius, these people, who were beginning to be called Okies, were it.

But today’s trailer trash are merely yesterday’s vagrants on wheels, an updated version of Okies in jalopies and Florida crackers in their carts. They are renamed often, but they do not disappear.

Pram, cinta itu jorok.... Dia ada di mana aja, nggak kenal tempat. Temuin pilihan gue tadi deh, siapa tahu cocok. Buka mata, buka hati... rasain di sini," kata Oki sambil menaruh telapak tangan kanannya di dada, kemudian melambaikan tangannya pada Oki.

Mom waved at the crowd. “You know you’re down and out when Okies laugh at you,” she said. With our garbage-bag-taped window, our roped-down hood, and the art supplies tied to the roof, we’d out-Okied the Okies. The thought gave her a fit of the giggles.

Okies--the owners hated them because they knew they were soft and the Okies strong, that they were fed and the Okies hungry; and perhaps the owners had heard from their grandfathers how easy it is to steal land from a soft man if you are fierce and hungry and armed. The owners hated them.

The local people whipped themselves into a mold of cruelty. Then they formed units, squads, and armed them—armed them with clubs, with gas, with guns. We own the country. We can’t let these Okies get out of hand. And the men who were armed did not own the land, but they thought they did. And the clerks who drilled at night owned nothing, and the little storekeepers possessed only a drawerful of debts. But even a debt is something, even a job is something. The clerk thought, I get fifteen dollars a week. S’pose a goddamn Okie would work for twelve? And the little storekeeper thought, How could I compete with a debtless man?

I’m divorced, in debt, and I can’t grow sideburns. Sometimes I get depressed, but then I think, It’s OK—I can still grow a mustache.

Esperar a Oki es lo mismo que esperar el pasado… El tiempo y los ríos no corren para atrás.

Jinsei nana korobi Ya oki. Such is life– Seven times down, Eight times up!

Okies who had just stepped into the corridor long enough to get a tin can of water for our boiling radiator. There are other stories, other dilemmas, but the characters never change. We’re always standing around, unwashed, uncurled, harried, penniless, memory gone, no lipstick, no hose, unmatched shoes, and using the dirtiest cloth in the house to bind our wounds. Makes

Young, lavishly bearded tech entrepreneurs were trudging forlornly down the hallways, laden with computers, printers, high-end coffeemakers, and foosball tables. Like digital Okies they loaded their stuff into their Scions or Ryder trucks and rumbled off into the unforgiving Boston commercial real estate market. “So you’re going to, uh, remove basically the entire floor of the conference room?

Los libros son artefactos que se especializan en producir colecciones enteras de medias verdades. Mientras más medias verdades puedan cosecharse dentro de los surcos de sus páginas, más fuerza tendrá el libro.

This was the place, the place I would have come on my own wandering binge, come here and lodged like a marble in a crack, this place, a haven for California Okies and exiled Texans, a home for country folk lately dispossessed, their eyes so empty of hope that they reflect hot, windy plains, spare, almost Biblical sweeps of horizon broken only by the spines of an orphaned rocking chair, and beyond this, clouded with rage, the reflections of orange groves and ax handles.

Nana korobi ya oki 七転び八起き Fall seven times, rise eight. —Japanese proverb Resilience is our ability to deal with setbacks. The more resilient we are, the easier it will be to pick ourselves up and get back to what gives meaning to our lives.

PROLOGUE   Zoey “Wow, Z, this is a seriously awesome turnout. There are more humans here than fleas on an old dog!” Stevie Rae shielded her eyes with her hand as she looked around at the newly lit-up campus. Dallas was a total jerk, but we all admitted that the twinkling lights he’d wrapped around the trunks and limbs of the old oaks gave the entire campus a magickal, fairy-like glow. “That is one of your more disgusting bumpkin analogies,” Aphrodite said. “Though it’s accurate. Especially since there are a bunch of city politicians here. Total parasites.” “Try to be nice,” I said. “Or at least try to be quiet.” “Does that mean your daddy, the mayor, is here?” Stevie Rae’s already gawking eyes got even wider. “I suppose it does. I caught a glimpse of Cruella De Vil, a.k.a. She Who Bore Me, not long ago.” Aphrodite paused and her brows went up. “We should probably keep an eye on the Street Cats kittens. I saw some cute little black and white ones with especially fluffy fur.” Stevie Rae sucked air. “Ohmygoodness, your mamma wouldn’t really make a kitten fur coat, would she?” “Faster than you can say Bubba’s drinkin’ and drivin’ again,” Aphrodite mimicked Stevie Rae’s Okie twang. “Stevie Rae—she’s kidding. Tell her the truth,” I nudged Aphrodite. “Fine. She doesn’t skin kittens. Or puppies. Just baby seals and democrats.” Stevie Rae’s brow furrowed. “See, everything is fine. Plus, Damien’s at the Street Cats booth, and you know he’d never let one little kitten whisker be hurt—let alone a whole coat,” I assured my BFF, refusing to let Aphrodite mess up our good mood. “Actually, everything is more than fine. Check out what we managed to pull off in a little over a week.” I sighed in relief at the success of our event and let my gaze wander around the packed school grounds. Stevie Rae, Shaylin, Shaunee, Aphrodite, and I were manning the bake sale booth (while Stevie Rae’s mom and a bunch of her PTA friends moved through the crowd with samples of the chocolate chip cookies we were selling, like, zillions of). From our position near Nyx’s statue, we had a great view of the whole campus. I could see a long line at Grandma’s lavender booth. That made me smile. Not far from Grandma, Thanatos had set up a job application area, and there were a bunch of humans filling out paperwork there. In the center of the grounds there were two huge silver and white tents draped with more of Dallas’s twinkling lights. In one tent Stark and Darius and the Sons of Erebus Warriors were demonstrating weaponry. I watched as Stark was showing a young boy how to hold a bow. Stark’s gaze lifted from the kid and met mine. We shared a quick, intimate smile

Hay recuerdos que nos rebasa. Momentos estelares de la memoria que nos apabullan. Son nuestra esencia, son lo que somos; ellos lo saben y por lo mismo abusan. Inquilinos incómodos que viven en la suites de honor de nuestra memoria. Oprimiendo las remembranzas más humildes.

Algren’s book opens with one of the best historical descriptions of American white trash ever written.* He traces the Linkhorn ancestry back to the first wave of bonded servants to arrive on these shores. These were the dregs of society from all over the British Isles—misfits, criminals, debtors, social bankrupts of every type and description—all of them willing to sign oppressive work contracts with future employers in exchange for ocean passage to the New World. Once here, they endured a form of slavery for a year or two—during which they were fed and sheltered by the boss—and when their time of bondage ended, they were turned loose to make their own way. In theory and in the context of history the setup was mutually advantageous. Any man desperate enough to sell himself into bondage in the first place had pretty well shot his wad in the old country, so a chance for a foothold on a new continent was not to be taken lightly. After a period of hard labor and wretchedness he would then be free to seize whatever he might in a land of seemingly infinite natural wealth. Thousands of bonded servants came over, but by the time they earned their freedom the coastal strip was already settled. The unclaimed land was west, across the Alleghenies. So they drifted into the new states—Kentucky and Tennessee; their sons drifted on to Missouri, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Drifting became a habit; with dead roots in the Old World and none in the New, the Linkhorns were not of a mind to dig in and cultivate things. Bondage too became a habit, but it was only the temporary kind. They were not pioneers, but sleazy rearguard camp followers of the original westward movement. By the time the Linkhorns arrived anywhere the land was already taken—so they worked for a while and moved on. Their world was a violent, boozing limbo between the pits of despair and the Big Rock Candy Mountain. They kept drifting west, chasing jobs, rumors, homestead grabs or the luck of some front-running kin. They lived off the surface of the land, like army worms, stripping it of whatever they could before moving on. It was a day-to-day existence, and there was always more land to the west. Some stayed behind and their lineal descendants are still there—in the Carolinas, Kentucky, West Virginia and Tennessee. There were dropouts along the way: hillbillies, Okies, Arkies—they’re all the same people. Texas is a living monument to the breed. So is southern California. Algren called them “fierce craving boys” with “a feeling of having been cheated.” Freebooters, armed and drunk—a legion of gamblers, brawlers and whorehoppers. Blowing into town in a junk Model-A with bald tires, no muffler and one headlight … looking for quick work, with no questions asked and preferably no tax deductions. Just get the cash, fill up at a cut-rate gas station and hit the road, with a pint on the seat and Eddy Arnold on the radio moaning good back-country tunes about home sweet home, that Bluegrass sweetheart still waitin, and roses on Mama’s grave. Algren left the Linkhorns in Texas, but anyone who drives the Western highways knows they didn’t stay there either. They kept moving until one day in the late 1930s they stood on the spine of a scrub-oak California hill and looked down on the Pacific Ocean—the end of the road.

Sadness softened her nasal twang, that ubiquitous accent that had drifted out of the Appalachian hills and hollows, across the southern plains, across the southwestern deserts, insinuating itself all the way to the golden hills of California. But somewhere along the way, Rosie had picked up a gentler accent too, a fragrant voice more suited to whisper throaty, romantic words like Wisteria, or humid phrases like honeysuckle vine, her voice for gentleman callers. “Just fine,” she repeated. Even little displaced Okie girls grow up longing to be gone with some far better wind than that hot, cutting, dusty bite that’s blowing their daddy’s crops to hell and gone. I went to get her a beer, wishing it could be something finer.

1: Everyone Knows It was in the summer of 1998 that my neighbor Coleman Silk—who, before retiring two years earlier, had been a classics professor at nearby Athena College for some twenty-odd years as well as serving for sixteen more as the dean of faculty—confided to me that, at the age of seventy-one, he was having an affair with a thirty-four-year-old cleaning woman who worked down at the college. Twice a week she also cleaned the rural post office, a small gray clapboard shack that looked as if it might have sheltered an Okie family from the winds of the Dust Bowl back in the 1930s and that, sitting alone and forlorn across from the gas station and the general store, flies its American flag at the junction of the two roads that mark the commercial center of this mountainside town.

oddly, it was with the Okies, Catholics, and Negroes that the Communists, on the whole, had small success. Many of the disadvantaged understood the dream of America better than those who had enjoyed its benefits. Sitting in the lecture room, Sergeant Schlichter, like so many others, was taken sick. He was sent to the crude Chinese hospital with pneumonia. He almost died. But here, as he said, he saw the greatest example of faith he had ever seen, in the actions of Chaplain Emil Kapaun, who had been taken at Unsan. Father Kapaun, ill himself, stood in front of the POW’s, prayed, and stole food to share with other’s. By his example, he sometimes forced the little bit of good remaining in these starving men to the fore. But Chaplain Kapaun could not take command, and he soon grew deathly ill, probably as much from sorrow as from his own starvation. Schlichter saw him put in a room, without food or medicine. No other American was allowed to treat the priest, and he soon died. He was not alone. Schlichter heard that no other chaplain survived the prison camps of Korea, the only class or group to be wiped out.

In the West there was panic when the migrants multiplied on the highways. Men of property were terrified for their property. Men who had never been hungry saw the eyes of the hungry. Men who had never wanted anything very much saw the flare of want in the eyes of the migrants. And the men of the towns and of the soft suburban country gathered to defend themselves; and they reassured themselves that they were good and the invaders bad, as a man must do before he fights. They said, These goddamned Okies are dirty and ignorant. They’re degenerate, sexual maniacs. These goddamned Okies are thieves. They’ll steal anything. They’ve got no sense of property rights. And the latter was true, for how can a man without property know the ache of ownership? And the defending people said, They bring disease, they’re filthy. We can’t have them in the schools. They’re strangers. How’d you like to have your sister go out with one of ’em? The local people whipped themselves into a mold of cruelty. Then they formed units, squads, and armed them—armed them with clubs, with gas, with guns. We own the country. We can’t let these Okies get out of hand. And the men who were armed did not own the land, but they thought they did. And the clerks who drilled at night owned nothing, and the little storekeepers possessed only a drawerful of debts. But even a debt is something, even a job is something. The clerk thought, I get fifteen dollars a week. S’pose a goddamn Okie would work for twelve? And the little storekeeper thought, How could I compete with a debtless man?

Young, lavishly bearded tech entrepreneurs were trudging forlornly down the hallways, laden with computers, printers, high-end coffeemakers, and foosball tables. Like digital Okies they loaded their stuff into their Scions or Ryder trucks and rumbled off into the unforgiving Boston commercial real estate market.

I started in our neighborhood, buying a pastrami burrito at Oki Dog and a deluxe gardenburger at Astro Burger and matzoh-ball soup at Greenblatt's and some greasy egg rolls at the Formosa. In part funny, and rigid, and sleepy, and angry. People. Then I made concentric circles outward, reaching first to Canter's and Pink's, then rippling farther, tofu at Yabu and mole at Alegria and sugok at Marouch; the sweet-corn salad at Casbah in Silver Lake and Rae's charbroiled burgers on Pico and the garlicky hummus at Carousel in Glendale. I ate an enormous range of food, and mood. Many favorites showed up- families who had traveled far and whose dishes were steeped with the trials of passageways. An Iranian cafe near Ohio and Westwood had such a rich grief in the lamb shank that I could eat it all without doing any of my tricks- side of the mouth, ingredient tracking, fast-chew and swallow. Being there was like having a good cry, the clearing of the air after weight has been held. I asked the waiter if I could thank the chef, and he led me to the back, where a very ordinary-looking woman with gray hair in a practical layered cut tossed translucent onions in a fry pan and shook my hand. Her face was steady, faintly sweaty from the warmth of the kitchen. Glad you liked it, she said, as she added a pinch of saffron to the pan. Old family recipe, she said. No trembling in her voice, no tears streaking down her face.

Okizuke is made by marinating squid in a mixture of soy sauce, mirin and sake. Oki means "offshore" and zuke "preserved" or "pickled." The dish is said to have been invented by fishermen; they would catch the squid and put it in the preserving mixture while at sea, and it would be ready to eat by the time they got back to shore.

Thời gian trôi. Nhưng thời gian của đời người có những dòng chảy khác nhau. Như dòng sông, dòng đời có chỗ nhanh chó chậm, có chỗ còn dừng lại như nước ao tù. Thời gian vũ trụ tất nhiên là một, nhưng thời gian trong tâm thay đổi với từng người. Dòng sông thời gian là một cho mọi người, nhưng mỗi người trôi đi trong dòng sông ấy một cách khác nhau. Xấp xỉ bốn mươi, Otoko nghĩ Oki vẫn còn sống trong nàng, phải chăng là dòng thời gian của nàng đã không chảy. Hay hình ảnh Oki cùng nàng trôi với cùng một vận tốc, như cánh hoa trôi theo nước. Rồi nàng lại nghĩ, không biết nàng trôi theo dòng thời gian của Oki thế nào. Dù Oki vẫn không quên nàng, nhưng ông tất có một dòng thời gian khác.

Best years of my life. Hell, killing, drinking, and fucking—to an Okie from Henryetta, Vietnam wasn’t no war, it was a goddamned vacation.” He shook his head. “Politicians fucked up a pretty good war.

Where I live is one of the places where suburban stories were first mass-produced. They were stories then for displaced Okies and Arkies, Jews who knew the pain of exclusion, Catholics who thought they did, and anyone white with a steady job.

Tal vez nuestro nombre es el primer cuento que leemos, y conforme sea esa lectura, será la existencia que habremos de vivir. No es lo mismo llamarse Lucas que Washington, Ivana que Silvia. Uno es su nombre y unas cuantas cosas más.

I have only 2 rules for you; 1) Don't Die, and 2) Have Fun. Everything else should be okie dokie

of Weedpatch Camp were working in the fields. Perhaps as many as fifty children were playing baseball at the school or swimming in the pool when three cars driven by teenage boys began to circle the playground. The teenage boys got out of the cars and squared off in front of Eddie and a line of other sixteen-year-old boys from the camp. When the intruders hurled rocks into the swimming pool, the Okie boys charged forward and the Fight was on. Some men from the camp rushed over to the playground to restore order, but by then the invaders were in retreat with bloody noses and scuffed faces. That

Erano affamati, ed erano agguerriti. Avevano sperato di trovare un focolare, e trovarono solo odio. Okie: i proprietari li odiavano, perché i proprietari si sapevano fiacchi mentre gli Okie erano forti, si sapevano sazi mentre gli Okie erano affamati; e forse i proprietari avevano saputo dai loro nonni quanto sia facile rubare la terra a uomo fiacco quando sei agguerrito e affamato e armato.

Se preguntó si era su juventud y su inocencia lo que habían dado tanta intensidad a ese amor. Quizás eso explicara su pasión ciega e insaciable. Cuando en un espasmo mordía el hombro de Oki, ni siguiera advertía la sangre que manaba de la herida.

Con el correr del tiempo, el recuerdo de aquel abrazo se fue purificando dentro de Otoko; fue dejando de ser algo físico para convertirse en algo espiritual. Ahora ella ya no era pura y sin duda Oki tampoco lo era. Y sin embargo, su antiguo abrazo, tal como lo veía ahora, parecía puro. Aquel recuerdo —en el que ella intervenía y no intervenía, que parecía real e irreal— era una visión sagrada, una visión sublimada del abrazo de antaño.

A no ser por la mirada melancólica de sus ojos, cuando pensaba en Oki, nadie habría advertido su tristeza. Y hasta esa ocasional sombra sólo contribuía a acentuar su belleza.

El tiempo pasó. Pero el tiempo se divide en muchas corrientes. Como en un río, hay una corriente central rápida en algunos sectores y lenta, hasta inmóvil, en otros. El tiempo cósmico es igual para todos, pero el tiempo humano difiere con cada persona. El tiempo corre de la misma manera para todos los seres humanos; pero todo ser humano flota de distinta manera en el tiempo. Al aproximarse a los cuarenta, Otoko se preguntaba si el hecho de que Oki siguiera dentro de ella significaba que esa corriente del tiempo se había estancado, en lugar de seguir su curso. ¿O acaso la imagen que ella conservaba de él había flotado con ella a través del tiempo como una flor que avanza aguas abajo? Ella ignoraba cómo había flotado su propia imagen en la corriente de Oki. No podía haberla olvidado; pero, sin duda, el tiempo había corrido de manera diferente para él. Las corrientes del tiempo nunca son iguales para dos personas, ni siquiera cuando son amantes.

E fra i Tennò, quanto colore di vicende si intravede sotto la rigida lacca dell'agiografia tradizionale! Da quelli mitici come Jimmu, che parlano con gli alberi, con le rupi, con gli uccelli lucenti discesi dalle nubi, a quelli in carne e ossa come Hiro Hito, il timido biologo che preferisce il microscopio, i vetrini e il camice bianco da scienziato alle cerimonie, alle alte uniformi, e che pure una volta, lasciando gli amati studi, intervenne con mano fermissima sfidando i militaristi impazziti, nell'agosto 1945, ed impose si accettassero le proposte di pace, senza rischiare più oltre il sangue dei suoi sudditi. Ci sono stati Tennò sepolti da congiure di palazzo in squisiti giardini, condannati ad eccellere nelle finezzze della calligradia o nei malinconici giochi di corte, ci sono stati Tennò esiliati ai rigori e alle solitudini dell'isola di Oki; ci sono stati Tennò che invano hanno cercato di ribellarsi all'assedio dei reggenti, dei marescialli di palazzo, dei ministri, e Tennò infine che hanno legato il proprio nome alle massime glorie del popolo, come Meji (1852 – 1912) sotto la cui guida il Giappone è passato da un periferico potere asiatico, agricolo e feudale, ad una potenza oceanica, forse non meno feudale, ma retta da un'economia di grandi industrie e d'intensi commerci.

Maybe it was because of the speed and danger. Or the psychedelic disco ball and the Beatles. Or the 'Suicide' fountain drinks and the crowded boys bathroom. But Skateland on Lindsey Street was absolutely the place to be in the Sixties.

Bây giờ Otoko đã biết Keiko ngủ đêm tại khách sạn Enoshima với Oki, đam mê cũ bùng cháy mãnh liệt. Vậy mà trong rừng lửa ấy, nàng thấy một bông sen trắng đơn độc. Tình nàng với Oki như bông sen mộng ấy, mà ngay cả Keiko cũng không làm vẩn đục được. […] Nàng nghĩ, mình phải vẽ ngay bức Em bé lên trời. Nếu không chắc chẳng bao giờ mình còn vẽ được. Ngay bây giờ bức tranh đang thay đổi và không còn như nàng muốn... cái buồn lẫn cái yêu đang hư hao đi. Lòng nàng sôi sục thế này, phải chăng vì ảo ảnh bông sen trong bể lửa vừa thấy. Với nỗi sục sôi trong trái tim thuần khiết ấy, phải chăng người con gái tên Keiko này cũng là bông sen trong lửa. Cớ sao sen lại nở trong lửa? Cớ sao sen nở trong lửa mà không tàn rụi?

Sau lần ấy, Keiko không cố tình phơi bày mà cũng không giấu giếm mỗi khi khử lông. Nhưng Otoko không bao giờ quen được với cảnh đấy. Mùi kem khử lông không khó chịu như lần đầu, có thể kem tốt hơn, nhưng cảnh khử lông chân hay nách vẫn làm cho nàng nhờn nhợn. Khi lông bị chùi đi theo kem, nàng bỏ ra khỏi phòng. Vậy mà trong cái kinh tởm, có đốm lửa yếu ớt loé lên. Đốm lửa tắt để rồi lại loé lên lần nữa. Đốm lửa bé nhỏ xa xăm mà con mắt tưởng tượng phải gắng nhìn mới thấy, nhưng thanh thản làm sao, trong sạch làm sao, quá trong sạch quá thanh thản cho một đốm lửa của nhục dục. Đốm lửa nhắc nhở lại sự cố của Oki và nàng những năm tháng cũ. Cảm giác nhờn nhợn khi thấy Keiko chùi lông chân bằng kem chứa đựng cái ghê tởm của da thịt đàn bà cọ xát với da thịt đàn bà. Nhưng khi nghĩ sang tình nàng với Oki, cái cảm giác ghê tởm biến đi như có phép mầu.

3M didn’t sell raw materials, so there was no business to transact. But McKnight—curiosity piqued and on the prowl for interesting new ideas that might move the company forward—asked a simple question: “Why does Mr. Okie want these samples?”35

Uncle Claudie Windham’s life has weathered to the color of wisdom.

queen opened the gate, and she and Arthur crossed to the hut. Guinevere knocked on the door. A moment later, an old woman wrapped in a shawl stood in the doorway. She had a long white braid and luminous skin worn smooth by weather and time, like an ancient stone. The woman’s eyes were closed. With a start, Jack realized Cafelle was blind. At her side was a tall white dog with light blue eyes. Oki didn’t bark or whine. The peaceful gaze of the white dog seemed to keep him calm. “Greetings, Cafelle. We have come to—to seek your help,” rasped King Arthur. Cafelle bowed her head. “Welcome, Your Majesty,” she said. “And the queen has come with you this time,

Well, Okie use’ ta mean you was from Oklahoma. Now it means you’re a dirty son-of-a-bitch. Okie means you’re scum. Don’t mean nothing itself, it’s the way they say it. But I can’t tell you nothin’. You got to go there. I hear there’s three hunderd thousan’ of our people there— an’ livin’ like hogs, ’cause ever’thing in California is owned. They ain’t nothin’ left. An’ them people that owns it is gonna hang on to it if they got ta kill ever’body in the worl’ to do it. An’ they’re scairt, an’ that makes ’em mad. You got to see it. You got to hear it. Purtiest goddamn country you ever seen, but they ain’t nice to you, them folks. They’re so scairt an’ worried they ain’t even nice to each other.

You see, people don’t really get that Oklahoma seems to breed talent. Sure, a bunch of it leaves. But still. Talent. It’s a serious mistake to underestimate any Okie.

When he’d wanted to find out about a scared guy in a jalopy with his whole family behind him hoping for a living in California, he hadn’t stood on Route 66 and signaled one of them to a stop so he could ask a lot of questions. He’d just bought himself some old clothes and a breaking-up car and taken Route 66 himself. He’d melted into the crowds moving from grove to grove, ranch to ranch, picking till he’d dropped. He lived in their camps, ate what they ate, told nobody what he was. He’d found the answers in his own guts, not somebody else’s. He’d been an Okie. And the mine series. What had he done to get research for it? Go and tap some poor grimy guy on the shoulder and begin to talk? No, he’d damn well gone to Scranton, got himself a job, gone down into the dark, slept in a bunk in a shack. He hadn’t dug into a man’s secret being. He’d been a miner. “Christ!” He banged his fist on his thigh. His breath seemed to suck back into his lungs. The startled flesh of his leg still felt the impact of the blow. “Oh, God, I’ve got it. It’s the way. It’s the only way. I’ll be Jewish. I’ll just say—nobody knows me—I can just say it. I can live it myself. Six weeks, eight weeks, nine months —however long it takes. Christ, I’ve got it.” An

The Captain’s mindset appeared to soften as he listened to Alpha’s rationale. “OK—I see the potential now, but will it be possible to undertake such a major societal change right after purging ten million people?” “I can’t think of a better time, Captain. Everyone who will remain on board after you’ve vented the Ship will be well aware of why you were forced to take such a drastic action. The recent experience of a major shock is an ideal condition for manipulating a populace into making a significant change.

We all live separate and work separate. They don't mix us." "They don't want us banding together for higher wages or better housing," said Marta. "The owners think if Mexicans have no hot water, that we won't mind as long as we think no one has any. They don't want us talking to the Okies from Oklahoma or anyone else because we might discover that they have hot water. See?

RODEO NIGHT IN A HOT LITTLE OKIE TOWN AND DIAmond Felts was inside a metal chute a long way from the scratch on Wyoming dirt he named as home, sitting on the back of bull 82N, a loose-skinned brindle Brahma-cross identified in the program as Little Kisses.

Nana korobi, ya oki

Jesus, what a hard-looking outfit!’’ “Them Okies? They’re all hard-lookin’.’’ “Jesus, I’d hate to start out in a jalopy like that.’’ “Well, you and me got sense. Them goddamn Okies got no sense and no feeling. They ain’t human. A human being wouldn’t live like they do. A human being couldn’t stand it to be so dirty and miserable. They ain’t a hell of a lot better than gorillas.

They were hungry, and they were fierce. And they had hoped to find a home, and they found only hatred. Okies—the owners hated them because the owners knew they were soft and the Okies strong, that they were fed and the Okies hungry; and perhaps the owners had heard from their grandfathers how easy it is to steal land from a soft man if you are fierce and hungry and armed.

RODEO NIGHT IN A HOT LITTLE OKIE TOWN AND DIAmond Felts was inside a metal chute a long way from the scratch on Wyoming dirt he named as home, sitting on the back of bull 82N, a loose-skinned brindle Brahma-cross identified in the program as Little Kisses. There was a sultry feeling of weather. He kept his butt cocked to one side, his feet up on the chute rails so the bull couldn’t grind his leg, brad him up, so that if it thrashed he could get over the top in a hurry. The time came closer and he slapped his face forcefully, bringing the adrenaline roses up on his cheeks, glanced down at his pullers and said, “I guess.” Rito, neck gleaming with sweat, caught the free end of the bull-rope with a metal hook, brought it delicately to his hand from under the bull’s belly, climbed up the rails and pulled it taut.

One of them deputies give me the lowdown. We was settin’ aroun’, an’ he says, ‘Them goddamn gov’ment camps,’ he says. ‘Give people hot water, an’ they gonna want hot water. Give ’em flush toilets, an’ they gonna want ’em.’ He says, ‘You give them goddamn Okies stuff like that an’ they’ll want ’em.’ An’ he says, ‘They hol’ red meetin’s in them gov’ment camps. All figgerin’ how to git on relief,’ he says.

No. They was a little fella, an’ he says, ‘What you mean, relief?’ “ ‘I mean relief—what us taxpayers put in an’ you goddamn Okies takes out.’ “ ‘We pay sales tax an’ gas tax an’ tobacco tax,’ this little guy says. An’ he says, ‘Farmers get four cents a cotton poun’ from the gov’ment—ain’t that relief?’ An’ he says, ‘Railroads an’ shippin’ companies draws subsidies—ain’t that relief?’ “ ‘They’re doin’ stuff got to be done,’ this deputy says. “ ‘Well,’ the little guy says, ‘how’d your goddamn crops get picked if it wasn’t for us?’ ’’ The tubby man looked around. “What’d the deputy say?’’ Huston asked. “Well, the deputy got mad. An’ he says, ‘You goddamn reds is all the time stirrin’ up trouble,’ he says. ‘You better come along with me.’ So he takes this little guy in, an’ they give him sixty days in jail for vagrancy.