Ol Quotes

I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed. 'Never be ashamed,’ my ol’ dad used ter say, ‘there’s some who’ll hold it against you, but they’re not worth botherin’ with.

Wow, it really snowed last night! Isn't it wonderful? Everything familiar has disappeared! The world looks brand new! A new year ... a fresh, clean start! It's like having a big white sheet of paper to draw on! A day full of possibilities! It's a magical world, Hobbes, ol' buddy ... let's go exploring!

This big ol' world and we only get to go through it once. The saddest thing there is, you ask me.

Turn around, Piglet. Step lightly, Pooh. This silly ol' dance is perfect for two.

It's a magical world, Hobbes, ol' buddy... Let's go exploring!

Oh it don't make no kind of sense. Big ol' ox like Grady won't sit next to a colored child. But he eats eggs- shoot right outta chicken's ass!

Being human is a complicated gig. So give that ol' dark night of the soul a hug. Howl the eternal yes! [N.B. this is obviously a humorous paraphrase]

When he turned back around, his characteristic smart-ass smile was back in place. "Your wish is my command, prince of mine." Don't call me that. "How about good ol'-fashioned 'master'?" When John just glared over his shoulder, Quinn shrugged. "Fine. I'll go with fathead then. But that's your damage, I gave you options." [John & Qhuinn]

It's the people y'gotta watch out for. You never know who y'might meet, or what Ol' Man Fate has in store for yah.

Even in a dream, even at a posh ball, the Nac Mac Feegle knew how to behave. You charged in madly, and you screamed... politely. "Lovely weather for the time o' year, is it not, ye wee scunner!" "Hey, jimmy, ha' ye no got a pommes frites for an ol'pal?" "The band is playin' divinely, I dinna think!" "Make my caviar deep-fried, wilya?

This is your bravery test. You worked so hard and then a crazy-haired guy tells you to throw in a big ol' tree on top of it all. Take a two-inch brush...

I don't know.  I don't really like old movies.  The acting is so, 'Hey buddy, ol' pal.  Let's go wear our hats and have a big misunderstanding

You brought my son back and turned him into a beautiful thing. I expect you’ll take the same care with that ol’ Hoss.

All depression has its roots in self-pity, and all self-pity is rooted in people taking themselves too seriously.” At the time Switters had disputed her assertion. Even at seventeen, he was aware that depression could have chemical causes. “The key word here is roots,” Maestra had countered. “The roots of depression. For most people, self-awareness and self-pity blossom simultaneously in early adolescence. It's about that time that we start viewing the world as something other than a whoop-de-doo playground, we start to experience personally how threatening it can be, how cruel and unjust. At the very moment when we become, for the first time, both introspective and socially conscientious, we receive the bad news that the world, by and large, doesn't give a rat's ass. Even an old tomato like me can recall how painful, scary, and disillusioning that realization was. So, there's a tendency, then, to slip into rage and self-pity, which if indulged, can fester into bouts of depression.” “Yeah but Maestra—” “Don't interrupt. Now, unless someone stronger and wiser—a friend, a parent, a novelist, filmmaker, teacher, or musician—can josh us out of it, can elevate us and show us how petty and pompous and monumentally useless it is to take ourselves so seriously, then depression can become a habit, which, in tern, can produce a neurological imprint. Are you with me? Gradually, our brain chemistry becomes conditioned to react to negative stimuli in a particular, predictable way. One thing'll go wrong and it'll automatically switch on its blender and mix us that black cocktail, the ol’ doomsday daiquiri, and before we know it, we’re soused to the gills from the inside out. Once depression has become electrochemically integrated, it can be extremely difficult to philosophically or psychologically override it; by then it's playing by physical rules, a whole different ball game. That's why, Switters my dearest, every time you've shown signs of feeling sorry for yourself, I've played my blues records really loud or read to you from The Horse’s Mouth. And that’s why when you’ve exhibited the slightest tendency toward self-importance, I’ve reminded you that you and me— you and I: excuse me—may be every bit as important as the President or the pope or the biggest prime-time icon in Hollywood, but none of us is much more than a pimple on the ass-end of creation, so let’s not get carried away with ourselves. Preventive medicine, boy. It’s preventive medicine.” “But what about self-esteem?” “Heh! Self-esteem is for sissies. Accept that you’re a pimple and try to keep a lively sense of humor about it. That way lies grace—and maybe even glory.

Ol' man Simon, planted a diamond. Grew hisself a garden the likes of none. Sprouts all growin' comin' up glowin' Fruit of jewels all shinin' in the sun. Colors of the rainbow. See the sun and the rain grow sapphires and rubies on ivory vines, Grapes of jade, just ripenin' in the shade, just ready for the squeezin' into green jade wine. Pure gold corn there, Blowin' in the warm air. Ol' crow nibblin' on the amnythyst seeds. In between the diamonds, Ol' man Simon crawls about pullin' out platinum weeds. Pink pearl berries, all you can carry, put 'em in a bushel and haul 'em into town. Up in the tree there's opal nuts and gold pears- Hurry quick, grab a stick and shake some down. Take a silver tater, emerald tomater, fresh plump coral melons. Hangin' in reach. Ol' man Simon, diggin' in his diamonds, stops and rests and dreams about one... real... peach.

Literary fiction and poetry are real marginalized right now. There's a fallacy that some of my friends sometimes fall into, the ol' "The audience is stupid. The audience only wants to go this deep. Poor us, we're marginalized because of TV, the great hypnotic blah, blah." You can sit around and have these pity parties for yourself. Of course this is bullshit. If an art form is marginalized it's because it's not speaking to people. One possible reason is that the people it's speaking to have become too stupid to appreciate it. That seems a little easy to me.

My thoughts turned back to my parents and their apparent penchant for being big ol' liars.

This century hasn't got the lock on insanity.

Düzen ve güven kadar ürkütücü bir şey yoktur. Hiçbir şey. Hiçbir korku… Aklını en acı olana, en derine, en sonsuza atmışsan korkma. Ne sessizlikten, ne dolunaydan, ne ölümlülükten, ne ölümsüzlükten, ne seslerden, ne gün doğuşundan, ne gün batışından. Sakin ol. Öylece dur. Yaşamdan geç. Kentlerden geç. Sınırları aş. Gülüşlerden geç Anlamsız konuşmaları dinle, galerileri gez, kahvelere otur – artık hiçbir yerdesin.

You do somethin' for me? Go tell Twink I'll meet her at the old grove Tuesday about dusk-dark." Jody was frozen. He burst out, "I won't do it. I hate her. Ol' yellow-headed somethin'.

Oh my God, are you trying to get citizenship? Are they deporting you back to Canada because we’ve been sharing Malcolm’s Netflix password? Tell them we didn’t know it was a federal crime. No, wait, don’t tell them anything until we get you a lawyer. And, Ol, I will marry you. I’ll get you a green card and you won’t have to—

Mace, you never read Smoky the Cowhorse,did you? No. Well,ol' Smoky, he had somebad things happen to him,had the heart knocked clean out of him.But he hung on and came out of it okay.I've been bashed up pretty good,Mason, but I'm going to make it.

Sure.” Olivia smirked. “Good ol’ New York Public Library. I’m sure it’s up to date on the latest Demons that escape through well-guarded Demon Gates.

On ol' Halloween Night These monsters join the living If they had it their way They'd stay until Thanksgiving

I hadn’t yet learned that you tend to come out of the big moments—the wedding, the book deal, the trip, the death, the birth—as the exact same person who went in, and that perhaps the strangest surprise of life is it keeps on happening to the same ol’ you.

After the trial, I watched as another female pathologist collected maggots from a spinal column found in the desert. There was a decomposed head, too, and before leaving work she planned to simmer it and study the exposed cranium for contusions. I was asked to pass this information along to the chief medical examiner, and, looking back, I perhaps should have chosen my words more carefully. 'Fire up the kettle,' I told him. 'Ol'-fashioned skull boil at five p.m.

Stare at him," said Ghost. "They won't bite you if you keep staring at them." Steve backed away. "They bite?" Not really. They hiss at you, mostly. The only time geese are ever dangerous is when you happen to be standing on the edge of a cliff. I heard about a guy that almost got killed that way." By geese?" Yeah, there was a whole flock of them coming after him. All hissing and cackling and stabbing at his ankles with their big ol' beaks. He didn't know you had to stare them right in the eye, and he panicked. They backed him right over a fifty-foot cliff." So how come he didn't die?" This guy had wings," said Ghost. "He flew away.

Got us a full moon too coming tomorrow night. Just make things a whole lot worse. All we need. - Why is that? - What’s that, Marshal? - The full moon. You think it makes people crazy? - I know it does.- Found a wrinkle in one of the pages and used his index finger to smooth it out. - How come? - Well, you think about it—the moon affects the tide, right? - Sure. - Has some sort of magnet effect or something on water. - I’ll buy that. - Human brain,- Trey said, - is over fifty percent water. - No kidding? - No kidding. You figure ol’ Mr. Moon can jerk the ocean around, think what it can do to the head.

I’m not sure what made me think God would choose to reveal himself to little ol’ me. I think I believed that if I pleaded often and hard enough, he would see how sincere I was and grant my request, kind of like Linus and the Great Pumpkin. My sincerity would win him over so he would choose my pumpkin patch -- or, in this case, my bedroom -- to make a brief personal appearance. Unfortunately, that never happened.

Oooh, these ol' kness. What can I tell you? Roses can bloom in the hardest conditions. - Mr Wyatt

Do you remember those days? Back porch, sunshine, mason jars" - she paused at remembered sweetness - "we were so foolish then...thinking there was a big ol' world out there to conquer.

Well, the lion is a big ol’ coward, mostly. If you want trouble, you want to tangle with the lioness. They’re killers, and they hunt together. It’s the same everywhere. If you want big grief, look to the ladies.

Bilbil tu zanî ای بلبل تو می دانی Gelo ez kime? آیا من کی ام؟ Tu tim serbest î تو همیشه آزادی Lê ez girtî me اما من اسیرم Bê lîs û hêlîn بدون آشیانه و لانه Bê ol û bê dîn بی مذهب و بی دین Ez im Cegerxwîn منم جگرخون* Xortê Kurdî me... یک جوانِ کُرد... *این کلمه هم ایهام دارد به تخلص شاعر و هم انسانی دردمند

I can’t cut back. I’ve turned into a sex addict. I get within a foot of Ranger or Morelli and I’m ready to go … and go, and go, and go, and go.” “That’s a lot of going. I’m a retired professional, and it’d be a lot of going even for me. What you need are granny panties. You put on a big ol’ pair of ugly granny panties and you won’t be dropping your drawers no more. And even if you forget in the heat of the moment, and you pull your skirt up over your head, you’re not gonna see no action on account granny panties have a deflating effect on a man. Your man’s gonna be going unh ah, no way am I getting busy with a woman wearing granny panties.

Ol' man river, Dat ol' man river He mus'know sumpin' But don't say nuthin', He jes'keeps rollin' He keeps on rollin' along.

It’s a magical world, Hobbes, ol’ buddy, let’s go exploring!

He wrote: Dear ollever; yor ol twinkk has dun gode up the rivver. im gladd. yor friend jody.

Niccolo had never seen so many gadgets and flashing lights, all just so they could remotely observe an abandoned military hanger about a quarter mile away. In the good ol’ days, we just hid behind a bush.

I want to be liked... No, I want to be more than just liked... I want people to say, "that Charlie Brown is a great guy!" And when people are at parties, I want them to look for me, and when I finally arrive, I want them to say, "here comes good ol' Charlie Brown... Now everything will be all right!" I want to be a special person... I want to be needed... It's kind of hard to explain... Do you understand? I mean, do you know what I'm talking about?" "Sure, I understand perfectly..." "Well?" "Forget it! Five cents, please!

Your mother is probably right," Dad said. "Social services frowns on drunk ten-year-ols. Besides, when I dropped my drumsticks and puked onstage, it was punk. If you drop your bow and smell like a brewery, it will look gauche. You classical-music people are so snobby that way.

You've seed how things goes in the world o' men. You've knowed men to be low-down and mean. You've seed ol' Death at his tricks...Ever' man wants life to be a fine thing, and a easy. 'Tis fine, boy, powerful fine, but 'tain't easy. Life knocks a man down and he gits up and it knocks him down agin. I've been uneasy all my life...I've wanted life to be easy for you. Easier'n 'twas for me. A man's heart aches, seein' his young uns face the world. Knowin' they got to get their guts tore out, the way his was tore. I wanted to spare you, long as I could. I wanted you to frolic with your yearlin'. I knowed the lonesomeness he eased for you. But ever' man's lonesome. What's he to do then? What's he to do when he gits knocked down? Why, take it for his share and go on. —Penny Baxter

...Just be advised, boys,' she said, 'you'll want to watch your step, 'cause what I am is, is like a small-diameter pearl of the Orient rolling around on the floor of late capitalism-- lowlifes of all income levels may step on me now and then but if they do it'll be them who slip and fall and on a good day break their ass, while the ol' pearl herself just goes a-rollin' on.

Bazen mantıklı davranmak zararlıdır.O durumda yanlış yapmayı göze alarak duygusal ol!Tehlikeli kabahatler, heyecan taşımayan doğrulardan daha yapıcı ve daha sürükleyicidir.Çünkü her aşk bir uzay macerasıdır!

The story is told that when Joe was a child his cousins emptied his Christmas stocking and replaced the gifts with horse manure. Joe took one look and bolted for the door, eyes glittering with excitement. 'Wait, Joe, where are you going? What did ol' Santa bring you?' According to the story Joe paused at the door for a piece of rope. 'Brought me a bran'-new pony but he got away. I'll catch 'em if I hurry.' And ever since then it seemed that Joe had been accepting more than his share of hardship as good fortune, and more than his share of shit as a sign of Shetland ponies just around the corner, Thoroughbred stallions just up the road.

Story guys are like life highlighters. Your life is all these big blocks of gray text, and then a story guy comes in with a big ol’ paragraph of neon pink so that when you flip back through your life, you can stop and remember all the important and interesting places.

The way I understand things, it’s like this. We live on a lonely ball called Earth, and humans have basically been throwing it against the wall for so long that the poor ol’ ball is falling apart.

In other words, The­ol­ogy is prac­ti­cal: espe­cially now. In the old days, when there was less edu­ca­tion and dis­cus­sion, per­haps it was pos­si­ble to get on with a very few sim­ple ideas about God. But it is not so now. Every­one reads, every­one hears things dis­cussed. Con­se­quently, if you do not lis­ten to The­ol­ogy, that will not mean that you have no ideas about God. It will mean that you have a lot of wrong ones — bad, mud­dled, out-of-date ideas. For a great many of the ideas about God which are trot­ted out as novel­ties to-day are simply the ones which real The­olo­gians tried cen­turies ago and rejected.

You'd think the very thought of a romance writer would bring a smile to people's lips. Ah, how nice. Love. Making love. Laughter. Kissing. But no, the world is upside down as far as I can see, and romances and their writers are ridiculed, hisses and generally spat upon. For what reason? One of my favorites is that women who read them might get mixed up about reality and imagine a man is going to rescue them from Life. According to this theory, women are so stupid that they can't tell a story from reality. Is anyone worried that the MEN who read spy thrillers are going to go after their neighbors with an automatic weapon? No, I don't remember anyone thinking that. Nor do I remember anyone worrying about murder mysteries or science fiction. It just seems to be dumb ol' women who might think some gorgeous, thoughtful, giving hunk is going to rescue them. Honey, if any woman thought a gorgeous hunk was going to rescue her, romance novels wouldn’t be forty percent of the publishing industry.

The ol' one-thing-led-to-another-suddenly-I'm-fucking-twins kind of night. I have that same problem all the time. Bitches just be falling for you in pairs, man,” she teased.

Bye, dear ol’ Dad.” He smiled. “Bye, my son, my son.

Sevgili Kadınım" dedi.. Kaliteli bir şiir kitabının içinde yaşamıyoruz. Düz yazı bir kitabın, ciltsiz basımı bizim yaşadığımız yer. Mantıklı ol. Diğer insanlar yüzünden canını sıkma.Onları eleştirme zahmetine bile girme; bu sadece sana dert olur.

bu dünyada herkes bir şey olmaya çalışırken sen hiç ol. menzilin yokluk olsun. insanın çömlekten farkı olmamalı. nasıl ki çömleği tutan dışındaki biçimi değil, içindeki boşluk ise, insanı ayakta tutan da benlik değil, hiçlik bilincidir.

I dinna want to disappoint ye, but we's in a cellar right here, and it's full o' tatties.' After a while a voice said: 'So where izzit?' 'Maybe it's got the day off?' 'What's a demon need a day off for?' 'Tae gae an' see its ol' mam an' dad, mebbe?' 'Oh, aye? Demons have mams, do they?

They say God doesn’t give you more than you could handle,

Like the sweet moon keeps the sky Like the wind goin' whooshing by When those ol' sunbeams break the day I will keep you while you play Just as ol' river keeps the fishes And little stars keep silver wishes Just as the ocean keeps the blue I will stand here close to you. When all around is dark and deep When them ol' shadows slowly creep Even when you're fast asleep It's you I'll keep, it's you I'll keep No need to cry, no need to fear I will always be right here. I will always be right here.

When I was a kid my ol' man give me a haltered heifer an' says take her down an git her serviced. An' the fella says, I done it, an' ever' time since then when I hear a business man talkin' about service, I wonder who's gettin' screwed.

Me and the bottle have always been friends, we've had a few old nasty fights but the bottle would always win, so when I go to answer that final curtain call, I can hear these words being whispered by all... Ol' George stopped drinking today.

Whole heap o’ folks, ’cludin’ me till I got grown, ain’t knowed at firs’ weren’t nobody in dis country but Indians, fishin’ an’ huntin’ an’ fightin’ one ’nother, jes’ mindin’ dey own business. Den here come l’il ol’ boat o’ white folks a-wavin’ an’ grinnin’. ‘Hey, y’all red mens! How ’bout let us come catch a bite an’ a nap ’mongst y’all an’ le’s be friends!’ Huh! I betcha nowdays dem Indians wish dey’s made dat boat look like a porcupine wid dey arrows!

Isn’t it something,” Hettie said softly, “what ol’ New York really is? We come here to be free and find life’s worse here than back home. The white folks here just color it different. They don’t mind you sitting next to ’em on the subway, or riding the bus in the front seat, but if you asks for the same pay, or wants to live next door, or get so beat down you don’t wanna stand up and sing about how great America is, they’ll bust down on you so hard pus’ll come out your ears.

Out west everything has its own space. Every little ramshackle cabin, shack, hut sits perched atop its own little piece of destiny with room to breathe, room to live, room to die. You'll see them, the dead ones, sitting by the side of the road like some faded gray and rotting mystery, thinking about the good ol days before trains and cars and wanting more.

I’ve got this perception of Beethoven where he’s just, like, really pissed all the time. Yeah, ol’ Ludwig, he had a lot to pound on the piano bitterly about. I’m Germannnn! I’m deaffff! I’m bliiiind! My name is Ludwigggg! Was he blind? I’m pretty sure. Or, wait, maybe that was Helen Keller. Was he even German? Was she German? Is Ludwig a name? I’m starting to worry I’m just making shit up.

Did you hear about the recently discovered temple in the Sudan ?" I stared at him. "Yeah. I'm a regular reader of National Geographic." Ol' Frankie's brows quirked. "You wield sarcasm, madam, as well as a master swordsman does." "Gee, thanks." I smiled at him and batted my lashes. Quit flirting . Patrick flicked the command into my head. He sounded half-annoyed, half-amused. I'm not flirting. Quit being cute and likeable. An impossible request. I've always been too adorable for words.

Hurting you is my biggest regret, loving you is my only redemption.

I yawned and I stretched. I sure was needing some sleep, but I guess I'm always in need of sleep like I'm always in need of food. Because my labors were mighty ones--ol' Hercules didn't know what hard work was--and what is there to do but eat and sleep? And when you're eatin' and sleepin' you don't have to fret about things you can't do nothing about. And what else is there to do but laugh an' joke...how else can you bear up under the unbearable?

The deeper the love, the deeper the pain.

What is the future going to be like, then?' 'Hey, it's gonna be a gas,' Scape assured me. 'If you're into machines and stuff - like I am - you'd go for it. People are gonna have all kinds of shit. Do whatever they want with it. That's why it didn't faze me when ol' Bendray first told me about wanting to blow up the world. Hey - in the Future, everybody will want to!

sanem hanım. sanem. evlen benimle sanem. kadınım ol benim. yasadıgım tüm acıları, yaptıgım bütün kötülükleri, pismanlıklarımı, hatalarımı akla. basına çiçekten taçlar yapayım, sana siirler yazayım, seni her gece masallar anlatarak uyutayım. bazı aksamlar dvd’de film seyredelim seninle. birlikte hüzünlenelim, birlikte gülelim. sanat galerileri gezelim. sen benden daha çok anla modern sanatı. gördügümüz eserlerin ne anlama geldigini açıkla bana, ben basımı sallayayım. ah ben ne aptalmısım! nasıl olup da varlıgından kuskuya düsmüsüm? oysa hayat denen bu yaranın seni bulmak dısında ne anlamı olabilirdi ki? bak simdi her sey ne kadar açık görünüyor oysa. ilk görüste aska inanırsın, degil mi sanem? evet, çok dogru. ben de baska türlüsüne inanmam zaten. biliyor musun sanem, ben seni hep severim. her gün daha çok severim. bak mesela pencerenin önüne bir kus konar ben seni severim, bir tren yolculugunda pencereden dısarı bakarken derme çatma bir ev gözüme çarpar ben seni severim, burnuma eskilerden, hangi uzak hatıraya ait oldugunu bir türlü çıkaramadıgım bir koku çarpar ben seni severim, kafama kus sıçar ben yine seni severim… anlıyor musun beni? sonra ben bazen biraz fazla kıskanç olabilirim. diyelim yazlık bir yere gitmisizdir de, bir aksam sen çok hos bir tunik giymissindir, oradaki bütün erkekler bayılır sana, hemen asık olur. ben mesela tunik nedir onu bile bilmeden kıskançlıktan çatlayabilirim böyle bir durumda. ama belli etmem. ama sen yine de sezersin. öyle bir laf edersin ki ben, benden baska hiç kimseye bakmayacagını anlarım. o kadar da incesindir. bir de bir iyilik rica edecegim senden. gözlerine o elem ifadesini yükleyen alçagın adını söyle bana. söyle ki, ona hemen düello sahitlerimi göndereyim. silah seçimini o yapsın. evet. utanarak kabul ediyorum ki, bunu bir yerde okudum. ama ne fark eder? bütün siirler, romanlar senin için yazılmadı mı zaten? sarkılar senin için söylenmedi mi? masumların kanı senin için akmadı mı? ruhum hep seni aradı benim sanem. hep seni arar. milyonlarca yıl geçsin, sistemler çöksün, günesler patlasın benim ruhum seni arar. ve biliyor musun sanem, bulur da. simdi buldugu gibi bulur. seni seviyorum. seni seviyorum. seni seviyorum.

deplasmanda plasebo allah'ım kaderimde anarşi ve protesto antidepresanlar ve içi boş bir gardırop ne de çok yer kaplıyor mesela al pacino yardımın gerekiyor kadıköy'deyim stop. allah'ım kaderim bu sentimental ambargo: alternatif referans potansiyel salvo yok, sadece klostrofobi, hicran türbülans ve şok; cariyeler çekilmiş yeraltına cumburlop. allah'ım kaderimi sen yazdın sen bilirsin kalbim oyuncak mı ne, ne kolay kırılıyor? "deplasmandır bu dünya" diyor albino şeyhim plasebo yutturuyor bana depresif doktor. allah'ım kaderimden şikayetçi değilim aksine bahtiyarım evrende bana da rol verdiğin için şahsen, allah'ım bizler senin falsolu kullarınız, n'olur bizden razı ol.

İnansaydım mesele değişirdi. Bilseydim ki vardır, insanlarla hiçbir davam kalmazdı. Yalnız onunla kavga ederdim. Her an bir yerde yakalar, bana hesap vermeğe mecbur ederdim. Ve zannederdim ki bana hesap vermeğe mecbur olurdu. Gel, derdim gel, yarattığın mahluklardan birisinin derisine bir an gir. Benim her gün yaptığımı yap. Bir tanesinin hayatım yirmi dört saat yaşa! Pek bedbahtına gitmene lüzum yok. Sen ki yaratıcısın, bilmemen, anlamaman kabil olmaz. Onun için herhangi birinin derisine gir. Ve kendi yalanını bir an bizimle beraber yaşa; bizim gibi yaşa. Yirmi dört saat bu bataklıkta küçük susuzlukların kurbağası ol!

Crivens!’ ‘Oh no, not them,’ said the Queen, throwing up her hands. It wasn’t just the Nac Mac Feegles, but also Wentworth, a strong smell of seaweed, a lot of water and a dead shark. They appeared in mid-air and landed in a heap between Tiffany and the Queen. But a pictsie was always ready for a fight, and they bounced, rolled and came up drawing their swords and shaking sea water out of their hair. ‘Oh, ‘tis you, izzut?’ said Rob Anybody, glaring up at the Queen. ‘Face to face wi’ ye at last, ye bloustie ol’ callyack that ye are! Ye canna’ come here, unnerstand? Be off wi’ ye! Are ye goin’ to go quietly?’ The Queen stamped heavily on him. When she took her foot away, only the top of his head was visible above the turf. ‘Well, are ye?’ he said, pulling himself out as if nothing had happened. ‘I don’t wantae havtae lose my temper wi’ ye! An’ it’s no good sendin’ your pets against us, ‘cos you ken we can take ‘em tae the cleaners!’ He turned to Tiffany, who hadn’t moved. ‘You just leave this tae us, Kelda. Us an’ the Quin, we go way back!

She a nice lady ol auntie … but ol moms was somethin else, she really somethin else. Harrys eyes were closed and he was leanin back remembering how his mother always protected him from the cold wind in the winter when he was a kid, and how warm she felt when he got in the house and she hugged the cold out of his ears and cheeks and always had a bowl of hot soup waiting. … Yeah, I guess the old lady was pretty groovy too. I guess its a bitch being alone like that. Harry Goldfarb and Tyrone C. Love sat loosely in their chairs, their eyes half closed, feeling the warmth of fond memories and heroin flowing through them as they got ready for another nights work.

I learned to write nice as hell. Birds an' stuff like that, too; not just word writin'. My ol' man'll be sore when he sees me whip out a bird in one stroke. Pa's gonna be mad when he sees me do that. He don't like no fancy stuff like that. He don't even like word writin'. Kinda scare 'im, I guess. Ever' time Pa seen writin', somebody took somepin away from 'im.

Centuries ago, sailors on long voyages used to leave a pair of pigs on every deserted island. Or they'd leave a pair of goats. Either way, on any future visit, the island would be a source of meat. These islands, they were pristine. These were home to breeds of birds with no natural predators. Breeds of birds that lived nowhere else on earth. The plants there, without enemies they evolved without thorns or poisons. Without predators and enemies, these islands, they were paradise. The sailors, the next time they visited these islands, the only things still there would be herds of goats or pigs. Oyster is telling this story. The sailors called this "seeding meat." Oyster says, "Does this remind you of anything? Maybe the ol' Adam and Eve story?" Looking out the car window, he says, "You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce?

Well, I started out down a dirty road Started out all alone And the sun went down as I crossed the hill And the town lit up, the world got still I'm learning to fly but I ain't got wings Coming down is the hardest thing Well, the good ol' days may not return And the rocks might melt and the sea may burn I'm learning to fly but I ain't got wings Coming down is the hardest thing Well, some say life will beat you down Break your heart, steal your crown So I've started out for God knows where I guess I'll know when I get there I'm learning to fly around the clouds But what goes up must come down

Nevertheless, it bothered Vimes, even though he'd got really good at the noises and would go up against any man in his rendition of the HRUUUGH! But is this a book for a city kid? When would he ever hear these noises? In the city, the only sound those animals would make was "sizzle." But the nursery was full of the conspiracy with bah-lambs and teddy bears and fluffy ducklings everywhere he looked. One evening, after a trying day, he'd tried the Vimes street version: Where's my daddy? Is that my daddy? He goes "Bugrit! Millennium hand and shrimp!" He is Foul Ol' Ron! No, that's not my daddy! It had been going really well when Vimes heard a meaningful little cough from the doorway, wherein stood Sybil. Next day, Young Sam, with a child's unerring instinct for this sort of thing, said "Buglit!" to Purity. And that, although Sybil never raised the subject even when they were alone, was that. From then on Sam stuck rigidly to the authorized version.

Sen ne sanıyorsun oğlum Memed, İnce Memedler bitecek mi sanıyorsun? Her insanın içinde bir mecbur kurdu, bir İnce Memedlik, bir Köroğluluk kurdu var. Köroğlu gitti İnce Memed geldi. İnsanoğlunun içinde bu kurt oldukça insanoğlu ne olursa olsun yenilmeyecek. Sen insanoğlunun içindeki kurtsun, ne olursan ol, nereye gidersen git. İşte insanoğlunun içindeki bu kurt yiterse insanlık da işte o zaman insanlıktan çıkar.

Suddenly, I get this giddy desire to shock these guys a little. I continue, “These baboons really are our relatives. In fact, this baboon is my cousin.” And with that I lean over and give Daniel a loud messy kiss on his big ol’ nose. I get more of a response than I bargained for. The Masai freak and suddenly, they are waving their spears real close to my face, like they mean it. One is yelling, “He is not your cousin, he is not your cousin! A baboon cannot even cook ugali!” (Ugali is the ubiquitous and repulsive maize meal that everyone eats here. I almost respond that I don’t really know how to cook the stuff either, but decide to show some prudence at last.) “He is not your cousin!

CoMMOn SeNSe iS nOt sO cOmMOn aMoNg coMMon pEOPLe...

Heroin makes you sick the first try. Cigarette smoking too if you're lucky. But if you're not lucky, and you develop a taste, if you're one who senses that cocaine gets better with time, or you're one who jumps out of a plane and becomes an adrenaline junky, or you're one who loves the feel of grease melting over your tongue in the form of pecan pie or thick clam chowder or a fat porterhouse or just plain ol' Doritos by the bagful, and you want to repeat the same comfort and recognizable surprise of that first go, that first indulgence, and yet with each succeeding bite the small hope of true satisfaction slides farther away, then you understand Celeste, at least a little.

When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, and he looks you crooked in the eye and he asks you if ya paid your dues, you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like that: "Have ya paid your dues, Jack?" "Yessir, the check is in the mail."

Heaven's heard us down here, cackling at our piss-takes and chortling at our quips; I've seen the looks, the suspicion that they're missing out on it, this laughing malarkey. But they always turn away, Gabriel to horn practice, Michael to the weights. Truth is they're timid. If there was a safe way down--a fire escape (boom-boom)--there'd be more than a handful of deserters tiptoeing down to my door. Abandon hope all ye who enter here, yes--but get ready for a rart ol' giggle, dearie.

Maybe universal nostalgia doesn't exist. Maybe each of us carries our own personal version of the better times. It's at about twnety-two years that we all begin to think of our childhood as the good ol' days and everything afterwards exists as a slow-motion face plant. The fall continues, through marriage, through career building, through parenthood, through old age, until we finally touch nose to ground. At twenty-two years old, I've just started, but I think I can already smell my own grave.

Bir fare çatı katında kocaman bir erkek kedi ile karşılaşır. Farenin kaçabileceği hiç bir yer kalmamıştır, köşeye sıkışmıştır. Fare titreyerek kediye şöyle der: Kedi Bey, lütfen beni yeme. Ailemin yanına dönmem lazım. Çocuklarım karnı aç beni bekler, lütfen beni görmemiş ol. Kedi yanıt verir: Endişelenme, seni yiyecek değilim. İşin doğrusu, yüksek sesle söyleyemem ama ben vejetaryenim. Asla et yemem. Bu yüzden benimle karşılaşmış olman, senin için bir şans. Fare yanıtlar: Oh ne kadar mükemmel bir gün, ne kadar şanslı bir fareyim ben. Vejetaryen bir kediyle karşılaştım. Fakat hemen sonrasında kedi fareye saldırır, patisiyle yere bastırır. Keskin dişlerini boğazına geçirir. Fare acı içerisinde son nefesinde kediye sorar: İyi de, hani sen vejetaryendin? Asla et yemediğini söylemedin mi? Yalan mı söyledin? Kedi yalanarak yanıtlar: Ha, ben, et yemem. Bu yalan değil. Bu yüzden seni götürüp marulla takas edeceğim.

Deniz kıyısında bir ihtiyar taşçı kayayı yontmaktadır. Güneş onu yakıp kavurur. O da Tanrıya yakarır keşke güneş olsaydım diye. "Ol" der Tanrı. Güneş oluverir. Fakat bulutlar gelir örter güneşi, hükmü kalmaz. Bulut olmak ister. "Ol" der Tanrı. Bulut olur. Rüzgar alır götürür bulutu, rüzgarın oyuncağı olur. Rüzgar olmak ister bu kez. Ona da "Ol" der Tanrı. Rüzgar her yere egemen olur, fırtına olur, kasırga olur. Herşey karşısında eğilir. Tam keyfi yerindeyken koca bir kayaya rastlar. Ordan esen burdan eser, kaya banamısın demez! Bildiniz, Tanrı kaya olmasına da izin verir. Dimdik ve güçlü durmaktadır artık dünyaya karşı... Sırtında bir acı ile uyanır.... Bir ihtiyar taşçı kayayı yontmaktadır. ..

History, lie of our lives, mire of our loins. Our sins, our souls. Hiss-tih-ree: the tip of the pen taking a trip of three steps (with one glide) down the chronicle to trap a slick, sibilant character. Hiss. (Ss.) Tih. Ree. He was a pig, a plain pig, in the morning, standing five feet ten on one hoof. He was a pig in slacks. He was a pig in school. He was a pig on the dotted line. But in my eyes it’s always the ones signing dotted lines that become pigs. Did this pig have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, dating all the way back to the Biblical Age. Oh where? About everywhere you look there's pigs giving that fancy ol’ snake a chase. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can always count on a fuckin’ pretentious sarcastican for a fancy prose style.

Well. Well? What are you going to do? What are you going to say? What are you going to say when you’re drowning in your own dung and they keep booting you back into it, when all the screams in hell wouldn’t be as loud as you want to scream, when you’re at the bottom of the pit and the whole world’s at the top, when it has but one face, a face without eyes or ears, and yet it watches and listens…. What are you going to do and say? Why, pardner, that’s simple. It’s easy as nailing your balls to a stump and falling off backwards. Snow again, pardner, and drift me hard, because that’s an easy one. You’re gonna say, they can’t keep a good man down. You’re gonna say, a winner never quits and a quitter never wins. You’re gonna smile, boy, you’re gonna show ’em the ol’ fightin’ smile. And then you’re gonna get out there an’ hit ’em hard and fast and low, an’—an’ Fight!

Wanna go to the movies? They're showing It Happened One Night at Le Champo." Just because I haven't gone out doesn't mean I haven't pored over the glorious Pariscope. "They're showing what? And I'm not gonna tell you how badly you just butchered that theater's name." "It Happened One Night. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert.Won five Academy Awards.It was a big deal." "In what century?" "Ha ha. Honestly, you'll like it. I hear it's great." Rashmi rubs her temples. "I don't know. I don't really like old movies. The acting is so, 'Hey buddy,ol' pal. Let's go wear our hats and have a big misunderstanding.

Jordana is in the umpire's highchair. I walk under the rugby posts and on to the tennis courts, stopping a few metres in front of her, in the service box. Her legs are crossed. I wait for her to speak. 'I have two special skills,' she says. She pulls a sheaf of papers from under her bum. I recognize the font and the text boxes. It's my pamphlet. 'Blackmail,' she says. She holds up her Zippo in the other hand. I can tell that she has been practising this. 'And pyromania.' I am impressed that Jordana knows this word. 'Right,' I say. 'I'm going to blackmail you, Ol.' I feel powerless. She is in a throne. 'Okay,' I say.

Casy said, "Ol' Tom's house can't be more'n a mile from here. Ain't she over that third rise?" Sure," said Joad. "Less somebody stole it, like Pa stole it." Your pa stole it?" Sure, got it a mile an' a half east of here an' drug it. Was a family livin' there, an' they moved away. Grampa an' Pa an' my brother Noah like to took the whole house, but she wouldn't come. They only got part of her. That's why she looks so funny on one end. They cut her in two an' drug her over with twelve head of horses and two mules. They was goin' back for the other half an' stick her together again, but before they got there Wink Manley come with his boys and stole the other half. Pa an' Grampa was pretty sore, but a little later them an' Wink got drunk together an' laughed their heads off about it. Wink, he says his house is a stud, an' if we'll bring our'n over an' breed 'em we'll maybe get a litter of crap houses. Wink was a great ol' fella when he was drunk. After that him an' Pa an' Grampa was friends. Got drunk together ever' chance they got.

Centuries ago, sailors on long voyages used to leave a pair of pigs on every deserted island. Or they'd leave a pair of goats. Either way, on any future visit, the island would be a source of meat. These islands, they were pristine. These were home to breeds of birds with no natural predators. Breeds of birds that lived nowhere else on earth. The plants there, without enemies they evolved without thorns or poisons. Without predators and enemies, these islands, they were paradise. The sailors, the next time they visited these islands, the only things still there would be herds of goats or pigs. .... Does this remind you of anything? Maybe the ol' Adam and Eve story? .... You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce?

Why you frettin', Jo? You not sure?" I inhaled my tears in order to speak. "I'm sure I want to go, but I'm not sure it's possible.Why would they accept me? And if they did, how would I pay for it? I don't want to get my hopes up only to be disappointed. I'm always disappointed." "Now don't let fear keep you in New Orleans. Sometimes we set off down a road thinkin' we're goin' one place and we end up another. But that's okay. The important thing is to start. I know you can do it. Come on, Josie girl, give those ol' wings a try." "Willie doesn't want me to." "So what, you gonna stay here just so you can clean her house and run around with all the naked crazies in the Quarter? You got a bigger story than that.

Pa said, "Won't you say a few words? Ain't none of our folks ever been buried without a few words." Connie led Rose of Sharon to the graveside, she reluctant. "You got to," Connie said. "It ain't decent not to. It'll jus' be a little. The firelight fell on the grouped people, showing their faces and their eyes, dwindling on their dark clothes.All the hats were off now. The light danced, jerking over the people. Casy said, It'll be a short one." He bowed his head, and the others followed his lead. Casy said solemnly, "This here ol' man jus' lived a life an' just died out of it. I don't know whether he was good or bad, but that don't matter much. He was alive, an' that's what matters. An' now his dead, an' that don't matter. Heard a fella tell a poem one time, an' he says 'All that lives is holy.' Got to thinkin', an' purty soon it means more than the words says. An' I woundn' pray for a ol' fella that's dead. He's awright. He got a job to do, but it's all laid out for'im an' there's on'y one way to do it. But us, we got a job to do, an' they's a thousan' ways, an' we don' know which one to take. An' if I was to pray, it'd be for the folks that don' know which way to turn. Grampa here, he got the easy straight. An' now cover 'im up and let'im get to his work." He raised his head.

You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!" said Dum-bledore loudly. "The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like Voldemort's! In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when you stared into a mir-ror that reflected your heart's desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have you any idea how few wizards could have seen what you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have known then what he was dealing with, but he did not! But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord Voldemort's mind without damage to yourself, but he cannot possess you with-out enduring mortal agony, as he discovered in the Ministry. I do not think he understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable power of a soul that is untarnished and whole." "But, sir," said Harry, making valiant efforts not to sound argu-mentative, "it all comes to the same thing, doesn't it? I've got to try and kill him, or —" "Got to?" said Dumbledore. "Of course you've got to! But not because of the prophecy! Because you, yourself, will never rest until you've tried! We both know it! Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think!" Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in front ol him, and thought. He thought of his mother, his father, and Sinus. He thought of Cedric Diggory. He thought of all the terrible deeds he knew Lord Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat. "I'd want him finished," said Harry quietly. "And I'd want to do it." "Of course you would!" cried Dumbledore. "You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his equal. ... In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will continue to hunt you . . . which makes it certain, really, that —" "That one of us is going to end up killing the other," said Harry. "Yes." But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumble-dore knew — and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents — that there was all the difference in the world.

That was a mite tacky, ma'am ... even for you." Elizabeth let her mouth fall open. "Even for me? What's that supposed to mean?" "It just means that people with" --He stared pointedly-- "your upbringing aren't usually the most polite folks around." ... "Listen Ranslett, if I've offended you I certainly didn't mean t--" "Sure you did. You just meant to do it in a way that would make yourself look bad." He turned to look at her more fully, and his eyes narrowed, though not in malice. “When you’ve got something to say that isn’t kind, Miss Westbrook, there’s no way to couch it so that it is. Or to hide from how it makes you look when you do. That’s something us good ol’ Southern boys learn real quick about women.” His accent thickened, comically so. “Your gender may say things with a smile, all soft and gentle-like, but some of you --- granted, not all --- have a dagger hidden in your skirts. Us country boys may not be as quick as some, ma’am, but it doesn’t take us too long to figure out who those woman are.” He winked at her. “We just check each other’s backs for the bloodstains.” He stood and reached behind him as though feeling for something. “Yep, feelin’ a little sticky back there.

Donna to the policewoman: Don't you touch this car! The Doctor watching: She's not changed. Wilfred: Oh. There he is. Shawn Temple. They're engaged. Getting married in the Spring. The Doctor: Another wedding. Wilfred: Yeah. The Doctor: Hold on, she's not going to be called Noble-Temple. It sounds like a tourist spot. Wilfred: No it's Temple-Noble. The Doctor: Right. Is she happy? Is he nice? Wilfred: Yeah, he's sweet enough. He's a bit of a dreamer. Mind you he's on minimum wage. She's earning tuppence so all they can afford is a tiny little flat. And then sometimes I see this look on her face. Like she's so sad. And she can't remember why. The Doctor: She's got him. Wilfred: She's making do. The Doctor: Aren't we all. Wilfred: How 'bout you? Who've you got now? The Doctor: No one. Travelling alone. I thought it would be better. But I did some things, it went wrong. I need— {he starts to cry} Wilfred: Oh my word. I— The Doctor: Mm. Merry Christmas. Wilfred: Yeah. And you. The Doctor: Look at us. Wilfred: Don't you see? You need her, Doctor. I mean, look, wouldn't she make you laugh again? Good ol' Donna. -Doctor Who

I knew it!" he cried, jubilant. "I thought 'twas you, but there's more of you now. You should've seen the likes of her, boys," he said, turning towards the other convicts as he pointed at Kel. "We was all outlaws, livin' on the edges, and this bunch of pages stumbled into our camp. We chased 'em back in a canyon, and her -" he jabbed his finger at Kel - "she gutted ol' Breakbone Dell, and him the meanest dog-skinner you'd ever hope to meet. Stood there afoot, her and her spear, cool as meltwater with Breakbone ridin' down on her with that neck-cutter sword of his. First time she got 'im in the leg, second in the tripes, and he was done. Her and six lads held us all back, just them. There she was, eyes like stone and that bloody spear in her hand. Lady." He bowed deep. Kel looked at him, not sure what to say. Finally she asked, "What's your name, soldier?" "Me? Gilab Lofts - Gil. Lady. It's - it's good to see you well." He bowed again and returned to his seat, whispering with the men on either side of him. Kel waited for them to quiet once again before she said ruefully, "I'm not sure that being known for gutting a man is exactly a recommendation for a commander." "It is in the north!" cried someone. Several men laughed outright; others grinned.

All Carolina folk are crazy for mayonnaise, mayonnaise is as ambrosia to them, the food of their tarheeled gods. Mayonnaise comforts them, causes the vowels to slide more musically along their slow tongues, appeasing their grease-conditioned taste buds while transporting those buds to a place higher than lard could ever hope to fly. Yellow as summer sunlight, soft as young thighs, smooth as a Baptist preacher's rant, falsely innocent as a magician's handkerchief, mayonnaise will cloak a lettuce leaf, some shreds of cabbage, a few hunks of cold potato in the simplest splendor, restyling their dull character, making them lively and attractive again, granting them the capacity to delight the gullet if not the heart. Fried oysters, leftover roast, peanut butter: rare are the rations that fail to become instantly more scintillating from contact with this inanimate seductress, this goopy glory-monger, this alchemist in a jar. The mystery of mayonnaise-and others besides Dickie Goldwire have surely puzzled over this_is how egg yolks, vegetable oil, vinegar (wine's angry brother), salt, sugar (earth's primal grain-energy), lemon juice, water, and, naturally, a pinch of the ol' calcium disodium EDTA could be combined in such a way as to produce a condiment so versatile, satisfying, and outright majestic that mustard, ketchup, and their ilk must bow down before it (though, a at two bucks a jar, mayonnaise certainly doesn't put on airs)or else slink away in disgrace. Who but the French could have wrought this gastronomic miracle? Mayonnaise is France's gift to the New World's muddled palate, a boon that combines humanity's ancient instinctive craving for the cellular warmth of pure fat with the modern, romantic fondness for complex flavors: mayo (as the lazy call it) may appear mild and prosaic, but behind its creamy veil it fairly seethes with tangy disposition. Cholesterol aside, it projects the luster that we astro-orphans have identified with well-being ever since we fell from the stars.

My own walls caved. Tears trickled from the corner of my eyes. Then strong arms enveloped me. “Don’t cry.” Ben’s hot breath on my cheek. “We’ll find her. And the twins. I promise.” “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I hiccupped. “People always do that.” “I mean it.” Firmly spoken. “I won’t let us fail. Not at this.” The sobs broke free. I burrowed into Ben’s chest, letting everything go. I cried and cried and cried, unthinking, releasing a week’s worth of pent-up emotion in a few hot seconds. Ben held me, silent, softly rubbing my back. A thought floated from somewhere far away. This isn’t so bad. I pushed away, gently breaking Ben’s embrace. Looked into his eyes. His face was a whisper from mine. I thought of Ben’s confession during the hurricane. How he’d wanted to be more than just packmates. Emotions swirled in my chest, making me dizzy. Off balance. “Ben . . . I . . .” “Tory?” My father’s voice sent us flying apart as if electroshocked. Kit was descending the steps, an odd look on his face. “Yes?” Discreetly wiping away tears. I saw a thousand questions fill Kitt’s eyes, but, thankfully, he kept them shelved. “I hate to do this, kiddo, but Whitney’s party starts in an hour. She’s trying to be patient, but, frankly, that isn’t her strong suit.” “No. Right.” I stood, smoothing clothes and hair. “Mustn’t keep the Duchess waiting.” Kit frowned. “Say the word, and we cancel right now. No question.” “No, sorry. I was just being flip. It’s really fine.” Forced smile. “Might be just the thing.” “All right, then. We need to get moving.” Kit glanced at Ben, still sitting on the bench, striving for invisible. A smile quirked my father’s lips. “And you, Mr. Blue? Ready for a good ol’-fashioned backyard barbeque? My daughter will be there.” Ben’s uneasy smile was his only response.

Everyone's here except for St. Clair." Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late." "Always," Josh corrects. "Always running late." I clear my throat. "I think I met him last night. In the hallway." "Good hair and an English accent?" Meredith asks. "Um.Yeah.I guess." I try to keep my voice casual. Josh smirks. "Everyone's in luuurve with St. Clair." "Oh,shut up," Meredith says. "I'm not." Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend. He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well,I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it." "This school has a prom?" I ask. "God no," Rashmi says. "Yeah,Josh. You and St. Clair would look really cute in matching tuxes." "Tails." The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead." "St. Clair!" Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug. "No kiss? I'm crushed,mate." "Thought it might miff the ol' ball and chain. She doesn't know about us yet." "Whatever," Rashi says,but she's smiling now. It's a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often. Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Etienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me. "Anna." He's surprised to see me,and I'm startled,too. He remembers me. "Nice umbrella.Could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble,and I'm alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race. Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him. "Sounds terrible.You ought to feed that thing. Unless..." He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. "Unless you're one of those girls who never eats. Can't tolerate that, I'm afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban." I'm determined to speak rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order." "Easy," Josh says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want.Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood." "I heard they raised it to three pints this year," Rashmi says. "Bone marrow," Beautiful Hallway Boy says. "Or your left earlobe." "I meant the menu,thank you very much." I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white.In French. "Not exactly my first language." "You don't speak French?" Meredith asks. "I've taken Spanish for three years. It's not like I ever thought I'd be moving to Paris." "It's okay," Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't speak French." "But most of them do," Josh adds. "But most of them not very well." Rashmi looks pointedly at him. "You'll learn the lanaguage of food first. The language of love." Josh rubs his belly like a shiny Buddha. "Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit." "Not funny." Rashmi punches him in the arm. "No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk." I glance at the chalkboard again. It's still in French. "And, um, until then?" "Right." Beautiful Hallway Boy pushes back his chair. "Come along, then. I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd.

bedenlerin olmadığı bir kavgaya hazırlanman gerekiyor, her durumda karşı koymayı başarabileceğin, soyut bir kavgaya, diğerlerinin aksine düşe kalka öğrenilen bir kavgaya. kusurların mı, telaşa gerek yok. düşüncesizlik edip onları düzelteyim deme. sonra yerlerine ne koyacaksın ki? güçsüzlüğünü olduğu gibi sakla. yeni güç kazanmaya çalışma, hele senin için olmayan güçler, sana göre tasarlanmamış güçler, doğanın seni başka şeylere hazırlarken senden kaçındığı güçler söz konusuysa… birinin gelip senin içinde yüzmesine, senin içine yerleşmesine, senin içine alçı dökmesine izin veriyorsun ve sen hala kendin olmak istiyorsun! yanlışlarının sonuna kadar git, en azından bazı yanlışlarının, tam olarak hangi tür yanlış olduğunu iyice gözlemlemene imkan verecek biçimde. bunu yapmazsan, yarı yolda durursan, körlemesine gidersin ve tüm yaşamın boyunca hep aynı tür yanlışları tekrarlarsın, bazıları da çıkar buna senin “kaderinmiş” der. düşmanı, ki bu aslında kendi yapındır, zorla, açığa çıksın. eğer kendi kaderini değiştiremdiysen, o zaman kiralık bir daire olabilirsin yalnızca. çok erken akıllı oldukları için aptallar. sen ise uyum göstermek için acele etme. yedekte hep bir uyumsuzluk sakla. insanları hiç derinden tanımadın. onları gerçekten gözlemlemedin, hatta onları sonuna kadar sevmedin veya onlardan sonuna kadar nefret etmedin. sen yalnızca sayfaları şöyle bir karıştırmakla yetindin. öyleyse senin de sayfalarını karıştırmalarına ve birkaç yapraktan ibaret olmaya razı ol. anımsa, kazanan her kazandığında kaybeder. kendi küçük dünyanda hep daha fazla hüzmetkarım oldu diye düşünürken, muhtemelen sen daha fazla hizmetkar oluyorsun. kimin? neyin? eh işte artık ara, ara! bir şey yakaladıysan ister istemez daha fazlasına sahip olmuşsun demektir. bu fazlalıktan hiç şüphe duymuyorsun ve hakkında hiçbir şey bilmiyorsun, aradan uzun bir zaman geçmeden de bilmeyeceksin. belki tüm bir dönem geçtikten sonra da bilmeyeceksin. o zaman çok geç olacak. evet, çok geç. rahat olabilirsin, içinde berraklık kalmış. tek bir yaşamda her şeyi kirletememişsin. kendi kendine bulaşıcısındır, bunu anımsa. senin sana galip gelmesine izin verme. meleğinin sıkıcı hale gelmesi, seni bir iblis seçmeye zorladı, o da seni şeytanlaştırandan başkası değildir. onu iyi seçtin mi? olması gerektiği gibi şeytansıdır; ama şeytanın gücü senin cılız gücünle ille de orantısız değildir. göz kulak ol ona, sıkıca sarılırlar, bunu biliyorsun değil mi? eğer bir kara kurbağası italyanca konuşabiliyorsa, zamanla neden fransızca konuşmasın niye konuşmasın? aptallık edip kendini göstermiş olsan dahi, sakin ol, onlar seni görmediler. bir insanın yaşamın da taşıyabileceği duygu yükü sonsuz değildir. Üstelik çoğu insan da çabucak sona varır. daha da vahim olanı, senin hissedebileceklerinin yelpazesi sınırlı bir açıklığa sahiptir. büyük zahmetle, büyük riskler alarak ya da şansın yardımıyla ya da büyük kurnazlıkla bu yelpazeyi bazı kereler biraz daha açmayı başarabilirsin, o da belli bir süre için. ama doğanın yelpazesi öyle yapılmıştır ki, eğer sürekli dikkat etmezsen, fazla geçmeden daralır, ta ki kapanıncaya kadar. her allahın günü batan için ne yolcu gemisine ne de yolunu şaşırmış bir buzula ihtiyaç vardır, batmak, ilelebet batmak için. sahne düzenine ihtiyaç yoktur. ne titanic ne atlantis. eşlik yok, görecek bir şey de yok. yalnızca batıyorsun. elde, kalptekinden daha fazla şefkat, kalpte de davranıştan daha fazla şefkat bulunur. ona ait hareketleri bul. onun arzuladığı ve seni yeniden biçimleyecek hareketleri. elin dansı. şu andaki ve uzaktaki etkilerini gözlemle. bu çok önemlidir, özellikle hiç elleriyle hareket etmeyen bir insan olmuşsan. sende eksik olan buydu, boşu boşuna dışarıda aradıkların, incelemelerde ve derlemelerde değil. tanımsızca ele dön.