Orla Quotes

In some parallel universe, there was a Gansey who could tell Blue that he found the ten inches of her bare calves far more tantalizing than the thirteen cubic feet of bare skin Orla sported. But in this universe, that was Adam’s job. He was in a terrible mood.

You can be just friends with people, you know," Orla said. "I think it's crazy how you're in love with all those raven boys." Orla wasn't wrong, of course. But what she didn't realize about Blue and her boys was that they were all in love with one another. She was no less obsessed with them than they were with her, or one another, analyzing every conversation and gesture, drawing out every joke into a longer and longer running gag, spending each moment either with one another or thinking about when next they would be with one another. Blue was perfectly aware that it was possible to have a friendship that wasn't all-encompassing, that wasn't blinding, deafening, maddening, quickening. It was just that now that she'd had this kind, she didn't want the other.

One moment, she was wearing clothing, and the next moment, she was wearing a bikini. Fifty percent of the world was brown skin and fifty percent was orange nylon. From the Mona Lisa smile on Orla's lips, it was clear she was pleased to finally be allowed to demonstrate her true talents. A tiny part of Gansey's brain said: You have been staring for too long. The larger part of his brain said: ORANGE.

There were many versions of Gansey, but this one had been rare since the introduction of Adam's taming presence. It was also Ronan's favorite. It was the opposite of Gansey's most public face, which was pure control enclosed in a paper-thin wrapper of academia. But this version of Gansey was Gansey the boy. This was the Gansey who bought the Camaro, the Gansey who asked Ronan to teach him to fight, the Gansey who contained every wild spark so that it wouldn't show up in other versions. Was it the shield beneath the lake that had unleashed it? Orla's orange bikini? The bashed-up remains of his rebuilt Henrietta and the fake IDs they'd returned to? Ronan didn't really care. All that mattered was that something had struck the match, and Gansey was burning.

What care is it of yours,” Gansey asked, “what I think of Orla?” Blue held his gaze, unflinching. Crisp, she replied, “None at all.” And it was a lie. It should not have been, but it was, and Gansey, who prized honesty above nearly every other thing, knew it when he heard it. Blue Sargent cared whether or not he was interested in Orla. She cared a lot. As she whirled toward the truck with a dismissive shake of her head, he felt a dirty sort of thrill.

We are just ordinary people. They're special. Adam's tied to the ley line. Ronan's a dreamer. Blue amplifies all of that." "Richie Rich is just a person," Orla said. Yes, and he's going to die.

Dani regained consciousness, holding 12-year-old Orla’s hand, in the year 1751. Charles was holding the girl’s wrist, but let go immediately. Dani held on. They were standing in a square in the middle of a crowd of several hundred people, in front of a gallows.

After lunch, they went for a walk around the island. The sun was out, but the wind was brisk, bringing a chill into their hands and faces. They arrived at the viewing point on the northwest corner of the island. The waves from the Atlantic crashed relentlessly against the rocks. They took a seat together on a large, smooth stone and gazed out at the sea and the barrier islands. Orla sat between Aideen and Dani. They all held hands. For a while, no words were spoken, but then Orla broke the silence. “What do ya’ think will happen to us in 2253?” she asked.

Someone's been hanging out with Richard Campbell Gansey the third too much 'My sense of self-worth isn't tied to my occupation

In a low voice, Blue asked meaningfully, “Seen enough?” “Of — oh, Orla?” “Yeah.” The question annoyed him. It judged him, and in this case, he didn’t feel he’d done anything to deserve it. He was not Blue’s business, not in that way. “What care is it of yours,” he asked, “what I think of Orla?” This felt dangerous, for some reason. He possibly shouldn’t have asked it. In retrospect, it wasn’t the question itself at fault. It was the way that he’d asked it. His thoughts had been far away, and he hadn’t been minding how he looked on the outside, and now, too late, he heard the dip of his own words. How the inflection seemed to contain a dare. Come on, Gansey, he thought. Don’t ruin things. Blue held his gaze, unflinching. Crisp, she replied, “None at all.” And it was a lie.

Ao longo da orla do mar venho descalço - para lá e para cá - ao meu encontro.

So I take it you and Gansey get along, then?” Maura’s expression was annoyingly knowing. “Mom.” “Orla told me about his muscle car,” Maura continued. Her voice was still angry and artificially bright. The fact that Blue was well aware that she’d earned it made the sting of it even worse. “You aren’t planning on kissing him, are you?” “Mom, that will never happen,” Blue assured her. “You did meet him, didn’t you?” “I wasn’t sure if driving an old, loud Camaro was the male equivalent of shredding your T-shirts and gluing cardboard trees to your bedroom walls.” “Trust me,” Blue said. “Gansey and I are nothing like each other. And they aren’t cardboard. They’re repurposed canvas.” “The environment breathes a sigh of relief.” Maura attempted another sip of her drink; wrinkling her nose, she shot a glare at Persephone. Persephone looked martyred. After a pause, Maura noted, in a slightly softer voice, “I’m not entirely happy about you’re getting in a car without air bags.” “Our car doesn’t have air bags,” Blue pointed out. Maura picked a long strand of Persephone’s hair from the rim of her glass. “Yes, but you always take your bike.” Blue stood up. She suspected that the green fuzz of the sofa was now adhered to the back of her leggings. “Can I go now? Am I in trouble?” “You are in trouble. I told you to stay away from him and you didn’t,” Maura said. “I just haven’t decided what to do about it yet. My feelings are hurt. I’ve consulted with several people who tell me that I’m within my rights to feel hurt. Do teenagers still get grounded? Did that only happen in the eighties?” “I’ll be very angry if you ground me,” Blue said, still wobbly from her mother’s unfamiliar displeasure. “I’ll probably rebel and climb out my window with a bedsheet rope.” Her mother rubbed a hand over her face. Her anger had completely burned itself out. “You’re well into it, aren’t you? That didn’t take long.” “If you don’t tell me not to see them, I don’t have to disobey you,” Blue suggested. “This is what you get, Maura, for using your DNA to make a baby,” Calla said. Maura sighed. “Blue, I know you’re not an idiot. It’s just, sometimes smart people do dumb things.” Calla growled, “Don’t be one of them.” “Persephone?” asked Maura. In her small voice, Persephone said, “I have nothing left to add.” After a moment of consideration, she added, however, “If you are going to punch someone, don’t put your thumb inside your fist. It would be a shame to break it.” “Okay,” Blue said hurriedly. “I’m out.” “You could at least say sorry,” Maura said. “Pretend like I have some power over you.

It's just so impressive to see how the women have used making Fair Trade clothes to escape poverty and empower themselves and their children. - Emma Watson

They’re special. Adam’s tied to the ley line. Ronan’s a dreamer. Blue amplifies all of that.” “Richie Rich is just a person,” Orla said. “Yes, and he’s going to die.” The

Charity told me that T.J. asked you out today and you just stared at him.” “What?” “T.J. asked you out. You just stared at him. Ringing bells?” Blue looked up (and up, and up) at her tall cousin. “At lunch, T.J. came over to my table and drew a penis on the unicorn on my binder. Is that the incident Charity is referring to?” “Don’t Richard Gansey the Third at me,” Orla replied. “Because if that’s what she meant, then yes, I just stared at him. I didn’t realize it was a conversation because penis.

Calla found him spineless (she was not wrong). Maura thought him misunderstood (she was not wrong). Jimi reckoned he had the longest nose of any man she’d ever seen (she was not wrong). Orla didn’t believe barricading oneself in a supply closet was a sufficient protection against a psychic who hated you (she was not wrong). Gwenllian was, in fact, the psychic who hated him (she was not wrong).

Ooooooooh,” Orla crowed, galloping down the hall, stork-like. She traded her Henrietta accent for a gloriously snotty version of Old South. “Someone’s been hanging out with Richard Campbell Gansey the third too much. ‘My sense of self-worth isn’t tied into my occupation.’” This last bit was said with the most exaggerated rendition of Gansey’s accent possible. She sounded like a drunk Robert E. Lee.

You can be just friends with people, you know,” Orla said. “I think it’s crazy how you’re in love with all those raven boys.” Orla wasn’t wrong, of course. But what she didn’t realize about Blue and her boys was that they were all in love with one another. She was no less obsessed with them than they were with her, or one another, analyzing every conversation and gesture, drawing out every joke into a longer and longer running gag, spending each moment either with one another or thinking about when next they would be with one another. Blue was perfectly aware that it was possible to have a friendship that wasn’t all-encompassing, that wasn’t blinding, deafening, maddening, quickening. It was just that now that she’d had this kind, she didn’t want the other.

You'll understand when you're older, Orla, that "givin' a hard time" to a young person is all to a purpose. With every word you speak, every gesture, every impulse you give in to without reflection, you're building your character - and at the end of your life, your character is all you have to show for yourself.

Or maybe I should just not love anyone or anything! That makes it the easiest, really, because then I’ll never get let down! I will build a tower for my heart!

¡Ah, eternamente veo tus ojos soñadores, ardorosos, azules como los lánguidos cielos decorados con la orla dorada del ocaso!

I’m going to tell you the same thing I’ve been telling you since you were ten years old, Orla,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to embarrass her. “It’s not good to be a follower.

Krsnik će riješiti slučaj onako kako misli da je potrebno, a ne onako kako ljudi misle da bi trebalo.

Ni krsnik ne može protjerati duha na čijoj je strani pravda.

Perto do limite do terceiro compartimento do sétimo círculo os Poetas encontram outro bando de almas de sodomitas, no qual se destacam três ilustres compatriotas de Dante. Reconhecendo-o, falam da decadência das virtudes políticas e civis de Florença. Chegam, depois à orla de outro precipício, onde a um sinal de Virgílio, sobe, voando pelos ares, uma figura estranhíssima.

Jesus casting demons into pigs and the one where he turns water into wine. I laugh trying to imagine him zapping wine with his fingers and wondering if he could make Dr Pepper or whatever.

U jednoj je stvari Marija ipak imala pravo. Jednom je izjavila da čovjek mora prestati mariti što drugi govore, inače će cijeli svoj život odslušati iz tuđih usta umjesto da ga odživi iz svoje duše.

Cuando yo veía un objeto externo la conciencia de que lo estaba viendo flotaba entre el y yo, y lo ceñía de una leve orla espiritual que no me dejaba llegar a tocar nunca directamente su materia; se volatilizaba en cierto modo antes de que entrara en contacto con ella, lo mismo que un cuerpo incandescente al acercarlo a un objeto mojado no llega a tocar su humedad, porque siempre va precedido de una zona de evaporación.

Quando via um objeto exterior, a consciência de que o estava vendo permanecia entre mim e ele, debruava-o de uma tênue orla espiritual que me impedia de jamais tocar diretamente sua matéria; esta como que se volatilizava antes que eu estabelecesse contato com ela, da mesma forma que um corpo incandescente, ao aproximar-se de um objeto molhado, não toca sua umidade, porque se faz sempre preceder de uma zona de evaporação.

Razmrsio sam niti snova i stvarnosti, otkrio sam da postoji na jednoj strani san kada sam lebdeo bolje od kakvog orla, a na drugoj strani neki drugi, istinski svet, tvrd kao stene na kojima se zamalo nisam polomio. ... ja sam stvoren da živim zauvek... Bio sam besmrtan, nigde u sebi nisam osećao smrt... Nisam imao nikakve veze sa smrću. Porasti značilo je opovrgnuti. Porasti značilo je pad. Svojstvo da sam odrastao spoznao sam kroz povrede, nasilje, nagodbe i osvešćenje. Svet je izgubio čari. Jer, šta je čovek? Jednostavno, to je neko-ko-ne-može. Ko-ne-može sve znati. Ko-ne-može sve učiniti. Ko-ne-može ne umreti. Saznanje o svojim granicama načinilo je pukotinu na jajetu mojega detinjstva: rastavljanje mi je pomoglo da porastem, to jest da se smanjim. Sa sedam godina, konačno sam prestao biti bog. -Ali, mama, ne treba oklevati da se ljudima kaže da ih volimo: mogli bismo svi umreti, zar ne? Ona je tiho plakala kada bih tako govorio i milovala me po kosi da bi smirila moje misli. -Mali moj Isuse - govorila je - ne treba suviše voleti. Inače ćeš mnogo patiti. -Ali ja ne patim. Ja sam ljut. Odlučio sam da više ne volim Boga. Optužio sam Boga za sve gluposti, za sva ljudska zlodela; težio sam za nekim pravednijim svetom u kojem se više voli; okrenuo sam svet protiv Boga, kao dokaz o njegovoj bezvrednosti ili njegovoj lenjosti. Istraživao sam njegov postupak od jutra do mraka. Bunio sam se protiv sveta. Očekivao sam da on bude lep kao stranica rukopisa, da je skladan kao molitvena pesma. Očekivao sam od Boga da bude veštiji majstor, brižljiviji, pažljiviji, onaj ko bi brinuo o pojedinostima koliko i o celini, Bog koji bi vodio računa o pravdi i ljubavi. Međutim, Bog nije održao svoja obećanja. ... ne prihvatam stvari takve kakve jesu, želim da su onakve kakve treba da budu. Vera kakva bila je uvedena, organizovana, sa svojom hijerarhijom, prežvakavala je mrtvu reč, izgubila osećanje za smisao. A ja sam pokušavao da u ćutanju i razmišljanju nađem Boga. Od sreće više sam voleo Ljubav. Rušio sam se sam u sebi. Kako sam mogao i naslutiti da postoje toliki klanci, neki tako vrtoglavi ponor, stotine i stotine koraka u unutrašnjosti jednoga čovečijega tela? Strovaljivao sam se u prazninu. Žele da ubede, a kada neko želi da drugoga ubedi, iskrenost i prevara ponekada idu zajedno.

Era uma vez um rapaz. Vivia numa aldeia que já não existe, numa casa que já não existe, na orla de um campo que já não existe, lugar de todas as descobertas e onde tudo era possível. Um pau podia ser uma espada. Uma pedra podia ser um diamante. Uma árvore um castelo. Era uma vez um rapaz que vivia numa casa do outro lado do campo onde vivia uma rapariga que já não existe. Inventavam mil jogos. Ela era a Rainha e ele o Rei. Na luz do Outono, o cabelo dela brilhava como uma coroa. Bebiam o mundo em pequenas mãos-cheias. Quando o céu escurecia, apartavam-se com folhas nos cabelos.

When she turned fifteen, Blue concluded that her mother’s tarot cards were just a pack of playing cards and that the dreams of her mother and the other clairvoyant women were fueled by mixed drinks rather than otherworldly insight, and so the prediction didn’t matter. She knew better, though. The predictions that came out of 300 Fox Way were unspecific, but undeniably true. Her mother had dreamt Blue’s broken wrist on the first day of school. Her aunt Jimi predicted Maura’s tax return to within ten dollars. Her older cousin Orla always began to hum her favorite song a few minutes before it came on the radio.

Their minds race wild along its trail. They see Joanne wiggling and giggling and sneering in the Court to make the Colm’s guys fancy her, they see Orla howling helpless into her sodden pillow after Andrew Moore and his friends ripped her apart, they see themselves trying desperately to stand right and dress right and say the right things under the guys’ grabbing eyes, and they think: Never, never ever, never never never again. Break that open the way superheroes burst handcuffs. Punch it in the face and watch it explode. My body my mind the way I dress the way I walk the way I talk, mine all mine. The power of it, buzzing inside them to be unlocked, makes their bones shake.

You can just be friends with people, you know," Orla said. "I think it's crazy how you're in love with all those raven boys." Orla wasn't wrong, of course. But what she didn't realize about Blue and her boys was that they were all in love with one another. She was no less obsessed with them than they were with her, or one another, analyzing every conversation and gesture, drawing out every joke into a longer and longer running gag, spending each moment either with one another or thinking about when next they would be with one another. Blue was perfectly aware that it was possible to have a friendship that wasn't all-encompassing, that wasn't blinding, deafening, maddening, quickening. It was just that now that she'd had this kind, she didn't want the other.

Aproximávamo-nos agora da floresta enquanto a estrada ia descrevendo uma volta quando demos pelas pegadas de um homem. Depois de outro homem que trazia botas. As marcas mostravam ligeiros sinais de chuva e parámos o carro para ver melhor a pé. - Tu e eu – disse a Ngui. - Sim – disse ele com um sorriso – Um deles tem pés grandes e caminha como se estivesse cansado. - Um está descalço e anda como se a espingarda fosse pesada demais para ele. Pára o carro – disse a Mthuka. Descemos. - Olha – disse Ngui. – Um anda como se fosse muito velho e mal pudesse ver. O que está calçado. - Olha – disse eu – O que está descalço anda como quem tem cinco mulheres e vinte vacas. Gastou uma fortuna em cerveja. - Não vão chegar a lado nenhum – disse Ngui – Olha, o que vai calçado anda como se fosse morrer de um momento para o outro. Vai a cambalear com o peso da espingarda. - Que achas que andam a fazer por estes lados? - Como é que hei-de saber? Olha, o dos sapatos agora está mais forte. - Está a pensar na shamba – disse Ngui. - Kwenda na shamba. - Ndio – confirmou Ngui – Que idade dás tu ao mais velho, o dos sapatos? - Não tens nada com isso – disse eu. Dirigimo-nos para o carro e quando ele se aproximou subimos e eu indiquei a Mthuka a orla da floresta. O condutor ria-se e abanava a cabeça. - Que é que andavam os dois ali a fazer a seguir as vossas pegadas? – disse Miss Mary – Já sei que era muito engraçado porque todos se estavam a rir. Mas pareceu-me bastante parvo

— ¿Qué piensa usted de las artes? — El arte es la ciencia de lo inútil. El médico frunció la frente sorprendido. Aquella respuesta no cuadraba con la personalidad que había creído adivinar en su paciente. — ¿Quiere decir que desprecia usted las artes; que las considera algo trivial, y a quienes las practican gentes desocupadas que no tienen otra cosa mejor que hacer? — ¡Nada de eso doctor! ¡Considero que el arte es tanto más sublime cuanto mayor es su inutilidad! — Explíquese mejor. — El hombre es el único animal que se crea necesidades que nada tienen que ver con la subsistencia del individuo y con la reproducción de la especie. No le basta comer para alimentarse, sino que condimenta los alimentos, de modo que añadan placer a la satisfacción de su necesidad. No le basta vestirse para abrigarse, sino que añade, a esta función tan elemental, la exigencia de confeccionar su ropa con determinadas forma y colores. No se contenta con cobijarse, sino que construye edificios con líneas armoniosas y caprichosas que exceden de su necesidad: lo cual no ocurre con la guarida del zorro, la madriguera del conejo o el nido de la cigüeña. ¿Hay algo más inútil que la corbata que lleva usted puesta? ¿De qué le sirve al estómago una salsa cumberland o un chateaubriand a la Périgord? ¿Qué añade al cobijo del hombre el friso de una escayola o las orlas en forma de signos de interrogación de los hierros que sostienen el pasamanos de una escalera? Pues bien: todo eso que está inútilmente «añadido a la pura necesidad»… ¡ya es arte! La gastronomía, la hoy llamada alta costura y la decoración son las primeras artes creadas por nuestra especie, porque representan los excesos inútiles añadidos a las necesidades primarias de comer, abrigarse y guarecerse. — Dígame, señora de Almenara, ¿dónde ha leído ese ensayo sobre la inutilidad? ¡Me gustaría conocerlo! — ¡No necesito leer a los demás para formarme una opinión, doctor! — Prosiga, señora: me tiene usted absolutamente fascinado. — Pues bien — continuó Alicia —. En el momento mismo en que el espíritu creador del hombre se despegó incluso de la necesidad primaria para producir sus lucubraciones, nacieron las grandes Artes: la Poesía, la Danza, la Música y la Pintura. — Olvida la Arquitectura. — Considero a la Arquitectura, como a la Gastronomía, un añadido inútil a una necesidad «primaria». La Danza en cierto modo, también tiene este lastre, pero se aleja más de la necesidad. Es… ¿cómo explicarme?, una… una… ¡una mímica sublimada! ¡eso es lo que quería decir! Tal vez la Danza sea anterior al lenguaje y tuviera en sus orígenes una intencionalidad práctica: con carga erótica, reverencial o religiosa. ¡Yo no estaba allí, y no se qué «intencionalidad» tenía! Pero no hay duda de que encerraba «un propósito», encaminado a la consecución de un fin. No sé si me explico, pero la intencionalidad es algo muy superior a la «necesidad primaria». Está ya directamente relacionada con el juicio y la voluntad. «Quiero esto y voy a demostrarlo con gestos y ademanes rítmicos.» ¡Y la Humanidad se puso a danzar! ¡De ahí a la Paulova o a Nureyev no había más que un paso! La Pintura pertenece a un género superior. ¡Es más inútil todavía! Tiene un lejanísimo parentesco con la escritura ideográfica, mas una vez añadida su carga de inutilidad, la distancia entre lo necesario y lo que no sirve para nada, se hace tan grande, que la considero entre las primeras de las Artes Mayores. ¿No opina lo mismo, doctor?

And we were afraid, too.” Orla’s fingers tightened over his arm in her earnestness. “The darkness of the Patryns was very real and this vague light that some of us had experienced was nothing but the tiny flicker of a candle flame, likely to be blown out with a breath. How can we put our faith in this? In something we don’t understand?” “What is faith?” Alfred asked gently, not talking to her but to himself. “Believing in something you do not understand. And how can we poor mortals understand that vast and terrible and wonderful mind?

Her mother’s voice was coming from the house’s single shared bathroom, and when Blue got there, she found her mother, Calla, and Orla all sitting in a full bathtub, all fully clothed and all equally soaking. Jimi was sitting on the closed toilet lid with a burning candle in her hands.

Između Bremena i Nepala, između Beča i Singapura video sam mnogo lepih gradova, gradove na moru i gradove visoko u brdima, sa mnogih izvora sam kao hodočasnik pio, od čega je kasnije nastajao slatki otrov nostalgije. Ali najlepši grad od svih koje znam je Kalv na Nagoldu, mali, stari švapski gradić ispod Švarcvalda. Kada dođem u Kalv, idem polako od železičke stanice nadole, pored katoličke crkve, pored “Orla” i “Šumskog roga”, kroz Biskupovu ulicu pored Nagolda, pored Vajnštega ili do bara, onda preko reke i kroz donju Leder-uličicu, pa kroz jednu strmu, poprečnu, gore od trga, ispod trema većnice, pored dva jaka stara izvora, bacim pogled prema starim zgradama Latinske škole, u krčmarevoj bašti čujem kokoške kako kokodaču, okrenem se i idem ponovo nadole, pored “Jelena” i “Konjića”, a onda dugo stojim na mostu. To mi je najomiljenije mesto u gradiću, trg pored katedrale u firenci nije ništa u poređenju sa njim. Sada, kad sa lepog kamenog mosta gledam gore i dole, vidim kuće duž reke, a ne znam ko u njima živi. I kada iz jedne od njih gleda lpa devojka (kojih je u Kalvu uvek bilo), ja ne znam kako se zove. A pre trideset godina, iza svih ovih prozora nije bilo nijedne devojke i nijednog čoveka, nijedne stare žene, nijednog psa i nijedne mačke koju nisam znao. Nisu preko mosta prešla nijedna kola i nije kaskalo nijedno kljuse za koje nisam znao čiji su. A tako sam znao sve, mnoge školske drugove i njihove igre i podrugljive nadimke, pekarske radnje i njihovu robu, mesare i njihove pse, drveće, i gundelje, i ptice, i gnezda, vrste ogrozda u baštama. Upravo je zbog toga grad Kalv imao svoju jedinstvenu lepotu. Nema potrebe da ga opisujem, to stoji u skoro svim knjigama koje sam napisao. Da sam ostao u ovom lepom Kalvu, ne bi bilo potrebe da o njemu pišem. To mi nije bilo suđeno. Ali kada sada (kao što se do rata dešavalo jednom u nekoliko godina) ponovo sedim četvrt sata na ogradi mosta preko kojeg sam kao dečak hiljadu puta zabacio udicu, duboko i sa čudesnim uzbuđenjem osećam koliko je za mene lepo i značajno bilo to što sam doživeo: da sam jednom imao domovinu! da sam jednom u jednom malom mestu na Zemlji poznavao sve kuće i njihove prozore i sve ljude iza njih! Da sam drvo, još uvek bih bio tamo. Ali ne mogu da želim da se ponovi ono što je bilo. Povremeno uradim to u svojim snovima i pesmama, ali u stvarnosti ne želim. s vremena na vreme provedem po koju noć u nostalgiji za Kalvom, Ali da živim tamo, svakoga sata, danju i noću, imao bih nostalgiju za lepim, starim vremenima koja su bila pre trideset godina i koja su davno protekla ispod luka starog mosta. To ne bi bilo dobro. Za postupcima koji su učinjeni i za smrtima koje su se desile, ne treba žaliti. Samo ponekad treba da se tamo baci pogled, da se prošvrlja kroz ulicu Leder, da se četvrt sata stoji na mostu, pa makar to bilo samo u snu, pa makar i ne tako često. Herman Hese, Umetnost Dokolice (deo Domovina, 1918)

Without another word to us, she started down the hill towards the gate. I gave Orla a sidelong glance. 'Maybe we should help her down, she's going too-' We watched Meabh slip on the wet grass and slide at least four feet before coming to a stop. I had to stuff my fist in my mouth. Orla clapped both hands over hers. Meabh stood... and very determinedly did not look around. She simply kept walking as if nothing happened. However, after a few seconds, she raised one hand high and gives us both the finger while we shook with silent laughter.

Death could catch you out here, you know.” “You mean that we could ‘catch our deaths,’ ” corrected Viola. Orla shrugged. “That too.

In some parallel universe, there was a Gansey who could tell Blue that he found the ten inches of her bare calves far more tantalizing than the thirteen cubic feet of bare skin Orla sported. But in this universe, that was Adam's job. He was in a terrible mood.

Orla wasn't wrong, of course. But what she didn't realize about Blue and her boys was that they were all in love with one another. She was no less obsessed with them then they were with her, or one another, analyzing every conversation and gesture, drawing out every joke into a longer and longer running gag, spending each moment either with one another or thinking about when next they would be with one another. Blue was perfectly aware that it was possible to have a friendship that wasn't all-encompassing, that wasn't blinding, deafening, maddening, quickening. It was just that now she'd had this kind, she didn't want the other.

Jimi, Orla’s mother, was as tall as Orla, but several times wider. She had all of Orla’s grace, too, which was to say that she knocked her hips into every piece of furniture in Blue’s room. Every time she did, she said things like “mother lover!” and “fasten it all.” They sounded worse than real swear words.

My ride’s here.” “Temporary ride.” Blue exploded, hurling her yogurt container into the recycling bin. “What is it, Orla? Jealousy? Or what? You just don’t want me to like them as well as I do because … you’re trying to save me from being hurt? You know what else is temporary? Life.

It was hopeless. For a fraction of a second Millie was tempted to announce to Orla that one of her hobbies was pulling the wings off butterflies and that she was also partial to a spot of kitten-drowning in her spare time.

Be very careful what you say. Daddy’s being very strange about pussies at the moment.’ Orla

Birds gotta fly, and cow’s gotta shit, Orla.  On a farm, it’s as natural as breathing for these animals,” Jethro returned with an unconcerned shrug. Staring at the cow in horror, Orla shuddered.  “Well, that was just plain rude!” she declared, feeling mildly traumatized… possibly more from the smell than the actual act itself. “I’ll register your complaint with the head heifer in charge. 

paces. ‘She can’t do that.’ ‘She can and she is. She’s renting a cottage. I don’t know how long for.’ She takes hold of my wrist and grips it so tightly that her nails pierce my skin. ‘I have to stop her.’ ‘Monica! You need to keep this in perspective!’ I extract my wrist from her fingers and shake her gently. ‘I know she brings back memories of your parents and I know that hurts, but now, in the present, you have nothing to fear from Orla.’ Her eyes say otherwise and as she looks into mine I see that she is close to telling me something. ‘What is it, Monica? What is it?’ My scalp tingles. ‘Is it about Rose?’ Her eyes glaze over. ‘I was warned about this. I was warned—’ ‘What are you talking about? Warned by whom?’ ‘Grace!’ she hisses. ‘Do you have any idea how much damage she could do?’ I give a short laugh, not because it’s funny but because I have to let some emotion out. ‘The status quo should never be underestimated. Life, ticking along. It might seem boring at times but . . .’ She looks up to the right and seems to pluck her words from the air. ‘Orla is dangerous. She will cause havoc and then she will leave. We have to stop her.’ ‘Believe me, I don’t want her around either.’ I take her hand. ‘Tell me what’s troubling you.’ ‘I can’t.’ She pulls free. ‘I can’t break a confidence.’ She takes a few steps backward. ‘Can you find out what Orla wants? Can you do that?’ I already have. ‘I’ll do my best.’ I try to look optimistic. ‘I’ll let you know.’ ‘Good.’ She recovers her composure and gives me an awkward hug. ‘I may not have been popular at school, my home life was in meltdown, but hey!’ She looks around her, takes

Captain Lord? For God’s sake, do sit down, you look fair to fainting!” “I er, cannot, sir—” The tip of Orla’s sword was pointed at his groin, and held so close to the stainless white breeches that the captain could not move without risk of injury.

God help him if anyone saw him engaging in such outrageous behavior. But hell, if this little performance didn’t convince Her Majesty of the lengths he would go to get her to the altar, then he feared nothing would! He was tired of waiting. And he was beginning to find he wasn’t such a patient man after all, not where she was concerned. Her crew had remained in Portsmouth with Kestrel, but for the sake of appearances, Orla had checked into a room with Maeve, and he had taken a neighboring one. It was not an arrangement he intended to keep. Oh, hell no. He had no intention of sleeping alone. Just as he had no intention of allowing her to dally anymore with regard to this whole marriage business. She’d damn well give him an answer tonight—or, he’d carry her off to Triton and have his own flag-captain marry them, and amen to that!

Does this mean she’s still alive?” Maura asked, tapping on a card in one of the branches – ​the Queen of Swords. “Probably,” Calla grunted. “Does this mean she’s going to leave?” Orla asked, tapping on another card and referring to a different she. “Probably,” Maura sighed. “Does this mean she’s coming back?” Calla demanded, pointing to a third card and meaning a third she. “Probably,” shrieked Gwenllian, leaping

Mi vida ha estado en peligro desde la orla de mi graduación

Quella versione di Gansey era il Gansey ragazzo. Era il Gansey che aveva comprato la Camaro, il Gansey che aveva chiesto a Ronan di insegnargli a lottare, il Gansey che conteneva ogni scintilla selvaggia in modo che non si notasse nelle sue altre versioni. Era stato lo scudo nel lago a liberarlo? Il bikini arancione di Orla? I resti sfondati della Henrietta che si era costruito e le patenti finte? A Ronan non interessava. Tutto ciò che importava era che qualcosa aveva acceso il fiammifero, e Gansey stava bruciando.

Sam’s eyes fell on a nail that was sticking out of the old wooden window frame for some reason. She raised her hand and pulled it out easily, as rusty and as old as it was. But the jagged hole remained in the wood, and Sam thought that this was perhaps the perfect metaphor for what had happened today between her and Orla. Her mentor would come back, would apologize, but the damage was done. Orla might pull the rusty nails she’d hammered into Sam today, but the holes were here to stay.

Everyone leaves. Orla had said it to her once, after their mam had died. You love with all your heart, and then they leave you. Mammy, Orla. Emer couldn’t fall into her love for Lars because if he left her too, forever, it would destroy her, and she’d never get back up. At least now, she was clinging on by a thread. Susannah, an old dying lady, was her lifeline.

He glanced down just in time to see Orla hold out her lightsaber and ignite it—two blades, shining white, piercing the shadows.

Orla, what did you say?” Addy walked toward the tent to find the crock of milk for the baby as Archie wagged his tail at them. “You don’t want to know.” Orla chuckled. —"Addison’s Adventure" by Lisa M. Prysock

We’re not waiting behind on the sidelines with the other women. We want to be part of the contest,” Orla blurted out. —"Addison’s Adventure" by Lisa M. Prysock

A maior parte da minha renda pessoal excedente ia para os bares na orla. Os turistas iam beber nos resorts de luxo, aqueles cujos nomes pareciam palavras mágicas – o Moana, o Halekulani –, mas Carter e eu preferíamos os de pior reputação. Gostávamos de nos sentar com os nossos amigos da praia e os surfistas, os aventureiros e os vagabundos, e nos sentíamos orgulhosos da única coisa que tínhamos a nosso favor: a geografia.

El hombre es el único animal que se crea, necesidades que nada tienen que ver con la subsistencia del individuo y con la reproducción de la especie. No le basta comer para alimentarse, sino que condimenta los alimentos, de modo que añadan placer a la satisfacción de su necesidad. No le basta vestirse para abrigarse, sino que añade, a esta función tan elemental, la exigencia de confeccionar su ropa con determinadas formas y colores. No se contenta con cobijarse, sino que construye edificios con líneas armoniosas y caprichosas que exceden de su necesidad: Lo cual no ocurre con la guarida del zorro, la madriguera del conejo o el nido de la cigüeña. ¿Hay algo más inútil que la corbata que lleva usted puesta? ¿De qué le sirve el estómago una salsa cumberland o un chateaubriand a la Périgord? ¿Qué añade al cobijo del hombre el friso de una escayola o las orlas en forma de signos de interrogación de los hierros que sostienen el pasamanos de una escalera? Pues bien: todo eso que está inútilmente << añadido a la pura necesidad >>... ¡Ya es arte!

She doubted then her own ability to carry on if anything happened to her heart—and that’s what her daughter became the moment she was born, Orla’s heart, on the outside of her body.

You cannot believe the loneliness', he said at last, so softly that Orla was forced to move closer to him to hear. 'The mensch are so very, very lonely. The only means they have of communicating are physical. They must rely on words or a look or a gesture to describe what they feel, and their languages are so limited. Most of the time, they are unable to express what they truly mean, and so they live their lives and die without ever knowing the truth, about themselves or others.

Como se fosse um poema de amor (Lisboa, 1969) Esta cidade tem hoje o seu rosto e as gaivotas viam na orla dos teus olhos, sob as nuvens cinzentas de tua fronte. Ramos verdes de Abril agitam-se em teus lábios e entre os teus dedos, brancas, surgem, surgem cúpulas e torres. Um castelo de sombras ergue-se em teu peito e um avião passa lento, percorrendo o teu cabelo. História do teu corpo com ruas e com rostos, recantos de cansaço, paredes coloridas, luz que vem e pára, atónita, a teus pés, como um cão adormecido cujo nome ignoramos. Esta cidade terá o teu rosto para sempre e em sua cálida extensão conhecida, pele a pela, até aos ossos, pedra a pedra mos anos, o amor terá distância e viverá sua morte. Subitamente não há passado em tua língua e em tua língua desmorona-se o presente e tua língua arde e sua saliva queima enquanto o rio enorme desagua levando sob suas águas nossas vozes. Esta cidade terá ontem nome para sempre, escrevi como se fosse verdade, como se as minhas palavras fossem de pedra ou aço, como se nada tivesse jamais de desmenti-las. Numa noite qualquer, numa morna manhã de uma primavera chuvoso e de tormentas, com cinismo e cansaço, mas também um momento com aquela ilusão que tiveram outrora e um calor vencido que alimenta ainda sua pele, frente ao esquecimento dois seres abraçaram a vida. Com tristeza mais suave, oh que melancolia, junto ao húmido parque suas duas sombras tremeram “esta cidade terá ontem nome para sempre” e ouviram-se distantes anunciar seu adeus.

Search Orla Cadden,” she demanded.

Floss’s attitude toward Danny, Orla sensed, was one of patient disdain,

Precisaremos de uma força-tarefa de psicoterapeutas para combater o tsunami de tristeza que vem pela frente. As águas já recuaram assustadoramente na orla da pandemia, mas não se sabe o tamanho do vagalhão de infelicidade que desabará sobre os homens e as mulheres, sobre as crianças que crescem e os velhos que sobrarem. Antes do coronavírus, apenas a obtusidade proibicionista, que dura meio século, ainda impedia o acesso a uma classe de substâncias – os psicodélicos – que a pesquisa científica indica ser capaz de mitigar as dores da alma impostas pelo tempo. Depois da Covid-19, seguir bloqueando a pesquisa que mapeia seu potencial será um crime ao estilo dos genocidas instalados em alguns governos.

A existência do Inferno não é uma mera invenção dos teólogos, pois este está localizado aqui mesmo, na Terra. Já estive mesmo na sua orla e vi os demónios levarem a cabo o seu trabalho. Bram Stoker, in Makt Myrkranna

Venecijanske zgrade su nosile pečate od kamena, kao što pisma nose pečate od voska. U njima su bile izvajane figure. Na jednoj, orao je sedeo na magarcu i kljuvao ga. Na drugoj, grifon je jeo orla. -Oni se proždiru- zaključio je posetilac.

It came to Orla suddenly, the key that had eluded her all her life. There was only one trick to making a choice, and that was doing it fast

This was how it worked, Orla saw now: being a parent meant that, sometimes, you got to apologize without apologizing, and being a child meant that, sometimes, you got to not apologize at all