Pate Quotes

I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?... 'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do: Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I: And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou.

The boys. The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clod-pated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys. How could anybody accuse her of stealing them? Why would anybody want them anyway?

Cannibals? Who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgement, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate de fois gras.

...some people coddle their own afflictions the way others spoil small pedigreed dogs with cans of pate.

Ženama je potreban samo mali znak, nagoveštaj, jedan mig, nevidljiv detalj, sitan povod, a zatim sve rade same; vole, pate, nadaju se, maštaju i plaču.

Why?” he asked Pate. “What am I to them?” “A knight who remembered his vows,” the smith said.

Horace, fit, and athletic and light on his feet, gave their guards the fewest opportunities to beat him, although on one occasion an angry Tualaghi, furious that Horace misunderstood an order to kneel, slashed his dagger across the young man’s face, opening a thin, shallow cut on his right cheek. The wound was superficial but as Evanlyn treated it that evening, Horace shamelessly pretended that it was more painful than it really was. He enjoyed the touch of her ministering hands. Halt and Gilan, bruised and weary, watched as she cleaned the wound and gently pated it dry. Horace did a wonderful job of pretending to bear great pain with stoic bravery. Halt shook his head in disgust. “What faker,” he said to Gilan. The younger Ranger nodded. “Yes. He’s really making a meal of it isn’t he?” He paused, then added more ruefully, “Wish I’d thought of it first.

I have scars on my hand from touching certain people. Once, in the park, when Frannie was still in the carriage, I put my hand on the downy pate of her head and left it there too long. Another time, at Loew's Seventy-second Street, with Zooey during a spooky movie. He was about six or seven, and he went under the seat to avoid watching a scary scene. I put my hand on his head. Certain heads, certain colors and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me. Other things, too. Charlotte once ran away from me, outside the studio, and I grabbed her dress to stop her, to keep her near me. A yellow cotton dress I loved because it was too long for her. I still have a lemon-yellow mark on the palm of my right hand.

Peanut butter is the pate of childhood.

A good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curled pate will grow bald, a fair face will wither, a full eye will wax hollow. But a good heart...is the sun and moon...for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps its course truly.

Fixin’ onything is man’s work,” came Opal’s firm answer. Tearin’ down or killin’, that thar’s easy. Any addle-pated fool kin pull the trigger of a rifle-gun or fling a rock. It’s fixin’ that’s hard, takes a heap more doin’.

Oh, Draven. You’re my hero too! If not for you, that mean old boar would have eaten me alive. (Simon) Get off me, you nimble-pated gelding. (Draven)

He was pushing fifty, with a face life had chewed on, and long wisps of graying hair parted low on one side and combed over his balding pate.

From that day on he learned to accept the dungeon he existed in, neither seeking to escape with sudden derring-do nor beating his pate bloody on its walls. And, thus resigned, he returned to work.

If she wants I can find a hundred men and line them up before her naked, and she can pick the one she likes,” the king said. “I would sooner she wed a lord, but if she prefers a hedge knight or a merchant or Pate the Pig Boy, I am past the point of caring, so long as she picks someone.

BIFF — [to Marty:] Upon what lookest thou, thou arse-like pate?

Shall I have to go there ten years hence to keep my old bones warm against the rheumatism and to scorch my bald pate in the heat of the noonday sun? Shall I die without having seen anything?

It was a meal that we shall never forget; more accurately, it was several meals that we shall never forget, because it went beyond the gastronomic frontiers of anything we had ever experienced, both in quantity and length. It started with homemade pizza - not one, but three: anchovy, mushroom, and cheese, and it was obligatory to have a slice of each. Plates were then wiped with pieces torn from the two-foot loaves in the middle of the table, and the next course came out. There were pates of rabbit, boar, and thrush. There was a chunky, pork-based terrine laced with marc. There were saucissons spotted with peppercorns. There were tiny sweet onions marinated in a fresh tomato sauce. Plates were wiped once more and duck was brought in... We had entire breasts, entire legs, covered in a dark, savory gravy and surrounded by wild mushrooms. We sat back, thankful that we had been able to finish, and watched with something close to panic as plates were wiped yet again and a huge, steaming casserole was placed on the table. This was the specialty of Madame our hostess - a rabbit civet of the richest, deepest brown - and our feeble requests for small portions were smilingly ignored. We ate it. We ate the green salad with knuckles of bread fried in garlic and olive oil, we ate the plump round crottins of goat's cheese, we ate the almond and cream gateau that the daughter of the house had prepared. That night, we ate for England.

If man spoke only when he had something worth while to say and said that as quickly as possible, ninety-eight per cent of the human race might as well be dumb, thereby establishing a heavenly harmony from pate to tonsil.

What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba That he should weep for her? What would he do Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, Make mad the guilty and appall the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing—no, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me “villain”? Breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? Gives me the lie i' th' throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?

And if you wake me before nine in the morning again, I'll pate your liver and have it with my breakfast. Now get out. - Millie

U ovom društvu podjednako patimo svi, i žene i muškarci, samo su uloge podeljene, i to otprilike ovako: Kad mi patimo zbog žena, to je gotovo redovno zbog toga što žene nisu onakve kakve bismo mi želeli da su. Kad žene pate zbog nas, to je uvek stoga što smo ovakvi kakvi jesmo. Ali, što je glavno, patimo svi i mučimo se često, dugo, svirepo i besmisleno.

A good leg will fall. A straight back will stoop. A black beard will turn white. A curled pate will grow bald." He held out a small triangle of fruit toward Emilia. "But a good heart, my dear... well, a good heart is the sun and the moon.

it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious, 9 periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very 10 rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the 11 most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable 12 dumb shows and noise. I

But believe me, there is beauty in it still. Truth. The light of freshness is buried in us and in every moment we breathe. It is there. Sometimes we are so encrusted, so rotted over with misery, bad situations, that we can’t see it. Feel it. But it is there.

The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say goodby to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with friandises, with luscious and toothsome bits--the finest of fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The pates and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better.

Though the sleepy, myopic, and rather bald-pated figure reflected in the mirror was precisely of such insignificant quality as to arrest decidedly no one's exclusive attention at first sight, its owner evidently remained perfectly pleased with all he saw in the mirror.

I realized that sexism was telling me to stay home and not par pate in the larger world. "Dance to records by yourself in your room would say. "Stay at home and read alone!" it would yell. I decided I gonna do everything in my power to make Bikini Kill shows a brief prieve from sexism, even if it was imperfect and fleeting.

No dubious salve to honour's broken pate

pate.

Now, why did he have a hard time believing that?...Because it would be the first time in your life that you ever won an argument with Lord Thick and Knotty Pate. (Morgan)

Ne mogu da podnesem monotoni zvuk sumornog mora, ćutanje Boga... saznanje da dok ljudi glasno pate - Bog ostaje skrštenih ruku, nem.

After the third course the entrees had made their appearance; they consisted of pullets a la marechale, fillets of sole with shallot sauce and escalopes of Strasbourg pate.

Ljudi, koji silno pate za zavičajem, mijenjaju se. Oni zatvaraju oči pred drugim stvarima i gube sposobnost zamjećivanja lijepog.

Querelle is not made for clothes; that’s why they suit him so well. Rags take on glory as soon as his blondish pate surfaces through their collars.

It was as good a dinner as I have ever absorbed, and Thomas like a watered flower. As we sat down he was saying some things about the Government which they wouldn't have cared to hear. With the consomme pate d'Italie he said but what could you expect nowadays? With the paupiettes de sole a la princesse he admitted rather decently that the Government couldn't be held responsible for the rotten weather, anyway. And shortly after the caneton Aylesbury a la broche he was practically giving the lads the benefit of his whole-hearted support.

I adore good food as I adore all the other pleasant things of life, and because I have that gift I am able to look upon the future with equanimity.” “Why?” asked Alec. “Because a love for good food is the only thing that remains with man when he grows old. Love? What is love when you are five and fifty and can no longer hide the disgraceful baldness of your pate. Ambition? What is ambition when you have discovered that honours are to the pushing and glory to the vulgar. Finally we must all reach an age when every passion seems vain, every desire not worth the trouble of achieving it; but then there still remain to the man with a good appetite three pleasures each day, his breakfast, his luncheon, and his dinner.

Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate-de-foie-gras.

...[T]here is no art in being intelligible if one renounces all thoroughness of insight; but also it produces a disgusting medley of compiled observations and half-reasoned principles. Shallow pates enjoy this because it can be used for everyday chat, but the sagacious find in it only confusion, and being unsatisfied and unable to help themselves, they turn away their eyes, while philosophers, who see quite well through this delusion, are little listened to when they call men off for a time from this pretended popularity in order that they might be rightfully popular after they have attained a definite insight.

Advirtió que al fin se explicaba por qué era tan desalentadora aquella vida, en la que cada camino resultaba una improvisación y había que gestar la mayor pate del tiempo en vigilar cada paso que uno daba”.

On the map she looked at, there was no place marker for Pate Island. No color brown or green to suggest her own existence within the sea. So she wanted to know about places that could be rendered invisible.

Because it’s not over.” Flat. “We have to find out who is trying to jeopardize the program. In order to do that, we needed an agent who was strong enough to survive anything that came his way.” Pate’s stare drifted over him. “You’re the strongest thing I’ve seen. Even Shane can’t compete against you.” “Shane’s dead.” “Is he?” Pate murmured. “I’m sure that’s what the villagers all thought a few centuries back, too.” What?

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak profanely), that neither having th' accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.

Come, how wouldst thou praise me? IAGO I am about it; but indeed my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze; It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours, And thus she is deliver'd. If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one's for use, the other useth it. DESDEMONA Well praised! How if she be black and witty? IAGO If she be black, and thereto have a wit, She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit. DESDEMONA Worse and worse. EMILIA How if fair and foolish? IAGO She never yet was foolish that was fair; For even her folly help'd her to an heir. DESDEMONA These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i' the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that's foul and foolish? IAGO There's none so foul and foolish thereunto, But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.

It is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively unctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with abhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration before mentioned: i.e. that a man should eat a newly murdered thing of the sea, and eat it too by its own light. But no doubt the first man that ever murdered an ox was regarded as murderer; perhaps he was hung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would have been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does. Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and featest on their bloated livers in they pate-de-fois-gras. But Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is adding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my civilized and enlightened gourmand dining off that roast beef, what is that handle made of?—what but the bones of the brother of the very ox you are eating? And what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring that fat goose? With a feather of the same fowl. And with what quill did the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Ganders formerly indite his circulars? It is only within the last month or two that that society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but steel pens.

After the first few weeks of building up intense hope about the dog, it had slowly dawned on him that intense hope was not the answer and never had been. In a world of monotonous horror there could be no salvation in wild dreaming. Horror he had adjusted to. But monotony was the greater obstacle, and he realized it now, understood it at long last. And understanding it seemed to give him a sort of quiet peace, a sense of having spread all the cards on his mental table, examined them, and settled conclusively on the desired hand. Burying the dog had not been the agony he had supposed it would be. In a way, it was almost like burying threadbare hopes and false excitements. From that day on he learned to accept the dungeon he existed in, neither seeking to escape with sudden derring-do nor beating his pate bloody on its walls. And, thus resigned, he returned to work.

Then a begging brother in a tattered brown robe said a blessing on his sword, and a maid kissed his cheek. 'They are for me,' "Why?" He asked Pate. "What am I to them?" "A knight who remembered his vows," the smith said.

Australia! Australians! Surely it's still full of Magwitch-types, lumbering oafs with shaven pates and broken noses on the run from whatever law there is, chucking kangaroo heads on the barbie as they read their awful bush poetry.

Good news, men. My old enemy Captain Pate has a posse raiding homes on the Santa Fe Road and planning to attack Lawrence. He got Jason and John with him. They are likely to drop 'em at Fort Leavenworth for imprisonment. We going after them." "How big is his army?" Owen asked. "A hundred fifty to two hundred, I'm told," Old Man Brown said. I looked around. I counted twenty-three among us, includ ing me. "We only got ammo for a day's fight," Owen said. "Doesn't matter." "What we gonna use when we run out? Harsh language?

And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee

Your father played chess," Hertz Shemets once said, "like a man with a toothache, a hemorrhoid, and gas." He sighed, he moaned. He tugged in fits at the patchy remnant of his brown hair, or chased it with his fingers back and forth across his pate like a pastry chef scattering flour on a marble slab. The blunders of his opponents were each a separate cramp in the abdomen. His own moves, however daring, however startling and original and strong, struck him like successive pieces of terrible news, so that he covered his mouth and rolled his eyes at the sight of them.

One day in 1948 or 1949, the Brentwood County Mart, a shopping complex in an upscale neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, was the scene of a slight disturbance that carried overtones of the most spectacular upheaval in twientieth-century music. Marta Feuchtwanger, wife of émigré novelist Lion Feuchtwanger, was examining grapefruit in the produce section when she heard a voice shouting German from the far end of the aisle. She looked up to see Arnold Schoenberg, the pioneer of atonal music and the codifier of twelve-tone composition, bearing down on her, with his bald pate and burning eyes. Decades later, in conversation with the writer Lawrence Weschler, Feuchtwanger could recall every detail of the encounter, including the weight of the grapefruit in her hand. “Lies, Frau Marta, lies!” Schoenberg was yelling. “You have to know, I never had syphilis!

Vechea mea viata mi se parea ca un vis- un vis in cea mai mare pate placut, lipsit de evenimente . Acum ma trezisem din ele si imi dadusem seama cine si ce eram , cu bune si cu rele. Nu exista nici o cale de a inchide ochii si a aluneca inapoi in acel fericit vis al normalului. Acesta era normalul meu acum.

Most of the world’s mountain ranges have been thrown up by the jostling and collision of the continental plates. Thus, for example, the Alps were created when the Adriatic Plate (which carries Italy on its back) was driven into the Eurasian Plate. The oldest mountains are those which are now the lowest, for erosion has had time to reduce them. The blunted, rubbed-down spine of the Urals, for instance, speaks of great age. So too do the rounded forms of the Scottish Cairngorms. Perhaps surprisingly, among the youngest mountains on earth are the Himalaya, which began to form only 65 million years ago, when the Indian Plate motored northwards and smashed slowly into the Eurasian Plate – ducking underneath it and then butting it five-and-a-half miles upwards into the air. Compared to the earth’s venerable ranges, the Himalaya are adolescents, with sharp, punkish ridges instead of the bald and worn-down pates of older ranges.

A bald pate, gleaming in the white light. Just look at him, Ferdinand, I told myself again, even before he opens his mouth, you've reached the end of the road. There's surely no more frightening cunt in the whole of the French army. He's something else. If he can find a way, he'll have you shot tomorrow morning at dawn.

Što će mi takva osveta,što će mi pakao za mučitelje,što tu pakao može popraviti kad je dijete već nastradalo?I kakva je to harmonija ako postoji pakao:ja želim oprostiti i želim sve zagrliti,ja neću da ljudi i dalje pate.A ako patnje djece samo popunjavaju onu količinu patnje koja je potrebna da se otkupi istina,onda unaprijed tvrdim da sva istina ne vrijedi toga.Na kraju krajeva,ja ne želim da se majka grli s krvnikom koji joj je dao rastrgati sina! Postoji li na cijelom svijetu biće koje bi moglo i imalo pravo oprostiti?Ja ne želim harmoniju,ne želim je iz ljubavi prema čovječanstvu.Radije ću ostati sa svojim neosvećenim patnjama.Radije ću ostati na svojoj neosvećenoj patnji i na svom neiskaljenom ogorčenju,makar i ne bio u pravu.Pa i previsoku su cijenu odredili toj harmoniji,nije za naš džep tolika ulaznina.I zato hitam da vratim svoju ulaznicu.Ako sam pošten čovjek,dužan sam je što prije vratiti.To upravo i činim.Nije da ja Boga ne priznajem,Aljoša,nego mu samo najponiznije vraćam ulaznicu.

But soon a tear-drop started up, For aimless joy had made me stop Beside the little lake To watch a white gull take A bit of bread thrown up into the air; Now gyring down and perning there He splashed where an absurd Portly green-pated bird Shook off the water from his back; Being no more demoniac A stupid happy creature Could rouse my whole nature.

Life is a journey, a ride of endless means and emotions.

Those were their cards and they had to play them, willy-nilly, hunchbacked or straight backed, crippled or clean-limbed, addle-pated or clear-headed. There was no fairness in it. The cards most picked up put them into the sucker class; the cards of a few enabled them to become robbers. The playing of the cards was life—the crowd of players, society. The table

Nothing more than a simple panic attack.” The doctor’s bald pate reflected the overhead panel lighting like a shimmering, sweaty halo above his radiantly clean lab coat. A stethoscope hung uselessly around his neck. He leaned forward over his desk and clasped his hands, bringing them up to support his chin in what I assumed was his thoughtful pose. “Are you still smoking?

Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken. I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of any thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier: If thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

Captain Tsuneyoshi was a caricature of the bombastic prison warden. The Americans would call him “Little Hitler.” A short, bowlegged, mustachioed man, he wore baggy pants and riding boots with spurs. A large samurai sword dangled at his side. He had grave, penetrating eyes, a bald pate, a scar on his right cheek, and a mole on his bottom lip. “He was one of the ugliest mortals I have ever seen,” one prisoner later wrote.

So many come to see me die, thought Dunk bitterly, but he wronged them. A few steps farther on, a woman called out 'Good fortune to you.' An old man stepped up to take his hand and said, 'May the gods give you strength, ser.' Then a begging brother in a tattered brown robe said a blessing on his sword, and a maid kissed his cheek. They are for me. 'Why?' he asked Pate. 'What am I to them?' 'A knight who remembered his vows,' the smith said.

Mummy and two attendant poets have three bad colds in the head, so I have come here. It is the feast of S. Nichodemus of Thyatira, who was martyred by having goatskin nailed to his pate, and is accordingly the patron of bald heads. Tell Collins, who I am sure will be bald before us. There are too many people here, but one, praise heaven! has an ear-trumpet, and that keeps me in good humor. And now I must try to catch a fish. It is too far to send it to you so I will keep the backbone…

The War broke out, and our city and country became a part of Hitler's Imperium. For five and a half years we lived in a dimension completely different from that which any literature or experience could have led us to know. What we beheld surpassed the most daring and the most macabre imagination. Descriptions of horrors known to us of old now made us smile at their naivete. German rule in Eu­rope was ruthless, but nowhere so ruthless as in the East, for the East was populated by races which, according to the doctrines of National Socialism, were either to be utterly eradicated or else used for heavy physical labor. The events we were forced to partici­pate in resulted from the effort to put these doctrines into practice. Still we lived; and since we were writers, we tried to write. True, from time to time one of us dropped out, shipped off to a concentration camp or shot. There was no help for this. We were like people marooned on a dissolving floe of ice; we dared not think of the moment when it would melt away.

Tom smiled at the Fleming — a bright, friendly smile — and bobbed his head courteously. That confused the jolt-head. Then, by way of making conversation while his confederates gained their positions, he said, "I suppose someone must have told you — your mother, perhaps, or your father, though I doubt you ever knew him — that you're an idle-headed canker. A rank pustule? No? Not even an irksome, crook-pated, pathetical nit?" The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith's hammer.

He intends to publish his memoirs about his years as Chief Resident in Japan, but somehow life always conspires to rob him of the time. Jacob turns fifty. He is elected on to the council of Middelburg. Jacob turns sixty, and his memoirs are still unwritten. His copper hair loses is burnish, his face sags and his hairline retreats until it resembles an elderly samurai’s shaven pate. A rising artist who paints his portrait wonders at his air of melancholic distance, but exorcises the ghost of absence from the finished painting.

There's an epigram tacked to my office bulletin board, pinched from a magazine — 'Wanting to meet an author because you like his work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like pâté. That's a light enough comment upon the disappointments of encountering the famous, or even the moderately well-known — they are always shorter and older and more ordinary than you expected - but there's a more sinister way of looking at it as well. In order for the pate* to be made and then eaten, the duck must first be killed. And who is it that does the killing?

But it was only a dog." Of course no one actually says that, but it feels to Sune as if all his neighbors are thinking it. Everyday life just carries on out in the street while he sits in a million pieces in his kitchen. When he collects the mail someone goes past and says "sorry for your loss," but that isn't what he wants them to feel sorry about. He wants them to feel sorry about his life, and the fact that he's going to have to see it out now without that ill-disciplined, unruly little monster. Without paws on the edge of the bed and bite marks on his wrists. How's that going to work? Who's going to eat all the liver pate in the fridge? He receives a few text messages and phone calls from the committee of the hockey club and a couple of coaches of the youth teams, all very sorry, but not as if it had been a person. They're sad that Sune is sad, of course, but they don't really understand his loss. Because of course it was only a dog. It's so hard to explain that it's more than an animal when you're that animal's human. Perhaps it takes more empathy than most people are capable of. Or more imagination.

My favorite of all was still the place on Vermont, the French cafe, La Lyonnaise, that had given me the best onion soup on that night with George and my father. The two owners hailed from France, from Lyon, before the city had boomed into a culinary sibling of Paris. Inside, it had only a few tables, and the waiters served everything out of order, and it had a B rating in the window, and they usually sat me right by the swinging kitchen door, but I didn't care about any of it. There, I ordered chicken Dijon, or beef Bourguignon, or a simple green salad, or a pate sandwich, and when it came to the table, I melted into whatever arrived. I lavished in a forkful of spinach gratin on the side, at how delighted the chef had clearly been over the balance of spinach and cheese, like she was conducting a meeting of spinach and cheese, like a matchmaker who knew they would shortly fall in love. Sure, there were small distractions and preoccupations in it all, but I could find the food in there, the food was the center, and the person making the food was so connected with the food that I could really, for once, enjoy it.

Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal's jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate-de-foie-gras.

Guilt is the only affect I know of that does not diminish with time. Nor does the guilty conscience have any sense of priority or right proportion. In my time I have, knowingly or otherwise, sent men and women to terrible deaths, yet I do not feel as sharp a pang when I think of them as I do when I recall the gleam of light on my father’s bowed pate at the table just then, or Hettie’s big sad soft eyes looking at me in silent beseeching, without anger or resentment, asking me to be kind to an ageing, anxious man, to be tolerant of the littleness of their lives; asking me to have a heart.

She treated her father with some lightness, even irony, and in at least one television interview she made fun of his comb-over. She often described the mechanics behind it to friends: an absolutely clean pate—a contained island after scalp reduction surgery—surrounded by a furry circle of hair around the sides and front, from which all ends are drawn up to meet in the center and then swept back and secured by a stiffening spray. The color, she would point out to comical effect, was from a product called Just for Men—the longer it was left on, the darker it got. Impatience resulted in Trump’s orange-blond hair color.

The poor fugitive had exchanged his reindeer-skin garments for a full suit of black, left at the Spladgest by a famous Throndhjem grammarian, who drowned himself in despair because he could not find out why "Jupiter" changed to " Jovis" in the genitive. His wooden shoes gave place to a stout pair of postilion boots, whose owner had been killed by his horses, in which his slender shanks had so much spare room that he could not have walked without the aid of half a truss of hay. The huge wig of an elegant young Frenchman, slain by thieves just outside the city gates, concealed his bald pate and floated over his sharp, crooked shoulders.

Sis rolls her eyes and leads the elderly lady over to the S-shaped tables crammed with silver trays of ham biscuits, pickled shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, venison pate, fruit and cheese in ornately carved-out watermelons, smoked salmon with all the trimmings, sausage balls, and pimento cheese garnished with little cocktail pickles. Sis's mama gets a nibble of shrimp and a ham biscuit and points to another corner of the tent where Richadene's brother, Melvin, is carving a beef tenderloin and serving it on rolls with horseradish and mayonnaise. Next to Melvin, R.L.'s chef friend from Savannah is serving up shrimp and grits in large martini glasses.

FIGURE 7–5. Discriminatory and affirmative action policies, 1950–2003 Source: Graph from Asal & Pate, 2005. The sociologist Lawrence Bobo and his colleagues decided to see for themselves by examining the history of white Americans’ attitudes toward African Americans.26 They found that far from being indestructible, overt racism has been steadily disintegrating. Figure 7–6 shows that in the 1940s and early 1950s a majority of Americans said they were opposed to black children attending white schools, and as late as the early 1960s almost half said they would move away if a black family moved in next door. By the 1980s the percentages with these attitudes were in the single digits.

Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over, and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly, because any moment an adventure might occur that might win an island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the labourer was called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his neighbour.

And last week, when he finally began to erase it, he noticed something very strange: the accent on the letter E was actually formed from a piece of materiel. We all watched as he stared at the letter E for a very long time. Then he slowly unpeeled the rolled-up cloth fro the blackboard and unfurled the biggest pair of polka dot panties anyone in the room had ever seen.

We can move this way, but I can’t fight at the same time.” “Nav, take point. I’ll take the rear,” said Pyrrha, to which the corpse prince said, “Nice,” and Nona laughed out loud. She felt a little drunk and strange. At that laugh, the old man stared up at her in frank dismay and reproof—then his face closed up somehow, left off its look of horror and awe, and h looked at her with a totally different expression. He really did look like a skeleton mask, with his age-spotted pate and deeply shadowed, bitter eye. Nona looked away, and found the corpse prince had looked at her briefly too, again with an expression even Nona couldn’t translate. Pyrrha held her close and said: “Can’t be doing that badly, if you’re going to laugh at an ass joke.

Mad world, mad kings, mad composition! John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a part; And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That broker that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,— Who having no external thing to lose But the word ‘maid’, cheats the poor maid of that— That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity; Commodity, the bias of the world, The world who of itself is peisèd well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, 580 From all direction, purpose, course, intent; And this same bias, this commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, Clapped on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him from his own determined aid, From a resolved and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this commodity? But for because he hath not wooed me yet— Not that I have the power to clutch my hand When his fair angels would salute my palm, But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich, And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.

I have scars on my hands from touching certain people. Once, in the park, when Franny was still in the carriage, I put my hand on the downy pate of her head and left it there too long. Another time, at Loew's Seventy-second Street, with Zooey during a spooky movie. He was about six or seven, and he went under the seat to avoid watching a scary scene. I put my hand on his head. Certain heads, certain colors and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me. Other things, too. Charlotte once ran away from me, outside the studio, and I grabbed her dress to stop her, to keep her near me. A yellow cotton dress I loved because it was too long for her. I still have a lemon-yellow mark on the palm of my right hand. Oh, God, if I'm anything by a clinical name, I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

U rrita nënoke... dhe kam filluar të të ngjaj gjithnjë e më shumë... Tashmë zgjohem herët... dhe flej para të gjithëve... Trafiku ka filluar të më mbysë... e fjalët më lodhin... U rrita nënokja ime dhe kam filluar të pij më shumë çaj... më pëlqejnë barishtet... dhe aroma e qelibarit... U rrita nënoke dhe gjithçka e lexoj vetëm... qaj në heshtje vetëm... dhe përmallem krejt vetëm... U rrita nënokja ime, të gjithë largohen... dhe miqtë janë pakësuar shumë... Më pëlqen më shumë qetësia, e imagjinon dot...? kurse zhurmat m’i shterojnë energjitë... U rrita nënoke dhe s’e shijoj qëndrimin natën vonë... dhe krejt si ti, tashmë është deti ai që më fal qetësi... bota është bërë kaq e komplikuar... e thjeshtësia gjithnjë e më e vështirë... Sot, njerëzit u ngjajnë më shumë kukullave... e unë nuk di të luaj më... Jeta nuk është siç më pate thënë... plot ngjyra... kurse udhët, kryesisht, gumëzhijnë nga njerëzit e shumtë... të gjithëve, nënoke, u rëndojnë halle mbi supe... Gjithnjë e më shumë, nënoke, më merr malli për veten... Kam mall për thjeshtësinë e atyre ditëve në shtëpinë e gjyshit... Kam mall për atë kohë atje, kam mall për ty... Kam mall për veten time të vogël, si dikur... Kam mall për qortimin tënd spontan, të sinqertë, të butë dhe lotues... Tashmë është jeta që më qorton, nënoke... janë ditët e padrejta që kritikojnë... të gjithë ua hedhin fajin të gjithëve... Nuk ka më dashuri pa interes... dhe mirësjellja është shndërruar në një kompliment me kosto... U rrita nënoke dhe pashë që isha plakur... thinjat mi pushtuan flokët e mi të errët, të cilët i doje aq fort... e që dikur u thurrje këngë e luaje me to... U rrita shumë... e bota nuk është aq interesante sa mendoja... U rrita nënoke që ta kuptoj se unë jam ai vogëlushi jot, sado të rritem... dhe se përqafimi yt është e gjithë bota ime... Ah nënokja ime.

And what about your companions? What about Legolas and me?’ cried Gimli, unable to contain himself longer. ‘You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us! Two hundred leagues, through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you feasting and idling – and smoking! Smoking! Where did you come by the weed, you villains? Hammer and tongs! I am so torn between rage and joy, that if I do not burst, it will be a marvel!’ ‘You speak for me, Gimli,’ laughed Legolas. ‘Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine.’ ‘One thing you have not found in your hunting, and that’s brighter wits,’ said Pippin, opening an eye. ‘Here you find us sitting on a field of victory, amid the plunder of armies, and you wonder how we came by a few well-earned comforts!’ ‘Well-earned?’ said Gimli. ‘I cannot believe that!’ The Riders laughed. ‘It cannot be doubted that we witness the meeting of dear friends,’ said Théoden.

BIFF - Hast though my homework finish'd yet, McFly? GEORGE - In truth, it is not yet completed, Biff. Because it is not due until far later. [Biff grabs George and begins knocking on his head.] BIFF - I'll bash thee on thy pate, an thou so speakest! Are brains herein, that I must knock and see? Use thou thy mind and with it think, McFly - I must have time enow to write the words In mine own hand, as if the work were mine. Hast thou the consequences consider'd, George, Should I submit some homework pen'd by thee, Writ in the manner of thy shaky hand? I would, most quickly, be sent from the school. Thou wouldst not want that lot for Biff, wouldst thou? Wouldst thou? Speak faster, for thy pause doth vex. GEORGE - Of course not, Biff, 'twould be a tragedy. [Biff notices Marty staring at George.] BIFF - [to Marty:] Upon what lookest thou, thou arse-like pate? SKINHEAD - Behold his life preserver, Biff - ha, ha! This knave, this rogue, this dork thinks he shall drown.

I don't mind if you want to keep it. But... why did you?" Keir shrugged. "'Tis no' my way to take a feeling apart and examine the workings of it." Merritt tilted her head, regarding him intently. "Did you want it as a trophy, perhaps? To remind you someday of a conquest you once made?" Keir's smile vanished. He didn't think she really believed that, but the suggestion- the very idea of it- filled him with indignation. "No. I'm no' a brute who would think of you as a thing to be won." Seeming to realize he was genuinely offended, Merritt said hastily, "Oh, I didn't mean to imply-" "I may have rough ways, but I know how to be gentle with a woman-" "Yes. Of course. I shouldn't have put it that way-" "-and as for needing a reminder-" Keir's indignation deepened into outrage. "Do you think me so shallow-pated I'd need reminding of a woman I once held in my arms? How could I forget you? The most-" He was interrupted as Merritt took his face in her hands and kissed him again. There was more he'd meant to say, but her mouth was too luscious to resist.

The beauty of life is its sudden changes. No one knows what is going to happen next, and so we are constantly being surprised and entertained. The many ups and downs should not discourage us, for if we are down, we know that a change is coming and we will go up again; while those who are up are almost certain to go down. My grandfather had a song which well expresses this and if you will listen I will sing it." "Of course I will listen to your song," returned Kitticut, "for it would be impolite not to." So Rinkitink sang his grandfather's song: "A mighty King once ruled the land—      But now he's baking pies. A pauper, on the other hand,      Is ruling, strong and wise. A tiger once in jungles raged—      But now he's in a zoo; A lion, captive-born and caged,      Now roams the forest through. A man once slapped a poor boy's pate      And made him weep and wail. The boy became a magistrate      And put the man in jail. A sunny day succeeds the night;      It's summer—then it snows! Right oft goes wrong and wrong comes right,      As ev'ry wise man knows.

Ponajčešće ljubav znači rat. Borba u kojoj svako nastoji da ščepa za vrat onog drugog. Sastoji se od ljubomore, posedovanja, pripadanja, čak u odnosima koji izgledaju najširokogrudiji. Kao u svim drugim bitkama i u ovoj padaju žrtve. Uvek postoji jedan koji voli više nego drugi, jedan koji pati, drugi - koji pati zato što nanosi patnju. Na sreću, ne pate uvek jedni te isti, pa odnos može da se preokrene. Ali, postoji i izvesna nežnost koja nam pomaže da prihvatimo onog drugog, a koja se sastoji od poverenja i dostojanstva. No, žalosno je što ljudi uvek nastoje da dobiju na jednoj strani ono što su izgubili na drugoj. Malo ih je koji su zadovoljni položajem i svojim materijalnim stanjem. Oni pokušavaju da to nadoknade na račun drugih u svojim ljubavnim odnosima, jer žele nešto da se ušićari. Dobija se, dok sve ide svojim tokom. Osim toga, u ljubavnim odnosima postoje "smicalice" kojima se možemo poslužiti, te ostaviti partneru da posumnja da li ga uopšte volimo. Meni je to odvratno. Postoji, takodje, jedan prirodan, razuman odnos koji potvrdjuje činjenica da ako neko s vama živi, s vama spava i smeje se - s vama, onda vas zacelo i voli, pa onda čemu sumnjati da će prvom prilikom da otprhne.

Arm in arm with a fellow who's had the mishap, To forget, when he shagged her, to button his flap. Nor I don't like to see, though some think it a treat. A young woman scratching her thing in the street; And a boarding-school miss, with no sense in her pate. Sit and chalk a man's tool on the back of her slate. I don't like to see, in the bright face of the day, A man stand and piss in the public highway; Nor a Newfoundland dog, without any disguise. Tied fast to a bitch not a quarter his size. Nor I don't like to see, little sisters and brothers Get playing at what they call fathers and mothers; And I don't like to see, though at me you might scoff, An old woman trying to toss herself off. I don't like to see - it's a fact that I utter - That nasty word — written up on a shutter: And I don't like to see a man, drunk as an Earl. Getting into a lamp-post thinking it's a girl. I don't like to see, 'cause my feelings it shocks. Two girls busy playing with each other's c-; Nor I don't like to see, though it may be a whim. A hole like a pit-mouth in place of a q-. But I fear I'm encroaching too much on your time, So I'll put an end to my quizzical rhyme; Though with my way of taste you'll perhaps not agree, I've told you the things I don't like to see.

Sijepa ljubav majke prema svom djetetu, glupi, slijepo ponos oca, uobraženog oca na sina jedinca, šturo neobuzdano stremljenje za adiđarima i zadivljenim pogledima muškaraca kod neke mlade, sujetne žene, svi ovi nagoni, sve ove djetinjarije, svi ovi priprosti, budalasti, ali neobično snažni, toliko životni i silno prodorni porivi i požude za Sidartu više nisu bili djetinjarija, vidio je da ljudi radi njih žive, radi njih stvaraju neizmjerna čuda, putuju, vode ratove, neizmjerno pate, neizmjerno trpe, pa je zbog toga mogao samo da ih voli, vidio je život, životvornost, ono nerazrušivo u svim njihovim strastima, u svim njihovim djelima. Ljudi su bili dostojni ljubavi i divljenja u svojoj slijepoj odanosi, snazi i žilavosti. Ništa im nije nedostajalo, posvećeni i mislioci su bili samo malko ispred njih, imali su samo jedno jedino sićušno preimućstvo: svijest, svjesnu misao o jedinstvu svega živog. U izvjesnim časovima Sidarta bi, štaviše, posumnjao, treba li to saznanje, tu misao ocijeniti tako visoko, nije li samo možda i to djetinjarija misaonih ljudi, misaono djetinjih ljudi. U svemu drugom su ljudi iz svijeta bili ravni mudracu, često i daleko nadmoćniji, kao što i životinje, u svom upornom, nepokolebljivom izvršavanju onoga što je potrebno, u izvjesnim trenucima na izgled imaju nadmoć nad ljudima.

I’m sorry,” said the kitty. “I’ve wrecked your broomstick ride.” “No matter,” said Witch Mildred. “We’re here. Let’s go inside!” The clock atop the castle read twenty after eight, but the promised buffet table held only emptied plates! “No eye or newt? No sautéed slug? No pickleworm pate? No casserole of cockroach! No spiderweb soufflé! Those greedy gobbling goblins left zilch for us to eat.” Said the starving skeleton, “Why don’t we trick-or-treat?” They passed a lighted cottage, from which rose song and laughter. The mummy boldly rang the bell, All others traipsing after. The children squealed and giggled as they greeted their new guests, for of all the trick-or-treaters, these costumes were the best! The hostess asked the callers to join them at their party. “Check out this spread!” the mummy said. The hostess said, “Eat hearty.” “Taffy apples! Candy corn! Purple punch, ice-cold! My tongue’s not touched such tastiness since I was six years old!” In the corner of the kitchen Witch Mildred found a mop. “I think this will do nicely while my broom is in the shop.” “May I, please?” asked Mildred, and seated her new friends. With a loud “Thank you!” away they flew, in loopy swoops and bends. That night Witch Mildred dreamed of cakes and lemonade, but far more sweet than party treats were the friendships she had made!

We put him to the test that afternoon after the Kid woke up. I piled every weapon we had into the wagon and trucked the arsenal halfway across the San Simon Valley. One by one I fired off a round from each of the borrowed weapons and wrote down the order in which I had sent the reports. When I returned at midafternoon, we compared my notes to the Kid’s. Jack had not once failed to identify gun make and model, caliber, and brand of ammunition. He was even able to tell whether I had fired off a report with my right or left hand. Lord knows how he did that. I, of course, had to see it for myself. We sent Pate off to the South Pass of the Dragoons and he commenced to fire off rounds at dusk. BAM! came the first report, aborning to us from the distant mountains and then quickly disintegrating into the maw of the desert sky. “Remington forty-four,” Jack said. “Eighteen sixty-nine model.” He sat on a rock with his hands splayed over his stumpy knees and his head cocked for the next selection. POW! Jack pursed his lips. “Colt’s Lightning . . . forty-one caliber . . . iv’ry grips.” BOOM! At this report Jack chuckled. “Well, first off . . . forty-five caliber Peacemaker, seven-and-a-half-inch barrel,” he announced proudly. Then he smiled. “That ol’ dodger Pate . . . he’s a slick one, tryin’ to pull one on me.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Along with the Colt he let go with a derringer, thirty-two caliber. Sounded like it ain’t been cleaned in a while.” I sat down next to Jack and draped my arm over his rounded shoulders. “Jack, I believe you’ve given credence to the saying that every man on this earth serves a role.” Jack gave me a look. “ ‘Serves a roll?’ Are we in the restaurant business again?

Neko je jednom rekao da je umetnik u isto vreme nešto mnogo manje i nešto mnogo više od običnog čoveka. U današnje ljubomorno vreme, ti ljudi, ti obični ljudi, oni pate zato što se boje da je umetnik to drugo. A umetnici pate jer se boje da su ipak ono prvo. Ranjivi, preosetljivi, nesposobni da zagrle stvarnost onakvu kakva ona jeste. Netalentovani za život, talentovani za nešto drugo. Nešto drugo, ha. Bez ikakve garancije da je to drugo zaista nešto istinito. Srećni i nesrećni jer vide dalje i više nego ostali. Večito prljavi od tragova tuđih šaka na sebi, šaka šakala koji ih vuku dole, u svet pod libelom. Umetnik nikada ne zna da li više voli život ili smrt, zato. On večito luta između te dve krajnosti. Neko drugi je pak rekao da je umetnost kompenzacija za stvarnost, jer nastaje iz onoga što nemaš. Umetnici, naravno, nikad nemaju ništa. Njihove ruke love vazduh, zato svima izgledaju prazno. Umetnik nema dokaza da nisu prazne. Nikad nema dokaza. Nikad ne zna da li je od neba dobio dar ili prokletstvo. Da li je njegov tajanstveni sufler muza, ili demon? Da li on stvara ili samo prenosi? Znanje je imanje, vele ljudi - pa tako, kako umetnik nikad ništa od ovoga ne zna, logično, on ništa i nema. On je tu da pred svetom bezrezervno brani nešto u šta ni sam nikada ne može biti siguran. Nikad do kraja. S vremenom, on postaje zavisnik - uslov njegovog življenja postaje činjenica da li je priznat ili nije. Onog časa kada inspiracija počne da ga napušta, on je gori paćenik od svakog zaljubljenog balavca. On ne može da preživi činjenicu da je ostavljen. On ostaje nenadoknadivo napušten. On umre bedan i jadan. Ono malo vazduha što je zarobio prstima tada proklizi i nestane, kao da ga nikada nije ni bilo. I on nestane sa ovog sveta ne znajući da li ga je uopšte bilo.

As they stand in the muck of the Cypress Swamp, black and thinly crusted, each Step breaking through to release a Smell of Generations of Deaths, something in it, some principle of untaught Mechanicks, tugging at their ankles, voiceless, importunate,— a moment arrives, when one of them smacks his Pate for something other than a Mosquitoe. “Ev’rywhere they’ve sent us,— the Cape, St. Helena, America,— what’s the Element common to all?” “Long Voyages by Sea,” replies Mason, blinking in Exhaustion by now chronick. “Was there anything else?” “Slaves. Ev’ry day at the Cape, we lived with Slavery in our faces,— more of it at St. Helena,— and now here we are again, in another Colony, this time having drawn them a Line between their Slave-Keepers, and their Wage-Payers, as if doom’d to re-encounter thro’ the World this public Secret, this shameful Core. . . . Pretending it to be ever somewhere else, with the Turks, the Russians, the Companies, down there, down where it smells like warm Brine and Gunpowder fumes, they’re murdering and dispossessing thousands untallied, the innocent of the World, passing daily into the Hands of Slave-owners and Torturers, but oh, never in Holland, nor in England, that Garden of Fools . . . ? Christ, Mason.” “Christ, what? What did I do?” “Huz. Didn’t we take the King’s money, as here we’re taking it again? whilst Slaves waited upon us, and we neither one objected, as little as we have here, in certain houses south of the Line,— Where does it end? No matter where in it we go, shall we find all the World Tyrants and Slaves? America was the one place we should not have found them.” “Yet we’re not Slaves, after all,— we’re Hirelings.” “I don’t trust this King, Mason. I don’t think anybody else does, either. Tha saw Lord Ferrers take the Drop at Tyburn. They execute their own. What may they be willing to do to huz?

(...) the farming districts, the civilized world over, are dependent upon the cities for the gathering of the harvests. Then it is, when the land is spilling its ripe wealth to waste, that the street folk, who have been driven away from the soil, are called back to it again. But in England they return, not as prodigals, but as outcasts still, as vagrants and pariahs, to be doubted and flouted by their country brethren, to sleep in jails and casual wards, or under the hedges, and to live the Lord knows how. It is estimated that Kent alone requires eighty thousand of the street people to pick her hops. And out they come, obedient to the call, which is the call of their bellies and of the lingering dregs of adventure- lust still in them. Slum, stews, and ghetto pour them forth, and the festering contents of slum, stews, and ghetto are undiminished. Yet they overrun the country like an army of ghouls, and the country does not want them. They are out of place. As they drag their squat, misshapen bodies along the highways and byways, they resemble some vile spawn from underground. Their very presence, the fact of their existence, is an outrage to the fresh bright sun and the green and growing things. The clean, upstanding trees cry shame upon them and their withered crookedness, and their rottenness is a slimy desecration of the sweetness and purity of nature. Is the picture overdrawn? It all depends. For one who sees and thinks life in terms of shares and coupons, it is certainly overdrawn. But for one who sees and thinks life in terms of manhood and womanhood, it cannot be overdrawn. Such hordes of beastly wretchedness and inarticulate misery are no compensation for a millionaire brewer who lives in a West End palace, sates himself with the sensuous delights of London's golden theatres, hobnobs with lordlings and princelings, and is knighted by the king. Wins his spurs- God forbid! In old time the great blonde beasts rode in the battle's van and won their spurs by cleaving men from pate to chin. And, after all, it is far finer to kill a strong man with a clean-slicing blow of singing steel than to make a beast of him, and of his seed through the generations, by the artful and spidery manipulation of industry and politics.

After dinner Karamenaios would drop in. We had about fifty words with which to make lingual currency. We didn't even need that many, as I soon discovered. There are a thousand ways of talking and words don't help if the spirit is absent. Karamenaios and I were eager to talk. lt made little difference to me whether we talked about the war or about knives and forks. Sometimes we discovered that a word or phrase which we had been using for days, he in English or I in Greek, meant something entirely different than we had thought it to mean. It made no difference. We understood one another even with the wrong words. I could learn five new words in an evening and forget six or eight during my sleep. The important thing was the warm handclasp, the light in the eyes, the grapes which we devoured in common, the glass we raised to our lips in sign of friendship. Now and then I would get excited and, using a melange of English, Greek, German, French, Choctaw, Eskimo, Swahili or any other tongue I felt would serve the purpose, using the chair, the table, the spoon, the lamp, the bread knife, I would enact for him a fragment of my life in New York, Paris, London, Chula Vista, Canarsie, Hackensack or in some place I had never been or some place I had been in a dream or when lying asleep on the operating table. Sometimes I felt so good, so versatile and acrobatic, that I would stand on the table and sing in some unknown language or hop from the table to the commode and from the commode to the staircase or swing from the rafters, anything to entertain him, keep him amused, make him roll from side to side with laughter. I was considered an old man in the village because of my bald pate and fringe of white hair. Nobody had ever seen an old man cut up the way I did. "The old man is going for a swim," they would say. "The old man is taking the boat out." Always "the old man." If a storm came up and they knew I was out in the middle of the pond they would send someone out to see that "the old man" got in safely. If I decided to take a jaunt through the hills Karamenaios would offer to accompany me so that no harm would come to me. If I got stranded somewhere I had only to announce that I was an American and at once a dozen hands were ready to help me.

Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! (520) Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wann'd, Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing! For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, (530) That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, Make mad the guilty and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, (540) And can say nothing; no, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs? who does me this? Ha! 'Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall (550) To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, (560) A scullion! Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks; (570) I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds More relative than this: the play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

I have been all over the world cooking and eating and training under extraordinary chefs. And the two food guys I would most like to go on a road trip with are Anthony Bourdain and Michael Ruhlmann, both of whom I have met, and who are genuinely awesome guys, hysterically funny and easy to be with. But as much as I want to be the Batgirl in that trio, I fear that I would be woefully unprepared. Because an essential part of the food experience that those two enjoy the most is stuff that, quite frankly, would make me ralph. I don't feel overly bad about the offal thing. After all, variety meats seem to be the one area that people can get a pass on. With the possible exception of foie gras, which I wish like heckfire I liked, but I simply cannot get behind it, and nothing is worse than the look on a fellow foodie's face when you pass on the pate. I do love tongue, and off cuts like oxtails and cheeks, but please, no innards. Blue or overly stinky cheeses, cannot do it. Not a fan of raw tomatoes or tomato juice- again I can eat them, but choose not to if I can help it. Ditto, raw onions of every variety (pickled is fine, and I cannot get enough of them cooked), but I bonded with Scott Conant at the James Beard Awards dinner, when we both went on a rant about the evils of raw onion. I know he is often sort of douchey on television, but he was nice to me, very funny, and the man makes the best freaking spaghetti in tomato sauce on the planet. I have issues with bell peppers. Green, red, yellow, white, purple, orange. Roasted or raw. Idk. If I eat them raw I burp them up for days, and cooked they smell to me like old armpit. I have an appreciation for many of the other pepper varieties, and cook with them, but the bell pepper? Not my friend. Spicy isn't so much a preference as a physical necessity. In addition to my chronic and severe gastric reflux, I also have no gallbladder. When my gallbladder and I divorced several years ago, it got custody of anything spicier than my own fairly mild chili, Emily's sesame noodles, and that plastic Velveeta-Ro-Tel dip that I probably shouldn't admit to liking. I'm allowed very occasional visitation rights, but only at my own risk. I like a gentle back-of-the-throat heat to things, but I'm never going to meet you for all-you-can-eat buffalo wings. Mayonnaise squicks me out, except as an ingredient in other things. Avocado's bland oiliness, okra's slickery slime, and don't even get me started on runny eggs. I know. It's mortifying.

Good God, Miss Butterfield,” Lord Jarret said. “Don’t tell me you read Minerva’s Gothic horrors.” “They’re not Gothic horrors!” Maria protested. “They’re wonderful books! And yes, I’ve read every single one, more than once.” “Well, that explains a few things,” Oliver remarked. “I suppose I have my sister to thank for turning a sword on me at the brothel.” Lord Gabriel laughed. “You took a sword to old Oliver? Oh, God, that’s rich!” Lord Jarret sipped some wine. “At least the mystery of the ‘weapons at her disposal’ is now solved.” “He was misbehaving,” Maria said, with a warning glance for Oliver. Did he want them to know everything, for pity’s sake? “He left me no choice.” “Oh, Maria’s always doing things like that,” Freddy said through a mouth full of eel. “That’s why we won’t teach her to shoot. She always goes off half-cocked.” Maria thrust out her chin. “A woman has to stand up for herself.” “Hear, hear!” Lady Celia raised her goblet of wine to Maria. “Don’t mind these clod-pates. What can you expect from a group of men? They would prefer we let them run roughshod over us.” “No, we wouldn’t,” Lord Gabriel protested. “I like a woman with a little fire. Of course, I can’t speak for Oliver-“ “I assure you, I rarely feel the need to run roughshod over a woman,” Oliver drawled. An arch smile touched his lips as his gaze locked with Maria’s. “I’ve kissed one or two when they weren’t prepared for it, but every man does that.” Lady Minerva snorted. “Yes, and most of them get slapped, but not you, I expect. Even when you misbehave, you have a talent for turning ladies up sweet. How else would you go from having a sword thrust at you to gaining Miss Butterfield’s consent to be your bride-eh, Miss Butterfield?” Maria didn’t answer. Something was nagging at the back of her brain-a vaguely familiar line from one of Lady Minerva’s books: “He had a talent for turning ladies up sweet, which both thrilled and alarmed her.” “Heavens alive.” She stared at Oliver. “You’re the Marquess of Rockton!” She hardly realized she’d said it aloud until his brothers and sisters laughed. A pained look crossed Oliver’s face. “Don’t remind me.” Sparing a glare for his sister, Oliver muttered, “You have no idea how my friends revel in the fact that my sister made me a villain in her novel.” “They only revel because she made them into heroes,” Lord Jarret pointed out, eyes twinkling. “Foxmoor got quite a big head over it, and Kirkwood’s been strutting around ever since the last one came out. He loved that he got to trounce you.” “That’s because he knows he couldn’t trounce me in real life,” Oliver remarked. “Though he keeps suggesting we should have a ‘rapier duel’ to prove whether he could.” Maria stared at them agape. “Do you mean that the Viscount Churchgrove is real? And Foxmoor…great heavens, that’s Wolfplain!” “Yes.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Churchgrove is my friend, the Viscount Kirkwood, and Wolfplain is another friend, the Duke of Foxmoor. Apparently Minerva has trouble coming up with original characters.” “You know perfectly well that I only used a version of their names,” Lady Minerva said smoothly. “The characters are my own.” “Except for you, Oliver,” Lord Jarret remarked. “You’re clearly Rockton.

If someone left you, you had to answer with silence. She bore the scent of a mixture of oriental spices and the sweetness of flowers and honey. Dreams are the interface between the worlds, between time and space. He calls books freedoms. And homes too. They preserve all the good words that we so seldom use. Tango is a truth drug. It lays bare your problems and your complexes, but also the strengths you hide from others so as not to vex them. Saudade. It is the sense of being loved in a way that will never come again. It is a unique experience of abandon. It is everything that words cannot capture. They say that men who are at one with their bodies can sense and smell when a woman wants more from life than she is getting. Another woman found it incredibly erotic when I backed pate en croute. Aromas do funny things to the soul. Habit is a vain and treacherous goddess. She lets nothing disrupt her rule. She smothers one desire after another: the desire to travel, the desire for a better job or a new love. She stops us from living as we would like, because habit prevents us from asking ourselves whether we continue to enjoy doing what we do. Books can do many things but not everything. We have to live the important things, not read them. It was the season for truffles and literature. The countryside was redolent of wild herbs and glowed in autumnal rust reds and wine yellows.

You don’t understand, father,” said Ludwik. “What don’t I understand? What?!” “Organization.” “To hell with organization! What organization?!” “The rational organization of society and of the world.” Leon attacked Ludwik across the table with his bald pate: “What do you want to organize? Organize how?” “Scientifically.

Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town," said the jolly Tinker, "and no one nigh Nottingham--nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark-- can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag Simon of Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o' the Mill, and by mine own name and that's Wat o' the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother's son, and that's myself, will I, even I, Wat o' the Crabstaff, meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe again! Hear ye that, bully boys?

Trump doesn’t have a simple combover, as it would appear. The operation was much more involved than a simple throw-over of what was left of his hair: the three-step procedure required a flop up of the hair from the back of his head, followed by the flip of the resulting overhang on his face back on his pate, and then the flap of his combover on the right side, providing three layers of thinly disguised balding-male insecurity. The concoction was held in place by a fog of TREsemme TRES Two, not a

Maybe it was by chance, fate, or even magic. I'm glad the universe chose him to be mine.

Blaine was no ordinary lover. He was a storm, much like the one raging outside.

Pate

As the light within the points of light around him began to dissi-pate, as the last amounts of physical matter they constituted of had collapsed into black holes, and then after those black holes had radiat-ed the last of their lessening mass and density, was when Cohen ceased to be a he and finally became an it. It watched the universal planes die in a cold whimper, the last of their heat leaving them much the same as a life vacated a deceased body. Quick and quietly. But, having traversed countless counts, strung across existence to the point of numbing constancy, the New Entity felt nothing upon seeing all once known fade away. "It wasn’t human any longer, and hadn’t been for many counts.

DAMIAN ’Tis, peradventure, why her hair is large: The secrets she doth carry in her pate.

A Demon Over Crumpets by Stewart Stafford While taking tea with my physician father, He pressed me on what was ailing me, I imparted my supernatural experiences, Laughing, he recommended fresh air and rest. Just then, he stopped chewing his crumpet, A demon’s image scorched the wall beside us, I rushed over and scraped the hot soot away, And saw two bloodshot eyes surveying the room. I invoked the name of my protector, Jesus Christ, And bade the dark spirit leave us and, with that, The blackened image vanished from the wall, Crackling fireplace flames were the only sound. My father leapt up, made his excuses, and left, I last saw his stooping gait and balding pate, As they fled down the garden path by the hedge, Darting looks over his shoulder, he was gone. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

I'm not afraid to face failure, but afraid to overcome failure incorrectly

I'm not afraid to face failure; however, I dread overcoming failure incorrectly

The more you think about something, the more there is to think about.

When I first saw her, I didn't truly see her for what she was, in fact I saw an illusion from what my thoughts created.

Akechi was also extremely self-conscious of his growing baldness and Nobunaga exacerbated this too by taking Akechi’s head under his arm and pretending to drum on his bald pate, much to the amusement of the other Oda vassals present.

The endless possibilities of the future may birth delusions, yet it’s often through the mist that we find the truest path.

All I can think is, what the hell is pate? And what’s cornichon? At least I know what bread is. Except why do I have to go to four stores to buy these three items? And is Mr. Royal a person or a place?

He’s in his sixties and has wispy blond hair that sticks out vertically on either side of his bald pate. His face is all angular features, and he wears brown-rimmed glasses permanently smeared with grease. Every time I see him, I need to remind myself not to call him Mr. Stinkley, which is what my flatmates and I call him in private.

Kur të më jesh e zemëruar Ti m`u rrëfeve për sëpari shkrepëtimtare në stoli, Un` ëndërrova se në zemër po më valon një mall i ri. O,c`ka që m`u venit qipalla me kaq të ngjethur të pafaj? Haj!shkretëtirë-e-zemrës`s`ime!Dhe haj!e zeza jetë,haj! Posi një yll i perënduar më pate humbur gjith më larg... Nga malli yt i thura fjalët gjith sërë-sërë-e-varg-e-varg; E cdo mendim e pata tretur vetëm n`ërgjënd e në flori, O,vashë-e lotit të zhuritur që vetëtin nër syt` e mi.- Prej largësisë së pa anë kalon durimi mot-me-mot... Pas kaqe kohë dhemshurije,ndaj vëndi-i lum as eja sot! Në gjirin t`ënd të llaftaruar m`a lerë mëndjen t`a humbas, Të ndjej si zemra më gatohet plot me dëshir` e plot me gas. Ti buzëqesh-më-zilitare,e më ckëlqe si vetëtim, E më vështro me sy pëllumbi drejt mun në fund të shpirtit t`im; Se gazi-i-kthjellt` i lumtërisë,që cel si lulja në mëngjes, Si lule-e pastër do më mbijë në krahruar mun në mes: Kur të më jesh e zemëruar,më shpirt të vrarë-e varfnjak, N`e mbajc në zemër zembëratën,prej helmit t`ënd s`do heq aspak; S`do psherëti n`e lënc të vdesë,a në `m`a thënc,në mos m`a thënc Mjafton një mvrejtje-e buzës s`ate,që të më bësh të prishem menc.

Ere trendeline Sesi m`ju lendon dashurija! Sesi m`ju lendon pa pushim! O lotet e syve te mija! O klithmez e tingellit t`im! Ju shoqe te kohës mitare… Mikesha…motricka…pa faj! Ju humbte ne mjegull perfare, Dh`u solla nder mend e po qaj! As flak` e shkendijes q`u shua, As syri qe nxihet e plas, Nuk lane-o ju vasha për mua Vurratat e erreta pas : Haj!flutur` e zeze me duar Një flutur secila prej jush Me la ne gishtrinj dyke shkuar Pluhurin qe ndrin posi prush… Sot cela pellemben e dores Q`u ciku gazmore dikur- Si pah verbimtar i debores Se-rish po me ndrin një pluhur… Përse nuk m`u shojte përherë Të hesht te pushoj për kurdo, Ti mall qe ner to pate lere Dh`u rite dh`u ndrite ner to! Ju shoh përtej mjegulles s`uaj E shpirtin prej jush e kam plot, Pa s`mund si t`a them, si t`a shuaj Ah!këngën e mbushur me lot. Se koti-u larguat menjane, Me vajtte me kot aq larg, Kur sumbulla lot qe me rane Si ruazat i shkova ne varg… Dh`i ndrita me syrin e fshehur… Dh`i vela me zërin mitar… Dh`i skuqa me buzen e dehur… Me shpuzen e flogut si ar… Oji!trendelin` e venitur Ju fali gjith eren e saj…- Pse rreh kaq me hov te cuditur, Haj!Zemera ime ti haj?... Ju lule q`u leu parevera, Dh`u cika me gas një mëngjes!... Se largu prej jush me ra era, E desha prej mallit te vdes.

Ri me shëndet Që sot, një vënd i huaj më ka thërritur pas: Vënite, motër, buzën, e mos e bëj më gas. Nga bot' e lumtërisë vështro nër syt' e mi Me shpirt të zembëruar e plot me dhëmshuri. O, pse kaq ëndr' e bukur më s'lumtërovi dot! Përse m'a njom qipallën kjo valle pikash lot! Tani shënden' e fundit kam dashur të t'a fal- Posi një perëndeshë afro-m'u dal-nga-dal, Me flokë përmi supe, me robe gjer përdhe, Do të pushtoj nër krahë me një magji të re, T'a dish sesa 'sht'i valë ky mall që po më tret, Sesa m'u pate dhemshur t'a dish me të vërtet. As eja! eja! eja! në zjarr te gjirit t'im! Vrapo si fill rrufeje!ckëlqe si vetëtim! M'a ndrit me një të parë fytyrën që m'u mvrejt: Më shih me sy pëllumbi në zemër drejt-per-drejt. Te rite-e zemrës s'ime , greminë pa kufi: Si do t'i mbushnje anët vec ti, ah! vetëm ti: Sesi do të më ritej, nër kohë paskëtaj, Një yll përjetësije drejt që nga fund' i saj!...- Që sot mjerim' i vjetër në shpirt m'u përtëri, Po m'a zembron të pritmen një fat shumë m'i zi, Dhe ah! e desha veten prej teje t'a kem plot! Kjo dashurija jonë do ndriti me të kot? Vrapo me hap të letë e mos u ndal aspak, T'a nisim dyke pshuar mërgimin zemërak, Të qajmë shoqi shoqin së bashku që të dy, Të puthemi në flakë, në ball' edhe në sy: Sa dhëmb mërgim' i largë që do na lerë pas Më pranë njëritjatrit të dehemi në gas... E sa të jemi dehur në gas e lumtëri, Më hidhur të na dhëmbi largimi jon i zi... Sepse ky malli jonë më s'pati shëmbëllim, Se na 'shte vaj një kengë, dhe kënga nj'ëndërim, Pa cmallje, pa të sosur, pa nojmë kurrëkund, Sic ish , sic do te jetë - një dashuri pa fund.

Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Pates of Human Societies illustrates how farm-based societies that generated a surplus of food ultimately gave rise to professional specialization. “Twelve thousand years ago, everybody on earth was a hunter-gatherer; now almost all of us are farmers or else are fed by farmers.” This

Veliki plesači uistinu pate. I pokret je u njihovim očima. Posebice dok su zatvorene. Na pozornici mora biti grijeh. Moraju biti skršeni jer su htjeli pridružiti se tome grijehu. Zbog toga što su pali na koljena, moraš ih natjerati da se osjećaju krivima kao što nikad prije nisu. Zbog toga što te gledaju, jer su zadivljeni, jer te nisu mogli uhvatiti i odvesti iz toga svijeta...Nikad im ne smiješ oprostiti.

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

King claims to be half-black, born to a black father and white mother. However, a closer examination of King’s family tree by blogger Vicki Pate revealed a shocking truth in King’s birth certificate: it identified Jeffrey Wayne King, a white man, as Shaun King’s father. It

They spent the next hour nibbling their way through the food stalls, sharing spiral-cut potatoes, pork sandwiches, and cream puffs. They found a table in one of the many shaded beer gardens, and Lou retrieved some ice-cold Summer Shandys to go with their food. The beer had a light lemon edge that offset the malt, making it an ideal hot-summer-day drink. The potato spirals, long twirls coated in bright orange cheese, combined the thin crispiness of a potato chip with a French fry. And the cream puffs... The size of a hamburger on steroids, the two pate a choux ends showcased almost two cups of whipped cream- light, fluffy, and fresh.

Deep, fluting emotions were a form of weakness. She'd seen the softening in her work over the years, she'd started making the lazy, homey treats like apple crumble, chocolate muffins, butterscotch pudding, and lemon bars. They were fast and cheap and they pleased her children. But she'd trained at one of the best pastry programs in the country. Her teachers were French. She'd learned the classical method of making fondant, of making real buttercream with its spun-candy base and beating the precise fraction off egg into the pate a choux. She knew how to blow sugar into glassine nests and birds and fountains, how to construct seven-tiered wedding cakes draped with sugar curtains copied from the tapestries at Versailles. When the other students interned at the Four Seasons, the French Laundry, and Dean & Deluca, Avis had apprenticed with a botanical illustrator in the department of horticulture at Cornell, learning to steady her hand and eye, to work with the tip of the brush, to dissect and replicate in tinted royal icing and multihued glazes the tiniest pieces of stamen, pistil, and rhizome. She studied Audubon and Redoute. At the end of her apprenticeship, her mentor, who pronounced the work "extraordinary and heartbreaking," arranged an exhibition of Avis's pastries at the school. "Remembering the Lost Country" was a series of cakes decorated in perfectly rendered sugar olive branches, cross sections of figs, and frosting replicas of lemon leaves. Her mother attended and pronounced the effect 'amusant.

She collects a tray from the kitchen: arranges almond and mango cream puffs, brown sugar lace cookies, and miniature napoleons of vanilla and guava: fleeting breaths of pate a choux and buttercreams that dissolve in single bites.

Avis puts aside the 'Saint-Honore' and decides to embark on a new pastry. She's assembling ingredients when the phone rings in the next room. She ignores it as she arranges her new mise en place. This recipe is constructed on a foundation of hazelnuts- roasted, then roughed in a towel to help remove skins. These are ground into a gianduja paste with shaved chocolate, which she would normally prepare in her food processor, but today she would rather smash it together by hand, using a meat tenderizer on a chopping block. She pounds away and only stops when she hears something that turns out to be Nina's voice on the answering machine: "Ven, Avis, you ignoring me? Contesta el telefono! I know you're there. Ay, you know what- you're totally impossible to work for..." Avis starts pounding again. Her assistants never last more than a year or two before something like this happens. They go stale, she thinks: everything needs to be turned over. Composted. She feels invigorated, punitive and steely as she moves through the steps of the recipe. It was from one of her mother's relatives, perhaps even Avis's grandmother- black bittersweets- a kind of cookie requiring slow melting in a double boiler, then baking, layering, and torching, hours of work simply to result in nine dark squares of chocolate and gianduja tucked within pieces of 'pate sucree.' The chocolate is a hard, intense flavor against the rich hazelnut and the wisps of sweet crust- a startling cookie. Geraldine theorized that the cookie must have been invented to give to enemies: something exquisitely delicious with a tiny yield. The irony, from Avis's professional perspective was that while one might torment enemies with too little, it also exacted an enormous labor for such a small revenge.

Propped on a small easel she uses for orders and ingredient lists is a request for a 'gateau Saint-Honore' bearing the legend "Together, Toujours" in scrolling Edwardian script. She attempts to calm herself with her work. It's a nicely time-consuming cake, though Avis finds it distasteful to deface her pastries with these slogans- even "Happy Birthday"- using fine creations as billboards. Today's order, from a Cutler Road matriarch, is an anniversary commandment- "till death do us..." Avis embarks on the journey of the cake which will require both the work of 'pate feuilletee,' and the 'pate a choux,' a carefully timed caramel, a 'creme patisserie,' as well as a 'creme Chantilly.

She considers a tray of flaky 'jesuites,' their centers redolent of frangipani cream, decorated with violet buds preserved in clouds of black crystal sugar. Or 'dulce de leche' tarts- caramelized swirls on a 'pate sucree' crust, glowing with chocolate, tiny muted peaks, ruffles of white pastry like Edwardian collars. But nothing seems special enough and nothing seems right. Nothing seems like Stanley. Avis brings out the meticulous botanical illustrations she did in school, pins them all around the kitchen like a room from Audubon's house. She thinks of slim layers of chocolate interspersed with a vanilla caramel. On top she might paint a frosted forest with hints of white chocolate, dashes of rosemary subtle as deja vu. A glissando of light spilling in butter-drops from one sweet lime leaf to the next. On a drawing pad she uses for designing wedding cakes, she begins sketching ruby-throated hummingbirds in flecks of raspberry fondant, a sub-equatorial sun depicted in neoclassical butter cream. At the center of the cake top, she draws figures regal and languid as Gauguin's island dwellers, meant to be Stanley, Nieves, and child. Their skin would be cocoa and coffee and motes of cherry melded with a few drops of cream. Then an icing border of tiny mermaids, nixies, selkies, and seahorses below, Pegasus, Icarus, and phoenix above.

Lois and Eloise and Benji have been cooking from the book all week in preparation, making everything from homemade marshmallows and chewy pates de fruit, to homemade Oreos and Better than Nutter Butters. Caramels, macarons, miniparfaits filled with apple compote and vanilla custard and olive oil cake. Insane little chocolate tarts. Shortbreads and chocolates and my personal favorite, the Chocolate Bouchan, essentially a cork-shaped brownie that is one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.

Još mnogo ranije ubijala ju je polako - tačnije ranjavala kao stablo kojem postepeno odsjecaju grane koje bacaju previše sjene. To je počelo davno još u Istanbulu....Selma je uvijek poslušala - u dubini duše se bunila. Je li to Amir shvatio prije nje? Je li to razlog njegovog zaprepašćujućeg ponašanja? Je li ispod bola naslutio olakšanje koje je skrivala sama pred sobom, vičući i još jače pokazujući svoj bol? e li zahvaljujući vidovitosti koju može dati samo iskustvo prikrivanja ili dvosmislenost osjećanja u Selminom bijesnom nastojanju da sebe povrijedi, opazio potrebu i da sebe kazni što ne pate dovoljno?

Sillä Pate Teikka oli taipuvainen uskomaan, että elämä oli pohjaltaan sokeaa raivoa. Kenessä tämä raivo, sisu pysyy elävänä hän ei lannistu, eikä kuole. Oikein pahansisuinen, pirunnahkainen ihminen kuolee tuskin palottelemallakaan.

Problema este că ele nu ştiu că fac drumuri noi în fiecare zi. Nu-şi dau seama că păşunile se schimbă, că anotimpurile trec, pentru că sînt ocu­pate numai cu adăpatul şi cu mîncarea.

My bald pate bobs and blunders, I bang it when I fall; My cock’s gone soft and clammy And I can’t hear when they call.

pate.

Ovdje ljudi rijetko se grle kad se sretnu na ulici, rijetko jedan drugog stegnu zdušno. A i što bi se grlili, ionako se stalno sreću. Ništa novo ne dešava se mjesecima, godinama. Netko tu i tamo umre, netko se rodi, netko se doseli, a iseljavaju se oni koji mogu ili moraju. Ne znam znači li to da ovdje nitko nikome ne nedostaje, da ovdje ljudi pate od nedostatka čežnje, pojma nemam, možda ima onih koji za nekim ili nečim čeznu, vjerojatno ima i takvih, pa bilo bi skroz bolesno, skroz nenormalno da ovdje ni jedne takve osobe nema.

Everything that looks like a loss may be an extraordinary, successful life waiting to explode.

As to the worldview of the idealist school of thought, “realism” is its preferred perspective. Stanley Grenz encapsulates this mind-set of the idealist, amillennial position: The result is a world view characterized by realism. Victory and defeat, success and failure, good and evil will coexist until the end, amillennialism asserts. The future is neither a heightened continuation of the present nor an abrupt contradiction to it. The kingdom of God does not come by human cooperation with the divine power currently at work in the world, but neither is it simply the divine gift for which we can only wait expectantly32 Consequently, both unbridled optimism and despairing pessimism are inappropriate, amillennialism declares. Rather, the amillennialist worldview calls the church to “realistic activity” in the world. Under the guidance and empowerment of the Holy Spirit, the church will be successful in its mandate; yet ultimate success will come only through God’s grace. The kingdom of God arrives as the divine action breaking into the world; yet human cooperation brings important, albeit penultimate, results. Therefore, God’s people must expect great things in the present; but knowing that the kingdom will never arrive in its fullness in history, they must always remain realistic in their expectations.

—Yo me llamo Pate —respondió—. Como el porquerizo.

I’m Pate,” the other said, “like the pig boy.

Oh, Draven," Simon said in a falsetto as he clasped his hands together and held them to his shoulder. He gave Draven a worshipful look. "You're my hero too!" Simon sniffed as if he were holding back tears and threw his arms about Draven's shoulders. "If not for you, that mean old boar would have eaten me alive." Draven pushed Simon away from him. "Get off me, you nimble-pated gelding." "But Draven," Simon said again in his falsetto, "you're my hero. Give me a kiss." Draven ducked Simon's embrace and stepped behind Emily. "What are you? Moonstruck?" "Fine then," Simon snapped. "Here, Emily, you kiss him for me." And before either one knew what Simon was about, she found herself tossed into Draven's arms. Their bodies collided. Draven's arms encircled her, and for a moment she couldn't breathe as she stared up into those startled blue eyes. Heat sizzled between them, skipping along both their bodies. Stealing their breath and setting fire to their blood. When Draven made no move to kiss her, Simon tasked. "Fine then," Simon said, pulling her out of Draven's embrace and into his own. "Let me show you how a kiss is given." Simon dipped his lips to hers, but before he could make contact, Draven caught his chin in one hand and pulled his face away from hers. "If your lips so much as pucker near hers, I will geld you, brother." -Simon & Draven

We Can Is Always Better Than I Can...!!!

Sergeant Dominick Leland was tall, thin as barbed wire, and peered at the world through a permanent scowl. A rim of steel-colored fuzz circled his mocha pate, and two fingers were missing from his left hand, lost to a monstrous Rottweiler-mastiff attack dog he fought to protect a K-9 partner. With thirty-two years on the job as a K-9 officer, Dominick Leland had served as the Platoon’s Chief Trainer longer than anyone in the history of the Los Angeles Police Department, and was an undisputed, three-fingered legend. The Officer-in-Charge ran the Platoon, but Leland was the final authority and absolute master in all matters regarding dogs, dog handlers, and their place within the Platoon. When

Jared Diamond’s Pulitzer Prize-winning Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Pates of Human Societies illustrates how farm-based societies that generated a surplus of food ultimately gave rise to professional specialization.

Thrice the Lannisters tried to force the crossing, and thrice they were driven back; in the last attempt, Lord Jason was dealt a mortal wound at the hand of a grizzled squire, Pate of Longleaf. (Lord Piper himself knighted the man afterward, dubbing him Longleaf the Lionslayer.)

He sees where blows with Rifle-Butts miss’d their Marks, and chipp’d the Walls. He sees blood in Corners never cleans’d. Thankful he is no longer a Child, else might he curse and weep, scattering his Anger to no Effect, Dixon now must be his own stern Uncle, and smack himelf upon the Pate at any sign of unfocusing. What in the Holy Names are these people about? Not even the Dutchmen at the Cape behav’d this way. Is it something in this Wilderness, something ancient, that waited for them, and infected their Souls when they came?

The troops were so close at hand I could smell pate from the goose step.

I think of you when it rains. And when the sun shines. I see you in the green of spring. And feel you in the warmth of summertime. I breathe your sweet scent of autumn. And hear you in the silent chill of winter. I feel your presence in everything. And with sorrow and solace, I remember.

Ti imaš dobro srce. A to ne valja. Ljudi sa srcem pate uopšte jer je srce nesrećan drugar u životu.

Di Stevenson disse: «Lo ammiro perchè in politica non è una baldravva come la maggior pate degli altri. Troppi uomini politici sono disposti a dire non importa cosa, se pensano che è possibile trarne voti o denaro. [...] Bisogna restare fedeli alle proprie idee.»

Helter skelter, hang sorrow, care'll kill a cat, up-tails all, and a louse for the hangman. Take that, you bald-pated lummax.

Finding the truth is hard, recognizing a lie is harder, but creating one is all too easy.

I heard you’re having dinner with Lark,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “Hurry up and marry her, so we can double date and annoy Vaughn.” “Can’t you double date with Tawny and Judd?” Cooper and Farah laughed. “Yeah, right,” they said in unison, causing me to wonder if their brains had merged from too much sex. “If I have my way, Lark will be mine.” “He’s stalking her,” Cooper told Farah. “Draws pictures of her naked too.” Farah laughed and pated my cheek. “Romantic.” “Clearly, I’ve fucked her brains out,” Cooper said and she gave him the pissed wife look. Sighing, he lowered his gaze and mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.

Scaredy Cat Do you think if a scaredy cat met a pussy they'll have a show-down, a stand-off or will they'll both retreat to snack on Purina Friskies Cat Food Pate?

Tell me, sweetheart, what do you love best in the world right now?” Ayaana deflected: “Pate.” Delaksha said, “I never made it there. A pity.” Nioreg asked, “What’s to love?” The ideal of home, which distance amplified. Ayaana tuned into a vision of home as if she were a home-comer. Her face softened as she clothed her island in her mother’s scents and the Almighty’s stars. In Ayaana’s grammar, her listeners glimpsed Muhidin and Munira, witnessed the surge of Pate’s moonlit seas from a sand dune and smelled a jasmine infused night. Ayaana’s Pate was an antidote to desecrated worlds, so that when Ayaana finished her remembering, there was silence. She picked her chopsticks as the ocean whooshed answerless questions. Nioreg’s tough-man mask slipped. “Miss Ayaana, we shall visit your home, yes?” Delaksha took Ayaana’s hands. “Don’t let the world change you.” Delaksha was addressing both Ayaana and Pate.

She thought of bringing up the subject of books, or music, but she feared that might lead to conflicting opinions. She would have liked to ask about his past, but perhaps that was a sensitive area, in light of his Welsh heritage. No, it was safer to remain quiet. When her restrained comments could no longer sustain a conversation, Winterborne was drawn into a discussion with West. Fearing that he thought her dull, Helen fretted silently and picked at her food. Eventually Winterborne turned back to her as the pates were being removed. “Will you play the piano after dinner?” he asked. “I would, but I’m afraid we haven’t one.” “No piano anywhere in the house?” There was a calculating flicker in his dark eyes. “Please don’t buy one for me,” Helen said hastily. That produced a sudden grin, a flash of white against cinnamon skin, so appealing that it sent a shot of warmth down to her tummy.

Sit back, take a gulp of air as fresh as water from a mountain spring; feel the sun's fingers stroking the top of your head all the way down your back; relax on that patchwork picnic blanket of rolling hills in greens, yellows and browns; survey the horses grazing in the fields below you; see the dogs and cats resting peacefully on that blanket with you; watch the hens nonchalantly pecking the ground about you; appreciate the picnic of bright red, fresh tomatoes, duck pate, crisp lettuce, freshly baked French bread and golden eggs laid out before you; then let your spirit rise up above the Pyrenees in the distance. You are now ready to read.

In all his fleeing, seeking, tricking, escaping, negotiating, working, whoring, wondering, reading, lying, learning, wrestling, questioning, seeing, tasting, hearing, and journeying, nothing had suggested a vision of “home” or “belonging” until that light-splattered dawn when he glimpsed a little creature dancing with the sparkling Pate sea.

Mr. Hazlett was small, slightly humpbacked from bending myopically over deeds and briefs, and he had the complexion of a corpse. His bony body looked like a skeleton clad in black, his stiff white hair reared from his pate like a shaving brush, and he wore white spats.

The old days were over, when sorrow could be sheltered by the empathy of the many, confronted by imported rage, a most foreign beast at war with a human emotion - terror. The invaders, such angry strangers steeped in madness, paraded the island as if they were its new and infernal overlords. How fathomless was Fazul the Egyptian’s betrayal of Pate and it’s people. The amorphous war he had stimulated cascaded over so many simple lives. It seized the best of Pate’s men, implicated in this sickness only because they were the best of men. Most of the taken would never return, not even as corpses. Those they left behind were forced to learn the languages of eternal hauntedness and silence.

Your mother would break my pate if she knew how I risked you." "Father," Myste replied like a sun, "all children must be risked. Mother knows that. How else are we to discover ourselves?" King Jose and Myste (p. 908)

One day in 1948 or 1949, the Brentwood Country Mart, a shopping complex in an upscale neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, was the scene of a slight disturbance that carried overtones of the most spectacular upheaval in twentieth century music. Marta Feuchtwanger, wife of the émigré novelist lion Feuchtwanger, was examining grapefruit in the produce section when she heard a voice shouting in German from the far end of the aisle. She looked up to see Arnold Schoenberg, the pioneer of atonal music and the codifier of twelve-tone composition, bearing down on her, with his bald pate and burning eyes. Decades later, in conversation with the writer Lawrence Weschler, Feuchtwanger could recall every detail of the encounter, including the weight of the grapefruit in her hand. 'Lies, Frau Marta, lies!' Schoenberg was yelling. 'You have to know, "I never had syphilis!

He sees where blows with Rifle-Butts miss’d their Marks, and chipp’d the Walls. He sees blood in Corners never cleans’d. Thankful he is no longer a Child, else might he curse and weep, scattering his Anger to no Effect, Dixon now must be his own stern Uncle, and smack himelf upon the Pate at any sign of unfocusing. What in the Holy Names are these people about? Not even the Dutchmen at the Cape behav’d this way. Is it something in this Wilderness, something ancient, that waited for them, and infected their Souls when they came? Nothing he had brought to it of his nearest comparison, Raby with its thatch’d and benevolent romance of serfdom, had at all prepar’d him for the iron Criminality of the Cape,— the publick Executions and Whippings, the open’d flesh, the welling blood, the beefy contented faces of those whites. . . . Yet is Dixon certain, as certain as the lightness he feels now, lightness premonitory of Flying, that far worse happen’d here, to these poor People, as the blood flew and the Children cried,— that at the end no one understood what they said as they died. “I don’t pray enough,” Dixon subvocalizes, “and I can’t get upon my Knees just now because too many are watching,— yet could I kneel, and would I pray, ’twould be to ask, respectfully, that this be made right, that the Murderers meet appropriate Fates, that I be spar’d the awkwardness of seeking them out myself and slaying as many as I may, before they overwhelm me. Much better if that be handl’d some other way, by someone a bit more credible. . . .” He feels no better for this Out-pouring.

Odmah na početku Knjige postanka piše da je Bog stvorio čovjeka kako bi mu povjerio vladavinu nad pticama, ribama i životinjama. Naravno, Knjigu postanka je pisao čovjek, a ne konj. Nije nimalo sigurno da je Bog povjerio vladavinu nad drugim stvorenjima upravo čovjeku. Prije se čini da je čovjek izmislio Boga da bi uzurpiranu vladavinu nad kravom i konjem pretvorio u svetu stvar. Da, pravo čovjeka da ubije jelena ili kravu je jedino u čemu se čitavo čovječanstvo slaže čak i dok vodi najkrvavije ratove. To pravo nam se čini kao nešto samo po sebi razumljivo, jer se na vrhu hijerarhije nalazimo mi. Bilo bi, međutim, dovoljno da se u igru umiješa netko treći, recimo posjetitelj s drugog planeta, kome je Bog rekao "Vladat ćeš nad bićima sa svih zvijezda!", pa da sve što je u Postanku bilo samo po sebi razumljivo postane problematično. Čovjeka kojeg Marsovac bude upregao u kola ili kojeg neko stvorenje s Mliječne staze bude peklo na ražnju možda će se sjetiti telećih kotleta koje je bio naviknut vidjeti u svom tanjuru i zamolit će (prekasno!) kravu da mu oprosti. [...] Tereza ih promatra sa simpatijama i govori sebi (ta misao joj se već dvije godine neprestano vraća) kako ljudi parazitski žive na kravama kao trakavica u čovjeku; pripili su se uz njihova vimena kao pijavice. Čovjek je parazit krave, tako bi u svom prirodopisu definirao čovjeka neki ne-čovjek. Tu definiciju, možemo, naravno, shvatiti kao šalu i pristojno joj se nasmijati. Ali Tereza se, koja posve ozbiljno razmišlja o njoj, nalazi se na klizavu terenu; njene misli su opasne i udaljavaju je od čovječanstva. Već u Postanku Bog je dao čovjeku vladavinu nad životinjama, premda to možemo shvatiti i tako da mu je tu vladavinu samo povjerio. Čovjek nije postao vlasnik, nego samo upravitelj planeta, koji će jednom morati podnijeti račun o svojim postupcima. Descartes je učinio odlučan korak dalje - učinio je od čovjeka "gospodara i vlasnika prirode". I to je sigurno u nekoj dubokoj vezi s činjenicom da je upravo on definitivno odbio mogućnost da životinje imaju dušu - čovjek je vlasnik i gospodar, dok životinja, kaže Descartes, samo automat, oživljeni stroj "machina animata". Ako životinja cvili, to nije plač, to je samo škripanje mehanizma koji ne funkcionira pravilno. Kad kotač škripi, to ne znači da kola pate, nego da nisu podmazana. Isto tako treba shvatiti i cviljenje životinja i ne žalostiti se nad psom kojeg u laboratoriju živog režu na komade. Junice pasu na livadi, Tereza sjedi na panju, a Karenjin sjedi pored nje s glavom položenom na njeno koljeno. I Tereza se sjeća kako je jednom, možda prije deset godina, pročitala u novinama kratku vijest - u nekom ruskom gradu pobili su sve pse. Ta vijest, neupadljiva i naizgled nevažna, učinila je da prvi put osjeti strah od te velike susjedne zemlje.

A living body is not a fixed thing but a flowing event, like a flame or a whirlpool: the shape alone is stable, for the substance is a stream of energy going in at one end and out at the other. We are particularly and temporarily identifiable wiggles in a stream that enters us in the form of light, heat, air, water, milk, bread, fruit, beer, beef Stroganoff, caviar, and pate de foie gras. It goes out as gas and excrement - and also as semen, babies, talk, politics, commerce, war, poetry, and music. And philosophy.

The cobblestones rushed up to kiss him. Pate tried to cry for help, but his voice was failing too. His last thought was of Rosey.

She treated her father with some lightness, even irony, and in at least one television interview she made fun of his comb-over. She often described the mechanics behind it to friends: an absolutely clean pate—a contained island after scalp reduction surgery—surrounded by a furry circle of hair around the sides and front, from which all ends are drawn up to meet in the center and then swept back and secured by a stiffening spray.

Mama are emoții. Îi dau să-mi țină geanta și paltonul și i se adună un morman de lucruri în brațe. A aterizat azi-noapte la două și a avut valiza plină, la limita celor 23 de kilograme. Mi-a făcut niște creveți marinați și mi i-a adus într-un borcan sigilat cu multă bandă adezivă. Turte din smochine și curmale, migdale, fistic și pate de ton. Câtă mâncare, atâta iubire, în sensul ăsta nu s-a schimbat.

- Aina tämä kotiolot voittaa, on Veksin toteamus hänen vetäytyessään nuotion viereen lonkkansa varaan. Lakkireuhkan silmille vedetty lippa kätkee pimentoihinsa hänen pikisilmänsä. - Mikäpä ettei voittaisi, kunhan tässä vielä kahvit saadaan, jurauttaa Pate. Itse nautin jokaisella solullani olemassaolostani nuotion lämmön ja yöksi hiipivän illan hiljaisuuden turruttamana.

Its skin was ash-gray, darkened by patches of sickly red. Its semihuman features were strangely elongated, as if its head had been stretched top to bottom. Strands of greasy hair were strung across its mottled pate. Its nose was like a pit. Its cheeks were deeply sunken. Its mouth gaped open, the sharp teeth gleaming within. It would have almost seemed the face of a dead and rotting thing except that the eyes were sparkling with an eager, living cruelty.

You’ve been reading Shakespeare again.” He shrugs, then yanks the blade free. “I like the way he delivers an insult.” “Then surely you can do better than that for a man such as North.” I love my husband’s smile. It transforms his stoic face, revealing two rows of straight teeth and laugh lines around his eyes. “That clay-brained guts, that knotty-pated fool, that whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-catch.” “Well,” I say, “your clay-brained, greasy whoreson took my ink. How do you plan on getting it back?

One quality that may well differentiate stories, poems, and plays from other kinds of writing is that they help us move beyond and probe beneath abstractions by giving us concrete, vivid particulars. Rather than talking about things, they bring them to life for us by representing experience, and so they become an experience for us—one that engages our emotions, our imagination, and all of our senses, as well as our intellects. As the British poet and critic Matthew Arnold put it more than a century ago, "The interpretations of science do not give us this intimate sense of objects as the interpretations of poetry give it; they appeal to a limited fac-ulty, and not to the whole man. It is not Linnaeus.... who gives us the true sense of animals, or water, or plants, who seizes their secret for us, who makes us partic-pate in their life; it is Shakespeare... Wordsworth … Keats.

Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and featest on their bloated livers in they pate-de-fois-gras.

One week before my wedding day, upon returning to my hotel room with a tube of borrowed toothpaste, I find a small bird waiting inside the area called the antechamber and know within moments it is my grandmother. I recognize the glittering, hematite eyes, the expression of cunning disapproval. The odor of a gym at close of day encircles her. What is the Internet? the bird says, does not say. Her head is the color of warning: sharp curve, yield-yellow. The eyes on either side of the Cro-Magnon crown are lined the way hers were in shoddy cornflower pencil as if to say, Really look, here. Her hair, that had throughout her life hurled silvery messages skyward, has been replaced by orderly, navy stripes that emanate down her pate like ripples in silk. Under the beak where her unpronounced chin would have been, four regal feathers pose, each marked by an ebony dot. She hovers inches above the sofa’s back, chastened and restless by her new form. The toothpaste lands with a dull thud on the carpet. I’m silent when stunned. No getting me to talk. What is the Internet? my grandmother the bird insists, speaking as if we are in the middle of a conversation, which, in a way, we are. She had called to ask this question ten years before. At the time I considered explaining the technological phenomenon, but she was so old.

But on earth here in France, every sense was bathed in luxury, luxury of which she became more and more aware as she grew older. The palate was indulged with strawberries from Saumur and melons planted in the Loire by a Neapolitan gardener long ago, with trout pate, Tours pastries, and vin d’Annonville, with its delicate bouquet. The nostrils were pampered by the happy work of Catherine de Médicis’s Italian perfumers working with the flowers from the fields of Provence, producing heady fragrances to be worn on throats and wrists and to scent gloves and capes. Hyacinth, jasmine, lilac—all wafted through the rooms and from the bathwaters of the châteaux. The skin was caressed with unguents and the feel of silk, velvet, fur, leather gloves of softest deerskin; goosedown pillows cupped weary bodies at the day’s end; and in winter, newly installed Germanic tile stoves at Fontainebleau provided central heating. Eyes were continually presented with beauty in ordinary objects rendered more opulently pleasing: a crystal mirror decorated with velvet and silk ribbons; buttons with jewels affixed. There were fireworks reflected in the river; paintings by Leonardo; and black-and-white chequered marble paving in the long palace gallery over the Cher that spanned the rippling water outside. Pleasing sounds were everywhere: in the chirping of the pet canaries and more exotic birds in the garden aviaries; in the baying of the hounds in the matchless royal hunting packs; in the splash and gurgle of the fountains and elaborate water displays in the formal gardens. And above all that, the sound of melodious French, exquisitely spoken; witty conversations, and the poets of the court reciting verses composed to celebrate the aristocratic dreamworld they inhabited, with a haunting melancholy that it would all pass away.

Tomorrow’s Sunday, Father,” Owen said. “So what?” “What say we wait till Monday and catch Pate then. He’s likely headed to Lawrence. He won’t attack Lawrence on a Sunday.” “In fact, that’s exactly when he’ll attack,” the Old Man said, “knowing I’m a God-fearing man and likely to rest on the Lord’s day. We’ll ride up by way of Prairie City and cut him off at Black Jack. Let’s pray, men.

Desdemona: I am not merry, but I do beguile The thing I am by seeming otherwise.— Come, how wouldst thou praise me? Iago: I am about it, but indeed my invention comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze: it plucks out brains and all. But my muse labors, and thus she is delivered: If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one’s for use, the other useth it. Desdemona: [...] O heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself? Iago: She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, Never lacked gold and yet went never gay, Fled from her wish, and yet said “Now I may,” She that being angered, her revenge being nigh, Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly, She that in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail, She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind, See suitors following and not look behind, She was a wight, if ever such wight were— Desdemona: To do what? Iago: To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.

Why?” he asked Pate. “What am I to them?” “A knight who remembered his vows,” the smith said.

What my son cannot do, Mister Brekker, is read. He cannot write. I have hired the best tutors from every corner of the world. I’ve tried specialists, tonics, beatings, hypnotism. But he refused to be taught. I finally had to accept that Ghezen saw fit to curse me with a moron for a child. Wylan is a boy who will never grow to be a man. He is a disgrace to my house.” “The letters…” said Jesper, and Kaz could see the anger in his face. “You weren’t pleading with him to come back. You were mocking him.” Jesper was right. If you’re reading this, then you know how much I wish to have you home. Every letter had been a slap in the face to Wylan, a kind of cruel joke. “He’s your son,” Jesper said. “No, he is a mistake. One soon to be corrected. My lovely young wife is carrying a child, and be it boy or girl or creature with horns, that child will be my heir, not some soft-pated idiot who cannot read a hymnal, let alone a ledger, not some fool who would make the Van Eck name a laughingstock.

A bad experience is a learning opportunity.