Penguin Sayings Quotes

Meet me inside the Edge of the Icepack penguin enclosure in at four fifteen" she says, sounding just like Kim Possible. If Kim Possible ever asked people to meet her inside a penguin enclosures.

They say penguins mate for life.” He reached up again and jerked hard at his tie. “And I want to be your penguin.

But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.

The BALLPOINT PENGUINS, black and white, Do little else but write and write. Although they've nothing much to say, They write and write it anyway....

Country life has its advantages,' he used to say. 'You sit on the veranda drinking tea and your ducklings swim on the pond, and everything smells good. . . and there are gooseberries.

My dad was always snoozing on the couch, like Dagwood Bumstead. He was a lazy motherfucker. God bless him. He was always working on some kind of get-rich-quick scheme. This is what my dad was like: I'd say, Hey, Dad, we studied penguins today in school. He'd say, Yeah? I'm a penguin fucker from way back. Dad, I saw a giraffe at the zoo today. Yeah? I'm a giraffe fucker from way back. That's my dad. My dad was a giraffe fucker.

Some call ships, infantry or horsemen The greatest beauty earth can offer; I say it is whatever a person Most lusts after.

They say man only needs six feet of Earth. But it is a corpse, and not man, which needs these six feet.

Being alone is supposed to be an issue for people such as me, but I have to say I find it deeply satisfying. Human company is necessary at times, I admit, but it is almost irksome in one way or another.

Still, Lindsay stops getting dressed, even though he's only half-done, because he gets this urge to ambush the kid with a hug. Just that, nothing else. He wraps his arms around Valentine's skinny body and pulls him close and rests his cheek on the still-damp hair and inhales the cherry-almond scent of his shampoo, and Valentine says, "Oh!" in a really odd way, like he's just read a particularly interesting fact on the back of a Penguin biscuit wrapper. Lindsay's got his eyes shut but he can feel the kid's hands creeping up his bare arms, over his shoulders. One stays there and the other comes to rest on the back of his neck, fingers playing idly with the ends of his hair, and several minutes pass without sound or movement, just the gentle thud of heartbeats. "What's that for?" Valentine asks, when Lindsay finally lets him go. "Don't know. Nothing. Just seemed the kind of thing you'd like. BAM, surprise ninja cuddles.

Eileen, with her habitual charm, often comments that I am “as tough as old boots.” Every time she says this, I’m tempted to reply, “All the better to kick you with, my dear.

The value of the telephone is the value of what two people have to say.

People say that a person needs six feet of earth. But in fact it's a corpse that needs six feet of earth, not a person. People don’t need six feet of earth, or even a house in the country, but the whole globe, the whole of nature in its entirety, so they can have the space to express all the capacities and particularities of their free spirit.

The day was not far off when, as the saying goes, if Wall Street sneezed, the rest of the world would catch a cold. And Wall Street had not discovered how to stop itself sneezing.

You know, my dears, that your mother was an orphan, and an only child; and I dare say you have heard that your grandfather was a clergyman up in Westmoreland, where I come from.

You’re late,” he said. Well, hello to you too! You walking penguin. But did I say that? No I didn’t, because I was doing a good job at the whole adulting thing. One star. Did not recommend

Hot Pockets - what were you really doing in there?" I turn to Gabe, that orange shirt glowing in the setting sun. "Sorry?" "Hot Pockets," he says. "Cinnamon Toast Crunch," I reply. "Are we saying things we like?" "It's a thing. You have to tell the truth. It trumps penguin party." "Nothing trumps penguin party.

see that a species is its individuals. That individuals are what matter. It is men like these who cause wars, where thousands of peace-loving individuals are sacrificed for a so-called “noble” cause. History looks back and says this side won and that side lost, but the reality is that nobody wins. And what about the thousands of men and women and children who are butchered in the process? Does nobody care about them? Each one of them matters. Each and every one.

Uncle Chris is gay,” Cassie tells the realtor with relish. “Really,” Jessica says, a polite but amused expression plastered on her face. “Mhmm,” Cassie says. “That means he doesn’t like girls. He likes boys instead. My mommy says that’s okay, though. You can like whoever you want to like.” “Is that so”. “Yes. So when I grow up, I’m going to marry a penguin.

People say that suffering ennobles one; it's a lie, it only makes one brutal.

It doesn’t come any better than this, the poet is saying. Luxury, though not bad in itself, will not amplify the simplest of pleasures.

Some call ships, infantry, or horsemen The greatest beauty earth can offer; I say it is whatever a person Most lusts after.

Nigel Barton:Everyone says 'Up at Oxford'. You come 'down' when you've finished there. Harry Barton: Well, what's this then? Does bloody Oxford move up and down the bloody map then?

Hey, can you teach me the word for friend that you wrote on my card?" "Peng you," I say. "Peng you," she says, only instead of pung yo, it sounds like penguin. "Shee shee for being my penguin," she says.

And I thought how many satisfied, happy people really do exist in this world! And what a powerful force they are! Just take a look at this life of ours and you will see the arrogance and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestiality of the weak. Everywhere there's unspeakable poverty, overcrowding, degeneracy, drunkenness, hypocrisy and stupid lies... And yet peace and quiet reign in every house and street. Out of fifty thousand people you won't find one who is prepared to shout out loud and make a strong protest. We see people buying food in the market, eating during the day, sleeping at night-time, talking nonsense, marrying, growing old and then contentedly carting their dead off to the cemetery. But we don't hear or see those who suffer: the real tragedies of life are enacted somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is calm and peaceful and the only protest comes from statistics - and they can't talk. Figures show that so many went mad, so many bottles of vodka were emptied, so many children died from malnutrition. And clearly this kind of system is what people need. It,s obvious that the happy man feels contented only because the unhappy ones bear their burden without saying a word: if it weren't for their silence, happiness would be quite impossible. It's a kind of mass hypnosis. Someone ought to stand with a hammer at the door of every contented man, continually banging on it to remind him that there are unhappy people around and that however happy he may be at that time, sooner or later life will show him its claws and disaster will overtake him in the form of illness, poverty, bereavement and there will be no one to hear or see him. But there isn't anyone holding a hammer, so our happy man goes his own sweet way and is only gently ruffled by life's trivial cares, as an aspen is ruffled by the breeze. All's well as far as he's concerned

We’d have to check into this another time— say, like, the next time we decided to break into a maximum-security prison. Mead, Richelle (2010-05-18). Spirit Bound: A Vampire Academy Novel (p. 138). Penguin Young Readers Group. Kindle Edition.

You’re lying,” I said. “You’ve never seen him.” “I see him all the time. I’ve killed with him.” My stomach twisted, and it had nothing to do with the Strigoi’s proximity. Don’t think about Dimitri killing people. Don’t think about Dimitri killing people . I said the words over and over in my head, forcing myself to stay calm. “If that’s true,” I hissed back, “then I’ve got a message for you to deliver to him. Tell him Rose Hathaway is looking for him.” “I’m not your errand boy,” he said, glowering. My stake slashed out, drawing blood, and he grimaced in pain. “You’re anything I want you to be. Now go tell Dimitri what I told you. Rose Hathaway. Rose Hathaway is looking for him. Say it.” I pressed the point to his neck. “Say my name so I know you’ll remember.” “I’ll remember it so I can kill you.” The stake pressed harder, spilling blood. “Rose Hathaway,” he said. Mead, Richelle (2009-08-07). Blood Promise: A Vampire Academy Novel (pp. 263-264). Penguin Young Readers Group. Kindle Edition.

Pregnant. Mate. I’m going to have a dragon baby. Nope, that didn’t get all the way inside. Let’s say it again. I’m going to have a dragon baby. Harrison, Thea (2011-05-03). Dragon Bound (A Novel of the Elder Races Book 1) (p. 273). Penguin Group US. Kindle Edition.

You have only to say one word and I would know your voice among all other voices. I don't know what is it- I've often wondered - that makes your voice such a - haunting memory... Do you remember that first afternoon we spent together at Kew Gardens? You were so surprised because I did not know the names of any flowers. I am still just as ignorant for all your telling me. But whenever it is very fine and warm, and I see some bright colours - it's awfully strange - I hear you voice saying: "Geranium, marigold, and verbena." And I feel those three words are all I recall of some forgotten, heavenly language... You remember that afternoon?

Age weighs heavily on me, and the knees Buckle that long ago, like fawns, pranced nimbly. I groan much but to what end? Humans simply Cannot be ageless like divinities. They say that rosy-forearmed Dawn, when stung With love, swept a sweet youth to the earth's rim - Tithonus. Even there age withered him, Bound still to a wife forever young.

am sure what you say is profoundly true,’ said Martin, ‘and I bow to your experience – I shall nourish no illusions. And yet, sir, you have seen the great albatross, the southern petrels, the penguins in their interesting diversity, sea-elephants, the cassowary of the far Spice Islands, the emu scouring the sultry plain, the blue-eyed shag. You have beheld Leviathan!’ ‘I have also seen the three-toed sloth,’ said Dr Maturin.

The Sumerian language lived on for centuries in temples and scribal schools, much as Latin lived on for the learned in the muddle of vernacular cultures in Europe after the collapse of the western classical world of Rome. The comparison is suggestive, because literary and linguistic tradition embodies ideas and images which impose, permit and limit different ways of seeing the world; they have, that is to say, historic weight.

BAYARD—looks at Von Berg for a moment, then addresses all: I don’t understand it, but take my advice. If anything like that happens and you find yourself on that train . . . there are four bolts halfway up the doors on the inside. Try to pick up a nail or a screwdriver, even a sharp stone—you can chisel the wood out around those bolts and the doors will open. I warn you, don’t believe anything they tell you—I heard they’re working Jews to death in the Polish camps. MONCEAU: I happen to have a cousin; they sent him to Auschwitz; that’s in Poland, you know. I have several letters from him saying he’s fine. They’ve even taught him bricklaying. BAYARD: Look, friend, I’m telling you what I heard from people who know. Hesitates. People who make it their business to know, you understand? Don’t listen to any stories about resettlement, or that they’re going to teach you a trade or something. If you’re on that train get out before it gets where it’s going.

Suppose you’d watched the slow accretion of snow over thousands of years as it was compressed and pushed over the deep rock until the glacier calved its icebergs into the sea, and you watched an iceberg drift out through the chilly waters, and you got to know its cargo of happy polar bears and seals as they looked forward to a brave new life in the other hemisphere where they say the ice floes are lined with crunchy penguins, and then wham—tragedy loomed in the shape of thousands of tons of unaccountably floating iron and an exciting soundtrack… …

A good author, who really cares about his subject, wishes that someone would come and destroy him by representing the same subject more clearly and by answering every last question contained in it. The girl in love wishes that she might prove the devoted faithfulness of her love through her lover's faithlessness. The soldier wishes that he might fall on the battlefield for his victorious fatherland, for in the victory of his fatherland his greatest desire is also victorious. The mother gives the child what she takes from herself: sleep, the best food, in some instances even her health, her wealth. Are these really selfless states, however? [...] Isn't it clear that, in all these cases, man is loving something of himself, a thought, a longing, an offspring, more than something else of himself; that he is thus dividing up his being and sacrificing one part for the other? Is it something essentially different when a pigheaded man says, 'I would rather be shot at once than move an inch to get out of that man's way'? [...] In morality, man treats himself not as an 'individuum', but as a 'dividuum'.

Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that’s kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship’s direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights ’gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea’s landlessness again; for refuge’s sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!

Oh, I must tell you, so interesting. You know that Birds man, who said he had written a Birds book too, and was cross, and I was afraid there would be another Main case? Well, this man, Mr Frank Baker, wrote me a nice letter and sent me his Birds to read, saying he had read mine in Penguin’s, and thought it very good. So I began his, rather smiling derisively, thinking it would be nonsense, and it’s frightfully good! Much more psychological politics than mine, and going into great Deep Thoughts, I was quite absorbed! His birds were not ordinary birds like mine, but great strange things from outer space (and this was written in 1936), and they turned out to be the souls of all the people in the world, who had somehow pushed them out of their inner selves; and so the wretched souls, turned into birds, were furious and sought revenge.

BAYARD: How can you say that? Hitler is the creation of the capitalist class. VON BERG, in terrible mourning and anxiety: But they adore him! My own cook, my gardeners, the people who work in my forests, the chauffeur, the gamekeeper—they are Nazis! I saw it coming over them, the love for this creature—my housekeeper dreams of him in her bed, she’d serve my breakfast like a god had slept with her; in a dream slicing my toast! I saw this adoration in my own house! That, that is the dreadful fact. Controlling himself: I beg your pardon, but it disturbs me. I admire your faith; all faith to some degree is beautiful. And when I know that yours is based on something so untrue—it’s terribly disturbing. Quietly: In any case, I cannot glory in the facts; there is no reassurance there. They adore him, the salt of the earth. . . . Staring: Adore him.

A central principle underlying Mrs Quinty’s Rules for Writing is that you have to have a Beginning Middle and End. If you don’t have these your Reader is lost. But what if Lost is exactly where the writer is? I asked her. Ruth, the writer can’t be lost, she said, and then knew she’d said it too quickly and bit her lip knowing I was going to say something about Dad. She pressed her knees together and diverted into a fit of dry coughing. This, Dear Reader, is a river narrative. My chosen style is The Meander. I know that in The Brothers Karamazov (Book 1,777, Penguin Classics, London) Ippolit Kirillovich chose the historical form of narration because Dostoevsky says it checked his own exuberant rhetoric. Beginnings middles and ends force you into that place where you have to Stick to the Story as Maeve Mulvey said the night the Junior Certs were supposed to be going to the cinema in Ennis but were buying cans in Dunnes and drinking

RUDYARD KIPLING If If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream – and not make dreams your master; If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

The next bit is the fairy tale. There’s a day in April when it’s raining. The river is running fast. The girl whose father had died, whose mother raised her in the crooked house by the river, who grew up with that broken part inside where your father has died and which if you’re a girl and your father was Spencer Tracy you can’t fix or unhurt, that girl who yet found in herself some kind of forbearance and strength and was not bitter, whose name was Mary MacCarroll and who was beautiful without truly knowing it and had her mother and father’s dancing and pride in her, that girl walked the riverbank in the April rain. And standing at that place in Shaughnessy’s called Fisher’s Step, where the ground sort of raises a little and sticks out over the Shannon, right there, the place which in The Salmon in Ireland Abraham Swain says salmon pass daily and though it’s treacherous he calls a blessed little spot, right there, looking like a man who had been away a long time and had come back with what in Absalom, Absalom! (Book 1,666, Penguin Classics, London) William Faulkner calls diffident and tentative amazement, as if he’d been through some solitary furnace experience, and come out the other side, standing right there, suntanned face, pale-blue eyes that look like they are peering through smoke, lips pressed together, aged twenty-nine but looking older, back in Ireland less than two weeks, the ocean-motion still in his legs but strangely the river now lending him a river repose, standing right there, was Virgil Swain.

timelines register the pain of her loss for the first time. “I’m sorry, honey.” He remembers the day she died, eight weeks ago. She had become almost childlike by that point, her mind gone. He had to feed her, dress her, bathe her. But this was better than the time right before, when she had enough cognitive function left to be aware of her complete confusion. In her lucid moments, she described the feeling as being lost in a dreamlike forest—no identity, no sense of when or where she was. Or alternatively, being absolutely certain she was fifteen years old and still living with her parents in Boulder, and trying to square her foreign surroundings with her sense of place and time and self. She often wondered if this was what her mother felt in her final year. “This timeline—before my mind started to fracture—was the best of them all. Of my very long life. Do you remember that trip we took—I think it was during our first life together—to see the emperor penguins migrate? Remember how we fell in love with this continent? The way it makes you feel like you’re the only people in the world? Kind of appropriate, no?” She looks off camera, says, “What? Don’t be jealous. You’ll be watching this one day. You’ll carry the knowledge of every moment we spent together, all one hundred and forty-four years.” She looks back at the camera. “I need to tell you, Barry, that I couldn’t have made it this long without you. I couldn’t have kept trying to stop the inevitable. But we’re stopping today. As you know by now, I’ve lost the ability to map memory. Like Slade, I used the chair too many times. So I won’t be going back. And even if you returned to a point on the timeline where my consciousness was young and untraveled, there’s no guarantee you could convince me to build the chair. And to what end? We’ve tried everything. Physics, pharmacology, neurology. We even struck out with Slade. It’s time to admit we failed and let the world get on with destroying itself, which it seems so keen on doing.” Barry sees himself step into the frame and take a seat beside Helena. He puts his arm around her. She snuggles into him, her head on his chest. Such a surreal sensation to now remember that day when she decided to record a message for the Barry who would one day merge into his consciousness. “We have four years until doomsday.” “Four years, five months, eight days,” Barry-on-the-screen says. “But who’s counting?” “We’re going to spend that time together. You have those memories now. I hope they’re beautiful.” They are. Before her mind broke completely, they had two good years, which they lived free from the burden of trying to stop the world from remembering. They lived those years simply and quietly. Walks on the icecap to see the Aurora Australis. Games, movies, and cooking down here on the main level. The occasional trip to New Zealand’s South Island or Patagonia. Just being together. A thousand small moments, but enough to have made life worth living. Helena was right. They were the best years of his lives too. “It’s odd,” she says. “You’re watching this right now, presumably four years from this moment, although I’m sure you’ll watch it before then to see my face and hear my voice after I’m gone.” It’s true. He did. “But my moment feels just as real to me as yours does to you. Are they both real? Is it only our consciousness that makes it so? I can imagine you sitting there in four years, even though you’re right beside me in this moment, in my moment, and I feel like I can reach through the camera and touch you. I wish I could. I’ve experienced over two hundred years, and at the end of it all, I think Slade was right. It’s just a product of our evolution the way we experience reality and time from moment to moment. How we differentiate between past, present, and future. But we’re intelligent enough to be aware of the illusion, even as we live by it, and so,

I NEVER HEAR THE EXPLOSION. WHAT I HEAR IS THE AFTERMATH OF AN EXPLOSION. THERE IS A RINGING IN MY EARS, AND THOSE HIGH-PITCHED POPPING AND TICKING SOUNDS THAT A HOT ENGINE MAKES AFTER YOU SHUT IT OFF; AND PIECES OF THE SKY ARE FALLING, AND BITS OF WHITE—MAYBE PAPER, MAYBE PLASTER—ARE FLOATING DOWN LIKE SNOW. THERE ARE SILVERY SPARKLES IN THE AIR, TOO—MAYBE IT’S SHATTERED GLASS. THERE’S SMOKE, AND THE STINK OF BURNING; THERE’S NO FLAME, BUT EVERYTHING IS SMOLDERING. “WE’RE ALL LYING ON THE FLOOR. I KNOW THE CHILDREN ARE ALL RIGHT BECAUSE—ONE BY ONE—THEY PICK THEMSELVES UP OFF THE FLOOR. IT MUST HAVE BEEN A LOUD EXPLOSION BECAUSE SOME OF THE CHILDREN ARE STILL HOLDING THEIR EARS; SOME OF THEIR EARS ARE BLEEDING. THE CHILDREN DON’T SPEAK ENGLISH, BUT THEIR VOICES ARE THE FIRST HUMAN SOUNDS TO FOLLOW THE EXPLOSION. THE YOUNGER ONES ARE CRYING; BUT THE OLDER ONES ARE DOING THEIR BEST TO BE COMFORTING—THEY’RE CHATTERING AWAY, THEY’RE REALLY BABBLING, BUT THIS IS REASSURING. “THE WAY THEY LOOK AT ME, I KNOW TWO THINGS. I KNOW THAT I SAVED THEM—I DON’T KNOW HOW. AND I KNOW THAT THEY’RE AFRAID FOR ME. BUT I DON’T SEE ME—I CAN’T TELL WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME. THE CHILDREN’S FACES TELL ME SOMETHING IS WRONG. “SUDDENLY, THE NUNS ARE THERE; PENGUINS ARE PEERING DOWN AT ME—ONE OF THEM BENDS OVER ME. I CAN’T HEAR WHAT I SAY TO HER, BUT SHE APPEARS TO UNDERSTAND ME—MAYBE SHE SPEAKS ENGLISH. IT’S NOT UNTIL SHE TAKES ME IN HER ARMS THAT I SEE ALL THE BLOOD—HER WIMPLE IS BLOOD-STAINED. WHILE I’M LOOKING AT THE NUN, HER WIMPLE CONTINUES TO BE SPLASHED WITH BLOOD—THE BLOOD SPATTERS HER FACE, TOO, BUT SHE’S NOT AFRAID. THE FACES OF THE CHILDREN—LOOKING DOWN AT ME—ARE FULL OF FEAR; BUT THE NUN WHO HOLDS ME IN HER ARMS IS VERY PEACEFUL. “OF COURSE, IT’S MY BLOOD—SHE’S COVERED WITH MY BLOOD—BUT SHE’S VERY CALM. WHEN I SEE SHE’S ABOUT TO MAKE THE SIGN OF THE CROSS OVER ME, I REACH OUT TO TRY TO STOP HER. BUT I CAN’T STOP HER—IT’S AS IF I DON’T HAVE ANY ARMS. THE NUN JUST SMILES AT ME. AFTER SHE’S MADE THE SIGN OF THE CROSS OVER ME, I LEAVE ALL OF THEM—I JUST LEAVE. THEY ARE STILL EXACTLY WHERE THEY WERE, LOOKING DOWN AT ME; BUT I’M NOT REALLY THERE. I’M LOOKING DOWN AT ME, TOO. I LOOK LIKE I DID WHEN I WAS THE BABY JESUS—YOU REMEMBER THOSE STUPID SWADDLING CLOTHES? THAT’S HOW I LOOK WHEN I LEAVE ME. “BUT NOW ALL THE PEOPLE ARE GROWING SMALLER—NOT JUST ME, BUT THE NUNS AND THE CHILDREN, TOO.

In fact, some might say that the growth of television and radio has done more to promulgate Putonghua than any of the official government-instigated promotion programs.

The most successful politician is he who says what everybody is thinking most often and in the loudest voice. Theodore Roosevelt

The Republicans, however, refused to let power slip from their hands so easily. The carpetbag governments in Louisiana and South Carolina announced that Rutherford B. Hayes (1822–93), the Republican candidate, had carried those states and was therefore elected President by a margin of one electoral vote. It was the most outrageous piece of election-rigging in American history (which is saying something) and for a moment it looked as if it might precipitate a renewal of civil war. The

Why then is it so strange that the dead, without their knowledge and unable to perceive these things, are seen by the living in dreams and say something, which the living know to be true when they wake up?

What’s it like working for Mr. Freeze?” “I was going to say the Penguin,” Dinah said, “but people in Seattle don’t carry umbrellas.

Or maybe I should say a few things that I “like like” In that same way that in the 7th grade I knew That there was a difference between how to like a sandwich And how I like liked Katie Elbin’s pale blonde pigtails. So..I like like Vietnamese Coffee and the long wait for it to drip Drops down into my clear glass coffee mug with penguins on it. I like like that the penguins playfully dance as the black of my coffee Meets the creaminess of condensed milk. I like like the way that Gatsby read when I was twelve And thought that Romanticism and the early twenties Would be as romantic in my early twenties. As if a field of daisies would be the same as the field of Daisy’s. However, I like like the melancholic tone of my chemicals as well When they become overly emotive. Haven’t you heard the news that we’re dead? Wouldn’t it be grand to go exactly as we planned? I like like wondering if wandering is a wanderlust Or just a wanderlust? I think this was address by a Tribe Called Quest But I’ve lost just who it is whom I was promised I could trust. I like like driving with a GPS Not playing it too close to the chest Or relying on all the Redbull and Slim Jim’s Which my passenger-self digests. And I like like a gentle sadness like a reminder I can feel The realizations that this is all just so ever gosh golly really real That my dream board has visions of what I can do And that what absolutely matters is only relatively true.

Dear …, I’m writing as a Canadian woman and a member of one of the so-called “visible” or “ethnic” minorities to protest the exclusionary—racist and sexist—practices of Canadian publishers. Why racist? Because they discriminate against white writers. Why sexist? Because they discriminate against male writers. I feel quite perturbed about Penguin Canada’s submission policy which solicits exclusively unagented LGBTQIA2S+ and BIPOC writers (as well as those from "traditionally underrepresented” communities). This is publishing madness that has gone too far in the name of diversity. If publishing exclusively white male writers (and that has never been the case) is a clearcut wrong, two wrongs do not make a right. Oddly enough, only Penguin Canada has this bizarre exclusionary policy. Penguin Australia and Penguin New Zealand, in contrast, welcome submissions from writers of all backgrounds. Penguin UK Merky Books New Writers’ Prize aims to discover new UK voices and writers regardless of race, creed, or colour. Could this be the reason why Canada lags so far behind UK and arguably even Australia/NZ in reputation in the literary and publishing worlds? You may say, oh, look at the history, white male writers have traditionally dominated the publishing field. But why should white male writers TODAY be discriminated against in order to address the inequities of the past? That's the crux of the problem created by Penguin Canada’s woke madness. So, let’s look at the books published recently. Are white males still dominating the field? The truth of the matter is, they don’t, with a whopping 73% of editors being female (Editor Demographics in the United States, 2023). The quality of books isn’t decided by a writer’s colour or gender. It’s decided by the story and writers’ skills in presenting that story. As an avid lifelong reader of books in 3 languages (one of them English), I love books. At times I can’t even remember a writer’s name, far less their skin colour or sexual orientation, but I DO remember the story. Yet today’s exclusionary publishing policies at Penguin Canada imply that only people of colour have the chops to write about people of colour (ditto for any social subgroup you choose). This not only suffocates the world of fiction writing but, as a logical corollary, limits writing about 59-year-old, ethnically Chinese, twice-divorced soccer moms with 2 mortgages SOLELY to 59-year-old, ethnically Chinese, twice-divorced soccer moms with 2 mortgages. For the record, I—and thousands of others, judging by mountains of internet posts—am interested in how men write about women, how white writers write about other races, how old men write about youth—and of course vice versa. I’m interested in how writers see the world regardless of their sexual orientation. Paying the piper to play only a single +ALPHABETSOUP tune, we get to hear only that single tune, reducing the depth of human experience to only what passes through that one artificially imposed filter. One last example: Simon & Schuster (US) has books like us first novel contest to discover new local writers regardless of who they are. Only in Canada’s Orwellian publishing world some writers are more equal than others. Shame on my country. Let the books speak for themselves!!

Dear …, I’m writing as a Canadian woman and a member of one of the so-called “visible” or “ethnic” minorities to protest the exclusionary—racist and sexist—practices of Canadian publishers. Why racist? Because they discriminate against white writers. Why sexist? Because they discriminate against male writers. I feel quite perturbed about Penguin Canada’s submission policy which solicits exclusively unagented LGBTQIA2S+ and BIPOC writers (as well as those from "traditionally underrepresented” communities). This is publishing madness that has gone too far in the name of diversity. If publishing exclusively white male writers (and that has never been the case) is a clearcut wrong, two wrongs do not make a right. Oddly enough, only Penguin Canada has this bizarre exclusionary policy. Penguin Australia and Penguin New Zealand, in contrast, welcome submissions from writers of all backgrounds. Penguin UK Merky Books New Writers’ Prize aims to discover new UK voices and writers regardless of race, creed, or colour. Could this be the reason why Canada lags so far behind UK and arguably even Australia/NZ in reputation in the literary and publishing worlds? You may say, oh, look at the history, white male writers have traditionally dominated the publishing field. But why should white male writers TODAY be discriminated against in order to address the inequities of the past? That's the crux of the problem created by Penguin Canada’s woke madness. So, let’s look at the books published recently. Are white males still dominating the field? The truth of the matter is, they don’t, with a whopping 73% of editors being female (Editor Demographics in the United States, 2023). The quality of books isn’t decided by a writer’s colour or gender. It’s decided by the story and writers’ skills in presenting that story. As an avid lifelong reader of books in 3 languages (one of them English), I love books. At times I can’t even remember a writer’s name, far less their skin colour or sexual orientation, but I DO remember the story. Yet today’s exclusionary publishing policies at Penguin Canada imply that only people of colour have the chops to write about people of colour (ditto for any social subgroup you choose). This not only suffocates the world of fiction writing but, as a logical corollary, limits writing about 59-year-old, ethnically Chinese, twice-divorced soccer moms with 2 mortgages SOLELY to 59-year-old, ethnically Chinese, twice-divorced soccer moms with 2 mortgages. For the record, I—and thousands of others, judging by mountains of internet posts—am interested in how men write about women, how white writers write about other races, how old men write about youth—and of course vice versa. I’m interested in how writers see the world regardless of their sexual orientation. Paying the piper to play only a single +ALPHABETSOUP tune, we get to hear only that single tune, reducing the depth of human experience to only what passes through that one artificially imposed filter. One last example: Simon & Schuster (US) has books like us first novel contest to discover new local writers regardless of who they are. Only in Canada’s Orwellian publishing world some writers are more equal than others. Shame on my country. Let the books speak for themselves!!

[She] talks more and says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker.

Also, I don't like the word priceless. It's an adjective, I said. I didn't want to say that I had learned the word from the television commercials for Mastercard when I had first arrived in America. I know, I know, Nikolai said. But it's a derivative of a revolting noun. Like marrying a toad for unseemly gain. It comes at a price. Everything comes at a price, can we not say that? I said. The flowers on the table, the photos in the frames, the stuffed penguins—forty-one of them—cuddled together, a livable life, an inevitable death, sorrow and stoicism, fear and despair. A self that, too close to one, does not stand self-injuring scrutiny; a self, too far removed, becomes a phantom limb.

Vasana is determinism that feels like free will. I’m reminded of my friend Jean, whom I’ve known for almost twenty years. Jean considers himself very spiritual and went so far in the early nineties as to walk way from his job with a newspaper in Denver to live in an ashram in western Massachusetts. But he found the atmosphere choking. “They’re all crypto Hindus,” he complained. “They don’t do anything but pray and chant and meditate.” So Jean decided to move on with his life. He’s fallen in love with a couple of women but has never married. He doesn’t like the notion of settling down and tends to move to a new state every four years or so. (He once told me that he counted up and discovered that he’s lived in forty different houses since he was born.) One day Jean called me with a story. He was on a date with a woman who had taken a sudden interest in Sufism, and while they were driving home, she told Jean that according to her Sufi teacher, everyone has a prevailing characteristic. “You mean the thing that is most prominent about them, like being extroverted or introverted?” he asked. “No, not prominent,” she said. “Your prevailing characteristic is hidden. You act on it without seeing that you’re acting on it.” The minute he heard this, Jean became excited. “I looked out the car window, and it hit me,” he said. “I sit on the fence. I am only comfortable if I can have both sides of a situation without committing to either.” All at once a great many pieces fell into place. Jean could see why he went into an ashram but didn’t feel like he was one of the group. He saw why he fell in love with women but always saw their faults. Much more came to light. Jean complains about his family yet never misses a Christmas with them. He considers himself an expert on every subject he’s studied—there have been many—but he doesn’t earn his living pursuing any of them. He is indeed an inveterate fence-sitter. And as his date suggested, Jean had no idea that his Vasana, for that’s what we’re talking about, made him enter into one situation after another without ever falling off the fence. “Just think,” he said with obvious surprise, “the thing that’s the most me is the thing I never saw.” If unconscious tendencies kept working in the dark, they wouldn’t be a problem. The genetic software in a penguin or wildebeest guides it to act without any knowledge that it is behaving much like every other penguin or wildebeest. But human beings, unique among all living creatures, want to break down Vasana. It’s not good enough to be a pawn who thinks he’s a king. We crave the assurance of absolute freedom and its result—a totally open future. Is this reasonable? Is it even possible? In his classic text, the Yoga Sutras, the sage Patanjali informs us that there are three types of Vasana. The kind that drives pleasant behavior he calls white Vasana; the kind that drives unpleasant behavior he calls dark Vasana; the kind that mixes the two he calls mixed Vasana. I would say Jean had mixed Vasana—he liked fence-sitting but he missed the reward of lasting love for another person, a driving aspiration, or a shared vision that would bond him with a community. He displayed the positives and negatives of someone who must keep every option open. The goal of the spiritual aspirant is to wear down Vasana so that clarity can be achieved. In clarity you know that you are not a puppet—you have released yourself from the unconscious drives that once fooled you into thinking that you were acting spontaneously.

They peer in and at the same moment both angle back their heads, as if they have taken a position a little too close to a panoramic screen. They are tall and big-boned and look like men playing women’s parts in a play by Oscar Wilde. ‘Nan, Verge’s sisters are here,’ my mother says loudly. But Nan already knows, and furiously pokers the fire to try and smoke them back out. Nan here is The Aged P only with more mischievousness than Mr Wemmick’s in Great Expectations, the only book of which my father kept two copies (Books 180 and 400, Penguin Classic & Everyman Classics editions, London), both of which I have read twice, deciding each time that Great Expectations is the Greatest. If you don’t agree, stop here, go back and read it again. I’ll wait. Or be dead.

Sometimes after he’s gone I’ve wondered what it would be like to slip into a different story and actually end up being Mrs Vincent Cunningham. You know, Chapter XXXVIII, ‘Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had, he and I, the parson and clerk were alone present.’ (Book 789, Jane Eyre, Penguin Classics, London.) Cunningham is a bad surname, but it’s not dreadful. Not as bad say as Bigg-Wither. Mr Bigg-Wither (not kidding) was Jane Austen’s suitor. He fell in love with the sharp bonnet-pinched look, was very partial to one flattened front hair curl, and tiny black eyes. He pulled in his person and fluffed out his whiskers to propose to her. Now that took courage. You have to grant him that. Proposing to Jane Austen was no walk in the park, was in the same league as Jerry Twomey proposing to Niamh ni Eochadha who had the face and manners of a blackthorn. Still, Bigg-Wither went through with it. He got out his proposal. And Jane Austen accepted. Honestly, she did. She was fiancé-ed. She did her best impression of a Jane Austen smile then retired straight away to bed. Up in the bed she lay in her big nightie and couldn’t sleep, not, surprisingly enough, because of the bonnet, but because of the suffocating way the name Bigg-Wither sat on her. That, and the thought of giving birth to little Bigg-Withers. The following morning when she came down to him negotiating his toast and marmalade in past the whiskers, she said, ‘I cannot be a Bigg-Wither,’ or words to that effect, the engagement was off, and all the world’s Readers sighed with relief. Because a happy Jane Austen would have been useless in the World Literature stakes.

Friends, it has been our misfortune to welcome the white man. We have been deceived. He brought with him some shining things that pleased our eyes; he brought weapons more effective than our own. Above all he brought the spirit-water that makes one forget old age, weakness and sorrow. But I wish to say to you that if you wish to possess these things for yourselves, you must begin anew and put away the wisdom of your fathers. You must lay up food and forget the hungry. When your house is built, your store-room filled, then look around for a neighbour whom you can take advantage of and seize all he has. Chief Red Cloud of the Oglala Sioux

Very sexy, babe,” Sierra says, eyeing Doug’s Speedo. Doug is walking like a penguin, waddling while trying to get comfortable. “I swear to God I’m taking these off as soon as I get in the hot tub. They’re choking my balls.” “TMI,” Brittany chimes in, covering her ears with her palms. She’s wearing a yellow bikini, leaving very little to the imagination. Does she realize she looks like a sunflower, ready to rain sunshine on all who look down upon her? Doug and Sierra climb into the tub. I hop into the tub and sit beside Brittany. I’ve never been in a hot tub before, and am not sure about hot-tub protocol. Are we going to sit here and talk, or do we break off into couples and make out? I like the second option, but Brittany looks nervous. Especially when Doug tosses his Speedo out of the tub. I wince. “Come on, man.” “What? I want to be able to have kids one day, Fuentes. That thing was cutting off my circulation.” Brittany hops out of the tub and pulls a towel around her. “Let’s go inside, Alex.” “You guys can stay in here,” Sierra says. “I’ll make him put the marble bag back on.” “Forget it. You two enjoy the tub. We’ll be inside,” Brittany says. When I’m out of the tub, Brittany hands me an extra towel. I put my arm around her as we walk to the cabin. “You okay?” “Absolutely. I was thinking you were upset.” “I’m cool. But…” Inside, I pick up a blown-glass figurine and study it. “Seein’ this house, this life…I want to be here with you, but I look around and realize this will never be me.” “You’re thinking too much.” She kneels on the carpet and pats the floor. “Come here and lie on your stomach. I know how to give Swedish massages. It’ll relax you.” “You’re not Swedish,” I say. “Yeah, well, neither are you. So if I do it wrong you’ll never know the difference.” I lie next to her. “I thought we were gonna take this relationship slow.” “A back rub is harmless.” My eyes roam over her kick-ass bikini-covered bod. “I’ll have you know I’ve been intimate with girls wearin’ a lot more.” She slaps me on the butt. “Behave yourself.

For the dangers of an economy absolutely dominated by a single staple crop were as clear in the seventeenth century as they are nowadays. Dependence on one primary product leaves the producers at the mercy of the market, with its recurring gluts and lowered prices, and its recurring shortage of money. Primary producers are normally at the mercy of their customers anyway: but if they have diversified their products they can at least hope to live off the sales of the others when the sales of one – say, cocoa – have declined, in volume or in value. To

When I step out of the changing room, Doug says, “She’ll take a lot of shit by being with you, you know. People are already starting to talk.” “Listen, Douggie. I like that girl more than I can remember likin’ anything in my life. I’m not about to give her up. I’ll start carin’ about what other people think when I’m six feet under.” Doug smiles and holds out his arms. “Ah, Fuentes, I think we just had a male bonding moment. Wanna hug?” “Not on your life, white boy.” Doug slaps me on the back, then we walk to the hot tub. Despite everything, I think we do have, if not a bonding, then at least an understanding. Either way, I’m still not hugging him. “Very sexy, babe,” Sierra says, eyeing Doug’s Speedo. Doug is walking like a penguin, waddling while trying to get comfortable. “I swear to God I’m taking these off as soon as I get in the hot tub. They’re choking my balls.” “TMI,” Brittany chimes in, covering her ears with her palms. She’s wearing a yellow bikini, leaving very little to the imagination. Does she realize she looks like a sunflower, ready to rain sunshine on all who look down upon her? Doug and Sierra climb into the tub. I hop into the tub and sit beside Brittany. I’ve never been in a hot tub before, and am not sure about hot-tub protocol. Are we going to sit here and talk, or do we break off into couples and make out? I like the second option, but Brittany looks nervous. Especially when Doug tosses his Speedo out of the tub. I wince. “Come on, man.” “What? I want to be able to have kids one day, Fuentes. That thing was cutting off my circulation.

Australia’s default stance in its dealings with the world is not one of leadership. More often, it is derivative and responsive. It usually takes its lead from the United States when it can and deals with crises when it must. Or as the former director-general of the Office of National Assessments Allan Gyngell puts it: ‘How much has to do with leadership and how much is sitting around waiting for something to happen and looking at what the Americans are doing and saying, “we will have a bit of that, but not too much”?

Kurt Campbell, the senior official responsible for US policy in East Asia in the State Department in Obama’s first term, went further: ‘We would not be a member of the East Asia Summit today if not for Kevin Rudd.’ Rudd influenced other elements of US policy, says Campbell, including America’s so-called Asia pivot. ‘The real person on the outside who influenced US policy in Asia is Kevin Rudd. I have no reason to exaggerate. That’s a fact. He was extraordinarily effective. No bullshit.

Although it was pointless, I prayed that Julian would suddenly have flown to the Antarctic to live in a penguin colony. Or that he'd just say no. After all, it was he who'd been so emphatic that we should move on. He did neither.

Besides, I’m not planning on being around much longer. Maybe a week. So this would just be a short period.” “Where are you going?” He ignores my question and rises, carries his cup to the trash, and pitches it in like a basketball player. When he returns I’ve made up my mind, but I still have a question. “You’re carrying around a lot of money,” I try, framing it as a statement. “Oh, that? Yeah. That’s my savings. It’s not that much, and it’s got to last me a while. I try not to spend any of it, but this seemed worth it,” he says with disarming frankness. I feel like a complete loser. He’s made enough to save. Mine’s gone as soon as it hits my guitar case. I’ll freely admit I’m lousy with money. Budgeting isn’t one of my strong points. “You didn’t have to buy me another coffee, Derek,” I start, but his smile stops me. “What?” He shakes his head. “Nothing.” “Really. What is it? What did I do?” “I like the way you say my name. That’s all.” Bam. Right cross to the jaw. With a hell of a follow-through. “How about giving it a try for a few hours, until lunchtime, and seeing how we do? If I’m wrong, I’ll make up the difference. What do you make by one on a weekday?” Damn him straight to hell for being so reasonable sounding. He could probably sell toasters to penguins. I calculate quickly. On a good day, maybe five dollars. Most of my money will come in the afternoon, maybe another whopping ten or fifteen bucks before it gets dark. “Usually?

A penguin walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender says, “You look like you’re wearing a tuxedo.” The penguin says, “What makes you think I’m not?

when people hear negative, critical views, they regard them as inherently more intelligent than optimistic ones; when we’re trying to seem smart to others, we tend to say critical, negative things.

The public don’t know the IEC and some ministers don’t even know why we are here either. They say “we have had the election”. It is difficult. ‘You come from a democratic, ordered community. Here, everything is displaced and disordered. Since being here I have done my best to justify the IEC to people. When the chairman of the Indian Electoral Commission was here the Minister of the Interior and the Minister of External Affairs had forgotten the issue, but Karzai cancelled everything to make a meeting. ‘At this time, the IEC has not reached a place where it can conduct an election.

SBY had not asked for an apology. So by ostentatiously refusing to apologise, Abbott was setting up a straw man. Having set it up, he then demonstrated faux toughness by knocking it down. A seasoned Australian intelligence chief suggested privately that Abbott would have been much smarter to say something along these lines: ‘I was surprised to read this information in the newspapers. I will be seeking urgent briefings. I will speak to the president personally as soon as I can.’ This offers no concession and no apology but it signals concern, promises action, and takes the matter out of the public realm and into the private.

The NATO treaty says that an attack on any party would automatically be regarded as an attack on all. Instead, the ANZUS treaty says only that an attack on any of the signatories would oblige the others to ‘act to meet the common danger in accordance with its constitutional processes’.

The NATO treaty says that an attack on any party would automatically be regarded as an attack on all. Instead, the ANZUS treaty says only that an attack on any of the signatories would oblige the others to ‘act to meet the common danger in accordance with its constitutional processes’.56 There is no mention of the use of armed force. And the phrase ‘in accordance with its constitutional processes’ was included by the United States to give it wriggle room, says a former head of the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs, Alan Renouf.

The chick droops its head feebly as if it understands its own lack of importance. I swallow fiercely. Only I, Veronica McCreedy, unpopular, interfering old bat, am willing to help it. Once more I am filled with a strange, desperate sensation. It is so strong I want to scream in the faces of Dietrich and Mike. I want to knock their heads together, make them see that a species is its individuals. That individuals are what matter. It is men like these who cause wars, where thousands of peace-loving individuals are sacrificed for a so-called “noble” cause. History looks back and says this side won and that side lost, but the reality is that nobody wins. And what about the thousands of men and women and children who are butchered in the process? Does nobody care about them? Each one of them matters. Each and every one. And this individual penguin matters, too. He does to me, anyway.

(As an app, it was already more fruitful than Duolingo; last year he was learning Italian until it started teaching him useless words like pinguino. When was he ever going to need to say penguin in Italy? “Buonasera. I’ll have the braised pinguino, per favore. Grazie.” No.)

I have no way and therefore want no eyes. I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abusèd father’s wrath, Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again.

Walker, D. P. Spiritual and Demon Magic from Ficino to Campanella. Sutton Press. Ward, Benedicta, translator. The Desert Fathers: Sayings of Early Christian Monks. Penguin Classics. Wear, Andrew, R. K. French, and I. M. Lonie, editors. The Medical Renaissance of the Sixteenth Century. Cambridge University Press. Weaver, Elissa B. Convent Theatre in Early Modern Italy: Spiritual Fun and Learning for Women. Cambridge University Press. ________. Scenes from Italian Convent Life: An Anthology of Theatrical Texts and Contexts. Longo Editore. Weinstein, Donald, and Rudolph M. Bell, editors. Saints and Society. University of Chicago Press. Woolfson, Jonathan, editor. Renaissance Historiography. Palgrave Macmillan. Zarri, Gabriella, and Lucetta Scaraffia, editors. Women and Faith. Harvard University Press.

Once, most societies consisted mainly of peasants living in similar bondage to routine, custom, the seasons, poverty. Now, cultural gulfs within mankind – say, those between the European factory-worker and his equivalent in India or China – are often vast. That between the factory-worker and peasant is wider still. Yet even the peasant begins to sense the possibility of change. To have spread the idea that change is not only possible but also desirable is the most important and troublesome of all the results of European cultural influence.

My wings clipped; my flight, restricted with his absence! They say a penguin mates for life. Well, mostly. I need no flight, just get me my wings. I pray out of lost hope.

Or maybe I should say a few things that I “like like” In that same way that in the 7th grade I knew That there was a difference between how to like a sandwich And how I like liked Katie Elbin’s pale blonde pigtails. So..I like like Vietnamese Coffee and the long wait for it to drip Drops down into my clear glass coffee mug with penguins on it. I like like that the penguins playfully dance as the black of my coffee Meets the creaminess of condensed milk. I like like the way that Gatsby read when I was twelve And thought that Romanticism and the early twenties Would be as romantic in my early twenties. As if a field of daisies would be the same as the field of Daisy’s. However, I like like the melancholic tone of my chemicals as well When they become overly emotive. Haven’t you heard the news that we’re dead? Wouldn’t it be grand to go exactly as we planned? I like like wondering if wandering is a wanderlust Or just a wanderlust? I think this was address by a Tribe Called Quest But I’ve lost just who it is whom I was promised I could trust. I like like driving with a GPS Not playing it too close to the chest Or relying on all the Redbull and Slim Jim’s Which my passenger-self digests. And I like like a gentle sadness like a reminder I can feel The realizations that this is all just so ever gosh golly really real That my dream board has visions of what I can do And that what absolutely matters is only relatively true.

want to knock their heads together, make them see that a species is its individuals. That individuals are what matter. It is men like these who cause wars, where thousands of peace-loving individuals are sacrificed for a so-called “noble” cause. History looks back and says this side won and that side lost, but the reality is that nobody wins.

You don’t take any photos!” he comments, incredulous. “No,” I reply. “I would rather look at something with my eyes unhampered by a wall of cumbersome machinery.” “Ouch,” he says. “That stung!” Then he adds, “But y’know, it’s a great feeling to be building up a collection of fabulous memories, for the future.” “I’m not in the business of building up memories for the future,” I inform him. “The present will do.

Wait,” she said, suddenly stopping. “What if Grandfather Frost comes and there’s no tree, where will he put his presents?” He was at a loss. No sensible answer suggested itself. He felt infinitely weary. “Perhaps we should paint a fir tree on the wall to tell him where,” said Sonya, pondering the matter aloud. “Got any green paint?” “No,” said Viktor. “I know what – we’ll leave a note in the kitchen saying put them on the table.” Sonya thought. “Under is better.” “Why?” “So nobody sees.

And now the reader will ask what became of the three penguins' eggs for which three human lives had been risked three hundred times a day, and three human frames strained to the utmost extremity of human endurance. Let us leave the Antarctic for a moment and conceive ourselves in the year 1913 in the Natural History Museum in South Kensington. I had written to say that I would bring the eggs at this time. Present, myself, C.-G., the sole survivor of the three, with First or Doorstep Custodian of the Sacred Eggs. I did not take a verbatim report of his welcome; but the spirit of it may be dramatized as follows: First Custodian. Who are you? What do you want? This ain't an egg-shop. What call have you to come meddling with our eggs? Do you want me to put the police on to you? Is it the crocodile's egg you're after? I don't know nothing about 'no eggs. You'd best speak to Mr. Brown: it's him that varnishes the eggs. I resort to Mr. Brown, who ushers me into the presence of the Chief Custodian, a man of scientific aspect, with two manners: one, affably courteous, for a Person of Importance (I guess a Naturalist Rothschild at least) with whom he is conversing, and the other, extraordinarily offensive even for an official man of science, for myself. I announce myself with becoming modesty as the bearer of the penguins' eggs, and proffer them. The Chief Custodian takes them into custody without a word of thanks, and turns to the Person of Importance to discuss them. I wait. The temperature of my blood rises. The conversation proceeds for what seems to me a considerable period. Suddenly the Chief Custodian notices my presence and seems to resent it. Chief Custodian. You needn't wait. Heroic Explorer. I should like to have a receipt for the eggs, if you please. Chief Custodian. It is not necessary: it is all right. You needn't wait. Heroic Explorer. I should like to have a receipt. But by this time the Chief Custodian's attention is again devoted wholly to the Person of Importance. Feeling that to persist in overhearing their conversation would be an indelicacy, the Heroic Explorer politely leaves the room, and establishes himself on a chair in a gloomy passage outside, where he wiles away the time by rehearsing in his imagination how he will tell off the Chief Custodian when the Person of Importance retires. But this the Person of Importance shows no sign of doing, and the Explorer's thoughts and intentions become darker and darker. As the day wears on, minor officials, passing to and from the Presence, look at him doubtfully and ask his business. The reply is always the same, "I am waiting for a receipt for some penguins' eggs." At last it becomes clear from the Explorer's expression that what he is really waiting for is not to take a receipt but to commit murder. Presumably this is reported to the destined victim: at all events the receipt finally comes; and the Explorer goes his way with it, feeling that he has behaved like a perfect gentleman, but so very dissatisfied with that vapid consolation that for hours he continues his imaginary rehearsals of what he would have liked to have done to that Custodian (mostly with his boots) by way of teaching him manners.

The women accompany their husbands on the ship as far as Taiaroa Head. When it comes time to transfer to the tug, Kathleen, unlike the other wives, chooses not to kiss her husband goodbye. She will say later that she did not wish to make him sad in front of the other men. Yet this stiff and formal parting speaks volumes about their pairing.

When you left,’ he says to the floor, ‘I felt I survive a plane crash.’ One glass of champagne and her mind is leaping, unfettered. ‘But you sent me home.’ ‘No.’ He’s looking at her now, as if saying something he has wanted to say for a long time. ‘I wanted you to choose. I wanted you not to be in two worlds at once, and only partly in mine.’ And then he keeps walking.

No worries,’ he says, and he believes her, and does not believe her.

Une grande vie alors,’ he says. ‘A big life, then.’ He gives a kind of Gallic shrug, lifting his arms out and letting them flop at his sides. She leans in and kisses him for a long time. It feels anatomical. She has to get home.

They’re so disorganised at work. I got an email last night asking me to stay for the session on Saturday morning after all. I’m sorry. Will you manage?’ Dan pauses the teeth-brushing. ‘Sure,’ he says without turning around. ‘When does that mean you’ll be home?’ ‘Monday night.’ ‘No worries,’ he says, and he believes her, and does not believe her.

At one point, even the Head Penguin suggested that the right step might be to slow down. But Alice wouldn’t hear of it. “We are constantly at risk of losing our courage. Some birds are already suggesting we wait until next winter. Then, if we are still alive, they will say the danger was overstated and that any change is not needed.” It was a good point.

Louis began the colony’s assembly by saying, “Fellow penguins, as we meet this challenge—and we definitely will—it is more important than ever to remember who we really are.” The crowd looked blankly at him. “Tell me, are we penguins who deeply respect one another?” There was silence until someone said, “Of course.” Then others said, “Yes.” NoNo was in the middle of the audience trying to figure out what scheme was afoot. It was not obvious yet, which he did not like. Louis continued. “And do we strongly value discipline?” “Yes,” said a dozen or so of the elderly birds. “And do we have a strong sense of responsibility, too?” It was hard to argue with that. It had been true for generations. “Yes,” many now agreed. “Above all, do we stand for brotherhood and the love of our young?” A loud “Yes!” followed. The Head Penguin paused. “And tell me . . . are these qualities that say who we are and what we care about linked to a large piece of ice?” When some not particularly bright birds, caught up in the yes-yes cadence, were again about to say yes, Alice shouted, “NO!

Switching cue cards, he spoke clinically but his voice croaked, “They say penguins mate for life.” He reached up again and jerked hard at his tie. “And I want to be your penguin.” He jerked the tie harder until it came undone, hanging from his neck. He quickly undid the top button of his shirt and glanced across the room, glaring at the nightstand and muttering, “Damn candle went out.” Wait? He wanted to be my penguin? Huh?

Such faithless people (I say) are also persuaded that neither hail nor snow, thunder nor lightning, rain nor tempestuous winds come from the heavens at the commandment of God, but are raised by are raised by the cunning and power of witches and conjurers; insomuch as a clap of thunder, or a gale of wind is no sooner heard, but either they run to ring bells, or cry out to burn witches, or else burn considerate things, hoping by the smoke thereof to drive the Devil out of the air, as though spirits could be frightened away with such external toys.

Arthur Scargill, the miners’ leader and socialist, once told The Sunday Times, ‘My father still reads the dictionary every day. He says your life depends on your power to master words.

As was traditional, but contrary to the clockwork of Rushe’s nature, the roll-out was behind schedule. On every front there were impediments, setbacks, delays, the trials of which inflamed his gums and glossed his eyes. Addressing the field crews he was het up, face flushing into his ginger hair and short arms out stiff like a tweed penguin. ‘If any farmer says he won’t allow a pole, if he bars any