Punt Quotes

You love football because it is instinctive. If a ball comes rolling down the street you give it a punt. You love it for the same reason you fall in love. Because you don't know how to avoid it.

But I am, personally, not a gambler. I wouldn’t spend £1 on the lottery, let alone take a punt on a pregnancy. The stakes are far, far too high. I can’t agree with a society that would force me to bet on how much I could love under duress.

He shot to his feet, faced off against her. "No more mercy for ye, Valkyrie." Holding nothing back, he launched a haymaker at her head. She ducked and laughed. "That accent you work so hard to hide is coming out! Are ye feckin' Oirish this time? Eh, boyo?" She leapt atop his desk, punting the side of his head. "Those swords are mine! Touch them, and I'll use 'em to slice off your nutsack! For a coin purse!

Cornered, Will punted. He had worked in a cut-throat world long enough to know that he would get the ball back and score.

You're guaranteed to be lucky several times in your life-it's what you do with it. Young writers spend all their time worrying, in a way that David Gerrold did not and I did not. How do they get to meet the right people? How do they get to the right parties? If only someone would read my script... Forget all that. All these things are easy and will happen. The way you get your script to the right people is that you put it in an envelope. It's fucking easy. The difficult bit is writing something that is so good people will take a punt on a brand new writer. That's it-you have to write an absolutely terrific script.

Sunlight played along the River Cam. People in punts happily shouted at each other to fuck off. Thin natural scientists who had spent months locked away in their rooms growing white and fishlike, emerged blinking into the light. Couples walking along the bank got so excited about the general wonderfulness of it all that they had to pop inside for an hour.

She would go off in the morning with the punt full of books, and spend long glorious days away in the forest lying on the green springy carpet of whortleberries, reading. She would most diligently work at furnishing her empty mind. She would sternly endeavour to train it not to jump.

All of earth's creatures have, hidden within their beings, a wild uncontrollable urge to punt!

I am so satiated with the great number of detestable books with which we are inundated that I am reduced to punting at faro.

Zij zijn fijn geslepen. Ik niet, ik heb een botte punt".

But we had to stop ’cause Larry can’t throw for shit, and people in other punts were complaining about being hit by strawberries. Even though they was Marks and Spencer’s strawberries.

here’s my 8-step process for maximizing efficacy (doing the right things): Wake up at least 1 hour before you have to be at a computer screen. Email is the mind-killer. Make a cup of tea (I like pu-erh) and sit down with a pen/pencil and paper. Write down the 3 to 5 things—and no more—that are making you the most anxious or uncomfortable. They’re often things that have been punted from one day’s to-do list to the next, to the next, to the next, and so on. Most important usually equals most uncomfortable, with some chance of rejection or conflict. For each item, ask yourself: “If this were the only thing I accomplished today, would I be satisfied with my day?” “Will moving this forward make all the other to-dos unimportant or easier to knock off later?” Put another way: “What, if done, will make all of the rest easier or irrelevant?” Look only at the items you’ve answered “yes” to for at least one of these questions. Block out at 2 to 3 hours to focus on ONE of them for today. Let the rest of the urgent but less important stuff slide. It will still be there tomorrow. TO BE CLEAR: Block out at 2 to 3 HOURS to focus on ONE of them for today. This is ONE BLOCK OF TIME. Cobbling together 10 minutes here and there to add up to 120 minutes does not work. No phone calls or social media allowed. If you get distracted or start procrastinating, don’t freak out and downward-spiral; just gently come back to your ONE to-do.

I’ve never been any kind of athlete or anything, but am I seriously the only person who realizes that infants are the perfect punting shape? If we replaced footballs with babies, I would have been far more successful in high school gym class.

Noaptea trecută am visat-o. Eu locuiam pe malul drept al râului iar ea pe malul stâng. Fără să știm, ne rugam amândoi în același timp să primim o iubire adevărată. Și am primit. Ne-am întâlnit într-un vis și așa am aflat că împărțim aceeași iubire. De atunci caut o modalitate de a traversa râul. Nu există pod iar apele sunt adânci și învolburate. Curenți puternici îl străbat. Am mers în aval, am mers în amonte dar nu am găsit nimic. Tot mai caut o punte care să mă ducă la împlinire. Între timp... iubesc și sunt pe jumătate fericit.

Nog geen halfuur later brak de pastatang, precies op het zwakste punt. Dat bevond zich net als bij mensen war de twee armen samenkomen.

Qui sap fins a quin punt som morts quan morim.

Ell per mi era només un nóm. El veieu? Veieu la història? Veieu alguna cosa? Em sembla com si us intentés explicar un somni, i és en va, perquè cap narració d'un somni no ens pot transmetre la sensació de somni, aquella barreja d'absurditat, de sorpresa i d'atordiment en un estremiment de lluita i rebel·lió, aquella sensació de ser abassegat per aquell punt increïble, que és la veritable essència dels somnis.

As we drew nearer we could see that the three men fishing seemed old and solemn-looking men. They sat on three chairs in the punt and watched intently their lines. And the red sunset threw a mystic light upon the waters and tinged with fire the towering woods and made a golden glory of the piled-up clouds. It was an hour of deep enchantment of ecstatic hope and longing. The little sail stood out against the purple sky the gloaming lay around us wrapping the world in rainbow shadows and behind us crept the night. We seemed like knights of some old legend sailing across some mystic lake into the unknown realm of twilight unto the great land of the sunset. We did not go into the realm of twilight we went slap into that punt where those three old men were fishing. We did not know what had happened at first because the sail shut out the view but from the nature of the language that rose up upon the evening air we gathered that we had come into the neighbourhood of human beings and that they were vexed and discontented.

walking across the moors made me feel as if I’d stepped primly out of a Jane Austen book or an Impressionist painting. But I bet even Elizabeth Bennet had never punted a rabbit before, and my current count was 137.

One night when I got in from work a bit late, 'cause it was really nice weather and everyone wants to take the punts out when it's sunny, I found Larry just sitting on the sofa staring at a blank TV screen. At first I thought maybe he'd forgotten to turn it on, but then I thought, no, Larry's not stupid. He'd have noticed.

I was once told that ‘You love soccer because it’s instinctive. If a ball comes rolling down the street you give it a punt. You love it for the same reason that you fall in love. Because you don’t know how to avoid it.

Many were starting to use computerized synthesizers & drum machines to produce an entirely new style of music. It was being punted by the critics that the guitar was old hat; I was reminded of the way my father & his clarinets were written off in the late Fifties.

The river was glossy, narrow, and quick, a beautiful green color, with the white and maroon striped college punts strung along the near bank. .... The sun, westering, heavy, and hazy, was in those great final throes of energy before the sky whitens and clears, and evening comes. I stood and watched it. That immense body, dying trillions of feet away from me, still warming my face with its steady insensate chemistries.

Als ik ergens vertel dat ik vegetariër ben, word ik bijna altijd gewezen op een inconsequentie of probeert men een zwak punt te ontdekken in een bewering die ik nooit heb gedaan. (Ik heb vaak het idee dat mijn vegetarische levenswijze voor zulke mensen belangrijker is dan voor mij.)

«Ascolta, so come ti senti: sei prevenuto, hai paura, ti senti insicuro, credi che la felicità per te sia irraggiungibile. Ti assicuro che non è così. Io non ti lascerò mai, sarò sempre al tuo fianco, malgrado i tuoi sbalzi d’umore e la tua stronzaggine. Ci sarò per te, ci sono sempre stata. E ti amo, Elijah, dovresti saperlo.» Annuisce, ma l’espressione combattuta non va via dal suo viso. Non crede ancora di meritare la felicità. Non può vivere così, deve lasciarsi il passato alle spalle, prendere coscienza del fatto che da ora in poi la nostra vita sarà insieme, amarmi con tutto se stesso e mettersi in gioco. «Anche io ti amo e cercherò di dimostrartelo, di essere più ottimista. Mi fido di noi e so che il nostro amore è fortissimo, che siamo un’unica cosa e niente può separarci, nemmeno le mie insicurezze del cazzo.» Mi alzo sulle punte e assaggio le sue labbra con frenesia «Così ti voglio» mormoro. Si morde il labbro, incastrandomi con uno sguardo malizioso. «Io ti voglio in qualsiasi modo» esclama.

The ferry master moved away to lower the bow ramp onto the sand. He'd taken three paces when he heard a loud splash behind him. He swung around to see Ergon's head bobbing to the surface next to the stern of the punt, his arms thrashing widely as the shock of the cold sea water revived him. Crowley grinned at the ferry master. 'Thought a little swim might do him good' he said. Ergon was already floundering his way towards the beach. He was in waist-deep water now and in no danger of growing. Sodden and spluttering, he staggered up the sand and stood, glaring at Crowley and dripping water. 'I'll kill you for that!' he snarled Crowley raised an eyebrow. 'So you keep saying' He snapped his fingers at the two horses and they followed him down the ramp onto the land. The ferry master watched with interest. He'd never seen a Ranger tossed overboard before- particularly by another Ranger.

Screamed like a manic cheerleader heaping encouragement on her high school’s punt returner as he breaks through the first wall of blocks.

Amic era una categoria molt ample. Amic era una paraula que es feia servir en exces, fins el punt de deixar de tenir significat.

If I see any man dipping toward the ground in your vicinity, I shall punt him out the door,” Trent promised. “I

¿Diu realment el poeta allò que jo entenc en llegir-lo? Tant se val. Fa que jo entengui alguna cosa. Que si no és el que ell diu, és el que jo estava a punt de dir-me.

It was really almost a 90-yard punt, and had the sort of hang-time the Special Teams Asst. said you could have tender and sensitive intercourse during.

Sunlight played along the River Cam. People in punts happily shouted at each other to fuck off.

Misschien dat de anderen van hem hielden omdat ze dachten dat hij onfeilbaar was, maar ik niet. Ik hield gewoon van hem, punt uit.

Ara mateix encara puc triar fins a cert punt. No pas si morir o no, sinó quan i com fer-ho. I ¿no és això una mena de llibertat?

Els punts i final ens agraden: les simetries, trobar sentit al que no en té -¿és potser aquesta, la gran tasca de la literatura: explicar-nos el món per fer-nos creure que té sentit?

Els ocells visiten els arbres sense fulles, però no sense fulles com a l'hivern; ara les branques s'enrigideixen, les puntes dels branquillons resplendeixen com la flama d'una espelma.

The one in which I went punting on the River Cherwell and drank cider at summer picnics with my friends and spent long hours studying in libraries built inside the hallowed halls of old churches.

Tots dos voltàvem pels mateixos carrers, Hannah, en diferents punts alhora, però a la mateixa nit. Caminàvem pels carrers per fugir: jo, de tu; i tu, de la festa. I no només de la festa, de tu mateixa.

In any other fabric of space-time, my brother would have picked up Dee’s venereal disease-infested koala punt and run it straight down the line of vulgarity, all the way to the touchdown of tastelessness.

When he returned, Edith was in bed with the covers pulled to her chin, her face turned upward, her eyes closed, a thin frown creasing her forehead. Silently, as if she were asleep, Stoner undressed and got into bed beside her. For several moments he lay with his desire, which had become an impersonal thing, belonging to himself alone. He spoke to Edith, as if to find a haven for what he felt; she did not answer. He punt his hand upon her and felt beneath the thin cloth of her nightgown the flesh he had longed for. He moved his hand upon her; she did not stir; her frown deepened. Again he spoke, saying her name to silence; then he moved his hand upon her, gentle in his clumsiness. When he touched the softness of her thighs she turned her head sharply away and lifted her arm to cover her eyes. She made no sound.

Mijn jongen, je weet net zo goed als ik dat er in de politiek geen mensen bestaan, maar principes. Geen gevoelens, maar belangen. In de politiek ruim je geen mens op, je ruimt een hinderpaal uit de weg, punt.

Alles bewoog. De vuurzee onder de aardkorst, de ovens van de sterren, en de planeten, en de universa, en het licht in de duisternis, en de stilte in de ijskou. Maar ik voelde...dat angst er bij mij niet in slaagde wortel te schieten. Alles wat op me afkwam –…– zou voorbijgaan en ik –... –, ik zou overeind blijven, ik was de punt van de passer die altijd stilstaat terwijl het potlood eromheen draait en cirkels trekt.

Als hij je zover omlaag haalt, brengt hij je tot een punt waarop je een tegenwerkende kracht van gemeenschap gaat worden; hij brengt je tot het punt waarop je je tegen de schepping gaat keren en daardoor je persoonlijkheid verliest.

I fancy myself a writer. And writing, in its most eloquent manner, since time became a concept indoctrinated by true troglodytes, tickles my dong; it throttles my flume; it punts my epididymus to horizons fantastical. And not just writing bullshit; a few seemingly overused words to describe the belched bark of a goddamn sequoia, but actually writing. Writing to me is not about thinking, it's not about personality traits or hell, even the conveyance of feelings. Writing is like breathing to me. I have to do it. I have to inhale it and exhale it, no matter what comes in and likewise what comes out. Traversing the slopes of the soul, scratching that all but intangible itch, I find solace in the abyss of my complacency. It‟s not for recognition, not for income or monetary satisfaction. None of that really matters to me. The only thing that matters to me is finding the way to transfer a thought to paper; a heartbeat to the surface; a blink and a gasp to submissively correspond with the outcry of tangible suspense.

Fins i tot quan algun dels dos desvia la mirada per recordar algun moment difícil o dolorós d'aquests anys, l'altre li segueix la vista fins al punt de fuga on només deixem que ens acompanyin les persones de la nostra màxima confiança, les que ens han vist riure i plorar.

... ma io purtroppo sono solo questo: due piedi che vogliono ballare sulle punte. Lo so che non è niente, che sarei un fallimento per ogni genitore, ma non c'è mai stato un giorno in cui io abbia desiderato diventare qualcos'altro. Potrai mai accettarmi per quella che sono?

In het leven van iedereen, Kafka, is een punt waarvoorbij we niet verder terug kunnen. Maar in een enkel zeldzaam geval is er ook een punt waarvoorbij we niet verder door kunnen gaan. En als we zo'n punt ooit bereiken, dan kunnen we het alleen zwijgend aanvaarden, of het nu goed is of slecht.

Allan onderbrak de broers op dat punt met de opmerking dat hij de wereld had gezien en als hij daar iets van had geleerd, dan was het dat de allergrootste en ogenschijnlijk onmogelijkste conflicten op aarde gemakkelijk voorkomen hadden kunnen worden: 'Jij bent dom, nee, jij bent dom, nee, jij bent dom.

Een van de weinige ijzeren wetten van de geschiedenis is dat luxe zich vaak ontwikkelt tot noodzaak en dan weer nieuwe verplichtingen schept. Zodra mensen gewend raken aan een bepaalde luxe, gaan ze die voor lief nemen. Daarna gaan ze erop rekenen. Uiteindelijk bereiken ze het punt dat ze niet meer zonder kunnen.

Masters: Situation appears dire. Look around. Do you see any adults? Me: My ball size indicates I’m the adultest thing here. Me: I haven’t been rejected this hard since I tried to block the punt in that game against OSU last semester. Masters: My wife says rejection is good for you. Makes you mentally tough. Me: You love saying that phrase “my wife.” Masters: You bet your fat ass I do. Me: You don’t think it’s completely strange that you’re 21 and acting like a Taylor Swift song? Masters: Bro, sorry you feel left out. Stop by later and I’ll give you a hug. Me: Fuck off. Masters: I have MY WIFE to do that for me. Thanks, though. Hug still stands. I’ll even let you smell me. MY WIFE says I smell delicious. Me: I’ve smelled you before, which is why I’m not sure how you convinced Ellie to marry you. She must have defective olfactory senses. Masters: Me and MY defective WIFE will be getting it on tonight. While u have only Rosie Palm. Me: Don’t worry. I get plenty of variety. Left-hand Laura sometimes steps in. Masters: Heard you were out with Josie Weeks. Be careful. She eats little linebackers like you for breakfast. And the fact that I don’t even want to make a sexually charged comeback tells me exactly how I feel about Josie. Hope she doesn’t mind being just study partners.

Ik begreep opeens dat er geen tussenweg was tussen niet-bestaan en deze weemakende overdadigheid. Als je bestond, moest je *bestaan tot op dat punt*, tot aan de verschimmeling, het zwellen, tot aan de obsceniteit. In een andere wereld behouden cirkels, melodieën, hun zuivere, strakke lijnen. Maar het bestaan is een aftakelingsproces.

It was the best kind of class to have in the afternoon, an exercise in almost pure language, demanding nothing more than fractional consciousness since there wasn't the slightest hope of understanding what those poems were all about, and we drowsed and smiled, happy in our own little angel-infancy, snug in our Thamesian punt, and when the sonic belch of experimental jets went ripping across the desert we came close to applauding the symbolism; but a trembling applause it would have been, for we knew that it signaled the death of our drowsy England and the beginning of a new mortality, just months away now, the start of job, mate, child, desk, drink, sit, squat, quiver, die.

Inside the opponent’s 45-yard line, facing anything less than fourth and eight, teams are better off going for it than punting. Inside the opponent’s 33-yard line, they are better off going for it on anything less than fourth and 11.* Regardless of field position, on anything less than fourth and five, teams are always better off going for it.

[...] Il professore lasciò la propria camera, armato di quel violino da tasca che si chiama pochette, per essere pronto ad ogni evento; salì lo scalone del palazzo, coi piedi in posizione accademica, come si addice a un maestro di ballo, bussò all'uscio dello studio, entrò, col corpo seminchinato, i gomiti inarcati, la bocca sorridente, e attese in terza posizione, dopo aver incrociato i piedi uno davanti all'altro, alla metà della loro lunghezza, con le caviglie riunite e le punte voltate verso l'esterno. Chiunque altro, al posto del professore Tartelett, messo in quella specie di equilibrio instabile, avrebbe vacillato sulla sua base, lui invece seppe mantenere una perpendicolarità assoluta.

Up past the King's is this stone bridge with big stone balls on it. Larry said it was Clare Bridge. I said I hoped they'd stuck those balls down properly, 'cause i didn't fancy one of them coming down on us when we went underneath. Larry thought that was really funny, but I don't think he'd have been laughing if half a ton of stone dropped through the bottom of the punt.

We are human beings. Every one of us has worth, talents and skills. Fucking put them to use! Stop taking the easy way out and punting the problem to the next generation. Don’t support a nation of people sitting on their asses and taking money from those who work without trying to make it better. Make a change, even if it’s just starting the change before you step out of office.” The

He was back at me like a cat, and he swung a hard chunk of wood from one of the smashed chairs. I caught the first one on the shoulder and I cleverly caught the next one right over the left ear. It broke a big white bell in my head, and he side-stepped, grunting for breath, and let me go down. I landed on my side, and he punted me in the belly like Groza trying for one from the mid-field stripe.

La giornata era bellissima, smaltata e netta. Niente pareva lasciato al caso: punte e spigoli, tetti e antenne, grondaie e comignoli, apici d’abete e cime imbiancate. Come in una tavola fiamminga l’acuto sovrastava qualunque possibile rotondità. E pareva consigliasse di mirare in alto verso il turchese compatto del cielo, senza un sole che potesse sbiadirlo, né un volo d’uccello che potesse macchiarlo.

Humans are forever in the process of nurturing the wounds of their unworthiness – a constant visitor in the psyche – the mortally wounded heroine who lies in the forest of shadows singing for years and years.

The beautiful agonising mirage of the university was inescapable from. This was a forever she had no part in. The eternity was more real to her for consisting of fiery particles of transience - bridges the punt slid under, raindrops spattering the Cam with vanishing circles, shivered reflections, echoes evaporating, shadows metamorphosizing, distances shifting, glorification coming and going on buildings at a whim of the sun, grass flashing through arches, gasps of primitive breath coming from stones, dusk ebbing from waxen woodwork when doors opened. Holy pillars flowed upward and fountained out, round them being a ceaseless confluence of fanatical colours burningly staining glass. Nothing was at an end, so nothing stood still. And of this living eternity, of its kind and one of its children, had been Henry, walking beside her.

Crec en el que pensava el gran poeta Samuel Taylor Coleridge sobre quins eren els punts cardinals de l'educació primerenca: «Treballar amb amor i així crear amor. Acostumar la ment a la precisió intel·lectual i la veritat. Estimular el poder de la imaginació». Coleridge conclou la seva obra Lecture on Education amb aquestes paraules: «Ben poc s'aprèn de la competició o la baralla, tot s'aprèn de la comprensió i de l'amor».

El tremolor se'm va aturar de cop i el foc em va envair, amb més força que mai, però era una calor diferent, no abrasava. Lluïa. Tot el meu interior es va ensorrar […]. Tots els fills que em lligaven a la vida varen quedar fets bocins amb tisorades veloces, com si es tallessin els cordills que aguanten un munt de globus. Tot el que em definia —[…] la meva llar, el meu nom, el meu jo— es va desconnectar de mi en aquell instant, amb unes quantes tisorades, i va marxar volant cel enllà. No m'havia quedat vagant. Ara un nou fil em lligava allà on era. No un, sinó un milió. I no eren fils, sinó cables d'acer. Un milió de cables d'acer que m'unien a una sola cosa, al mateix centre de l'univers. Ara ho podia veure, notava com l'univers girava al voltant d'aquell punt. Fins llavors mai n'havia vist la simetria, però ara em quedava ben clar. Ja no era la gravetat de la Terra el que em lligava on estava… …ara era [ella] […] qui em mantenia allà.

La Bella no s'adonava que l'únic que teníem era l'ara. Vaig exhalar un gemec. Em va passar les puntes dels dits per la mandíbula. —Escolta —em va dir—. Ets el que m'estimo més del món. No n'hi ha prou, amb això? Vaig fer un somriure autèntic. —Sí, n'hi ha prou —li vaig prometre —. Prou per sempre. Aquesta vegada em referia al per sempre real. El meu per sempre etern. I mentre la nit vencia finalment el dia, em vaig tornar a inclinar cap a ella i li vaig besar la pell càlida del coll.

The usual. Soft focus, syrupy memories of April and her potential. Sad-faced pictures of her friends and family pondering all they've lost. Anecdotes about punting and May balls and bright futures. And then some spicy detail, just to add a prurient kick to the piece—a hint of scandal, maybe. A student rivalry. A sniff of drugs, or promiscuity, or some other act of disreputable behavior, to give the reader a frisson of disapproval and the safe knowledge that this would never have happened to them.

Karl Marx zou dan in het begin van augustus* een tweetal weken in Oostende verbleven hebben. Hier zou hij samen met Friedrich Engels zijn programma op punt gesteld hebben voor de komende agitatieakties die voor Europa het sociaal-revolutionaire jaar 1848 zou inleiden. Jammer genoeg weten we niet of Marx in de Karnemelkstraat** of in de Witte Nonnenstraat verbleef en wat zijn opinie over het mondaine Oostende was. Nu weet ik alleen als ik door die twee straten wandel, dat de grondleggers van de marxistische ideologie er eveneens verpoosd hebben. *1846 **nu Christinastraat

Broadening or burrowing to the moon's phases, turbid with pulverized wastemantle, on through flatter, duller, hotter, cotton-gin country it scours, approaching the tidal mark where it puts off majesty, disintegrates, and through swamps of a delta, punting-pole, fowling-piece, oyster-tongs country, wearies to its final act of surrender, effacement, atonement in a huge amorphous aggregate no cuddled attractive child ever dreams of, non-country, image of death as a spherical dew-drop of life. Unlovely monsters, our tales believe, can be translated too, even as water, the selfless mother of all especials.

En niemand ging op het juiste moment dood. Moessorgski, Poesjkin, Lermontov - die waren allemaal te vroeg gestorven. Tsjajkovski, Rosini, Gogol - die hadden allemaal eerder moeten sterven. Beethoven misschien ook wel. Het was natuurlijk niet alleen een probleem voor beroemde schrijvers en componisten, maar ook voor gewone mensen: het probleem om je beste jaren te overleven, voorbij het punt waarop het leven geen vreugde meer kan brengen en alleen nog vreselijke gebeurtenissen. […] In plaats van hem te vermoorden hadden ze hem in leven gelaten, en door hem in leven te laten hadden ze hem vermoord. -p.219

He was back at me like a cat, and he swung a hard chunk of wood from one of the smashed chairs. I caught the first one on the shoulder and I cleverly caught the next one right over the left ear. It broke a big white bell in my head, and he side-stepped, grunting for breath, and let me go down. I landed on my side, and he punted me in the belly like Groza trying for one from the mid-field stripe. I had that fractional part of consciousness left which gave me a remote and unimportant view of reality. The world was a television set at the other end of a dark auditorium, with blurred sound and a fringe area picture.

Vanavond weet hij het. Mensen zouden uit elkaar moeten gaan voordat ze op dit punt belanden. Waar zij zijn beland. Want anders blijft er te veel verdriet achter. Dat gebeurt echter niet. Je gaat tot het uiterste, je gooit alle shit eruit, ook de shit die jullie niet ten deel valt, die uit de afvoerkanalen stroomt van een heel gebouw, van een hele stad, van alle stellen die voor jullie uit elkaar zijn gegaan, tegelijkertijd met jullie. Want in die ondergrondse kanalen praat al die shit met elkaar en vraagt elkaar om raad. Alle stellen die uit elkaar gaan kruipen in hetzelfde gat, maken hetzelfde rondje door het spookhuis.

All right, you. Stand straight. Pull your belly in. Pull your chin in. Keep your shoulders back. Hold your head level. Look straight front. Turn left. Turn right. Face front again and hold your hands out. Palms up. Palms down. Pull your sleeves back. No visible scars. Hair dark brown, some gray. Eyes brown. Height six feet, one half inch. Weight about one ninety. Name Philip Marlowe. Occupation private detective. Well, well, nice to see you, Marlowe. That’s all. Next man.” Much obliged, Captain. Thanks for the time. You forgot to have me open my mouth. I have some nice inlays and one very high-class porcelain jacket crown. Eighty-seven dollars worth of porcelain jacket crown. You forgot to look inside my nose too, Captain. A lot of scar tissue in there for you. Septum operation and was that guy a butcher! Two hours of it in those days. I hear they do it in twenty minutes now. I got it playing football, Captain, a slight miscalculation in an attempt to block a punt. I blocked the guy’s foot instead—after he kicked the ball. Fifteen yards penalty, and that’s about how much stiff bloody tape they pulled out of my nose an inch at a time the day after the operation. I’m not bragging, Captain. I’m just telling you. It’s the little things that count.

Wijze mensen' hebben op verschillende manieren een soms betekenisvolle rol in de menselijke aangelegenheden gespeeld, maar wezenlijk is dat het altijd oude mensen waren, die op het punt stonden uit de wereld te verdwijnen. Hun wijsheid, verworven vlak voor hun verscheiden, kan niet heersen over een wereld die blootgesteld is aan de niet aflatende agressie van de onervarenheid en 'dwaasheid' van de nieuwkomers, en zonder deze verstrengeling van nataliteit en mortaliteit, die voor verandering zorgt en het heersen van de wijsheid onmogelijk maakt, zou de mensheid al lang geleden uitgestorven zijn, ten prooi aan onverdraaglijke verveling.

Ma appena un oggetto emanava noia, non avevo quasi bisogno di guardare la didascalia: era un pettine (o una maschera, o un’effigie) originaria del Vanuatu, che somigliava in modo straordinario ai pettini (o alle maschere, o alle effigi) che si vedono nel novantanove per cento dei musei di anticaglia municipale del mondo intero, dove ci tocca contemplare le eterne punte di silice o le collane di denti di cui i nostri lontani antenati hanno creduto necessario stipare le loro grotte. Esporre quel genere di cose mi è sempre sembrato assurdo, come se gli archeologi del futuro si mettessero in testa di esporre le nostre forchette di plastica e i nostri piatti di carta.

Va tancar els ulls. Em vaig acostar més, eliminant qualsevol distància que hi hagués entre nosaltres, i vaig prémer els llavis suaument damunt dels seus. Tot i que havia pensat que estava a punt, no estava prou preparat per a l'explosió que va tenir lloc. Quina mena d'alquímia estranya era allò que el frec d'uns llavis fos molt més intens que el frec d'uns dits? No tenia cap mena de sentit lògic que un contacte tan senzill entre aquesta zona de la pell en particular fos infinitament més fort que res del que havia viscut fins ara. Era com si allà on es trobaven les nostres boques hagués aparegut un nou sol i el meu cos hagués quedat inundat de la seva llum encegadora.

Podem superar qualsevol cosa, per horrorosa que sigui, perquè som tan indestructibles com creiem. Quan els adults diuen: «Els joves es pensen que són invencibles», amb aquell somriure prepotent i estúpid, no saben fins a quin punt tenen raó. No hem de desesperar mai, perquè mai no ens trencarem irreversiblement. Ens pensem que som invencibles perquè ho som de debò. Ni naixem ni morim: igual que l'energia, només canviem de forma, de mida i de manera de manifestar-os. Els adults se n'obliden, d'això: tenen por de perdre i de fracassar, però aquesta part de nosaltres que és més que la suma de les altres parts no té un principi i un final, i precisament per això tampoc no pot fracassar.

—Abans que tu apareguessis, Bella, la meva vida era com una nit sense lluna. Molt fosca, però amb estrelles. Punts de llum i sensatesa. I, llavors, vares creuar el meu firmament com un estel fugaç. De cop, es va encendre tot. Hi havia resplendor, hi havia bellesa. Quan vares marxar, quan l'estel va desaparèixer per l'horitzó, tot es va enfosquir. No havia canviat res, però els meus ulls havien quedat encegats per la llum. Ja no podia tornar a veure les estrelles. I ja res valia la pena. Me'l volia creure, però veia que estava descrivint la meva vida sense ell i no pas el contrari. —Els ulls ja se t'acostumaran a la foscor —vaig murmurar. —Aquest és precisament el problema, que no poden.

The procrastinator fears the discomfort of doing the work, the uncertainty of the outcome, or both. When you find yourself instinctively punting the most important projects in order to rearrange the sock drawer or play one more game, (or read one more paragraph or send one more text or. . . ), your need is exactly the same as the anxious worker bee above: to entrust yourself and your work to God. It's just that the application is the opposite. For you, faith will be pressing into what you are responsible to do. In doing so, you entrust the pain of the process (usually overblown in your mind anyway) and the eventual success or failure of your project into his hands (where it has been from the beginning).

Toen gebeurde het dat zijn grootmoeder voortijdig overleed; gebeurtenissen zijn immers niets anders dan onmogelijkse tijden en onmogelijke plaatsen, je wordt op een verkeerde plaats neergelegd of vergeten en je bent zo machteloos als een ding dat door wordt opgeraapt. Ook wat veel later gebeurde, gebeurt duizenden keren op de wereld, en het was alleen niet te begrijpen dat het Tonka overkwam. De dokter verscheen dus, de lijkbezorgeres kwamen, de overlijdensakte werd ingevuld en grootmama begraven - het een volgde heel gladjes op het andere zoals dat nou eenmaal hoort in een nette familie. De erfenis werd geregeld; je mocht blij zijn dat je daaraan niet mee hoefde te doen; slechts een enkel punt in de nalatenschap vereiste de aandacht: de verzorging van juffrouw Tonka met de prachtige achternaam, die een van die Tsjechische familienamen was die 'hij zong' of 'hij kwam over de weide' betekenen. Er was een arbeisovereenkomst. Het meisje zou behalve haar loon, dat laag was, voor elk voltooid dienstjaar met een bepaald bedrag in de erfenis bedacht worden, en omdat men met een vrij lang ziekbed van grootmama rekening had gehouden en, overeenkomstig de te verwachten steeds moeilijker wordende verpleging een langzaam oplopend bedrag had vastgesteld, leidde dat ertoe dat het geringe bedrag op een jong iemand een stuitende indruk moest maken, als hij de opgeofferde maanden van Tonka's jeugd in minuten zou omrekenen.

There is an inherent, humbling cruelty to learning how to run white water. In most other so-called "adrenaline" sports—skiing, surfing and rock climbing come to mind—one attains mastery, or the illusion of it, only after long apprenticeship, after enduring falls and tumbles, the fatigue of training previously unused muscles, the discipline of developing a new and initially awkward set of skills. Running white water is fundamentally different. With a little luck one is immediately able to travel long distances, often at great speeds, with only a rudimentary command of the sport's essential skills and about as much physical stamina as it takes to ride a bicycle downhill. At the beginning, at least, white-water adrenaline comes cheap. It's the river doing the work, of course, but like a teenager with a hot car, one forgets what the true power source is. Arrogance reigns. The river seems all smoke and mirrors, lots of bark (you hear it chortling away beneath you, crunching boulders), but not much bite. You think: Let's get on with it! Let's run this damn river! And then maybe the raft hits a drop in the river— say, a short, hidden waterfall. Or maybe a wave reaches up and flicks the boat on its side as easily as a horse swatting flies with its tail. Maybe you're thrown suddenly into the center of the raft, and the floor bounces back and punts you overboard. Maybe you just fall right off the side of the raft so fast you don't realize what's happening. It doesn't matter. The results are the same. The world goes dark. The river— the word hardly does justice to the churning mess enveloping you— the river tumbles you like so much laundry. It punches the air from your lungs. You're helpless. Swimming is a joke. You know for a fact that you are drowning. For the first time you understand the strength of the insouciant monster that has swallowed you. Maybe you travel a hundred feet before you surface (the current is moving that fast). And another hundred feet—just short of a truly fearsome plunge, one that will surely kill you— before you see the rescue lines. You're hauled to shore wearing a sheepish grin and a look in your eye that is equal parts confusion, respect, and raw fear. That is River Lesson Number One. Everyone suffers it. And every time you get the least bit cocky, every time you think you have finally figured out what the river is all about, you suffer it all over again.

Ik dacht aan de hoeveelheid mensen, aan de aantallen, niet eens in termen van overbevolking, of vervuiling, en of er straks voor iedereen nog wel genoeg te eten zou zijn, maar de hoeveelheid op zich. Of drie miljoen of zes miljard een bepaald doel diende. Wanneer dit punt eenmaal was bereikt, begonnen zich de eerste gevoelens van onbehagen aan te dienen. Er zijn niet noodzakelijk te veel mensen, dacht ik, maar er zijn er wel veel. Ik dacht aan de leerlingen in mijn klaslokaal. Allemaal moesten ze iets: ze moesten het leven in, ze moesten het leven door. Terwijl één uur al heel lang kan zijn. Er moest werk worden gevonden en er moesten echtparen worden gevormd. Er zouden kinderen komen, en ook die kinderen zouden op school geschiedenisles krijgen, zij het niet meer van mij. Vanaf een bepaalde hoogte zag je alleen nog de aanwezigheid van mensen, niet langer de mensen zelf. Hier kreeg ik het benauwd.

So you're saying," I clarified, "that you can punt only middling-well for a sober person." "Do I need to make this thing do backflips?" Watson asked, and dug the pole into the muck. Our boat tilted crazily to the right. I made a high-pitched sound, then clapped a hand over my mouth. "You squealed. Did you just squeal?" "If you have to ask," I said, with some dignity, "then no, I did not." He dug in the pole again, and we spun in a neat circle. I bit my lip when he laughed at me. :Jamie, I swear to God I will pull this boat over -" He lifted the pole again, threateningly. I lunged forward, and Watson leaned backward, and then began windmilling his free arm to keep his balance. I considered pushing him in, but the water smelled a bit like bad fish, and anyway, I liked his shirt too much to ruin it. "You were going to let me drown," he protested, pushing us off again. "Yes. In knee-deep water. It would take some skill, but I believe in you.

Gibran in una nota poesia diceva che i genitori sono come l’arco dal quale, come frecce viventi, i figli vengono lanciati in avanti. La cosa che Gibran non ha detto è che ogni figlio è una freccia a due punte. Quando la scocchi, la prima punta si allontana veloce da te, seguendo la propria traiettoria in un futuro che non ti appartiene. La seconda, invece, viene scagliata all'indietro e si conficca per sempre nel tuo petto di genitore. Per ricordarti che resterai arciere anche senza frecce, E che quel dolore che sentivi incombere come un presagio fin dal suo primo giorno, ora è qui per non andarsene più e scandirà il resto della tua vita. Ogni padre e ogni madre sono accomunati da una ferita che non si rimargina. Quella ferita e più forte perfino dell'amore che li ha uniti e li unisce. È ciò che li ha trasformati da amanti in arcieri, da complici in reduci. E quella punta di freccia inestraibile è ciò che permetterà per sempre ai loro cuori, nonostante tutto, di continuare a battere come fossero uno.

The law isn’t supposed to be about unspoken excuses and behind-the-scenes calculations. The beauty of the system is that judges and juries are allowed to consider only what is seen and heard in open court. In between the white lines of this arena, it’s all supposed to make sense. This is where we all get to be equal again. In the defendant’s chair, rich and poor ride the same roller coaster, face the same music. Case has to match case. Sentence should match sentence. But they don’t match anymore. They probably never did, and probably it was never even close. But at least there was the illusion of it. What’s happened now, in this new era of settlements and non prosecutions is that the state has formally surrendered to its own excuses. It has decided just to punt from the start and take the money which doesn’t become really wrong until it turns around the next day and decides to double down on the less-defended, flooring it all the way to trial against a welfare mom or some joker who sold a brick of dope in the projects. Repeat the same process a few million times, and that’s how the jails in American get the population they have. Even if every single person they sent to jail were guilty, the system would still be an epic fail—it’s the jurisprudential version of Pravda, where the facts int he paper might have all been true on any given day, but the lie was all in what was not said. That’s what nobody gets, that the two approaches to justice may individually make a kind of sense. but side by side they’re a dystopia, here common city courts become factories for turning poor people into prisoners, while federal prosecutors on the white-collar beat turn into overpriced garbage men, who behind closed doors quietly dispose of the sins of the rich for a fee. And it’s evolved this way over time and for a thousand reasons, so that almost nobody is aware of the whole picture, the two worlds so separate that they’re barely visible to each other. The usual political descriptors like “unfairness” and “injustice” don’t really apply. it’s more like a breakdown into madness.

Fynn disguise nobody but Fynn. At the time of writing I have known him for a couple of years. But there is another way in which I have known him all my life. For there is about him that transparent vulnerability which makes for a total and immediate correspondence with anyone who is prepared to throw prejudices to the wind and celebrate life as a lump of mysterious and joyful awe. But all the speculation about a trained scientist or theologian with imaginative leanings and communications was pretty well wide of the mark. Fynn, thank God, was not trained as either of these. Intelligent to the eyelashes and with a gargantuan appetite for knowledge, Fynn was early advised to eschew (may his adviser rest in peace) universities and other institutions for the purveying of processed thought. Some of his most formative thinking took place far from the quads and colleges and punted rivers amongst the small streets, warehouses, and canals of the East End. But with his modest job and his Woolworth's do-it-yourself laboratory he produced thought to which few PhD's have approximated.

«Possibile non ci sia niente che vi piace fare al punto di scommetterci su tutta la vita?» Come un mantra, lo ripeteva. E ancora, a me: «È incredibile, Tommaso, incredibile. Tu e gli altri parlate delle facoltà che avete scelto come di un altro posto di mare a caso dove andare a campeggiare, anziché per un’estate, per un po’ di anni, che tanto una spiaggia vale l’altra. Ma, cazzo, vi lascia così indifferenti la prospettiva di un lavoro che non abbia precisamente a che fare con la roba che nel profondo vi rode dentro, con quello che nel profondo siete? Io se non farò quello che voglio, se non diventerò una scrittrice, se i miei libri non verranno tradotti in tutto il mondo, già ho la piena consapevolezza, oggi e qui, che sarò una donna infelice, con gli occhi tipo punte di spillo: ce l’hai presenti, Tommaso? Le persone con quegli occhi lì. Sono tantissime, tantissime. Non fanno quello che sono nate per fare, non frequentano persone che mettono in gioco la loro parte più fastidiosa, quella che però fa la differenza fra loro e il resto del mondo, quella che uno la guarda e dice “io”: e si trascinano, per le strade e per le giornate, con i loro occhi spenti, con i loro occhi tristi».

August, diu, sé el que són aquestes (assenyala les lletres). Són lletres. Però aquestes coses petites, què són? Li dic que són comes, que marquen una pausa curta, o un respir, al text. Ella somriu, després inspira, com si es volgués tornar a empassar les paraules, ficar-se-les altre cop dins del cos, potser per oferir unes paraules a la criatura que encara no ha nascut, la narració, la seva… Però no diu res més i jo maldo per respondre-li. Sabies, li dic, que hi ha una papallona que es diu Coma? Respira amb dificultat. És una reacció tan poc apropiada, tan còmica… Ah, sí?, pregunta. Sí, li dic, es diu Coma perquè… Però ella m'atura. No, diu, deixa-m'ho endevinar. Perquè vola de la fulla a la tija i al pètal, només amb una pausa molt breu? Perquè el seu viatge és la seva història, no parar mai, només una pausa breu, sempre en moviment? Somric i assenteixo. Exactament, dic, és això! L'Ona es clava un cop de puny al palmell: Ahà! Se'n torna al seu seient. Però no és veritat, no és aquesta la raó del nom de la papallona Coma. I per descomptat que hi ha punts en els textos, pauses en els viatges. Aturades. La raó autèntica, banal, és que la papallona té una taca a sota de l'ala que sembla una coma.

Daca am inteles ceva din acea dupa-amiaza, despre intreaga mea viata, a fost ca uneori cele mai rele momente ale existentei noastre, momentele care ne fac sa rumegam in minte cele mai urate dorinte, care ameninta sa ne desprinda de imposibilitatea reala a durerii pe care trebuie s-o induram, sunt de fapt momentele care ne conduc spre intelegerea propriei valori. Este ca si cand am deveni constienti de noi insine ca de o punte intre tot ce a fost si tot ce va fi. Devenim constienti de tot ce am primit si ce putem alege - sau nu- ori de ceea ce perpetuam. Este ca un vertij, incitant si terifiant, trecutul si viitorul inconjurandu-ne ca un canion vast, dar peste care putem trece. Asa mici cum suntem in marea schema a universului si a timpului, fiecare reprezinta un mecanism micut care face ca toata aceasa roata sa se invarteasca. Si ce vom alimenta cu roata propriei noastre vieti? Vom impinge acelasi piston al pierderii sau regretului? Vom reangaja si vom reactiva toate suferintele din trecut? Ii vom abandona pe cei pe care-i iubim ca o consecinta a abandonului de sine? Ii vom face pe copiii nostri sa plateasca pentru pierderile noastre? Sau vom lua ce-i mai bun din ce stim si vom lasa o noua recolta sa creasca pe campia vietii noastre?

So I got lucky. But then again, it took me many hundreds of rejections to manage to find that luck. I am sure there is a lesson n that somewhere. Someone had taken a punt and had faith in me. I wouldn’t let them down, and I would be eternally grateful to them for giving me that chance to shine. Once DLE were on board, a few other companies joined them. It’s funny how, once one person backs you, somehow other people feel more comfortable doing the same. I guess most people don’t like to trailblaze. So before I knew it, suddenly, from nothing, I had the required funds for a place on the team. (In fact I was about £600 short, but Dad helped me out on that one, and refused to hear anything about ever being paid back. Great man.) The dream of an attempt on Everest was now about to become a reality. So many people over the years have asked me how to get sponsorship, but there is only one magic ingredient. Action. You just have to keep going. Then keep going some more. Our dreams are just wishes, if we never follow them through with action. And in life, you have got to be able to light your own fire. The reality of planning big expeditions is often tedious and frustrating. There is no glamour in yet another potential sponsor’s rejection letter, and I have often felt my own internal fire flickering close to snuff point. Action is what keeps it alight.

Later that week, I was bicycling down a pavement in the City of London when I passed a company called DLE, which stands for Davis Langdon & Everest. Hmm, I thought, as I skidded to a halt. I took a deep breath and then confidently walked into their ultraclean, ultrasmart reception, and asked to be put through to the CEO’s office, saying it was both urgent and confidential. Once I had the CEO’s secretary on the line, I pleaded with her to help me get just two minutes of her boss’s time. Eventually after three attempts, due to a combination of pity and intrigue, she agreed to ask the CEO to see me for “literally two minutes.” Bingo. I was escorted into a lift and then ushered into the calm of the CEO’s top-floor office. I was very nervous. The two head guys, Paul Morrell and Alastair Collins, came in, looking suspiciously at this scruffy youngster holding a pamphlet. (They later described it as one of the worst-laid-out proposals they had ever seen.) But they both had the grace to listen. By some miracle, they caught the dream and my enthusiasm, and for the sake of £10,000 (which to me was the world, but to them was a marketing punt), they agreed to back my attempt to put the DLE flag on top of the world. I promised an awesome photograph for their boardroom. We stood up, shook hands, and we have remained great friends ever since. I love deals like that.

I read Dickens and Shakespear without shame or stint; but their pregnant observations and demonstrations of life are not co-ordinated into any philosophy or religion: on the contrary, Dickens's sentimental assumptions are violently contradicted by his observations; and Shakespear's pessimism is only his wounded humanity. Both have the specific genius of the fictionist and the common sympathies of human feeling and thought in pre-eminent degree. They are often saner and shrewder than the philosophers just as Sancho-Panza was often saner and shrewder than Don Quixote. They clear away vast masses of oppressive gravity by their sense of the ridiculous, which is at bottom a combination of sound moral judgment with lighthearted good humor. But they are concerned with the diversities of the world instead of with its unities: they are so irreligious that they exploit popular religion for professional purposes without delicacy or scruple (for example, Sydney Carton and the ghost in Hamlet!): they are anarchical, and cannot balance their exposures of Angelo and Dogberry, Sir Leicester Dedlock and Mr Tite Barnacle, with any portrait of a prophet or a worthy leader: they have no constructive ideas: they regard those who have them as dangerous fanatics: in all their fictions there is no leading thought or inspiration for which any man could conceivably risk the spoiling of his hat in a shower, much less his life. Both are alike forced to borrow motives for the more strenuous actions of their personages from the common stockpot of melodramatic plots; so that Hamlet has to be stimulated by the prejudices of a policeman and Macbeth by the cupidities of a bushranger. Dickens, without the excuse of having to manufacture motives for Hamlets and Macbeths, superfluously punt his crew down the stream of his monthly parts by mechanical devices which I leave you to describe, my own memory being quite baffled by the simplest question as to Monks in Oliver Twist, or the long lost parentage of Smike, or the relations between the Dorrit and Clennam families so inopportunely discovered by Monsieur Rigaud Blandois. The truth is, the world was to Shakespear a great "stage of fools" on which he was utterly bewildered. He could see no sort of sense in living at all; and Dickens saved himself from the despair of the dream in The Chimes by taking the world for granted and busying himself with its details. Neither of them could do anything with a serious positive character: they could place a human figure before you with perfect verisimilitude; but when the moment came for making it live and move, they found, unless it made them laugh, that they had a puppet on their hands, and had to invent some artificial external stimulus to make it work.

... Eenmaal in de tuin merkte ze dat ze al haar kleren uittrok. Het verbaasde haar een beetje haar handelingen zoveel eerder plaatsvonden dan haar gewaarwording ervan. Al haar bewegingen leken een volmaakte expressie van luchtigheid en gratie. 'Kijk uit,' zei een deel van haar. 'Doe voorzichtig.' Maar het was hetzelfde deel dat ook waarschuwde wanneer ze te veel dronk. Op dat moment was het zinloos. 'Gewoonte,' dacht ze. 'Altijd als ik op het punt sta gelukkig te worden, klem ik me vast in plaats van me te laten gaan.' Ze schopte haar sandalen uit en stond naakt in de schaduwen. Ze voelde hoe er een vreemde intensiteit in haar werd geboren. Toen ze de rustige tuin rond keek had ze de indruk ze voor het eerst sinds haar jeugd voorwerpen duidelijk zag. Opeens was het leven daar, ze stond er middenin, en zat er niet door een raam naar te kijken. De waardigheid die ze ontleende aan het gevoel deel te hebben aan de kracht en de grootsheid van het leven, kwam haar vertrouwd voor, maar het was jaren geleden dat ze voor het laatst gevoeld had. Ze stapte in het maanlicht en waadde langzaam naar het midden van de vijver. De bodem was glibberig door de klei, het water kwam tot haar middel. Toen ze zich helemaal onderdompelde, dacht ze: 'Nooit word ik meer hysterisch.' Ze voelde dat ze dat soort spanning, die mate van zorg om haarzelf, nooit meer zou bereiken in haar leven. (p. 180-181)

Cara Emmi, nella parte più interna della mia mano sinistra, suppergiù al centro, dove la linea della vita è intralciata da grandi pieghe ad arco e devia verso l'arteria radiale, lì c'è un punto. Lo osservo, ma non riesco a vederlo. Lo fisso, ma non si lascia trattenere. Posso solo sentirlo. Lo percepisco anche a occhi chiusi. Un punto. E' così forte al tatto che mi vengono le vertigini. Quando mi concentro su di esso, il suo effetto si propaga fino alle punte dei piedi. Mi pizzica, mi solletica, mi riscalda, mi scuote. Stimola la circolazione del sangue, dirige il mio polso, decide il ritmo del battito cardiaco. E nella testa fa l'effetto inebriante di una droga, dilata la mia coscienza, allarga il mio orizzonte. Un punto. Potrei ridere dalla gioia, da quanto mi fa bene. Potrei piangere per la felicità di possederlo e di esserne stato catturato e ricolmo fino alle membra più sottili.Cara Emmi, nella parte più interna della mia mano sinistra, là dove si trova quel punto, oggi pomeriggio, saranno state all'incirca le 16, al tavolo di un caffè è avvenuto un incidente. La mia mano voleva prendere un bicchiere d'acqua. E' stato allora che le sono venute incontro le dita disinvolte di un'altra mano, delicata, hanno tentato di frenare, hanno tentato di sterzare, hanno tentato di evitare la collisione. Ce l'avevano quasi fatta. Quasi. Per una frazione di secondo, la morbida punta di un dito dallo scatto rapido si è ritrovata sulla parte più interna della mia mano che afferrava il bicchiere. Questo ha generato un leggero contatto. Io l'ho conservato. Nessuno potrà portarmelo via. Ti sento. Ti vedo. Ti riconosco. Sei la stessa. Sei identica. Sei il mio punto. Dormi bene.

Cara Emmi, nella parte più interna della mia mano sinistra, suppergiù al centro,. 04/10/2012 · dove la linea della vita è intralciata da grandi pieghe ad arco e devia verso l'arteria radiale, lì c'è un punto. Lo osservo, ma non riesco a vederlo. Lo fisso, ma non si lascia trattenere. Posso solo sentirlo. Lo percepisco anche a occhi chiusi. Un punto. E' così forte al tatto che mi vengono le vertigini. Quando mi concentro su di esso, il suo effetto si propaga fino alle punte dei piedi. Mi pizzica, mi solletica, mi riscalda, mi scuote. Stimola la circolazione del sangue, dirige il mio polso, decide il ritmo del battito cardiaco. E nella testa fa l'effetto inebriante di una droga, dilata la mia coscienza, allarga il mio orizzonte. Un punto. Potrei ridere dalla gioia, da quanto mi fa bene. Potrei piangere per la felicità di possederlo e di esserne stato catturato e ricolmo fino alle membra più sottili.Cara Emmi, nella parte più interna della mia mano sinistra, là dove si trova quel punto, oggi pomeriggio, saranno state all'incirca le 16, al tavolo di un caffè è avvenuto un incidente. La mia mano voleva prendere un bicchiere d'acqua. E' stato allora che le sono venute incontro le dita disinvolte di un'altra mano, delicata, hanno tentato di frenare, hanno tentato di sterzare, hanno tentato di evitare la collisione. Ce l'avevano quasi fatta. Quasi. Per una frazione di secondo, la morbida punta di un dito dallo scatto rapido si è ritrovata sulla parte più interna della mia mano che afferrava il bicchiere. Questo ha generato un leggero contatto. Io l'ho conservato. Nessuno potrà portarmelo via. Ti sento. Ti vedo. Ti riconosco. Sei la stessa. Sei identica. Sei il mio punto. Dormi bene.

The Egyptians always seem to have had some idea that they were connected racially with the inhabitants of the Land of Punt or Puenet, the modern Abyssinia and Somaliland. In the time of the XVIIIth Dynasty they depicted the inhabitants of Punt as greatly resembling themselves in form, feature, and dress, and as wearing the little turned-up beard which was worn by the Egyptians of the earliest times, but even as early as the IVth Dynasty was reserved for the gods.

The word Punt is always written without the hieroglyph determinative of a foreign country, thus showing that the Egyptians did not regard the Punites as foreigners. This certainly looks as if the Punites were a portion of the great migration from Arabia, left behind on the African shore when the rest of the wandering people pressed on northwards to the Wadi Hammamat and the Nile.

A avut ea vreodată ceva în afară de prezent? se întrebă, dar a refuzat mereu să se lase în voia prezentului, a încercat să-l stăpânească, cu mesajele ei de directoare, cu toate planurile pe care le-a făcut, și acum prezentul îi spune: Eu nu sunt un ecou al amintirilor din trecut, nu sunt o punte spre planuri de viitor, eu sunt tot ce ai, chintesența existenței tale, ai încredere în mine fiindcă n-ai de ales.

Trailing 24–23 in the fourth quarter, and backed up on their own 1-yard line, the Patriots were forced to punt—only they didn’t! Instead of punting, Belichick instructed long snapper Lonie Paxton to snap the ball out of the end zone. That would give the Broncos two points for the safety and a three-point lead, but the Patriots would be able to punt the ball from their 20-yard line instead of the back of their end zone.

Waren er geen carnivoren, dan was er ook geen vleesverwerkende industrie. Dat is het punt. Geen vraag, geen aanbod. Wij zijn getuigen van een dierenholocaust. Voor mij maakt het niet uit of je op grote schaal mensen vergast of dat je op diezelfde schaal dieren doodt. Industriële vernietiging is industriële vernietiging, maar het grote verschil tussen de vorige en deze holocaust is dat deze schaamteloos onder onze neus gebeurt. Niemand doet moeite ook maar iets te verbergen. Als ik langs een slager loop zie ik daar Joden hangen, en als ik mensen een broodje rosbief zie eten dan eten ze wat mij betreft een broodje Jood

Una sera di settembre l’Agnese tornando a casa dal lavatoio col mucchio di panni bagnati sulla carriola, incontrò un soldato nella cavedagna. Era un soldato giovane, piccolo e stracciato. Aveva le scarpe rotte, e si vedevano le dita dei piedi, sporche, color di fango. Guardandolo, l’Agnese si sentí stanca. Si fermò, abbassò le stanghe. La carriola era pesante. Ma il soldato aveva gli occhi chiari e lieti, e le fece il saluto militare. Disse: – La guerra è finita. Io vado a casa. Sono tanti giorni che cammino –. L’Agnese si slegò il fazzoletto sotto il mento, ne rovesciò le punte sulla testa, si sventolò con la mano: – Fa ancora molto caldo –. Aggiunse, come se si ricordasse: – La guerra è finita. Lo so. Si sono tutti ubriacati l’altra sera, quando la radio ha dato la notizia –. Guardò il viso del soldato e sorrise, un sorriso rozzo e inatteso sulla sua faccia bruciata dall’aria. – Io credo che i guai peggiori siano ancora da passare, – disse improvvisamente, con la rassegnata incredulità dei poveri; e il soldato si fregò le mani: era un ragazzo molto allegro.

Mensen die niet werken, verdienen geen verdienste. Punt.

Ell. Té un no-se-què que em fa sentir com si estigués a punt de caure. O de transformar-me en aigua. O en foc.