Richter Quotes

No, you're not a bad person," he said. "And Richter isn't a bad person, and I'm not a bad person. We're just people, and people sometimes do stupid things.

Music is the moonlight in the gloomy night of life.

She was hearing the words. They just weren't registering on her Richter scale of sanity.

People say teenagers think they're immortal, and I agree with that. But I think there's a difference between thinking you're immortal and knowing you can survive. Thinking you're immortal leads to arrogance, thinking you deserve the best. Surviving means having the worst thrown at you and being able to continue on despite that. It means striving for what you want most, even when it seems our of your reach, even when everything is working against you.

Luce. We fight. I'm used to that. Sure, that fight was the scariest ass one we've ever had, but you're here now. That's all that matters. No matter how many fights we have, or how much they tip the Richter scale, none of it matters as long as at the end of the day, you're still with me.

In a weird way, it felt like he belonged here. He belonged in the land of phoenixes and witches, the place where things were too fantastic to be real.

Our neighbors turned to stare at us, because Miles Richter laughing was one of those things that the Mayans had predicted would signal the end of the world. He wasn't particularly loud about it, but it was Miles laughing, a sound no mortal had ever heard before.

Dear Asshole: Thank you for keeping your word and believing me. It was more than I expected. Also, I'm sorry you were inconvenienced by my gluing your locker shut at the beginning of this year. However, I am not sorry that I did it, because it was a lot of fun. Love, Alex.

Ian Gittings: The Los Angeles earthquake of October 1,1987 measured 5.9 on the Richter scale. It killed eight people, injured scores more, and left 2,200 people homeless and more than 10,000 buildings badly damaged. However, Nikki Sixx was by far the most infamous Los Angeleno to react to the quake by running out of his house butt-naked and waving a crack pipe.

If nothing’s real, then what does it matter?” he said. “You live here. Doesn’t that make it real enough?

The only thing missing was Miles. But he was probably circling somewhere, destroying villages and hoarding gold in his mountain lair.

If [you're asked] what you think, tell. If you have a preference, voice it. If you have a question, ask it. If you want to cry, bawl. If you need help, raise your hand and jump up and down.

Paradise is always where love dwells.

I am real. This”–he put his other hand over the first-“is real. You see me interacting with other people all day long, don’t you? I talk to people; I affect things in the world. I cause things to happen. I am real.” “But-but what if this whole place”-I had to suck in air again-“what if everything is inside my head? East Shoal and Scarlet and this bridge and you-what if you’re not real because nothing is real?” “If nothing’s real, then what does it matter?” he said. “You live here. Doesn’t that make it real enough?

Mile's fingers pressed into the small of my back. "Basorexia," he mumbled. "Gesundheit." He laughed. "It's an overwhelming desire to kiss." "I thought you weren't good at figuring out what you felt." "I'm probably using the word in the wrong context. But I'm pretty sure that's what this is.

After the spasms die down, my arms come up around Kate, bringing our chests together and her head against my neck. I feel her heartbeat start to return to normal. And then she’s laughing, low and satisfied. “God…that was so…so…” Now I’m smiling too. “I know.” Earth shattering. Off the Richter Scale. Powerful enough to take out a small island country.

I think you're an improvement on my imagination," I said, flipping back through the pages. "You, too," he said. "My imagination—well, what little imagination I have—doesn't quite live up to the real thing." "Agreed," I said. "The real thing is much better.

Do not wait for extraordinary circumstances to do good action; try to use ordinary situations.

To talk about paintings is not only difficult but perhaps pointless too. You can only express in words what words are capable of expressing-- what language can communicate. Painting has nothing to do with that.

A man never discloses his character so clearly as when he descibes another's

I wished I had put more cherries on that slice. The whole jar of cherries. I could watch him eat a whole jar of cherries. Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, what was happening to me?

A timid person is frightened before a danger, a coward during the time, and a courageous person afterward.

I believe that art has a kind of rightness, as in music, when we hear whether or not a note is false

A man's real possession is his memory; in nothing else is he rich; in nothing else is he poor." Richter has said: "Memory is the only paradise from which we cannot be driven away. Grant but memory to us, and we can lose nothing by death.

I stood before a mirror and said fearfully: “I want to see how I look in the mirror with my eyes closed.” These wrods of Richter’s, when I first came upon them, made an indescribable commotion in me. As did the following, which seems almost like a corollary of the above—from Novalis: The seat of the soul is where inner world and outer world touch each other. For nobody knows himself, if he is only himself and not also another one at the same time. To take possession of one’s transcendental I, to be the I of one’s I, at the same time, as Novalis expressed it again.

Not exactly,' Richter said. 'We're going to attack an armed road convoy and seize a nuclear weapon that the Russians are trying to deliver to London.' 'Fuck a duck,' Colin Dekker said, and sat down.

Six: everyone - and when I say everyone, I mean absolutely, positively everyone, from the librarians to the students to the staff to the oldest, cruiser janitor - was piss-down-their-legs scared of Miles Richter. Of all the crazy things I heard about East Shoal, that was the only thing I couldn't believe.

Music is the poetry of the air.

Courage is the magic that turns dreams into reality.

Art is the highest form of hope.

Well, the Taco Bell burrito scale of immense magnitude returned an 'r' factor of point eight six. Then when I applied the nose-picking coefficient, I discovered a multivariate numeration of nine dot oh sixteen on the Richter scale.

Courage consists, not in blindly overlooking danger, but in seeing and conquering it.

On the Richter scale of bad ideas, this had to be a ten.

Look at her," said a pert little dinoflagellate with a perfectly smooth protein coat. "Look at her with her nose up in the air, refusing to divide.

Pemalu adalah orang yang takut sebelum bahaya datang. Pengecut adalah orang yang takut ketika bahaya datang. Dan pemberani baru takut setelah bahaya lewat.

From dreams of bliss shall men awake One day, but not to weep: The dreams remain: they only break The mirror of the sleep.

I remember spending an afternoon with Mr. Richter in the Central Park Zoo, I went weighted down with food for the animals, only someone who’d never been an animal would put up a sign saying not to feed them, Mr. Richter told a joke, I tossed hamburger to the lions, he rattled the cages with his laughter, the animals went to the corners, we laughed and laughed, together and separately, out loud and silently, we were determined to ignore whatever needed to be ignored, to build a new world from nothing if nothing in our world could be salvaged, it was one of the best days of my life, a day during which I lived my life and didn’t think about my life at all.

I work at the deli counter. Have to give people their succulent, chemical-ridden salami and whatnot.' I pictured Miles in a dark room, standing at a butcher's block with a large knife in one hand, a blood cow's leg steadied under the other, a huge Cheshire grin spreading over his face-- 'I bet the customers love you,' I said.

A truly great piano is one that enables you to convey deep emotion

Every story has a beginning and an end. What lies between those two points is the journey.

One learns taciturnity best among people without it, and loquacity among the taciturn.

Fine minds are seldom fine souls.

We cannot easily discover our real character from a friend. He is a mirror on which the warmth of our breath impedes the clearness of reflection.

There is no Richter scale to measure pain; it leaves you vulnerable. It's not pain you can get used to, not sorrow that you can tame.It leaves you broken, broken but alive.

Ich dachte früher, wer nicht mehr zu lange zu leben hat, sagt die Wahrheit.Aber vielleicht sind die, die nicht mehr lange zu leben haben, die schlimmsten Lügner. Wenn sie sichjetzt nicht in Szene setzen, wann dann? Die Wahrheit... Was ist die Wahrheit, auf die der Richter einem keinen Brief und kein Siegel gibt? Und was die Lüge, auf die er es einem gibt? Was ist die Wahrheit, wenn sie nur durch die Köpfe vagabundiert und nicht gehörig festgestellt wird?

Aber was bedeutet das? Hat das Leben tatsächlich keinen Richter über sich? Und wenn doch? Ist es nicht möglich, dass wir uns irren? Wir wissen es nicht. Wir müssen uns also damit abfinden, dass es genauso töricht ist, zu sagen, das Leben habe einen Sinn, wie das Gegenteil. - S. 86

Having become accustomed to receiving mediocre scraps of love in his formative years, you can imagine his enthusiasm flying off the Richter scale if a potential love interest promises much, much more.

Thought Experiment: Imagine that you are Johnny Carson and find yourself caught in an intolerable one-on-one conversation at a cocktail party from which there is no escape. Which of the two following events would you prefer to take place: (1) That the other person become more and more witty and charming, the music more beautiful, the scene transformed to a villa at Capri on the loveliest night of the year, while you find yourself more and more at a loss; or (2) that you are still in Beverly Hills and the chandeliers begin to rattle, a 7.5 Richter earthquake takes place, and presently you find yourself and the other person alive and well, and talking under a mound of rubble. If your choice is (2), explain why it is possible for a true conversation to take place under the conditions of (2) but not (1).

And you were instrumental in capturing Richter?" "Yeah. He was a squirrel." I heard Charles snicker in the background. "Lissa, this is no time for humor." "But he was. A squirrel, I mean. Richter was a vampire shapeshifter.

My paintings are wiser than I am.

At night I have wings.

Ich will mich deutlicher erklären, setzen die Deutschen hinzu, wenn sie sich deutlich erklärt haben.

From dreams of bliss shall men awake one day, but not to weep: the dreams remain; they only break the mirror of their sleep.

Ich mag eure kalte Gerechtigkeit nicht; und aus dem Auge eurer Richter blickt mir immer der Henker und sein kaltes Eisen. (Ich don't like your cold justice; and from the eyes of your judges seems to always gaze the hangman and his cold iron.)

Richter said, ‘Like a morning dream, life becomes more and more bright the longer we live, and the reason of everything appears more clear. What has puzzled us before seems less mysterious, and the crooked paths look straighter as we approach the end.’ 

Like the swimming rats in Richter’s experiment, we can survive for only so long without solid ground beneath our feet; if the choices aren’t real, sooner or later we will go under. It’s important, therefore, that we examine our assumptions about choice and that we openly discuss how, when and why it falls short.

Here.' Miles unzipped the backpack and pulled out the container of IcyHot. 'Go to the dresser. Should be one of the top drawers--smear this in the crotch of every pair of underwear you find.' 'I--what?' I took the container. 'That's disgusting.' 'I'm paying you fifty dollars for this,' Miles hissed, turning toward the bed. I went to the dresser and yanked open the top drawer on the left. Empty. Crisp white underwear and boxers filled the one on the right. Well... at least they were clean.

oceans’ surface waters has already dropped, from an average of around 8.2 to an average of around 8.1. Like the Richter scale, the pH scale is logarithmic, so even such a small numerical difference represents a very large real-world change. A decline of .1 means that the oceans are now thirty percent more acidic than they were in 1800.

A man's real possession is his memory; in nothing else is he rich; in nothing else is he poor." Richter has said: "Memory is the only paradise from which we cannot be driven away. Grant but memory to us, and we can lose nothing by death." Lactantius says: "Memory tempers prosperity, mitigates adversity, controls youth, and delights old age.

From the moment you are born and you take your first breath, you begin to die.

A series of failures may culminate in the best possible result.

Do you do this all the time?' he asked. 'No,' I said. 'Just today.' He smiled.

Die deutsche Sprache ist die Orgel unter den Sprachen.

What makes old age so sad is, not that our joys but that our hopes cease.

[O]b dies das eigentliche Ende des Gefangenendilemmas sei: wenn Richter und Angeklagte sich in die Arme fielen, um gemeinsam über einen Repräsentanten der alten Ordnung zu spotten.

THE RICHTER SCALE, WHICH has technically been replaced by the “moment magnitude”1 scale, measures the energy released by an earthquake.

Almost every job I have ever gotten was due to someone knowing my work or seeing me in something else. I was in UCB and Andy Richter suggested I do stuff for Conan. Being on Conan helped me land a part in Deuce Bigalow. My UCB television show and friends helped me get an audition for SNL; my SNL connections resulted in Parks and Recreation. See, years and years of hard work and little bits of progress isn’t nearly as entertaining as imagining me telling a joke in a Boston food court when suddenly Lorne Michaels walks up and says, “I must have you for a little show I do.

I blur things to make everything equally important and equally unimportant. I blur things so that they do not look artistic or craftsmanlike but technological, smooth and perfect. I blur things to make all the parts a closer fit. Perhaps I also blur out the excess of unimportant information.

It makes no sense to expect or claim to 'make the invisible visible', or the unknown known, or the unthinkable thinkable. We can draw conclusions about the invisible; we can postulate its existence with relative certainty. But all we can represent is an analogy, which stands for the invisible but is not it.

Richter closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He had been transported to a magical land across probably a bajillion parsecs of space, become the head of a fledgling village, unlocked Mastery of two branches of magic… and was still being given the same stupid fucking advice that had started this whole thing! He opened his eyes and sighed deeply. Dumb as the advice was, all in all, it had worked out for him the last time.

An icy slither ran up my core as I stared at my right hand, its tremors Richter scale violent. Was this my demon-killing ability? Destined to be some supernatural whore luring hell spawn into back alleys for deadly rub and tugs?

With each integer on the Richter scale, there is a tenfold increase in the number of earthquakes that occur annually. On average, there is one magnitude 8 event, ten magnitude 7 events, a hundred magnitude 6 events, and so on, each year. If we consider this from an energy standpoint, the smaller earthquakes account for a significant fraction of the total seismic energy released each year. The one million magnitude 2 events (which are too small to be felt except instrumentally) collectively release as much energy as does one magnitude 6 earthquake. Although the larger events are certainly more devastating from a human perspective, they are geologically no more important than the myriad less newsworthy small ones.

When I was born,” Niall Lynch told his middle son, “God broke the mold so hard the ground shook.” This was already a lie, because if God truly had broken the mold for Niall, He’d made Himself a knockoff twenty years later to craft Ronan and his two brothers, Declan and Matthew. The three brothers were nothing if not handsome copies of their father, although each flattered a different side of Niall. Declan had the same way of taking a room and shaking its hand. Matthew’s curls were netted with Niall’s charm and humor. And Ronan was everything that was left: molten eyes and a smile made for war. There was little to nothing of their mother in any of them. “It was a proper earthquake,” Niall clarified, as if anyone had asked him — and knowing Niall, they probably had. “Four point one on the Richter scale. Anything under four would’ve just cracked the mold, not broken it.” Back then, Ronan was not in the business of believing, but that was all right, because his father wanted adoration, not trust. “And you, Ronan,” Niall said. He always said Ronan differently from other words. As if he had meant to say another word entirely — something like knife or poison or revenge — and then swapped it out for Ronan’s name at the last moment. “When you were born, the rivers dried up and the cattle in Rockingham County wept blood.

Willow nodded. “Far be it from me to make excuses for him, and I’m not trying to do that now. But you are the prettiest little thing, Nicks. And then you strap on that guitar, and you turn into a ten-foot-tall warrior woman. I imagine you were a shock to Mr. Jensen’s nervous system the first time he saw you. He has no justification for being an idiot, but I’ll tell you, based on what I know about men, that his reaction was understandable to a certain extent. You must’ve come across like a ten on the Richter scale the first time he saw you play.

Chancellor Juergen Richter sits with his one aide, a fair-haired young man named Dieter Kohl, the head of Germany’s BND, its international intelligence service. Prime Minister Noya Baram brought her chief of staff, a stout, formal, older man who once served as a general in the Israeli army.

What happened?" he asks,voice laced with concern. "I..." I merged with a cockroach-caught a ride next to your twin's Calvin Klein underwear label-and after I watched him play with a demon coyote and snack on bloodied bits that could've been either animal or human, he fed glowing, white orbs to the walking dead-then crushed me under the hell of his boot... "I'm not sure," I say,willing my head to feel better,to stop spinning, and a moment later it does. "I guess I passed out,or something..." I cringe,hating the lie but knowing there's no way I could ever present him the truth. I start to stand,pretending not to notice when he offers a hand. "I need to call my ride." I fumble for my phone, reluctant to bother Paloma and Chay at this hour,but they're pretty much my only real option. "Don't be silly.I'll drive you." Dace follows me out of the stall,watching as I call Paloma's number,then Chay's-face scrunching in confusion when they both fail to answer.It doesn't make any sense. "Daire-why won't you let me help you?" he says.My name on his lips sounding just like ti did in the dream. Our eyes meeting in the mirror,mine astonished, his chagrined,when he adds, "Yeah,I asked around.Uncovered your real name. So shoot me." And when he smiles,when he smiles and runs a nervous hand through his glossy,dark hair-well,I'm tempted to shake my head and refuse him again. Maybe he goes by the name of Whitefeather, but technically,he's still a Richter.A good Richter-a kind Richter-still,I need to do what I can to avoid him.To ignore that irresistible stream of kindness and warmth that swarms all around him. Need to cleanse myself of those dreams once and for all.We are not bound.Nor are we fated.I'm a Seeker-he's the spawn of a Richter-and my only destiny is to stop his brother from...whatever it is that he's doing. But,more immediately,I need to get home.And there's no denying I could do a lot worse than catching a ride with gorgeous Dace Whitefeather.

Es ist ein Akt der Grausamkeit; Wer Dielen „abzieht“, häutet im Zweifel auch im Menschen.

the opium-eater cannot present himself in the character of l'Allegro: even then, he speaks and thinks as becomes Il Penseroso.

The past and future are veiled; but the past wears the widow's veil; the future, the virgin's.

The Fates and Furies, as well as the Graces and Sirens, glide with linked hands over life.

A man never reveals his character more vividly than when portraying the character of another.

Дългата надежда е по-сладка от бързия сюрприз.

Дайте ни най-добрите майки, и ние ще станем най-добрите хора.

Byen var et uhyre, som uavbrutt fødte, oppløste og slukte nye mennesker.

Your damned nonsense can I stand twice or once, but sometimes always, my God, never. Svatislav Richter, to the second flute at Covent Garden PEOPLE HAVE THOUGHT prose style many things—persuasion or mere music, duty or pastime, ornament only, the man himself. It has been left for Americans to think it a problem: the National Problem, the Communications Problem.

sun had just cleared the tree line but wasn’t yet strong enough to burn away the fog seeping out of the woods. Although the air was chilly, the president and his entourage of agents didn’t seem

Der Freiheit Inhalt, intellektuell gesehen, ist Wahrheit, und die Wahrheit macht den Menschen frei. Eben darum aber ist die Wahrheit ein Werk der Freiheit dergestalt, dass sie fort und fort die Wahrheit erzeugt.

Stell dir vor, jemand rennt in sein Verderben, absichtlich, und du kannst ihn retten - rettest du ihn? Stell dir eine Operation vor und einen Patienten, der Drogen nimmt, mit denen sich die Anästhesie nicht verträg, der sich aber schämt, dass er die Drogen nimmt, und es dem Anästhesisten nicht sagen will - redest du mit dem Anästhesisten? Stell dir eine Gerichtsverhandlung vor und einen Angeklagten, der bestraft wird, wenn er nicht offenbart, dass er Linkshänder ist und daher die Tat, die mit der rechten Hand ausgeführt wurde, nicht begangen haben kann, der sich aber schämt, dass er Linkshänder ist - sagst du dem Richter, was los ist? Stell dir vor, dass er schwul ist, die Tat als Schwuler nicht begangen haben kann, sich aber schämt, schwul zu sien. Es geht nicht darum, ob man sich schämen sollte, Linkshänder oder schwul zu sein - stell dir einfach vor, dass der Angeklagte sich schämt.

Tatiasha, my wife, I got cookies from you and Janie, anxious medical advice from Gordon Pasha (tell him you gave me a gallon of silver nitrate), some sharp sticks from Harry (nearly cried). I’m saddling up, I’m good to go. From you I got a letter that I could tell you wrote very late at night. It was filled with the sorts of things a wife of twenty-seven years should not write to her far-away and desperate husband, though this husband was glad and grateful to read and re-read them. Tom Richter saw the care package you sent with the preacher cookies and said, “Wow, man. You must still be doing something right.” I leveled a long look at him and said, “It’s good to know nothing’s changed in the army in twenty years.” Imagine what he might have said had he been privy to the fervent sentiments in your letter. No, I have not eaten any poison berries, or poison mushrooms, or poison anything. The U.S. Army feeds its men. Have you seen a C-ration? Franks and beans, beefsteak, crackers, fruit, cheese, peanut butter, coffee, cocoa, sacks of sugar(!). It’s enough to make a Soviet blockade girl cry. We’re going out on a little scoping mission early tomorrow morning. I’ll call when I come back. I tried to call you today, but the phone lines were jammed. It’s unbelievable. No wonder Ant only called once a year. I would’ve liked to hear your voice though: you know, one word from you before battle, that sort of thing . . . Preacher cookies, by the way, BIG success among war-weary soldiers. Say hi to the kids. Stop teaching Janie back flip dives. Do you remember what you’re supposed to do now? Kiss the palm of your hand and press it against your heart.   Alexander   P.S. I’m getting off the boat at Coconut Grove. It’s six and you’re not on the dock. I finish up, and start walking home, thinking you’re tied up making dinner, and then I see you and Ant hurrying down the promenade. He is running and you’re running after him. You’re wearing a yellow dress. He jumps on me, and you stop shyly, and I say to you, come on, tadpole, show me what you got, and you laugh and run and jump into my arms. Such a good memory. I love you, babe.

The Bible is the saga of Yahweh and Adam, the prodigal son and his ever gracious heavenly father; humanity in their rebellion and God in his grace. This narrative begins with Eden and does not conclude until the New Jerusalem is firmly in place. It is all one story. And if you are a believer, it is all your story.

When a minister impertinently threatened to resign, he seized him by the collar and shouted, ‘Shut up! When I choose to kick you out, you will hear of it in no uncertain terms!’ Politicians were ‘scoundrels’, on whose reports he would write comments like ‘what a beast!’ He often shouted, ‘as for the ministers, the devil take them’. His foreign minister Nikolai Giers was a ‘dummy’ who, he said, acted as his ‘clerk’. He tried to find a way around the ministers, and, as he struggled to absorb complex issues, he asked his three henchmen, Cherevin, Vorontsov and head of the court chancellery, General Otto Richter, to form an all-powerful triumvirate, reducing ministerial reports to short digests.

The brilliant sunshine lay like a golden shawl over the rich mountain city that morning my train set me down for the first time in my life in young Denver. The names of strange railroads incited me from the sides of locomotives at the depot. As I passed up 17th Street a babble of voices from the doors of clothing stores, auction houses and pawn broker shops coaxed and flattered me with 'Sir' and 'Young Gentleman'. There was something in the streets I walked that morning, in the costly dress of the ladies in passing carriages, in the very air that swept down from the mountains, something lavish, dashing and sparkling, like Lutie Brewton herself, and I thought I began to understand a little of her fever for this prodigal place that was growing by leaps and bounds.

I remember." I nod. Wanting to say: I remember everything-all of it-the question is: Do you? But instead, I stare down at my feet, smiling stupidly. Everything I do around him is stupid. Some Seeker I've turned out to be. Attempting to redeem myself,say something normal,not let on that I already know he's employed here-thanks to the raven who allowed me to spy on him earlier,I say, "So,I guess you hang out here a lot then?" He pushes a hand through his hair, as his eyes-the color of aquamarines-glide down the length of me.And damn if I can't feel their trajectory. It's like showering in a stream of warm, molten honey-dripping from the top of my forehead all the way down to my feet. "I guess you could say that," he says,voicelow and deep. "More than most, anyway." He waves a damp towel, tugs on the string of his apron, and I blush in reply. The sight of it reminding me of what I saw in the alleyway-watching him lean against the wall,his face so soft anddreamy I longed to touch him-kiss him-like I did in the dream. I study him closely,seeking traces of recognition, remembrance-some small token of evidence to assure me that, as odd as it seems,that kiss in the cave was as real as it felt-but coming up empty. "So,how long have you worked here?" I ask, returning to the topic at hand. My gaze drifting over the black V-necked T-shirt skimming the sinuous line of his body-telling myself it's all part of my reconnaissance,my need to gather as uch information as I can about him and his kin. But knowing that's not really it.The truth is,I like looking at him, being near him. "I guess you could say somewhere between too long and not long enough-depending on the state of my wallet." His laugh is good-natured and easy-the kid that starts at the belly and trips all the way up. "It's pretty much the only decent game in town." He shrugs. "One way or another,you end up working for the Richters,and believe me, this is one of the better gigs." I peer at him closely,remembering what Cade said when I was here via the raven. How he referred to him by another name. "You're not a Richter?" I ask,holding my breath in my cheeks.Despite what Paloma told me, I need to hear it from him,confirm that he doesn't identify with their clan. "I go by Whitefeather," he says,gaze steady and serious. "I was raised by my mom,didn't even know the Richters when I was a kid." Despite getting the answer I wanted, I frown in return. His being a Richter was a good reason to avoid him-without it,I'm out of excuses. "Is that okay?" He dips his head toward mine,his mouth tugging at the side. "You seem a little upset by the news." I shake my head,break free of my reverie, and say, "No-not at all. Believe me,it's more like a relief." I meet his gaze,seeing the way it narrows in question. "Guess I'm not a big fan of your brother," I add,watching as he throws his head back and laughs,the sight of that long,glorious column of neck forcing me to look away,it's too much to take. "If it makes you feel any better, most of the time I'd have to agree." He returns to me,the warmth of his gaze solely reponsible for the wave of comfort that flows through me.

„Mich könnt ihr von mir aus in die Mülltonne hauen“, hat ein Freund von mir verkündet, und es versteht sich von selbst, dass es sich um einen Sozialdemokraten handelte. Traditionsbewusste Sozialdemokraten müssen so sein. Der betont unsentimentale Umgang mit den sogenannten Letzten Dingen gehört sozusagen zu den Grundwerten der deutschen Sozialdemokratie, genauso wie die soziale Frage und die Wohnungsfrage, er ist gewissermaßen die Konsequenz aus beidem.

Ein solches Glück hatte ich stets bis zu meinem fünfzigsten Lebensjahr, wenn ich in Bedrängnis geriet. Sobald ich rechtschaffene Leute fand, die sich für die Geschichte des Unglücks interessierten, das mich bedrückte, und ich sie ihnen erzählte, flösste ich ihnen jene Freundschaft ein, die nötig war, um sie mir günstig und hilfreich zu stimmen. Der Kunstgriff, den ich dabei anwandte, bestand darin, dass ich die Sache wahrheitsgetreu erzählte, ohne gewisse Einzelheiten auszulassen, zu deren Erwähnung man Mut braucht. Darin liegt das ganze Geheimnis, und wenige wissen es anzuwenden, weil die Menschheit zum grössten Teil aus Feiglingen besteht; ich weiss aus Erfahrung, dass die Wahrheit ein Talisman ist, dessen Zauberkräfte nie versagen, vorausgesetzt, dass man sie nicht an Spitzbuben verschwendet. Ich glaube, wer seine Schuld einem gerechten Richter zu gestehen wagt, wird leichter freigesprochen als ein Unschuldiger, der Ausflüchte sucht.

James, call Frazer for me.’ He sighed, deciding it was time for a break. ‘Of course, Eugene,’ replied the AI, its soothing voice seeming to emanate from the air around him. It came from speakers built into the walls of every room, part of the apartment’s ‘smart’ technology, like the integrated lift shaft that brought the spiderlike delivery robots up to him at 07.20 every morning. James’s own circuitry was similarly hard-wired into the building’s superstructure, meaning the AI could operate every appliance and gadget in the building.

He guessed the NKVD didn’t even know that Waffen-SS men could be identified by the blood-group tattoos on the underside of their left arms, usually near the armpit. Richter didn’t have one. He’d been classed as a non-combatant, as he’d said, at least for a portion of the war. He decided it could be weeks before they found out who he was. But Volsky’s confidence appeared to have been restored too, now. He said, ‘And the vat of incense?’ ‘I had the incense brought from the remnants of a Christmas smoker factory. Silly little hollow figurines invented by toymakers in the Ore Mountains. Cone incense burns down inside the figurines and the smoke emerges from the open mouths. There was a glut of them,’ Richter said, truthfully. ‘Berliners were shocked and saddened after Stalingrad. But they lost the will to celebrate after the Battle of Kursk. They knew the Red Army was coming. The puerile little incense smokers were redundant, together with the incense they were to hold. Except it didn’t go to waste. The vat was taken from a merchant’s house. It’s from Hong Kong, I think.’ Volsky leaned back in his chair. He said, ‘Why go to all the trouble?’ That’s a good question, Richter thought. He stifled a smile. ‘To mask the smell.

Give us an idea of…” Noya Baram rubs her temples. “Oh, well.” Augie begins to stroll around again. “The examples are limitless. Small examples: elevators stop working. Grocery-store scanners. Train and bus passes. Televisions. Phones. Radios. Traffic lights. Credit-card scanners. Home alarm systems. Laptop computers will lose all their software, all files, everything erased. Your computer will be nothing but a keyboard and a blank screen. “Electricity would be severely compromised. Which means refrigerators. In some cases, heat. Water—well, we have already seen the effect on water-purification plants. Clean water in America will quickly become a scarcity. “That means health problems on a massive scale. Who will care for the sick? Hospitals? Will they have the necessary resources to treat you? Surgical operations these days are highly computerized. And they will not have access to any of your prior medical records online. “For that matter, will they treat you at all? Do you have health insurance? Says who? A card in your pocket? They won’t be able to look you up and confirm it. Nor will they be able to seek reimbursement from the insurer. And even if they could get in contact with the insurance company, the insurance company won’t know whether you’re its customer. Does it have handwritten lists of its policyholders? No. It’s all on computers. Computers that have been erased. Will the hospitals work for free? “No websites, of course. No e-commerce. Conveyor belts. Sophisticated machinery inside manufacturing plants. Payroll records. “Planes will be grounded. Even trains may not operate in most places. Cars, at least any built since, oh, 2010 or so, will be affected. “Legal records. Welfare records. Law enforcement databases. The ability of local police to identify criminals, to coordinate with other states and the federal government through databases—no more. “Bank records. You think you have ten thousand dollars in your savings account? Fifty thousand dollars in a retirement account? You think you have a pension that allows you to receive a fixed payment every month?” He shakes his head. “Not if computer files and their backups are erased. Do banks have a large wad of cash, wrapped in a rubber band with your name on it, sitting in a vault somewhere? Of course not. It’s all data.” “Mother of God,” says Chancellor Richter, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

After loud overtures from his daughters, Anthony finally left the house and went up the winding path to the “museum,” to the mobile home where he and his parents had lived from 1949 to 1958. It has been left untouched. The furniture, tables, the paint on the walls, the ’50s cabinets, the dressers, the closets, are all unchanged, remaining as they once were. And in her closet in the bedroom, past the nurse’s uniform, far away in the right-hand corner on the top shelf, lies the black backpack that contains Tatiana’s soul. Every once in a while when she can stand it—or when she can’t stand it—she looks through it. Alexander never looks through it. Tatiana knows what Anthony is about to see. Two cans of Spam in the pack. A bottle of vodka. The nurse’s uniform she escaped from the Soviet Union in that hangs in plastic in the museum closet, next to the PMH nurse’s uniform she nearly lost her marriage in. The Hero of the Soviet Union medal in the pack, in a hidden pocket. The letters she received from Alexander—including the last one from Kontum, which, when she heard about his injuries, she thought would be the last one. That plane ride to Saigon in December 1970 was the longest twelve hours of Tatiana’s life. Francesca and her daughter Emily took care of Tatiana’s kids. Vikki, her good and forgiven friend, came with her, to bring back the body of Tom Richter, to bring back Anthony. In the backpack lies an old yellowed book, The Bronze Horseman and Other Poems. The pages are so old, they splinter if you turn them. You cannot leaf, you can only lift. And between the fracturing pages, photographs are slotted like fragile parchment leaves. Anthony is supposed to find two of these photographs and bring them back. It should take him only a few minutes. Cracked leaves of Tania before she was Alexander’s. Here she is at a few months old, held by her mother, Tania in one arm, Pasha in the other. Here she is, a toddler in the River Luga, bobbing with Pasha. And here a few years older, lying in the hammock with Dasha. A beaming, pretty, dark-haired Dasha is about fourteen. Here is Tania, around ten, with two dangling little braids, doing a fantastic one-armed handstand on top of a tree stump. Here are Tania and Pasha in the boat together, Pasha threateningly raising the oar over her head. Here is the whole family. The parents, side by side, unsmiling, Deda holding Tania’s hand. Babushka holding Pasha’s, Dasha smiling merrily in front.

[Description of the behind-the-scenes situation of the Beer Hall Putsch] The crowd began to grow so sullen that Goering felt it necessary to step to the rostrum and quiet them. “There is nothing to fear,” he cried. “We have the friendliest intentions. For that matter, you’ve no cause to grumble, you’ve got your beer!” And he informed them that in the next room a new government was being formed. It was, at the point of Adolf Hitler’s revolver. Once he had herded his prisoners into the adjoining room, Hitler told them, “No one leaves this room alive without my permission.” He then informed them they would all have key jobs either in the Bavarian government or in the Reich government which he was forming with Ludendorff. With Ludendorff? Earlier in the evening Hitler had dispatched “Scheubner-Richter to Lud-wigshoehe to fetch the renowned General, who knew nothing of the Nazi conspiracy, to the beerhouse at once. The three prisoners at first refused even to speak to Hitler. He continued to harangue them. Each of them must join him in proclaiming the revolution and the new governments; each must take the post he, Hitler, assigned them, or “he has no right to exist.” Kahr was to be the Regent of Bavaria; Lossow, Minister of the National Army; Seisser, Minister of the Reich Police. None of the three was impressed at the prospect of such high office. They did not answer. Their continued silence unnerved Hitler. Finally he waved his gun at them. “I have four shots in my pistol! Three for my collaborators, if they abandon me. The last bullet for myself!” Pointing the weapon to his forehead, he cried, “If I am not victorious by tomorrow afternoon, I shall be a dead man!” (...) Not one of the three men who held the power of the Bavarian state in their hands agreed to join him, even at pistol point. The putsch wasn’t going according to plan. Then Hitler acted on a sudden impulse. Without a further word, he dashed back into the hall, mounted the tribune, faced the sullen crowd and announced that the members of the triumvirate in the next room had joined him in forming a new national government. “The Bavarian Ministry,” he shouted, “is removed…. The government of the November criminals and the Reich President are declared to be removed. A new national government will be named this very day here in Munich. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Hitler had told a masterful lie, and it worked. When the gathering heard that Kahr, General von Lossow and Police Chief von Seisser had joined Hitler its mood abruptly changed. There were loud cheers, and the sound of them impressed the three men still locked up in the little side room. (...) He led the others back to the platform, where each made a brief speech and swore loyalty to each other and to the new regime. The crowd leaped on chairs and tables in a delirium of enthusiasm. Hitler beamed with joy.