Riverside Quotes

On the one hand we are called to play the good Samaritan on life's roadside; but that will be only an initial act. One day we must come to see that the whole Jericho road must be transformed so that men and women will not be constantly beaten and robbed as they make their journey on life's highway. True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it is not haphazard and superficial. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring. "A Time to Break Silence," at Riverside Church

Ful wys is he that kan himselve knowe.

Let the fairy tale begin on a winter's morning, then, with one drop of blood newly-fallen on the ivory snow: a drop as bright as a clear-cut ruby, red as a single spot of claret on the lace cuff.

I give you now Professor Twist The conscientious scientist. Trustees exclaimed, “He never bungles” And sent him off to distant jungles. Camped on a tropic riverside One day he missed his lovely bride. She had, the guide informed him later, Been eaten by an alligator. Professor Twist could not but smile. You mean,” he said “a crocodile.!

Chilled-looking people walking along the riverside, the snow beginning, faintly, to pile up on the roofs of cars, the bare trees shaking their heads left and right, dry leaves tossing in the wind. The silver of the metal window sash sparkling coldly. Soon after, I heard sensei call, "Mikage! Are you awake? It's snowing, look! It's snowing!" "I'm coming!" I called out, standing up. I got dressed to begin another day. Over and over, we begin again.

He said, 'They're only whores,' as though their very availability rendered them worthless.

Across the troubled maelstrom of time, people always need a beer.

Richard knew he was fighting for his life, and he was terribly happy.

Love is a miracle, not a salvation.

Hell was grey. Dim and lifeless... I felt numb and in pain at the same time and that was not supposed to happen in heaven. But you would think that with all the queers they had sent here since time began, hell would have a better decorating job.

A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no hiding place down here. You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance. Your mouths spelling words Armed for slaughter. The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face. Across the wall of the world, A river sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side. Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I And the tree and stone were one. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. The river sings and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to The singing river and the wise rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the tree. Today, the first and last of every tree Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river. Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river. Each of you, descendant of some passed on Traveller, has been paid for. You, who gave me my first name, You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, Then forced on bloody feet, Left me to the employment of other seekers-- Desperate for gain, starving for gold. You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot... You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves beside me. I am the tree planted by the river, Which will not be moved. I, the rock, I the river, I the tree I am yours--your passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, Need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands. Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts. Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings. Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, The rock, the river, the tree, your country. No less to Midas than the mendicant. No less to you now than the mastodon then. Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, Into your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.

Why? Why not?

although he was at core a rotten being, no one could fault him for style.

She has four sons,” Nurse Purvis leads me on, “all with a London post code, but they never visit. You’d think old age was a criminal offense, not a destination we’re all heading to.” I consider airing my theory that our culture’s coping strategy towards death is to bury it under consumerism and Sansara, that the Riverside Villas of the world are screens that enable this self-deception, and that the elderly are guilty: guilty of proving to us that our willful myopia about death is exactly that.

What was it about scholarship and learning, he wondered, that seemed to wither the hearts of University men, leaving them incapable of loving anything as imperfect and fallible as an actual human being?

He felt a happiness stirring deep inside him, shining a light into recesses of his soul that had long been devoured by darkness.

I let the insults go by. A good swordsman doesn't pay attention to words in a fight.

But just a piece of advice. Never let a man walk you to a riverside gazebo all lit up with white lights if you don’t want your head to go spinning in crazy directions.

A tree that is planted by the riverside blossoms all through because its environment has taking it beyond the realm of seasons.

There are kinds of human problems which really do seem, as our tidy expressions would have it, to “come to a head” and “demand to be dealt with.” But there are also problems, often just as serious, which come to nothing that we can recognize or openly deal with. Some long-lived, insidious problems simply slip us off to one side of ourselves. Some gently rob us of just enough energy or faith so that days which once took place on a horizontal plane become an endless series of uphill slogs. And some—like high water working year after year at the roots of a riverside tree—quietly undercut our trust or our hope, our sense of place, or of humor, our ability to empathize, or to feel enthused, and we don’t sense impending danger, we don’t feel the damage at all, till one day, to our amazement, we find ourselves crashing to the ground.

The morning heat had already soaked through the walls, rising up from the floor like a ghost of summers past.

Voices of boys were by the river-side. Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.

There's something very enticing about an empty bench under a tree. And if it's facing a river, that's the bench for me.

Maybe someone would write a play just for me, one where a real woman could fight with her sword, and had many fine adventures and changes of costume.

I don't know how long I lay in the mud. Perhaps a minute, perhaps a day. Time was a court jester, playing tricks on me. Perhaps another lifetime. Maybe I had been reincarnated as an alligator. Or an innocent beetle feeding on my decaying flesh.

On May 19, Malcolm X’s birthday, two police had been machine-gunned on Riverside Drive. I felt sorry for their families, sorry for their children, but i was relieved to see that somebody else besides Black folks and Puerto Ricans and Chicanos was being shot at. I was sick and tired of us being the only victims, and i didn’t care who knew it. As far as i was concerned, the police in the Black communities were nothing but a foreign, occupying army, beating, torturing, and murdering people at whim and without restraint. I despise violence, but i despise it even more when it’s one-sided and used to oppress and repress poor people.

The riverside palaces are reflected in the water on either side of the river as rippling golden wafers. There is a pink underglow on the marble façade of San Miniato on the hill. The mosaic of Christ reflecting the benediction of the sun’s dying rays over the city.

A Boy was bathing in a river and got out of his depth, and was in great danger of being drowned. A man who was passing along a road heard his cries for help, and went to the riverside and began to scold him for being so careless as to get into deep water, but made no attempt to help him. “Oh, sir,” cried the Boy, “please help me first and scold me afterwards.” Give assistance, not advice, in a crisis. THE QUACK FROG Once upon a time a Frog came forth from his home in the marshes and proclaimed to all the world that he was a learned physician, skilled in drugs and able to cure all diseases. Among the crowd was a Fox, who called out, “You a doctor! Why, how can you set up to heal others when you cannot even cure your own lame legs and blotched and wrinkled skin?” Physician, heal thyself.

I labored in vain reciting the Three Histories I wasted my time reading the Five Classics I've grown old checking yellow scrolls recording the usual everyday names Continued Hardship was my fortune Emptiness and Danger govern my life I can't match riverside trees every year with a season of green

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe.

Around us, the city twinkled, the stars themselves seeming to hang lower, pulsing with ruby and amethyst and pearl. Above, the full moon set the marble of the buildings and bridges glowing as if they were all lit from within. Music played, strings and gentle drums, and on either side of the Sidra, golden lights bobbed over riverside walkways dotted with cafes and shops, all open for the night, already packed. Life- so full of life. I could nearly taste it crackling on my tongue.

That was a pretty one, I heard you call From the unsatisfactory hall To the unsatisfactory room where I Played record after record, idly, Wasting my time at home, that you Looked so much forward to. Oliver's Riverside Blues, it was. And now I shall, I suppose, always remember how The flock of notes those antique Negroes blew Our of Chicago air into A huge remembering pre-electric horn The year after I was born Three decades later made this sudden bridge From your unsatisfactory age To my unsatisfactory prime. Truly, though our element is time, We're not suited to the long perspectives Open at each instant of our lives. They link us to our losses: worse, They show us what we have as it once was, Blindingly undiminished, just as though By acting differently we could have kept it so. - Reference Back

David: And you think it can just evaporate? Even if at one time they loved one another? Marx: That's one of the sad truths of existence. Nothing in this world is permanent. Even the characters created by the great Shakespeare will, in millions of years, cease to exist—when the universe runs its course and the lights go out.

I was staying in a house beside the machair. In front of this house was a stretch of lawn, and at the edge of the lawn there was a river. By the riverside, its door wide open, was a shed into which I wandered. Inside the shed was a large art nouveau typesetting machine. I was being called, and I turned away from my discovery of the typesetting machine to make my way back to the house and to our hostess. People in dreams do not always have names, but she did. She was called Mrs. MacGregor.

The time of testing, and of playing, was over. This was the final duel for one of them. Now they were fighting for their lives--for the one life that would emerge from this elegant battle. . . . For the moment the two of them were evenly matched, arm against arm. Michael prayed that it would never stop, that there would always be this moment of utter mastery, beautiful and rare, and no conclusion ever be reached.

If we could strip away the ideologies that separate us, stop the greedy destruction, and meet by the riverside, we would discover that we are all children of the same earth and that our lives are patterned by the ceremonial flow of the sun, moon, seasons, and tides. We are all one in the spirit and in the body.”     -Sedonia Cahill and Joshua Halpern

It was that time of the year, the turning-point of summer, when the crops of the present year are a certainty, when one begins to think of the sowing for next year, and the mowing is at hand; when the rye is all in ear, though its ears are still light, not yet full, and it waves in gray-green billows in the wind; when the green oats, with tufts of yellow grass scattered here and there among it, droop irregularly over the late-sown fields; when the early buckwheat is already out and hiding the ground; when the fallow lands, trodden hard as stone by the cattle, are half ploughed over, with paths left untouched by the plough; when from the dry dung-heaps carted onto the fields there comes at sunset a smell of manure mixed with meadow-sweet, and on the low-lying lands the riverside meadows are a thick sea of grass waiting for the mowing, with blackened heaps of the stalks of sorrel among it.

Every man lives at swordspoint.

I wonder if you men have any idea of how insulting it is to women when you assume that all we can offer is our bodies?

Every man lives at swordspoint, Ferris intoned.

Have you seen Marcus?" he asked his ugly friend. "Yes, he was stoping some people in the Violet Room from climbing the curtains." "What for?" "They were not professionals." "Oh.

Lay em down, Sethe. Sword and shield. Down. Down. Both of em down. Down by the riverside. Sword and shield. Don’t study war no more. Lay all that mess down. Sword and shield.

The Western arrogance of feeling that it has everything to teach others and nothing to learn from them is not just. (MLK, Jr., Riverside Church, New York City, April 4, 1964) (Note: 50 years ago)

In the introduction, Amy Butler the senior minister at Riverside and a friend of Clinton's, referred to the Trump Administration as a source of anguish and confusion, and everyone nodded solemly'.

That night she dreamed about the King again. She stood in a riverside meadow between greenwood and castle. Overhead the sun shone gilt in a sky like powdered lapis and struck golden sparks from the King's blood-red dragon banner.

You have a soft belly. That’s all it is. You need to eat. You should be consuming at least two thousand calories every day. I don’t care where those calories come from. If you want to eat your weight in chicken nuggets, I’ll buy you every single bag.

Mo and I were walking up from the path that runs along the Hudson River to the middle level of Riverside Park on the Upper West Side. The park is one of my favorite places in New York City. It has three levels and runs from 72nd Street to 158th Street.

Accompanied by the soundtrack of the latest number one record, playing from a tinny little radio on a shelf in a cheap riverside café, the deal was sealed, the pact was made. Such were the circumstances under which two ordinary people became murderers.

Where are we?” she asked when I pulled into a parking lot. “The park.” “Isn’t it dangerous at night?” “Not here. Come on.” I pulled her out of her seat and grabbed a blanket from the trunk before trekking through the soft grass. “You always keep a blanket in your car?” “Yeah, for emergencies. Never know when you might need it. Food, water, first-aid kit, too.” “Oh!” she grunted and caught my arm as one of her heels pierced the soft dirt and sank. “You should take those off.” “And walk around barefoot? Hello? Ever heard of hookworms and tetanus?” “Ever heard of snapping your ankles as you fall flat on your face in the dark?” I asked as I squatted in front of her and slipped her foot out of the high heels. “What are you doing?” she gasped, tumbling forward and grabbing onto my shoulders for support. “Removing your obstacles.” She landed a bare foot on the grass as I undid the other shoe. “So now I get tetanus?” I looked up at her, my hands lightly stroking her ankles up to her calves. “You worry too much.” “It’s a real risk. Ask Preeti.” I stood slowly, moving up her body, and hovered above her. “How…how far are we walking?” she asked. “To the river.” “In the dark?” I nodded and handed her the shoes. “Took these off and you won’t even carry them?” “I’ll carry them,” I replied, swooped down, and threw her over the blanket on my shoulder. Liya yelped. “Put me down!” “So you can get tetanus?” I asked and walked toward the river. She laughed. “I hate you!” “You love it.” She slapped my butt and then poked her pointy elbows into my shoulder as she arched her back. “Enjoying the view of my backside from over there?” I slid my hand up the back of her thighs and tugged her dress down to keep her covered. “This isn’t so bad,” she said. “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah.” She slapped my butt again. “Giddyap!” “All right. You asked for it.” Her next words were swallowed up in a scream as I took off at a full sprint. She gripped my shirt, clutching for my waist, as the breeze broke around us. I ran the short distance to the riverside in no time, slowing only when the moonlit gleam on the water’s surface appeared. I placed Liya on the grass, but she swayed away. I grabbed her by the waist to steady her and chuckled. “Are you okay?” “You try doing that upside down.

No man will speak to his master; but to a wanderer and a friend, to him who does not come to teach or to rule, to him who asks for nothing and accepts all things, words are spoken by the camp-fires, in the shared solitude of the sea, in riverside villages, in resting-places surrounded by forests—words are spoken that take no account of race or colour. One heart speaks—another one listens; and the earth, the sea, the sky, the passing wind and the stirring leaf, hear also the futile tale of the burden of life.

As the children from Riverside School and the children from Mountain View School filed out of the store, each grabbing one silver-wrapped chocolate from Mrs. Cooper’s basket, it struck Stella that everyone got the same thing, no matter which school they went to.

Stunning cliffs and stone walls, festooned with vines and moss, reach from the promenade to the top tier, which runs along Riverside Drive. Can parks be emotional? Feels that way, its beauty is haunting. I read Riverside Park inspired Edgar Allan Poe to write “The Raven.” Makes sense.

He hath considered shortly, in a clause The trespas of hem bothe, and eek the cause, And althogh that his ire hir gilt accused, Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excused, As thus: he thoghte wel that every man Wol helpe himself in love if that he kan, And eek delivere himself out of prisoun;

heading to.’ I consider airing my theory that our culture’s coping strategy towards death is to bury it under consumerism and samsara; that the Riverside Villas of the world are screens that enable this self-deception, and that the elderly are guilty: guilty of proving to us that our wilful myopia about death is exactly that.

I ask myself whether I am mad. As I was walking just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as to my own sanity arose in me; not vague doubts such as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known some who were quite intelligent, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life, except on one point.

I laughed, “I’m still the same plain old Will – just like I’ve always been.” Tomas shook his head, his face serious, “There’s nothing plain or old about you.” Tomas... Enchanted...

never-ending cycle of berating and hating myself inside my head on a daily basis. I just wish the voices in there would shut the fuck up.

I never used to get nervous around women before Aeris, but to this day, I still get butterflies when I’m around her.

It was not for Halliday to judge another's personal relationships: everyone in the city was strange, if you looked deeply enough.

He had nothing against debauchery in the abstract, but he was particular about the details.

I do not make the rules [. . .] This annoys me, and so I comfort myself by breaking them

American fighter planes came in under the smoke to see if anything was moving. They saw Billy and the rest moving down there. The planes sprayed them with machine-gun bullets, but the bullets missed. Then they saw some other people moving down by the riverside and they shot at them. They hit some of them. So it goes. The idea was to hasten the end of the war.

Perhaps if more people realized that coupling in higher organisms is fundamentally about bonding, not only about the drive to reproduce, there would be less prejudice against homosexuality. In fact, homosexuality is natural and common in the animal kingdom. In a 2009 review of the scientific literature, University of California at Riverside biologists Nathan W. Bailey and Marlene Zuk, who advocate more study about the evolutionary impetus for homosexual behavior, state, “The variety and ubiquity of same-sex sexual behavior in animals is impressive; many thousands of instances of same-sex courtship, pair bonding and copulation have been observed in a wide range of species, including mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, insects, mollusks, and nematodes.

—Los duelos sólo son a muerte cuando lo que hay en juego es una de estas dos cosas: poder o dinero. —¿Qué hay del honor? —¿Qué se puede comprar con el honor? —preguntó cínicamente la duquesa.

Michael Heseltine, a wild-haired visionary, Klaus Kinski to Margaret's Thatcher's Werner Herzog, pushed Docklands across the Thames to the East Greenwich Peninsula. The Millennium Dome concept was a remake of 'Fitzcarraldo', a film in which suborned natives (expendable extras) drag a paddle steamer over a hill in order to force a short cut to more exploitable territory. The point being to bring Enrico Caruso, one of the gods of opera, to an upstream trading post. An insane achievement mirrored in the rebranding of the Dome, after its long and expensive limbo, as the O2 Arena, a popular showcase for cryogenic rock acts:Norma Desmond divas and the resurrected Michael Jackson, whose virtual rebirth,post-mortem, gave the shabby tent the status of a riverside cathedral.

Nature becomes really and truly intimate in strange and lonely places. I have been actually worrying myself for days at the thought that after the moon is past her full I shall daily miss the moonlight more and more; feeling further and further exiled when the beauty and peace which awaits my return to the riverside will no longer be there, and I shall have to come back through darkness.

Que comience el cuento de hadas una mañana de invierno, en tal caso, con una gota recién caída en la nieve marfileña: una gota tan brillante como un rubí bien cortado, roja como una solitaria mancha de clarete en un puño de encaje. Y lo que aquí se sigue, por consiguiente, es que el mal acecha detrás de cada ventana rota, maquinando malicia y encantamiento; mientras que detrás de los postigos cerrados los justos duermen sus sueños a esta temprana hora en la Ribera. Pronto despertarán para ocuparse de sus quehaceres; y uno, tal vez, será tan adorable como el día y estará armado, como lo están los justos, para enfrentarse a un triunfo predestinado...

He had no reason to want to avenge Horn, and for Applethorpe no vengeance would ever be enough. It was natural for him to want to hurt the man who had been the instrument of his first adult grief; natural, but not right.

The four had rented a riverside cottage and lived together there as two couples. Their vice was public, official and perfectly obvious to all. It was referred to quite naturally as something entirely normal. There were rumours about jealous scenes that took place there and about the various actresses and other famous women who frequented the little cottage near the water’s edge. One neighbour, scandalized by the goings-on, alerted the police at one stage and an inspector accompanied by one of his men came to make enquiries. It was a delicate mission: there was nothing the women could be prosecuted for, least of all prostitution. The inspector was deeply puzzled and could not understand what these alleged misdemeanours could possibly be. He asked a whole lot of pointless questions, compiled a lengthy report and dismissed the charges out of hand. The joke spread as far as Saint-Germain.

—Ellos tienen las espadas. —Lord Halliday sonrió mirándose las manos—. Nosotros tenemos todos los demás. Las cosas se igualan, no obstante, con una punta de acero en la garganta. —Todo el mundo vive a punta de espada —entonó Ferris.

Sleepwalking" I fell in love and I needed a roadmap To find out where you lived So excited now Sleepwalking, cuz I'm sleepwalking The white trash boys Listen to the headphones Blasting white noise In the convenience store parking lot I hung around there Wasting my time Hoping you'll stop by Cuz I'm sleepwalking, I'm sleepwalking A mutual friend's parents Left town for a week So we raided their liquor stash And walked down by the riverside Sleepwalking, cuz I'm sleepwalking

Stop and imagine for a minute. Think and imagine. Think and imagine a world where love is the way. Imagine our homes and families when love is the way. Imagine our neighborhoods and communities where love is the way. Imagine governments and nations where love is the way. Imagine business and commerce when love is the way. Imagine this tired old world when love is the way. When love is the way — unselfish, sacrificial, redemptive — when love is the way, then no child will go to bed hungry in this world ever again. When love is the way, we will let justice roll down like a mighty stream, and righteousness like an ever-flowing brook. When love is the way, poverty would become history. When love is the way, the earth will be a sanctuary. When love is the way, we will lay our swords and shields down by the riverside to study war no more. When love is the way, there’s plenty of room for all of God’s children. When love is the way, we actually treat each other, well, like we are actually family.

There are those who say that a native will not speak to a white man. Error. No man will speak to his master; but to a wanderer and a friend, to him who does not come to teach or rule, to him who asks for nothing and accepts all things, words are spoken by the camp-fires, in the shared solitude of the sea, in riverside villages, in resting-places surrounded by forests - words are spoken that take no account of race or colour. One heart speaks- another one listens; and the earth, the sea, the sky, the passing wind and the stirring leaf, hear also the futile tale of the burden of life.

to do with the map. Still, better safe than sorry. He stuck the map and the letter back into the envelope and put it in his inside pocket. A quick reconnaissance revealed the cottage had a back door leading to a tiny yard which in turn gave on to a narrow lane that led back towards the river. Far less chance of being spotted than if he went out the front door. In less than a minute, he was walking along the bank of the Coquet, a man with nothing more on his mind than a riverside stroll on a pleasant morning. Nobody would have guessed how bitter was his disappointment. 50 2018 – Edinburgh

A Boy was bathing in a river and got out of his depth, and was in great danger of being drowned. A man who was passing along a road heard his cries for help, and went to the riverside and began to scold him for being so careless as to get into deep water, but made no attempt to help him. “Oh, sir,” cried the Boy, “please help me first and scold me afterwards.” Give assistance, not advice, in a crisis. THE QUACK FROG Once upon a time a Frog came forth from his home in the marshes and proclaimed to all the world that he was a learned physician, skilled in drugs and able to cure all diseases.

I ask myself whether I am mad. As I was walking just now in the sun by the riverside, doubts as to my own sanity arose in me; not vague doubts such as I have had hitherto, but precise and absolute doubts. I have seen mad people, and I have known some who were quite intelligent, lucid, even clear-sighted in every concern of life, except on one point. They could speak clearly, readily, profoundly on everything; till their thoughts were caught in the breakers of their delusions and went to pieces there, were dispersed and swamped in that furious and terrible sea of fogs and squalls which is called madness.

Go back to where you came from," muttered a man in Italian, glancing from Magnus's Indonesian to Shinyun's Korean face. He moved to shove past them, but Shinyun held up a hand. The man froze. "I've always wondered what that saying is about," Magnus said casually. "I wasn't born in Italy, but many people are who don't fit your idea of what people born here look like. Is it that you think their parents weren't from here, or their grandparents? Why do people say it? Is the idea that everyone should go back to the very first place their ancestors came from?" Shinyun stepped up to the man, who remained fixed in place, his eyeballs twitching. "Wouldn't that mean," Magnus asked, "that ultimately, we all have to go back to the water?" Shinyun flicked a finger, and the man was flung with a brief squeak into the Tiber. Magnus made sure he fell without injury and drifted him to the riverside. The man climbed out and sat down on the bank with a squelch. Magnus hoped he would think about his choices. "I was only going to make him think I would drop him in the water," Magnus clarified. "I understand the impulse, but just making him afraid of us . . ." He trailed off and sighed. "Fear isn't a very efficient motivator." "Fear is all some people understand," Shinyun said. They were standing close together. Magnus could feel the tension running through Shinyun's body. He took her hand and gave it a brief, friendly squeeze before he dropped it. He felt a faint pressure of her fingers in return, as if she'd wanted to squeeze back. I did this to her, he thought, as he always did, the five small words that circled in his mind repeatedly when he was around Shinyun. "I prefer to believe that people can understand a lot, when offered the opportunity," said Magnus. "I like your enthusiasm, but let's not drown anyone." "Spoilsport," said Shinyun, but her tone was friendly.

Le biblioteche sono dei luoghi stregati e chiunque vi abbia messo piede una volta ne è cosciente. […] Nel momento in cui entrò nella biblioteca della Lucretius, le sembrò di aver varcato l’ingresso di un nuovo mondo, terribilmente surreale. Centinaia e centinaia di libri si arrampicavano audacemente fino alle più alte scaffalature di mogano, e la luce soffusa che proveniva da un enorme lampadario di cristallo conferiva all’ambiente un’atmosfera misteriosa, rarefatta. […] Povera Amabel! Non sapeva che le biblioteche risucchiano il tempo, e mandano avanti le lancette dell’orologio e, prima che tu possa rendertene conto, sei già irrimediabilmente, tremendamente, in ritardo.

The residence of Mr. Peter Pett, the well-known financier, on Riverside Drive is one of the leading eyesores of that breezy and expensive boulevard. As you pass by in your limousine, or while enjoying ten cents worth of fresh air on top of a green omnibus, it jumps out and bites at you. Architects, confronted with it, reel and throw up their hands defensively, and even the lay observer has a sense of shock. The place resembles in almost equal proportions a cathedral, a suburban villa, a hotel and a Chinese pagoda. Many of its windows are of stained glass, and above the porch stand two terra-cotta lions, considerably more repulsive even than the complacent animals which guard New York's Public Library.

It was the Kojagar full moon, and I was slowly pacing the riverside conversing with myself. It could hardly be called a conversation, as I was doing all the talking and my imaginary companion all the listening. The poor fellow had no chance of speaking up for himself, for was not mine the power to compel him helplessly to answer like a fool? But what a night it was! How often have I tried to write of such, but never got it done! There was not a line of ripple on the river; and from away over there, where the farthest shore of the distant main stream is seen beyond the other edge of the midway belt of sand, right up to this shore, glimmers a broad band of moonlight. Not a human being, not a boat in sight; not a tree, nor blade of grass on the fresh-formed island sand-bank. It seemed as though a desolate moon was rising upon a devastated earth; a random river wandering through a lifeless solitude; a long-drawn fairy-tale coming to a close over a deserted world,—all the kings and the princesses, their ministers and friends and their golden castles vanished, leaving the Seven Seas and Thirteen Rivers and the Unending Moor, over which the adventurous princes fared forth, wanly gleaming in the pale moonlight. I was pacing up and down like the last pulse-beats of this dying world. Every one else seemed to be on the opposite shore—the shore of life—where the British Government and the Nineteenth Century hold sway, and tea and cigarettes.

Psychoanalysis: An Elegy" What are you thinking about? I am thinking of an early summer. I am thinking of wet hills in the rain Pouring water. Shedding it Down empty acres of oak and manzanita Down to the old green brush tangled in the sun, Greasewood, sage, and spring mustard. Or the hot wind coming down from Santa Ana Driving the hills crazy, A fast wind with a bit of dust in it Bruising everything and making the seed sweet. Or down in the city where the peach trees Are awkward as young horses, And there are kites caught on the wires Up above the street lamps, And the storm drains are all choked with dead branches. What are you thinking? I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer As slow getting started As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza After a lot of unusual rain California seems long in the summer. I would like to write a poem as long as California And as slow as a summer. Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow As the very tip of summer. As slow as the summer seems On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road Between Bakersfield and Hell Waiting for Santa Claus. What are you thinking now? I’m thinking that she is very much like California. When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways Traveling up and down her skin Long empty highways With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them On hot summer nights. I am thinking that her body could be California And I a rich Eastern tourist Lost somewhere between Hell and Texas Looking at a map of a long, wet, dancing California That I have never seen. Send me some penny picture-postcards, lady, Send them. One of each breast photographed looking Like curious national monuments, One of your body sweeping like a three-lane highway Twenty-seven miles from a night’s lodging In the world’s oldest hotel. What are you thinking? I am thinking of how many times this poem Will be repeated. How many summers Will torture California Until the damned maps burn Until the mad cartographer Falls to the ground and possesses The sweet thick earth from which he has been hiding. What are you thinking now? I am thinking that a poem could go on forever.

I studied you until I knew you, or at least, the public parts of you: your learning, your passion, the way your voice slows down when you answer a question. I studied your hands, and wondered how they'd touch me; your hair, and how it would smell. I wondered about that and about the rest of you I could not see. I wanted to know you. And I wanted you to know me. I wanted you to see me.

into the main part of the store. Off to get Kendal, I mouthed to Celine, and she nodded. I stepped out into the September afternoon. Behind me, Eighty-ninth Street stretched several blocks to Riverside Park, a favorite place of mine and Kendal’s. Just ahead the intersection at Broadway sparkled with a steady stream of cars and our neighboring retailers’ windows. A man walking his dog nodded a wordless hello, and a mom with a baby in a stroller bent to pop a pacifier back into her unhappy child’s mouth. A delivery truck double-parked and the car behind it honked its disproval. The air held only a hint that summer was waning. September used to be my favorite month. I liked the way it sweetly bade the summer pastels away and showered the Yard’s shelves with auburn, mocha, and every shade of red. September brought in the serious quilters, those who loved spending

Answer me! The circle is complete, and bound in completion,” Basil heard himself say, and knew that it was true. “I charge you, Theron— No, wait.” Formally, he said: “Son of Tremontaine: Alexander Theron Tielman Campion, I charge you, speak!” Theron gave a great gasp, filling his lungs as though coming up from deep water. “The hunt!” he cried. Basil cradled him in his arms. “Hush,” he said. “The hunt is over, you’re with me. You did well.

Christmas In India Dim dawn behind the tamerisks -- the sky is saffron-yellow -- As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born. Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway! Oh the clammy fog that hovers And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry -- What part have India's exiles in their mirth? Full day begind the tamarisks -- the sky is blue and staring -- As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly -- Call on Rama -- he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!" High noon behind the tamarisks -- the sun is hot above us -- As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. They will drink our healths at dinner -- those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! Youth was cheap -- wherefore we sold it. Gold was good -- we hoped to hold it, And to-day we know the fulness of our gain. Grey dusk behind the tamarisks -- the parrots fly together -- As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether. That drags us back how'er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment -- she is ancient, tattered raiment -- India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is hut -- we may not look behind. Black night behind the tamarisks -- the owls begin their chorus -- As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors -- let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

Have do," qoud she, "come of, cand speed the fase, Lest that oure neighbores thee espie." This Absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie. Derk was the nyght as pich, or as the cole, And athe wydnow out she putte hir hole, And Absolon, hym fil no bet new wers, but with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers Ful savourly, er he were war of this. Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys, For wel he wiste a woman hath no berd. He felte athyng al rough and long yherd, And seyde, "Fy! allas! what have Ido?" "Tehee!" qoud she, and clapte the wyndow to, And Absolon gooth forth a sory pas. "A berd! A berd!" qoud hende Nicholas,...

Alec’s hand was at his lips. “You’ve got to go!” His voice cracked. “They won’t let you walk out of this, they don’t dare! I know them, Richard!” Richard tightened his arm around Alec’s shoulders, wordlessly trying to comfort, to drain the tension from the anguished spirit. But the touch was not enough. “Richard, I know them— they won’t let you live!” He turned his face in to Richard’s chest, his body clenched again in a frozen spasm not of weeping but of fury. At a loss, Richard turned again to the words that still flowed through his mind like water: Day followed day, with never night between: Feasting and all manner of delight Hedged him ’round like hounds their quarry’s heart—

Hold On" They hung a sign up in our town "If you live it up, you won't live it down" So she left Monte Rio, son Just like a bullet leaves a gun With her charcoal eyes and Monroe hips She went and took that California trip Oh, the moon was gold, her hair like wind Said, "don't look back, just come on, Jim" Oh, you got to hold on, hold on You gotta hold on Take my hand, I'm standing right here, you gotta hold on Well, he gave her a dimestore watch And a ring made from a spoon Everyone's looking for someone to blame When you share my bed, you share my name Well, go ahead and call the cops You don't meet nice girls in coffee shops She said, "baby, I still love you" Sometimes there's nothin' left to do Oh, but you got to hold on, hold on Babe, you gotta hold on and take my hand I'm standing right here, you gotta hold on Well, God bless your crooked little heart St. Louis got the best of me I miss your broken China voice How I wish you were still here with me Oh, you build it up, you wreck it down Then you burn your mansion to the ground Oh, there's nothing left to keep you here But when you're falling behind in this big blue world Oh, you've got to hold on, hold on Babe, you gotta hold on Take my hand, I'm standing right here, you gotta hold on Down by the Riverside motel It's ten below and falling By a ninety-nine cent store She closed her eyes and started swaying But it's so hard to dance that way When it's cold and there's no music Oh, your old hometown's so far away But inside your head there's a record that's playing A song called "Hold On", hold on Babe, you gotta hold on Take my hand, I'm standing right there, you gotta hold on

Se vieron el sábado siguiente y todos los demás sábados de otoño, con Ferguson desplazándose en autobús desde Nueva Jersey hasta la terminal de Port Authority y cogiendo luego la línea IRT del metro hasta la calle Setenta y dos Oeste, donde se apeaba para luego caminar tres manzanas en dirección norte y otras dos en dirección oeste hasta el piso de los Schneiderman en Riverside Drive esquina con la Setenta y cinco, apartamento 4B, que se había convertido en la dirección más importante de la ciudad de Nueva York. Salidas a diversos sitios, casi siempre los dos solos, de vez en cuando con amigos de Amy, cine extranjero en el Thalia de Broadway esquina con la calle Noventa y cinco, Godard, Kurosawa, Fellini, visitas al Met, al Frick, al Museo de Arte Moderno, los Knicks en el Garden, Bach en el Carnegie Hall, Beckett, Pinter y Ionesco en pequeños teatros del Village, todo muy cerca y a mano, y Amy siempre sabía adónde ir y qué hacer, la princesa guerrera de Manhattan le enseñaba cómo orientarse por la ciudad, que rápidamente llegó a convertirse en su ciudad también. No obstante, pese a todas las cosas que hacían y todo lo que veían, lo mejor de aquellos sábados era sentarse a charlar en las cafeterías, la primera serie de incesantes diálogos que continuarían durante años, conversaciones que a veces se convertían en feroces discusiones cuando sus puntos de vista diferían, la buena o mala película que acababan de ver, la acertada o desacertada idea política que uno de ellos acababa de expresar, pero a Ferguson no le importaba discutir con ella, no le interesaban las chicas facilonas, las pánfilas llenas de mohínes que sólo perseguían imaginarios ritos amorosos, eso era amor de verdad, complejo, hondo y lo bastante flexible para albergar la discordia apasionada, y cómo no podría amar a aquella chica, con su implacable y penetrante mirada y su risa inmensa, retumbante, la excitable e intrépida Amy Schneiderman, que un día iba a ser corresponsal de guerra, revolucionaria o doctora entregada a los pobres. Tenía dieciséis años, casi diecisiete. La pizarra vacía ya no lo estaba tanto, pero aún era lo bastante joven para saber que podía borrar las palabras ya escritas, suprimirlas y empezar de nuevo siempre que su espíritu la impulsara a ello.

Balade de Bon Conseyl Flee fro the prees and dwelle with sothfastnesse; Suffyce unto thy thing, though it be smal, For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse, Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal. Savour no more than thee bihove shal, Reule wel thyself that other folk canst rede, And trouthe thee shal delivere, it is no drede. Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse In trust of hir that turneth as a bal; Gret reste stant in litel besinesse. Be war therfore to sporne ayeyns an al, Stryve not, as doth the crokke with the wal. Daunte thyself, that dauntest otheres dede, And trouthe thee shal delivere, it is no drede. That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse; The wrastling for this world axeth a fal. Her is non hoom, her nis but wildernesse: Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal! Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al; Hold the heye wey and lat thy gost thee lede, And trouthe thee shal delivere, it is no drede. Envoy Therefore, thou Vache, leve thyn old wrecchednesse; Unto the world leve now to be thral. Crye him mercy, that of his hy goodnesse Made thee of noght, and in especial Draw unto him, and pray in general For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede; And trouthe thee shal delivere, it is no drede. Explicit Le bon counseill de G. Chaucer

Moses and Aaron were directed to visit the riverside next morning, where the king was accustomed to repair. The overflowing of the Nile being the source of food and wealth for all Egypt, the river was worshiped as a god, and the monarch came thither daily to pay his devotions. Here the two brothers again repeated the message to him, and then they stretched out the rod and smote upon the water. The sacred stream ran blood, the fish died, and the river became offensive to the smell. The water in the houses, the supply preserved in cisterns, was likewise changed to blood. But “the magicians of Egypt did so with their enchantments,” and “Pharaoh turned and went into his house, neither did he set his heart to this also.” For seven days the plague continued, but without effect.

Rebekah knew Morton was studying at Cambridge. He was easy for me to find from there. I was fairly sure he had not fought in the war, even though he would have been of the correct age. Did you know he’d had polio as a child, he was a cripple?” Alex did not, but recalled that evening at the riverside mansion in Phnom Penh when he’d first noticed Smith’s slight limp. It seemed a lifetime ago. “And you’ve been in touch ever since?” “Yes. The early days in Israel were difficult ones. He would send money to help out, still does, even though we don’t need it anymore.

Going With The Flow- July 8 "Go with the flow. Let go of fear and your need to control. Relinquish anxiety. Let it slip away, as you dive into the river of the present moment, the river of your life., your place in the universe. Stop trying to force the direction. Try not to swim against the current, unless it is necessary for your survival. If you've been clinging to a branch at the riverside, let it go. Let yourself move forward. Let yourself be moved forward. Avoid the rapids when possible. If you can't, stay relaxed. Staying relaxed can take you safely through fierce currents. If you go under for a moment, allow yourself to surface naturally. You will. Appreciate the beauty of the new scenery, as it is. See things with freshness, with newness. You shall never pass by today's scenery again! Don't think too hard about things. The flow is meant to be experienced. Within it, care for yourself. You are part of the flow, an important part. Work with the flow. Work within the flow. Thrashing about isn't necessary. Let the flow help you care for yourself. Let the flow help you set boundaries, make decisions, and get you where you need to be when it is time. You can trust the flow and your part in it. Today, I will go with the flow.

MIDWINTER IS THE DREARIEST of the year. Days are short, nights are long, and both are cold and wet with no immediate prospect of relief. Winter’s Tail is what the old wives call it, dragging filth at winter’s ass.

Sunny Mildura is a real riviera oasis town – it’s as isolated as anywhere you’ll find in Victoria, but after driving for hours past parched farmlands, you’re greeted by miles of fertile vineyards and citrus orchards and a prosperous riverside city centre.

I swallowed. I didn’t agree with him at all. I knew love existed – because there was no other explanation for the way I felt about him. It wasn’t even a nice feeling most of the time. It was just painful and confusing and frustrating but I was damned sure it was love.

It does not become you, my lord, to lie. Not to me.” Now two spots of color, like red bites, stained his lover’s cheeks. “Because I am a lord? Or because you are so fond of truth?” “Both,” said Basil calmly. “And more besides. You, with the blood of kings, and I with—what I have. Now, come here.” He held out his hand as if coaxing an animal from the woods. “Come here and tell me about your latest conquest.

Be careful to know yourself when the time comes,” he warned the Little King. “The man who fails the test will run for the rest of his life, with the beast still in his heart.

Thanks to you, the leaders of the University branch—Masters Greenleaf and Smith—are safely out of harm’s way. As to the Northern branch—well, my agent currently describes it as an association of young men, young and unmarried, who gather in the woods from time to time to celebrate elaborate rituals that draw equally from local folklore and a youthful taste for mysticism and indiscriminate copulation. We’re watching them closely.

High-traffic areas are the most problematic. Australian researchers recently asked test subjects to jog back and forth alongside a four-lane highway and found elevated blood levels of volatile organic compounds, commonly found in gasoline, after just 20 minutes. But pollution levels drop exponentially as you move away from a roadway, according to a 2006 study in the journal Inhalation Toxicology. Even just 200 yards from the road, the level of combustion-related particulates is four times lower, and trees have a further protective effect—so riverside bike trails, for instance, have dramatically lower pollution levels than bike lanes along major arteries.