Roche Quotes

All that I've learned, I've forgotten. The little that I still know, I've guessed.

A man should swallow a toad every morning to be sure of not meeting with anything more revolting in the day ahead.

There is a melancholy that stems from greatness of mind.

In a world of words, anything is possible...

Pleasure can be supported by an illusion, but happiness rests upon truth.

If you liked it, then you should have moved a mass inside its Roche limit.

Worry is like a rocking chair. It uses up all your energy, but where does it get you?

The truth was, Librium and Valium were marketed using such a variety of gendered mid-century tropes—the neurotic singleton, the frazzled housewife, the joyless career woman, the menopausal shrew—that what Roche’s tranquilizers really seemed to offer was a quick fix for the problem of “being female.

I had to learn slowly to open the door just a crack to let love in, maybe just a few seconds at a time. We all do.

Everything that’s sexy — mussed hair, straps that fall off the shoulder, a sweaty glow on the face — is a bit askew, yes, but touchable.

Dear God, please help me to be the kind of person who my dogs think I am.

If you must love your neighbor as yourself, it is at least as fair to love yourself as your neighbor.

Wenn es nicht rockt, ist es für'n Arsch.

Anxiety is a thin stream of fear trickling through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts are drained.

I enjoy talking to the woman in the mirror, she's smart and good looking, LOL!

Be silent and safe — silence never betrays you; Be true to your word and your work and your friend; Put least trust in him who is foremost to praise you, Nor judge of a road till it draw to the end. James Jeffery Roche

This book is dedicated to Thomas Coleman, a retired longshoreman, who died in his attic at 2214 St. Roch Avenue in New Orleans’ 8th Ward on or about August 29, 2005. He had a can of juice and a bedspread at his side when the waters rose. There were more than a thousand like him.

Make no mistake: Your salary is held to the same standards your grades were held to in the educational system, where you couldn't surpass a 100 no matter how hard you worked or how intelligent you were.

Some men borrow books; some men steal books; and others beg presentation copies from the author.

All is true and all is false in love; love is the only thing about which it is impossible to say anything absurd." Sebastien Roch Nicolas Chamfort

Your heart sees by its own light. In meditation, adore the subtle fire The light that you see by Is the light that comes from inside.

On this planet are every kind of deadly animal from across the stars. The only people that come here are hunters looking for the most dangerous of trophies. No rescue. You either get your prize or you die.

Greek tragedy operates through the ear. It is through the ear primarily that it enters the eyes, the senses, the mind, the heart. It must be spoken aloud. It is designed for that. And until that is done these plays have not been read, have not been used, have not been born.

I'm sick of remaining in people's what-if lists, thinking I become stronger anyway every time I'm abandoned.

Kneeling on St. Mary’s stone floor she had envisioned the candles and the cold, but not Lady Imeyne, waiting for Roche to make a mistake in the mass, not Eliwys or Gawyn or Rosemund. Not Father Roche, with his cutthroat’s face and worn-out hose. She could never in a hundred years, in seven hundred and thirty-four years, have imagined Agnes, with her puppy and her naughty tantrums, and her infected knee. I’m glad I came, she thought. In spite of everything.

Okay, dieser Typ war unglaublich hübsch. Und er roch gut. Und es war wirklich lustig, sich mit ihm zu unterhalten. Das war aber auch schon alles. Kein Grund, sich so merkwürdig zu benehmen.

He saw with pleasure he’d been wrong. The nervous tension and vulnerability she radiated were real, but so too was the core of strength to her. She was simply too smart and too determined to let him get to her, despite the cost evident in her stiff back and tense mouth. He was beginning to quite like his new librarian.

Be conscious of this unconscious prayer (of your breath), For She is the most holy place of pilgrimage. She wishes for you to enter this temple, Where each breath is adoration Of the infinite for the incarnate form.

Having one eye makes you see the world in unusual ways, Shockwave..." -Overlord

We are trained to be employees, but no one said that we have endure a limited salary that barely keeps pace with inflation.

The Frenchman sat up with that strange energy which comes often as the harbinger of death. "(...) This I tell you - I, Raoul de la Roche Pierre de Bras, dying upon the field of honour. And now kiss me, sweet friend, and lay me back, for the mists closes round me and I am gone!" With tender hands the squire [Nigel] lowered his comrade's head, but even as he did so there came a choking rush of blood, and the soul had passed. So died a gallant cavalier of France, and Nigel, as he knelt in the ditch beside him, prayed that his own end might be as noble and as debonair.

Sighing, she headed back to work. She braced herself to lift the heavy lid of yet another trunk. The sight inside curled a small smile onto her lips, as it had with every trunk she’d pried open this morning. Books. More beautiful, precious books.

Peu de vestiges évoquent à présent en nous la lumière. Nous sommes nettement plus proches des ténèbres, nous ne sommes pour ainsi dire que ténèbres, tout ce qui nous reste, ce sont les souvenirs et aussi l’espoir qui s'est pourtant affadi, qui continue de pâlir et ressemblera bientôt à une étoile éteinte, à un bloc de roche lugubre. Pourtant, nous savons quelques petits riens à propos de la vie et quelques petits riens à propos de la mort : nous avons parcouru tout ce chemin pour te ravir et remuer le destin. (p.13)

Why are you kissing me?” she squeaked out breathlessly. “God, how can I not?” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “I think you’re made for me to kiss. I need to kiss you. You need to be kissed,” he said firmly, as if he’d reached some decision that brooked no debate. This did not sound like the smooth-talking and self-possessed charmer of his reputation.

The truth was, she found it hard to look at the man. It was like gazing at the sun.

To pursue happiness for its own sake is the surest way to lose it.

Admirer quelqu'un, s'inspirer de son parcours, c'est avant tout grandir et devenir soi.

Become more valuable to your marketplace at your job. Your job is full of opportunities. Find them! Make more money!

Imagination is pure potentiality for creation. We shouldn't submit it to the hourly wages we subject our time at work.

Besides, you are a born woman: feeble when it comes to the sublime, marvelously inventive over crime.

Vivre est une maladie, dont le sommeil nous soulage toutes les seize heures ; c’est un palliatif : la mort est le remède.

Life’s most beautiful things are empty without somebody to share them with.

Whom the gods would destroy, they first subsidize.

God, remember when we defeated Goliath, when we pastured sheep or we threw, in vain, the nets, and You chose us." FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE OF ASAPH BOOK

To her core, she suddenly knew she was not prepared to die at the hands of this worm. She had a betrothal ball to attend, wedding vows to declare, and a good man to love.

It’s an invention I’m very proud of: the memorable-sex bonbon.

...You bring out the truth in me, Callista, and make me whole. I need you to set me free and give me the courage to be as strong as you are. I love you...

L'enfant, comme clou sur la roche que la marée haute commençait à baigner, regarda la barque s'éloigner. On eût dit qu'il comprenait. Quoi? Que comprenait-il? L'ombre.

Tout homme qui, à quarante ans, n'est pas misantrophe, n'a jamais aimé.

In great matters, men reveal themselves as they find it appropriate to do so; but, in small matters, they reveal themselves as they truly are.

A process-driven running life is the first step to being a happy runner long term. Because you are enough, every day, no matter what.

Roche hadn’t just blithely assumed that the powerful drugs it was about to introduce to the public would be safe: the company had deliberately obfuscated evidence to the contrary. In

Pero mi intensión no será necesaria... Tomás Roch no es victima de una de esas crisis que antes lo abatían... Es dueño de sí mismo... Y cuando se ve ante la bandera... comprende... retrocede...

Belki bizim zamanımızın sorunu da budur Bay Dunworthy. Kurucuları Maisry, piskoposun elçisi ve Sir Bloet ne de olsa. Roche gibi kalıp yardım etmeye çalışan bütün insanlar vebaya yakalanıp öldüler.

If the moon comes any closer, it is literally torn apart by the gravity of Saturn. Using Newton’s laws, astronomers can calculate the distance of the tipping point, which is called the Roche limit.

Lila is Sanskrit for “play,” “amusement,” and the sense that the universe has been manifested as an act of play by the divine. Through play, find your way. In play, find freedom, revelation, illumination.

Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with our time, Mr. Dunworthy, it was founded by Maisry and the bishop’s envoy and Sir Bloet. And all the people who stayed and tried to help, like Roche, caught the plague and died.

Roche offered a different interpretation: while it might be true that some patients appeared to be abusing Librium and Valium, these were people who were using the drug in a nontherapeutic manner. Some individuals just have addictive personalities and are prone to abuse any substance you make available to them. This attitude was typical in the pharmaceutical industry: it’s not the drugs that are bad; it’s the people who abuse them.

The son was in high school. He had a part-time job at a laundromat in a small disenchanting strip mall. He was reading Anna Karenina. He was three hundred– plus pages deep. Soap ’n’ Suds was almost never busy. The boss was scarce. The son could read. A young woman arrived with her wash, got change, and asked what he was reading. Anna Karenina. Oh, she said, is that the one where she throws herself on the rails at the end. Asshole, he muttered.

Je me lève, vais à la fenêtre et regarde le ciel. Et je pense au temps qui ne reviendra pas. Je pense aux rivières, aux marées. Je pense aux forêts et aux sources. À la pluie et aux éclairs. Aux roches. Aux ombres. Et tout cela est à l'intérieur de moi.

donc sur l’issue de notre entreprise, tout en marchant à l’assaut du Sneffels.   La route devenait de plus en plus difficile ; le sol montait ; les éclats de roches s’ébranlaient, et il fallait la plus scrupuleuse attention pour éviter des chutes dangereuses.

... nous voulons devenir durs, devenir diamants, tellement précis et tellement purs, tellement forts, avancer et tout voir, tout sentir, sous nos corps qui enveloppent, recouvrent, recouvrent tout, puis se repose sur la roche, toutes les roches, ne jamais choisir, devenir tout, détruire tout, exploser.

Soon after they went back, Jules said to Jim: 'I love Magda. But it's a habit; it's not a great Love, not the real thing. To me, she's like a young mother and an attentive daughter, both at once.' 'But that's fine!' 'It's not the love I've always dreamed of having.' 'Does that kind of love exist?' said Jim. 'Of course! My love for Lucie.' Jim checked himself from saying, 'Because you do not possess her.' 'Besides,' Jules went on, 'knowing myself as I do, I shall never be able to forgive any woman for loving me. To love me is a sign of perversion or compromise -- and Lucie doesn't suffer from either. There's not a particle of me that she accepts.' 'With her, any man could think that.' 'Yes, could...' said Jules 'But I do.' 'Oh well,' said Jim, 'it's heroic and one can't help respecting it. It's a bit like martyrdom. And it's the key to your Life. If Lucie loved you...' 'She wouldn't be Lucie.' said Jules.

Lady Dunreath, in the meantime, suffered torture; after she had seen Malvina turned from the abbey, she returned to her apartment; it was furnished with the most luxurious elegance, yet she could not rest within it. Conscience already told her, if Malvina died, she must consider herself her murderer: her pale and woe-worn image seemed still before her: a cold terror oppressed her heart, which the terrors of the night augmented. The tempest shook the battlements of the abbey; and the wind howled through the galleries, like the moan of some wandering spirit of the pile, bewailing the fate of one of its fairest daughters.

Er meinte natürlich, er habe noch nie so etwas Schönes gerochen. Aber da er doch Menschengerüche kannte, viele Tausende, Gerüche von Männern, Frauen, Kindern, wollte er nicht begreifen, daß er so exquisiter Duft einem Menschen entströmen konnte. Üblicherweise rochen Menschen nichtssagend oder miserabel. Kinder rochen fad, Männer urinös, nach scharfem Schweiß und Käse, Frauen nach ranzigem Fett und verderbendem Fisch. Durchaus uninteressant, abstoßend rochen die Menschen ... Und so geschah es, daß Grenouille zum ersten Mal in seinem Leben seiner Nase nicht traute und die Augen zuhilfe nehmen mußte, um zu glauben, was er roch.

Frau Lindner war eine scharfkantige Frau mit dicken Brillengläsern und einem ruchlosen Blick. Sie hatte sich diesen Blick zugelegt, um jeden Gedanken an Diebstahl in ihrem Laden im Keim zu ersticken. Sie hütete ihr Geschäft mit einer soldatesken Haltung, einer unterkühlten Stimme, und selbst ihr Atem roch nach "Heil Hitler".

Pfizer had a tranquilizer that it recommended for use by children with an illustration of a young girl with a tearstained face and a suggestion that the drug could alleviate fears of “school, the dark, separation, dental visits, ‘monsters.’” But once Roche and Arthur Sackler unleashed Librium and Valium, no other company could compete.

Vorsichtshalber haben sie das Etikett 'Kapitalismus' ersetzt durch solche, auf denen 'freie Marktwirtschaft' und 'Konsumkultur' steht, nur roch das immer noch zu sehr nach Hund-frisst-Hund, nach allzu vielen Verlierern und maßlos abrahmenden Gewinnern. Wenn man die Hunde aber isch nicht miteinander balgen lässt, dann liegen sie den ganzen Tag im Zwinger und pennen. Im Grund besteht das Problem darin, dass die Gesellschaft anständig zu sein versucht, und mit Anstand ist gegen die menschliche Natur nichts auszurichten. Nicht das Geringste. Wir sollten alle wieder Jäger und Sammler werden, dann hätten wir eine hundertprozentige Beschäftigungsquote und ein gesundes Magenknurren.

For what, in actual practice, should the critical, mature modernist Christian do when, for instance, he gathers his children around him to celebrate Christmas? Should he read Luke's Christmas Gospel and sing the Christmas carols as if they were true, even though he believes them to be crude and primitive theology? After all, the rest of his society has no scruples about doing this, the pagans and the department stores. Or if this seems too cynical, too dishonest, ought he rather, in the manner of early socialist Sunday schools, to devise a passionately rationalist catechesis, swap German for German, chant a passage from Bultmann instead of 'Joy to the World!'; ought he rather to gather his little ones about the Crib, light the candles, and read Raymond Brown instead of St. Luke on the virginal conception of Jesus: 'My judgment in conclusion is that the totality of the scientifically controllable evidence leaves an unresolved problem.' How their eyes will shine, how their little hearts will burn within them as they hear these holy words! How touched they will all be as the littlest child reverently places a shining question mark in the empty manger. And how they will rejoice when they find their stockings, which they have hung up to a Protestant parody of a Catholic bishop, stuffed with subscriptions to 'Concilium,' 'Catholic Update,' 'National Catholic Reporter,' and 'The Tablet.

If something happens on the ocean, we’ll die as two people in love who are living a remarkable adventure. That’s a good way to die.

Darling, you know how I like the sight of a stiff one.

None of us like each other, but one thing is for sure, we all hate you.

Most of the people in the world are poor, so if we knew the economics of being poor we would know much of the economics that really matters.

A dean is the conductor of an orchestra made up entirely of composers.

Le livre refermé, c'est le sac qu'il faut boucler

I kept my plan simple: leave my comfort zone, work in a foreign city, enjoy some uninhibited fun, and return home in one year.

It seems that there is nothing more frustrating than good humor and fair play for the embittered ideologue who is willing to distort the truth in the name of his mission to serve mankind.

The dreadful explanation lord Mortimer now found himself under a necessity of giving; the shame of acknowledging he was so deceived; the agony he suffered from that deception, joined to the excessive agitation and fatigue he had suffered the preceding night, and the present day, so powerfully assailed him at this moment, that his senses suddenly gave way, and he actually fainted on the floor.

and Hoffman la Roche, manufacturers of Valium. The cost of the raw material and manufacturing of Valium to Hoffman la Roche is $3 per kilo (2.2 pounds). It is sold to their distributors for $20,000 per kilo. By the time it reaches the consumer, the price of Valium has risen to $50,000 per kilo. Valium is used in huge quantities in Europe and the United States. It is possibly the most used drug of its kind in the world.

I was still walking behind Mrs. Haze through the dining room when, beyond it, there came a sudden burst of greenery – “the piazza," sang out my leader, and then, without the least warning, a blue sea-wave swelled under my heart and, from a mat in a pool of sun, half-naked, kneeling, turning about on her knees, there was my Riviera love peering at me over dark glasses. It was the same child-the same frail, honey-hued shoulders, the same silky supple bare back, the same chestnut head of hair. A polka-dotted black kerchief tied around her chest hid from my aging ape eyes, but not from the gaze of young memory, the juvenile breasts I had fondled one immortal day. And, as if I were the fairy-tale nurse of some little princess (lost, kidnapped, discovered in gypsy rags through which her nakedness smiled at the king and his hounds), I recognized the tiny dark-brown mole on her side. With awe and delight (the king crying for joy, the trumpets blaring, the nurse drunk) I saw again her lovely indrawn abdomen where my southbound mouth had briefly paused; and those puerile hips on which I had kissed the crenulated imprint left by the band of her shorts – that last mad immortal day behind the "Roches Roses." The twenty-five years I had lived since then, tapered to a palpitating point, and vanished.

Et pour les humains ? Elle émet une reponse évasive : Ils ne présentent pas grand intérêt. [...] Et ceux qui vivent sous la grande roche ? Belo-kiu-kiuni ne répond pas. Elle demande à rester seule, puis se tourne vers le cadavre de l'ancienne Belo-kiu-kiuni. La nouvelle reine incline délicatement la tête et pose ses antennes contre le front de sa Mère. Elle demeure ensuite immobile, un temps très long, comme plongée en une CA d'éternité.

Er wollte sich, und wenn es vorläufig auch nur ein schlechtes Surrogat war, den Geruch der Menschen aneignen, den er selber nicht besaß. Freilich den Geruch der Menschen gab es nicht, genausowenig wie es das menschliche Antlitz gab. Jeder Mensch roch anders, niemand wußte das besser als Grenouille, der Tausende und Abertausende von Individualgerüchen kannte und Menschen schon von Geburt an witternd unterschied. Und doch - es gab ein parfümistisches Grundthema des Menschendufts, ein ziemlich simples übrigens: ein schweißig-fettes, käsig-säuerliches, ein im ganzen reichlich ekelhaftes Grundthema, das allen Menschen gleichermaßen anhaftete und über welchem erst in feinerer Vereinzelung die Wölkchen einer individuellen Aura schwebten. Diese Aura aber, die höchst komplizierte, unverwechselbare Chiffre des persönlichen Geruchs, war für die meisten Menschen ohnehin nicht wahrnehmbar. Die meisten Menschen wußten nicht, daß sie sie überhaupt besaßen, und taten überdies alles, um sie unter Kleidern oder unter modischen Kunstgerüchen zu verstecken. Nur jener Grundduft, jene primitive Menschendünstelei, war ihnen wohlvertraut, in ihr nur lebten sie und fühlten sich geborgen, und wer nur den eklen allgemeinen Brodem von sich gab, wurde von ihnen schon als ihresgleichen angesehen. Es war ein seltsames Parfum, das Grenouille an diesem Tag kreierte.

The vital aspect of the electoral college was that it got the Convention over the hurdle and protected everybody's interest. The future was left to cope with the problem of what to do with this Rube Goldberg mechanism... The Electoral College was neither an exercise in applied Platonism nor an experiment in indirect government based on elitist distrust of the masses. It was merely a jerry-rigged improvisation which has subsequently been endowed with a high theoretical content.

Since she had arrived for her stay at the artists’ colony called Les Beaux Arts at the Chateau DeRoche, she’d noticed something different about the owner, Antoine Chevalier. And not just the way his eyes bore into hers, shooting shivers through her and making it difficult to breathe. His quiet nature, his preference for seclusion for days at a time, and his still, composed temperament belied an intensity within. Noir eyes that rarely blinked spoke of haunted depth and smoldering passion.

She was without memory: Roche had decided that some time ago. She was without consistency or even coherence. She knew only what she was and what she had been born to; to this knowledge she was tethered; it was her stability, enabling her to adventure in security. Adventuring, she was indifferent, perhaps blind, to the contradiction between what she said and what she was so secure of being; and this indifference or blindness, this absence of the sense of the absurd, was part of her unavailability.

The lawn gently sloped to a winding stream, so clear as perfectly to reflect the beautiful scenery of heaven, now glowing with the gold and purple of the setting sun; from the opposite bank of the stream rose a stupendous mountain, diversified with little verdant hills and dales, and skirted with a wild shrubbery, the blossoms of which perfumed the air with the most balmy fragrance. Lord Mortimer prevailed upon Amanda to sit down upon a rustic bench, beneath the spreading branches of an oak, enwreathed with ivy; here they had not sat long ere the silence which reigned around was suddenly interrupted by strains, at once low, solemn and melodious, that seemed to creep along the water, till they had reached the place where they sat; and then, as if a Naiad of the stream had left her rushy couch to do them homage, they swelled by degrees into full melody, which the mountain echoes alternately revived and heightened. It appeared like enchantment to Amanda, and her eyes, turned to lord Mortimer, seemed to say it was to his magic it was owing.

His introduction throws me. The only time I can envision "Hi, I'm a surgeon" as a fitting introduction is if I were on a gurney in a stark white room and a man wielding a scalpel was standing over me. Plus, it's been a while since we've talked careers with anyone. Jobs are rarely a topic of conversation anymore--they exist in a place and time too far away to seem interesting. "What do you do?" is not a question asked to define someone, because out here we're all working the same jobs: yachties, mechanics, navigators, weather-readers, fishermen, adventure travelers, storytellers.

...Leaning on her maid, she stole through the winding galleries, and lightly descending the stairs, entered the long hall, which terminated in a dark arched passage that opened into the chapel. This was a wild and gloomy structure: beneath it were the vaults which contained the ancestors of the earl of Dunreath, whose deeds and titles were enumerated on gothic monuments: their dust-covered banners waving around in sullen dignity to the rude gale, which found admittance through the broken windows. The light which the maid held produced deep shadows, that heightened the solemnity of the place.

Madeline (said the Countess in a solemn voice), in my concern for your father, I spoke unguardedly; and I already repent having done so from the situation I see you in: but, as some atonement for doing so, I will take this opportunity of cautioning you against all imprudent curiosity; let no incentive from it ever tempt you to seek an explanation of former occurrences; be assured your happiness depends entirely on your ignorance of them: was the dark volume of your father's fate ever opened to your view, peace would for ever forsake your breast; for its characters are marked by horror, and stained with blood.

So Jobs and Markkula enlisted Gerry Roche, a gregarious corporate headhunter, to find someone else. They decided not to focus on technology executives; what they needed was a consumer marketer who knew advertising and had the corporate polish that would play well on Wall Street. Roche set his sights on the hottest consumer marketing wizard of the moment, John Sculley, president of the Pepsi-Cola division of PepsiCo, whose Pepsi Challenge campaign had been an advertising and publicity triumph. When Jobs gave a talk to Stanford business students, he heard good things about Sculley, who had spoken to the class earlier. So he told Roche he would be happy to meet him.

So Jobs and Markkula enlisted Gerry Roche, a gregarious corporate headhunter, to find someone else. They decided not to focus on technology executives; what they needed was a consumer marketer who knew advertising and had the corporate polish that would play well on Wall Street. Roche set his sights on the hottest consumer marketing wizard of the moment, John Sculley, president of the Pepsi- Cola division of PepsiCo, whose Pepsi Challenge campaign had been an advertising and publicity triumph. When Jobs gave a talk to Stanford business students, he heard good things about Sculley, who had spoken to the class earlier. So he told Roche he would be happy to meet him.

Diana’s great-grandmother Frances Work, or Fanny, as she was known to her family, was an American, and perhaps that is why the Princess always felt such a great affinity for the land across the Atlantic. Fanny’s father began his career as a clerk in Ohio and ended up making millions as a financial whiz in Manhattan. A great patriot, he promised to disinherit any of his offspring who married Europeans. But Fanny, like Diana a strong-willed woman, crossed the Atlantic and married British aristocrat James Boothby Burke Roche, who became the third Baron Fermoy. When the marriage broke up, she returned to New York with twin sons and a daughter, and her indulgent father forgave her.

Journal prompt: What would you regret about today when you wake up tomorrow? I would regret not appreciating the slowness that today was trying to gift me. I’m always so quick to want to leap into the new, that I often don’t give myself time to soak in the little things that make this moment right here so special. Then one day, though it’s always so hard to believe, I’ll likely think to myself (as I always do), how I miss this pace and all the things I’d give to live it again. So here it is… your reminder to take a little time to enjoy the quiet and the slow drip of time before everything as you know it right this second somehow melts into another, “where did this month go? It flew by!”.

Plus lumineux encore que ces ustensiles, j'ai vu, éparpillés, des segments de cylindres argentés, gauchis, vrillés...des grappes déchiquetées de filaments moirés et, partout autour, des flaques d'un liquide argent vif, sur les couvertures, le sol, les murs... Mon hurlement a déchiré le silence de la pièce. Tout a tremblé. Les murs se sont mis a tourner autour de moi, m'empêchant de trouver la sortie. Ces murs, souillés d'argent, se dressaient devant moi, quelle que soit la direction vers laquelle je me tournais. Quelqu'un a crié mon nom, mais je n'ai pas reconnu la voix. Mon hurlement était trop fort dans mes oreilles. Il explosait sous mon crâne. Le mur de roche, l'argent dégoulinant, tout m'a heurtée de plein fouet et je me suis écroulée au sol.

Dann habe ich begonnen zu arbeiten. Habe gedacht, das würde ein anderes Gefühl machen. Es ist immer ein Gefühl dagewesen. Es war wie Hunger und nicht wissen worauf. Die Arbeit. War jeden Morgen aufstehen. Viel zu früh und immer zu kalt, der Wecker, der klingelte, der Kaffee am Küchentisch, weinen mögen und nicht wissen warum. War nur Angst vor dem Zuspätkommen, vor dem Nichtvergnügen, vor dem Gespräch mit dem Chef, dem Tragen falscher Trikotage, dem Sagen falscher Antworten, dem Ticken der Uhr, dem Warten auf den Sonntag und nicht wissen, was tun, dem Warten auf den Montag und nicht wissen warum, denn der Montag war Angst, war müdes Zur-vollen-U-Bahn-gehen, war das Betreten eines Gebäudes, das falsch roch, das Grüßen von Menschen, die nie nah waren, war entlassen werden.

…They arrived when the sober grey of twilight had clad every object. Amanda viewed the dark and stupendous edifice, the gloom of which was now heightened by the shadows of evening, with venerable awe; the solitude, the silence, which reigned around, the melancholy murmur of the waves, as they dashed against the rocks, all heightened the sadness of her mind; yet it was not quite an unpleasing sadness, for with it was mingled a degree of that enthusiasm, which plaintive and romantic spirits are so peculiarly subject to feel in viewing the venerable grandeur of an ancient fabric renowned in history. As she entered a spacious hall, curiously wainscoted with oak, ornamented with coats of arms, spears, lances, and old armour, she could not avoid casting a retrospective eye to former times, when perhaps in this very hall, bards sung the exploits of those heroes, whose useless arms now hung upon the walls; and she wished, in the romance of the moment, some grey bard near her, to tell the deeds of other times, of kings renowned in our land, and chiefs we behold no more.

Je me trouvais en quelque lieu vague et trouble... Je dis « lieu » par habitude, car maintenant toute conception de distance et de durée était abolie pour moi, et je ne puis déterminer combien de temps je restai en cet état. Je n’entendais rien, ne voyais rien, je pensais seulement et avec force et persistance. Le grand problème qui m’avait tourmenté toute ma vie était résolu : la mort n’existe pas, la vie est infinie. J’en étais convaincu bien avant ; mais jadis je ne pouvais formuler clairement ma conviction : elle se basait sur cette seule considération que, astreinte à des limites, la vie n’est qu’une formidable absurdité. L’homme pense ; il perçoit ce qui l’entoure, il souffre, jouit et disparaît ; son corps se décompose et fournit ses éléments à des corps en formation : cela, chacun le peut constater journellement, mais que devient cette force apte à se connaître soi-même et à connaître le monde qui l’entoure ? Si la matière est immortelle, pourquoi faudrait-il que la conscience se dissipât sans traces, et, si elle disparaît, d’où venait-elle et quel est le but de cette apparition éphémère ? Il y avait là des contradictions que je ne pouvais admettre. Maintenant je sais, par ma propre expérience, que la conscience persiste, que je n’ai pas cessé et probablement ne cesserai jamais de vivre. Voici que derechef m’obsèdent ces terribles questions : si je ne meurs pas, si je reviens toujours sur la terre, quel est le but de ces existences successives, à quelles lois obéissent-elles et quelle fin leur est assignée ? Il est probable que je pourrais discerner cette loi et la comprendre si je me rappelais mes existences passées, toutes, ou du moins quelques-unes ; mais pourquoi l’homme est-il justement privé de ce souvenir ? pourquoi est-il condamné à une ignorance éternelle, si bien que la conception de l’immortalité ne se présente à lui que comme une hypothèse, et si cette loi inconnue exige l’oubli et les ténèbres, pourquoi dans ces ténèbres, d’étranges lumières apparaissent-elles parfois, comme il m’est arrivé quand je suis entré au château de La Roche-Maudin ? De toute ma volonté, je me cramponnais à ce souvenir comme le noyé à une épave ; il me semblait que si je me rappelais clairement et exactement ma vie dans ce château je comprendrais tout le reste. Maintenant qu’aucune sensation du dehors ne me distrayait, je m’abandonnais aux houles du souvenir, inerte et sans pensée pour ne pas gêner leur mouvement, et tout à coup, du fond de mon âme comme des brumes d’un fleuve, commençaient à s’élever de fugaces figures humaines ; des mots au sens effacé résonnaient, et dans tous ces souvenirs étaient des lacunes... Les visages étaient vaporeux, les paroles étaient sans lien, tout était décousu......

I like nouns that go up: loft. And ones that sink: mud. I like the ones that peck: chicken. And canter: canter. Those that comfort: flannel and pelt. Cell is an excellent word, in that it sweetly fulfills its assigned sound in a small, thin container. Unlike hell, which is disappointing. Overall. Wanting in force and fury. I like that a lone syllable names a necessary thing: bridge, house, door, food, bed. And the ones that sustain us: dirt, milk, and so on. What a thing, that a syllable — birth, time, space, death — points to the major mysteries with such simplicity, as with a silent finger. And to our very vital parts: head, snout, heart, butt. And our fundamental feeling: fear.

Fatigued by her journey, the Countess soon after supper proposed retiring to rest; a proposal extremely agreeable to Madeline, whose spirits still felt agitated. The Countess conducted her to her chamber, which was near her own, and at the end of a long gallery that overlooked the hall; here they parted; but a servant remained, who offered to assist Madeline in undressing; an offer which she, never accustomed to such attendance, refused; and, feeling a restraint in her presence, dismissed her; yet scarcely had she done so, ere she felt an uneasy sensation, something like fear, stealing over her mind as she looked round her spacious and gloomy apartment; nor could she prevent herself from starting as the tapestry, which represented a number of grotesque and frightful figures, agitated by the wind that whistled through the crevices, every now and then swelled from the walls. She sat down near the door, wishing herself again in her own little chamber, and attentively listening for a passing step that she might desire the servant she had dismissed to be recalled; but all was profoundly still, and continued so; and at length she recollected herself, blushed for the weakness she had betrayed; and, recommending herself to the protection of heaven, retired to bed, where she soon forgot her cares and fears. She awoke in the morning with renovated spirits; and, impatient to gratify her curiosity by examining the contents of the chamber, instantly rose: the furniture was rich but old-fashioned; and as she looked over the great presses and curious inlaid cabinets, she thought indeed she must have not only a great fortune, but great vanity if she could ever fill them.

SEA” Sounds of the Pacific Ocean at Big Sur “SEA” Cherson! Cherson! You aint just whistlin Dixie, Sea— Cherson! Cherson! We calcimine fathers here below! Kitchen lights on— Sea Engines from Russia seabirding here below— When rocks outsea froth I’ll know Hawaii cracked up & scramble up my doublelegged cliff to the silt of a million years— Shoo—Shaw—Shirsh— Go on die salt light You billion yeared rock knocker Gavroom Seabird Gabroobird Sad as wife & hill Loved as mother & fog Oh! Oh! Oh! Sea! Osh! Where’s yr little Neppytune tonight? These gentle tree pulp pages which’ve nothing to do with yr crash roar, liar sea, ah, were made for rock tumble seabird digdown footstep hollow weed move bedarvaling crash? Ah again? Wine is salt here? Tidal wave kitchen? Engines of Russia in yr soft talk— Les poissons de la mer parle Breton— Mon nom es Lebris de Keroack— Parle, Poissons, Loti, parle— Parlning Ocean sanding crash the billion rocks— Ker plotsch— Shore—shoe— god—brash— The headland looks like a longnosed Collie sleeping with his light on his nose, as the ocean, obeying its accomodations of mind, crashes in rhythm which could & will intrude, in thy rhythm of sand thought— —Big frigging shoulders on that sonofabitch Parle, O, parle, mer, parle, Sea speak to me, speak to me, your silver you light Where hole opened up in Alaska Gray—shh—wind in The canyon wind in the rain Wind in the rolling rash Moving and t wedel Sea sea Diving sea O bird—la vengeance De la roche Cossez Ah Rare, he rammed the gate rare over by Cherson, Cherson, we calcify fathers here below —a watery cross, with weeds entwined—This grins restoredly, low sleep—Wave—Oh, no, shush—Shirk—Boom plop Neptune now his arms extends while one millions of souls sit lit in caves of darkness —What old bark? The dog mountain? Down by the Sea Engines? God rush—Shore— Shaw—Shoo—Oh soft sigh we wait hair twined like larks—Pissit—Rest not —Plottit, bisp tesh, cashes, re tav, plo, aravow, shirsh,—Who’s whispering over there—the silly earthen creek! The fog thunders—We put silver light on face—We took the heroes in—A billion years aint nothing— O the cities here below! The men with a thousand arms! the stanchions of their upward gaze! the coral of their poetry! the sea dragons tenderized, meat for fleshy fish— Navark, navark, the fishes of the Sea speak Breton— wash as soft as people’s dreams—We got peoples in & out the shore, they call it shore, sea call it pish rip plosh—The 5 billion years since earth we saw substantial chan—Chinese are the waves—the woods are dreaming