Roma City Quotes

They speak of Roma Montagov and Juliette Cai as the ones who dared to dream. And for that, in a city consumed by nightmares, they were cut down without mercy.

What are you afraid of?' Roma Montagov asked. Juliette's lips parted. She exhaled a short, abrupt breath. 'The consequences,' she whispered, "of love in a city ruled by hate.

Roma Montagov kicks a chair. “God—” “—dammit,” Juliette Cai finishes with a whisper, far across the city.

War rages on, and the city tells the tale of Roma and Juliette like some folk song passed between rickshaw runners on their breaks. They speak of Roma Montagov and Juliette Cai as the ones who had dared to dream. And for that, in a city consumed by nightmares, they were cut down without mercy.

Roma Montagov wasn’t the heir scheming in the shadows anymore. It seemed that he was sick of the city seeing him as the one slitting throats in the dark, the one with a heart of coal and the clothing to match.

I will stare fear in the face," Juliette promised quietly. " I will dare to love you, Roma Montagov, and if this city cuts me down for it, then so be it.

I am in love with you,” he declared. It was only for practice, yet his face turned red nonetheless. This was ridiculous. He was fifteen. He could be more suave than this. Roma didn’t know much, but he knew that he had fallen too hard and he had fallen too fast. If he didn’t speak now he might never have a chance, because this city was brutal to dazzling things walking its streets, and Juliette was the most dazzling of them all.

CAPT. J. W. SIMMONS, master of the steamship Pensacola, had just as little regard for weather as the Louisiana’s Captain Halsey. He was a veteran of eight hundred trips across the Gulf and commanded a staunch and sturdy ship, a 1,069-ton steel-hulled screw-driven steam freighter built twelve years earlier in West Hartlepool, England, and now owned by the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company. Friday morning the ship was docked at the north end of 34th Street, in the company of scores of other ships, including the big Mallory liner Alamo, at 2,237 tons, and the usual large complement of British ships, which on Friday included the Comino, Hilarius, Kendal Castle, Mexican, Norna, Red Cross, Taunton, and the stately Roma in from Boston with its Captain Storms. As the Pensacola’s twenty-one-man crew readied the ship for its voyage to the city of Pensacola on Florida’s Gulf Coast, two men came aboard as Captain Simmons’s personal guests: a harbor pilot named R. T. Carroll and Galveston’s Pilot Commissioner J. M. O. Menard, from one of the city’s oldest families. At

They speak of Roma Montagov and Juliette Cai as the ones who had dared to dream. And for that, in a city consumed by nightmares, they were cut down without mercy.

She does not tell him that she has been standing outside the city of Roma, watching and talking to him over the wall.

Enough was enough. In this moment, Juliette decided she did not care. This was a war they had never asked to be a part of; this was a war that had dragged them in before they had the chance to leave. Roma and Juliette had been born into feuding families, into a feuding city, into a country already fractured beyond belief. She was washing her hands of it. She was not fighting for love. She was protecting her own, everyone else’s be damned.

The name ‘Romulus’ is itself a give-away. Although Romans usually assumed that he had lent his name to his newly established city, we are now fairly confident that the opposite was the case: ‘Romulus’ was an imaginative construction out of ‘Roma’. ‘Romulus’ was merely the archetypal ‘Mr Rome’. Besides,

The unexotic underclass are the poor in Eastern Europe, and Central Asia, who just don’t look foreign enough for our taste. Anyone who’s lived in a major European city can attest to the ubiquity of desperate Roma families, arriving from Bulgaria and Romania, panhandling in the streets and on the subways. This past April, the employees of the Louvre Museum in Paris went on strike because they were tired of being pickpocketed by hungry Roma children. But if you were to go to Bulgaria to volunteer or to start a social enterprise, how would the folks back on Facebook know you were helping ‘the poor?’ if the poor in your pictures kind of looked like you?

The one continuous thing through Rome’s history, from the Etruscans to Pliny to Caravaggio to Pope John Paul to Henry and Owen, is the light: the light at dawn, at sunset. The light tiptoes across everything, exposing it anew, whispering, Here is this! Here is this! Ecco Roma! Bursting out of the sun, streaking through space, skirting Venus, just over eight minutes old, but eternal, too, infinite—here comes the light, nameless and intangible, streaming 93 million unobstructed miles through the implacable black vacuum to break itself against a wall, a cornice, a column. It drenches, it crenellates, it textures. It throws the city into relief.

We will always be black, you and I, even if it means different things in different places. France is built on its own dream, on its collection of bodies, and recall that your very name is drawn from a man who opposed France and its national project of theft by colonization. It is true that our color was not our distinguishing feature there, so much as the Americanness represented in our poor handle on French. And it is true that there is something particular about how the Americans who think they are white regard us—something sexual and obscene. We were not enslaved in France. We are not their particular “problem,” nor their national guilt. We are not their niggers. If there is any comfort in this, it is not the kind that I would encourage you to indulge. Remember your name. Remember that you and I are brothers, are the children of trans-Atlantic rape. Remember the broader consciousness that comes with that. Remember that this consciousness can never ultimately be racial; it must be cosmic. Remember the Roma you saw begging with their children in the street, and the venom with which they were addressed. Remember the Algerian cab driver, speaking openly of his hatred of Paris, then looking at your mother and me and insisting that we were all united under Africa. Remember the rumbling we all felt under the beauty of Paris, as though the city had been built in abeyance of Pompeii. Remember the feeling that the great public gardens, the long lunches, might all be undone by a physics, cousin to our rules and the reckoning of our own country, that we do not fully comprehend.

No other city I know can match the sheer vitality of Rome at the hour just before midmorning. Rome wakes with a self-satisfied stretching of the limbs and a deep inhalation, stimulating the lungs, quickening the pulse. Rome wakes with a smile, roused from pleasant dreams, for every night Rome goes to sleep dreaming a dream of empire. In the morning Rome opens her eyes, ready to go about the business of making that dream come true in broad daylight. Other cities cling to sleep—Alexandria and Athens to warm dreams of the past, Pergamum and Antioch to a coverlet of Oriental splendor, little Pompeii and Herculaneum to the luxury of napping till noon. Rome is happy to shake off sleep and begin her agenda for the day. Rome has work to do. Rome is an early riser.

You led Shenzhen Football / You saved Shenzhen Football. " Chinese pro football soccer league (second division) Shenzhen FC recently announced a number of poems like this one. It seems like a tribute to Sven Jerran Eriksson (69, photo), a world-renowned manager who has been assigned to the club this season. But looking back, the story was different. The club said, 'We call the legend again. Let's go on a new trip together. " 믿고 주문해주세요~저희는 제품판매를 고객님들과 신용과신뢰의 거래로 하고있습니다. 24시간 문의상담과 서울 경기지방은 퀵으로도 가능합니다 믿고 주문하시면좋은인연으로 vip고객님으로 모시겠습니다. 원하시는제품있으시면 추천상으로 구입문의 도와드릴수있습니다 깔끔한거래,안전거래,총알배송,고객님정보보호,100%정품,편한상담,신용신뢰의 거래,후불거래등 고객님들의 편의를 기본으로 운영하고있는 온라인 판매업체입니다 The poem was a clearing for Eriksson. He was tortured in the club with one side on the 14th. The poem 'You' was not his, but the former director of Wang Baoshan. The Shenzhen team first announced the city verses through its homepage, and then the local media asked whether it was a change of director. ◀경영항목▶텔레【KC98K】카톡【ACD5】라인【SPR331】 엑스터시,신의눈물,lsd,아이스,캔디,대마초,마리화나,프로포폴,에토미데이트,해피벌륜 등많은제품판매하고있습니다 Sweden coach Eriksson is one of the best players in the World Cup finals. In 2001, he became the first foreign coach in England's history. He led Beckham, Owen and others to advance to the quarter-finals in the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup and the 2006 Germany World Cup. At the 2010 South African tournament he was promoted to coach Ivory Coast. Benfica, AS Roma and Manchester City also led the pros. It was in June 2013 that Eriksson, who became a world class soccer player, started his career in Chinese football. He was appointed to the first division of Guangzhou Puri in China with an annual salary of about 3.5 billion won. It was a bad condition for him to spend the last years of his life as a leader. After failing to sign a new contract, he became a manager of the Shanghai Sanggang, subject to an annual salary of 6 billion won by the end of 2014. After two years of hardship, he moved to China 2nd Division League Shenzhen FC. But here, the duration of the bust was shorter. Eriksson's lead has been in fourth place in the league since he lost five consecutive wins in the league in eight consecutive wins (five and three losses). The club, aiming at promoting the first division, has been pushing out Eriksson in six months because of the atmosphere. Early exits such as Eriksson can be found easily in Chinese football world that pours a lot of money into directing shopping. Only Lee Jang Soo (Changchun), Choi Yong Soo (Jangsu) and Hong Myung Bo (Hangzhou) have left the team during the season due to poor performance.

I will stare fear in the face,' Juliette promised quietly. 'I will dare to love you Roma Montagov, and if the city cuts me down for it, then so be it.

Constantine called his city Nova Roma Constantinopolitana

If Vespasian had a vice, it was greed. The emperor and his favorites had shamelessly exploited their positions to accrue enormous wealth, treating the Roman state as a moneymaking scheme for insiders. Vespasian famously put a tax on the city’s latrinae, claiming a share of the money made by the sale of urine to fullers, who used it to clean wool. Thus the saying, “Even when you piss, the emperor takes a percentage.

That’s the problem with Domitian, isn’t it?” said Lucius. “We never know what’s real and what’s not. All the city is a stage. Everything that happens is a spectacle put on by the emperor. One wonders if he himself knows any longer what’s real.

Now, the other problem is this: where we are going, it is illegal for a man to lie with another,” he said slowly, looking between Tom and Jon. “Punishable by death.” Tom lifted his head and let out a short laugh with no humour. Next to him, Jon just gaped at the captain with horror plain on his face. Baltsaros lifted his hand. “When Polas assumed you were my son, Tom, I told him the truth, and he was, I’m sorry to say, absolutely horrified. However, he admitted that different cultures had the right to different customs. I may have exaggerated somewhat when I told him that in our lands it was normal for men to lie together, but it was necessary for him not to see our arrangement as an aberration,” explained Baltsaros, running his finger along the edge of his cup. At the time he had felt nothing but a shocked sort of curiosity at the discovery that they were in a realm of strict moral values that made his uncle Romas’ faith look like a bunch of idol-worshiping whoremongers. Jon’s strained voice broke the silence. “Why do we have to go to this city at all?” Baltsaros lifted his eyes. “The city is rich… There’s gold inlaid in the very streets themselves. Perhaps we can set up trade once I figure out how to counteract the effects of the spores,” he replied with a smile. “Polas speaks of other wonders. They have harnessed lightning… I want to see this with my own eyes.” It was nearly the whole truth. The captain thought that Jon and Tom needn’t concern themselves with his primary motivation: the deep fascination with a city that was governed by gods who demanded constant human sacrifice. In Baltsaros’s esteem, the streets were coloured by something far richer than mere gold.

No city is conquered unless its people have offended the gods; for the conquerors to kill or enslave the inhabitants is pleasing to the gods. The people of Roma have always known this. The humiliation of our enemies is one of the ways by which we please the gods, and by pleasing the gods, we continue to prosper.

Juliette stopped midsentence, her eyebrows lifting so high they disappeared into her bangs. There was a blade held to her heart. Roma was holding a blade to her heart, his arm straight and long. A beat passed. Juliette waited to see what he would do. But Roma only shook his head. He suddenly felt so much like his old self again. Like the boy who had kissed her for the first time on the rooftop of a jazz club. Like the boy who didn’t believe in violence, who swore he would rule his half of the city one day with fairness and justice. “You’re not even afraid,” Roma breathed, his voice hitching, “and do you know why? Because you know I cannot push this knife in—you have always known, and even if you doubted my mercy upon returning, you discovered what the truth was pretty soon, didn’t you?” The tip of the blade was ice-cold even through her dress, almost soothing against the hot flush emanating from her body. “If you know that I will not be afraid,” Juliette asked, “then why hold your blade out?” “Because this—” Roma closed his eyes. Tears. Tears were falling down his face. “This is why my betrayal was so terrible. Because you believed me incapable of hurting you, and yet I did.

He reached for her. “Don’t,” Juliette managed, her breath hitching, her hand rising to knock his fingers back. “I don’t… need your pity.” Slowly, Roma lowered himself onto the ground until he, too, was kneeling. “It is not my pity you have,” he said. “You made the right choice, Juliette.” “We hunt the monster to stop it from bringing devastation to this city.” Juliette held her bloody hands out. “But this—this is monstrosity.” Roma reached for her again. This time Juliette did not stop him. This time he smoothed his thumbs across her cheeks to dry her tears and she leaned into him, her head resting on his chest and his arms wrapping around her—familiar, foreign, fitting. “A monster,” he said against her hair, “does not mourn.” “Did you mourn?” Juliette asked, barely audible. She did not need to clarify what she meant. They both saw it in their minds: the explosion, the damage, the blood and the lives and the burning, burning red. “I mourned,” Roma said just as softly. “I mourned for months, years outside the gates of the cemetery. Yet I don’t regret choosing you.

Forgive me,” he breathed when they broke apart. “Forgive me, Juliette.” She was tired of hatred and blood and vengeance. All she wanted was this. Juliette twined her arms around him and pressed her chin to his shoulder, holding him as close as she dared. It was a reacquaintance, a homecoming. It was her mind whispering, Oh, we are here again—at last. “I forgive you,” she said softly. “And when this is over, when the monster is dead and the city is ours again, we’re going to have a proper chat.” Roma managed a laugh. He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “Okay. That’s fine by me.

He was exhausted by this; he was exhausted by Dimitri’s accusations. Yes—Roma had wet his hands with blood at fifteen years old for Juliette. For what it mattered, he might as well have lit the fuse that tore through a whole household of Scarlets. All to save Juliette, all to protect her, though she had never asked for such protection. Once, he would have burned the damn city to the ground just to keep her unharmed. Of course it was hard for him to hurt her now. It went against every fiber of his being. Every cell, every nerve—they had grown into place with one mantra: protect her, protect her. Even after knowing she had become someone else, even after hearing all the terrible things she had done in New York… she was still Juliette. His Juliette. And now she was not.

The sound of gunshots echoed through the locked compartment. Roma took a horrified step back, so aghast at the noise that he couldn’t find the energy to keep pushing at the door. In that moment, he didn’t care anymore. The city faded, the blood feud faded, all his anger and rage and retribution crumbled to dust. All he could think about was Juliette—dying, she was dying, and he wouldn’t allow it. Some removed part of him determined that it was his job to kill her; the part of him in the present simply couldn’t bear it—not here, not now. “Don’t,” he whispered, a tremor breaking his voice. “Don’t.

When Roma looked over, his eyes were glistening. “This city would have destroyed you for that.” “It has destroyed me anyway,” Benedikt replied. It had always taken, and taken, and taken. And this time, it took too much.

Enough was enough. In this moment, Juliette decided she did not care. This was a war they had never asked to be a part of; this was a war that had dragged them in before they had the chance to leave. Roma and Juliette had been born into feuding families, into a feuding city, into a country already fractured beyond belief. She was washing her hands of it. She was not fighting for love. She was protecting her own, everyone else’s be damned.

I hope,” Kathleen said, unable to resist the temptation, “you understand that Juliette is doing you a great favor.” Roma immediately scoffed. “There are no favors in this city. Only calculation. You heard what she said to your sister, did you not?” Kathleen had. There is an incredible amount of difference between killing an enemy too soon and killing them when the time is right. And it seemed she was the only one who had heard the hitch in her cousin’s voice that indicated she was lying. How strange it was. Both that Roma Montagov seemed angered by Juliette’s intent to destroy him and that Kathleen could see Juliette didn’t intend to at all.

Roma Montagov shrugged. “Then there is a solution. Destroy the gangs.” Kathleen lurched, almost colliding with the wall that they stood alongside. “No,” she said, horrified. “That might be worse than having a blood feud.” That would be unending grappling, rulers ousted at every turn or politicians who lied at every moment. No one would be as loyal to this city as gangsters were to it. No one.

He had known all along, hadn't he? It was only that he could not say it. When Roma looked over, his eyes were glistening. "This city would have destroyed you for that." "It has destroyed me anyway," Benedikt replied. It had always taken, and taken, and taken. And this time, it took too much.

Basia coquum” disse Simon. “O qualunque sia il loro motto.” “Veramente è Descensus Averno facilis est. La discesa agli inferi è facile.” Lo corresse Alec. “Tu hai appena detto ´´Bacia il cuoco``. Frequenti i ristoranti dell’antica Roma?” “Cavolo!” Esclamò Simon. “Lo sapevo che Jace mi stava prendendo per i fondelli.

Madame Escoffier," he said. In his white apron, he was again the man she loved. The gentle man who only spoke in whispers. "I am sorry," she said. "I am not." He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tasted of tomatoes, sharp and floral. The moment, filled with the heat of a reckless summer, brought her back to the gardens they had grown together in Paris in a private courtyard behind Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Sweet Roma tomatoes, grassy licorice tarragon, thin purple eggplants and small crisp beans thrived in a series of old wine barrels that sat in the tiny square. There were also violets and roses that the 'confiseur' would make into jellies or sugar to grace the top of the 'petit-fours glacés,' which were baked every evening while the coal of the brick ovens cooled down for the night. "No one grows vegetables in the city of Paris," she said, laughing, when Escoffier first showed her his hidden garden, "except for Escoffier." He picked a ripe tomato, bit into it and then held it to her lips. "Pomme d'amour, perhaps this was fruit of Eden." The tomato was so ripe and lush, so filled with heat it brought tears to her eyes and he kissed her. "You are becoming very good at being a chef's wife." "I love you," she said and finally meant it. 'Pommes d'amour.' The kitchen was now overflowing with them.

The Ruins Of Time" Robert Lowell (Quevedo, Mire los muros de la partia mia and Buscas en Roma a Roma, (!)O peregrino!) I I saw the musty shingles of my house, raw wood and fixed once, now a wash of moss eroded by the ruin of age furning all fair and green things into waste. I climbed the pasture. I saw the dim sun drink the ice just thawing from the boldered fallow, woods crowd the foothills, sieze last summer's field, and higher up, the sickly cattle bellow. I went into my house. I saw how dust and ravel had devoured its furnishing; even my cane was withered and more bent, even my sword was coffined up in rust— there was no hilt left for the hand to try. Everything ached, and told me I must die. II You search in Rome for Rome? O Traveller! in Rome itself, there is no room for Rome, the Aventine is its own mound and tomb, only a corpse recieves the worshipper. And where the Capitol once crowned the forum, are medals ruined by the hands of time; they show how more was lost by chance and time the Hannibal or Ceasar could consume. The Tiber flows still, but its waste laments a city that has fallen in its grave— each wave's a woman beating at her breast. O Rome! Form all you palms, dominion, bronze and beauty, what was firm has fled. What once was fugitive maintains its permenance.

We have sought to read Revelation less as a coded text to be interpreted, and more as a text that imposed a Christ-centered interpretation upon the everyday activities, landscapes, and stories encountered by the members of the seven congregations addressed by John in their setting. Having entered the larger picture and the re-picturing of the cosmos as John’s Apocalypse was read aloud to the gathered assembly, the hearers are changed, as is their everyday world, which they see anew as but a part of a broader reality that puts the everyday world into a different perspective. The voyeuristic experience of entering into John’s encounter with the unseen world—and looking back from there upon the landscape of the visible world—provides a religious experience that disposes hearers indeed to “keep the words of this prophecy” (Rev 22:7) as they return to the normal world where they will hear the Christian prophetess “Jezebel” try to defend her position, encounter further propaganda about the emperor and Roma Aeterna, watch goods being transported to ports for transit by ship to Rome, try to engage in their business activities again, and encounter the other everyday realities of their cities. But