Roz Quotes

Nights were the worst. I'd try to get some sleep, only to be thrown out of bed and dragged out into the compound for another game of "Let's whack Bobby in the dark!" - Bobby Pendragon, RoZ

You need to be buried deep in the dirt before you can find your bloom.

Bazeecha-e-atfal hai duniya mere aage, Hota hai shab-o-roz tamasha mere aage

Viaţa e un dar buclucaş. La început ai tendinţa să-l supraestimezi crezând că viaţa pe care ai primit-o este veşnică. Apoi, dimpotrivă, îl subestimezi, găsind că-i o porcărie, scurtă de nu-nţelegi nimic din ea şi pe care uneori ţi-ar veni s-o arunci de să nu se vadă. Abia către sfârşit pricepi că nu-i vorba de nici un dar, ci de un simplu împrumut. Pe care trebuie să încerci să-l meriţi.

Roz to Amelia (the house ghost): How considerate of you, after trying to kill me, to see that I don't catch a cold.

I look forward to being older, when what you look like becomes less and less an issue and what you are is the point." (As quoted in Put Your Big Girl Panties on and Deal with it, Roz Van Meter, 2007)

Insaano ky, insaano ky saath baahemi tamaam jazbon ko jab Allah ny Roz-e-Awwal takhleeq kia to muhabbat hi woh waahid jazba tha jis ki taqdeer men jeet, jeet aur sirf jeet likhi gai...muhabbat ki qismat men haar nahi aur ye us Rubb ka faisla hai.

If you stand in a forest long enough, eventually something will fall on you. And Roz had been standing in the forest long enough.

Okay. Roz is strong. She’s confident and loyal. She’s there when I need her. “Congratulations,” I mumbled. “Sounds like you’re dating a German shepherd.

I gave up on ever trying to get 'my way.' I barely knew it existed.

As I would soon learn myself, cleaning up what a parent leaves behind stirs up dust, both literal and metaphorical. It dredges up memories. You feel like you’re a kid again, poking around in your parents’ closet, only this time there’s no chance of getting in trouble, so you don’t have to be so sure that everything gets put back exactly where it was before you did your poking around. Still, you hope to find something, or maybe you fear finding something, that will completely change your conception of the parent you thought you knew.

If anyone else told her to lower her voice, Roz would know what to do: scream louder.

An uncomfortable question popped into Jaya's mind. "Roz, don't take this the wrong way," she began, "but is it possible that you are defective?" "Don't say that, Jaya!" cried her brother. "No, it is okay," said the robot. "I have asked myself that same question. I do not feel defective. I feel . . . different. Is being different the same as being defective?" "I don't think so," said Jaya. "Or else we're all a little defective.

Just as all writers were beginners once, so were all novels. They all went through rough stages, even the ones by our most hallowed masters.

-Tanti Roz, mi se pare că au inventat un alt spital decât cel real. Se prefac că oamenii vin la spital decât ca să se vindece. Deși unii vin ca să moară. -Ai dreptate,Oscar. Și cred că facem aceeași greșeală și în privința vieții. Uităm că viața e fragilă, fărâmicioasă, efemeră. Ne credem toți nemuritori.

Roz added sheep to Heaven. They would be outside the window, naturally.

There is a whirlwind in southern Morocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. There is the africo, which has at times reached into the city of Rome. The alm, a fall wind out of Yugoslavia. The arifi, also christened aref or rifi, which scorches with numerous tongues. These are permanent winds that live in the present tense. There are other, less constant winds that change direction, that can knock down horse and rider and realign themselves anticlockwise. The bist roz leaps into Afghanistan for 170 days--burying villages. There is the hot, dry ghibli from Tunis, which rolls and rolls and produces a nervous condition. The haboob--a Sudan dust storm that dresses in bright yellow walls a thousand metres high and is followed by rain. The harmattan, which blows and eventually drowns itself into the Atlantic. Imbat, a sea breeze in North Africa. Some winds that just sigh towards the sky. Night dust storms that come with the cold. The khamsin, a dust in Egypt from March to May, named after the Arabic word for 'fifty,' blooming for fifty days--the ninth plague of Egypt. The datoo out of Gibraltar, which carries fragrance. There is also the ------, the secret wind of the desert, whose name was erased by a king after his son died within it. And the nafhat--a blast out of Arabia. The mezzar-ifoullousen--a violent and cold southwesterly known to Berbers as 'that which plucks the fowls.' The beshabar, a black and dry northeasterly out of the Caucasus, 'black wind.' The Samiel from Turkey, 'poison and wind,' used often in battle. As well as the other 'poison winds,' the simoom, of North Africa, and the solano, whose dust plucks off rare petals, causing giddiness. Other, private winds. Travelling along the ground like a flood. Blasting off paint, throwing down telephone poles, transporting stones and statue heads. The harmattan blows across the Sahara filled with red dust, dust as fire, as flour, entering and coagulating in the locks of rifles. Mariners called this red wind the 'sea of darkness.' Red sand fogs out of the Sahara were deposited as far north as Cornwall and Devon, producing showers of mud so great this was also mistaken for blood. 'Blood rains were widely reported in Portugal and Spain in 1901.' There are always millions of tons of dust in the air, just as there are millions of cubes of air in the earth and more living flesh in the soil (worms, beetles, underground creatures) than there is grazing and existing on it. Herodotus records the death of various armies engulfed in the simoom who were never seen again. One nation was 'so enraged by this evil wind that they declared war on it and marched out in full battle array, only to be rapidly and completely interred.

I putter. I nurse old grudges. I fold origami while nursing old grudges. I think about the past. I wonder if there's any grudges I should start.

It felt as if everything that had happened so far in my life had been leading me to this point, preparing me for this task, and that I was uniquely equipped to pursue this quest. It was a perfect collision of personality, past experience, purpose, and timing.

As the robot looked out at the island, it never even occurred to her that she might not belong there. As far as Roz knew, she was home.

When you stand at the bottom of the mountain and look up at the mountaintop, the path looks hard and stony, and the top is obscured by clouds. But when you reach the top and you look down, you realize that there are a thousand paths that could have brought you to that place.

I have learned to be kinder to myself, to imagine that I am my own best friend, whispering comforting words in my ear and drowning out the voices of Self-Doubt and Self-Criticism. I have learned to acknowledge and appreciate the 98% that I have achieved instead of the 2% that I didn’t.

-Vrei sa spui ca la „Viata“ nu exista solutie? – Vreau sa spun ca la „Viata“ exista mai multe solutii, prin urmare ea n-are solutie. – Dupa mine, Tanti Roz, singura solutie la viata este sa traiesti.

Sometimes our emotions get in the way of our ability to make clear decisions and this was one of them. But I don’t think you should regret it. Everything happens for a reason.

Perhaps the habit of intrigue is catching--in the air or the walls. Like secret passages, only in the mind.

I don't want to be a PULSATING PIECE OF PROTOPLASM!

Charis disapproves of crass words like shit. Roz has offered poop, but Charis rejected it as too babyish. Her alimentary canal products? Tony has suggested. No, that sounds too coldly intellectual, said Charis. Her Gifts to the Earth.

Roz is crying again. What she's mourning is her own good will. She tried so hard, she tried so hard to be kind and nurturing, to do the best thing. But Tony and the twins were right: no matter what you do, somebody always gets boiled.

I don't understand it. Why me?" "Is there ever an answer to that question when men are involved?" -Candace and Fallon, Chapter 12

Și vai, biet plugar pe pământurile ei roz și roditoare, nu mă înălțam niciodată la nivelul delirului ei.

Roz is telling a story. That's what they will do, increasingly in their lives: tell stories. Tonight their stories will be about Zenia.

The Milky Way swooped diagonally across the heavens, reminding me of my utter insignificance, and at the same time my complete interconnection with everything. I was just a tiny speck of consciousness, and yet I was consciousness itself.

Comedians and artists are some of the loneliest, self-destructive people on the planet. If you enjoy what they produce, take the time to appreciate the humiliation and vulnerability that made them.

Ce le reproşezi tu de fapt, Oscar? – Le e frică de mine, Tanti Roz. N-au curajul să-mi vorbească. Şi cu cât le e lor mai frică, cu atât am şi eu impresia că sunt un mosntru. De ce par atât de terorizaţi?

As you might know, robots don’t really feel emotions. Not the way animals do. And yet, as she sat in her crumpled crate, Roz felt something like curiosity. She was curious about the warm ball of light shining down from above. So her computer brain went to work, and she identified the light. It was the sun.

If you're going to mash two ideas, they need to fit some way. And preferable cause as much tension as harmony.

If I ever stop challenging myself, then I am getting lazy and comfortable and I am no longer growing. I hope to use life's challenges as stepping stones to ever greater things.

The truth: after just one novel, I had lost touch with my muse. The quietly desperate, jaded girl in my head had stopped slinging sardonic wit into my psyche.

She kept to herself because solitude soothed her.

She goes off to see a shrink, to see if she can improve herself, make herself over into a new woman, one who no longer gives a shit. She would like that. The shrink is a nice person; Roz likes her. Together the two of them labor over Roz's life as if it's a jigsaw puzzle, a mystery story with a solution at the end. They arrange and rearrange the pieces, trying to get them to come out better. They are hopeful: if Roz can figure out what story she's in, then they will be able to spot the erroneous turns she took, they can retrace her steps, they can change the ending. They work out a tentative plot.

I’m not looking for a man right now. Too damn much trouble. Even when it’s good, they take a lot of time, effort, and energy. I’m enjoying using all that time, effort, and energy on myself.

I have learned to accept that, in the present moment at least, things are exactly as they are meant to be, and although I cannot control the future any more than I could control the wind and the weather, I can manage it and influence it in a positive way.

I stopped rowing for a moment to glug down some water, but it was warm, tasted of plastic, and failed to refresh. I yearned for an ice-cold drink—preferably one with bubbles and alcohol in it.

Iubirea adevărată e o experienţă a bucuriei împărtăşite şi ea iradiază, ca atare, în întregul spaţiu din jurul său. Evident, nu cred în utopia unei exaltări de fiecare clipă, sau în convieţuirea paradiziacă, în care totul e roz, adorabil, ireproşabil. Vreau doar să spun că dacă o întîlnire de dragoste devine prea complicată, dacă emoţia, farmecul şi plăcerea se umplu, dintr-un motiv sau altul, de cearcăne, ceva în măruntaiele acestei întîlniri e pe cale de a se deteriora. De asemenea, dacă frumuseţea întîlnirii se cuplează cu nefericirea masivă a altora. O mare iubire care sfîrşeşte prin a ruina cariere, caractere, vieţi e o iubire mai curînd strîmbă şi are puţine şanse de happy end. Sintagme de tipul „sînt îndrăgostit fără speranţă“, „sînt îndrăgostit şi mă simt vinovat“, „sînt îndrăgostit şi nu mai sînt bun de nimic“ n-au ce căuta în vocabularul iubirii. Iubirea adevărată e creatoare, mobilizatoare, restauratoare. E tonică, simplă, vitală. Amărăciunile, neîncrederea, infernul geloziei, suspiciunile mărunte, spaima de viitor şi tot alaiul de indispoziţii cotidiene care confiscă uneori viaţa cuplului sînt preliminarii şi semne ale ratării. Iubirea fericită este, dimpotrivă, un corelativ a reuşitei umane, o binecuvîntare care îmbogăţeşte şi înfrumuseţează inventarul destinului pămîntesc. Fericirea se multiplică, atunci cînd e atentă la fericirea partenerului, iar fericirea cuplului aşază asupra întregii comunităţi un cer mai curat şi mai hrănitor. Ştiu foarte bine că descrierea de mai sus nu se potriveşte tuturor iubirilor, că iubirile fericite nu se întîlnesc pe toate drumurile (deşi sînt sigur că ele sînt mai numeroase decît ne închipuim). Dar iubirile nefericite ar trebui şterse din registrul iubirii: admit că ele sînt curente, aproape inevitabile şi că îşi au nimbul lor de tragism şi de respectabilitate. Nu sînt însă iubiri adevărate: sînt doar teribile probe existenţiale, provocări tainice ale sorţii, materie primă pentru o eventuală soluţie de înţelepciune. Iubirea adevărată e fericire pe termen lung, sau nu e deloc.

It's no accident that most ads are pitched to people in their 20s and 30s. Not only are they so much cuter than their elders...but they are less likely to have gone through the transformative process of cleaning out their deceased parents' stuff. Once you go through that, you can never look at *your* stuff in the same way. You start to look at your stuff a little postmortemistically. If you've lived more than two decades as an adult consumer, you probably have quite the accumulation, even if you're not a hoarder...I'm not saying I never buy stuff, because I absolutely do. Maybe I'm less naive about the joys of accumulation.

Incerc sa le explic parintilor mei ca viata e un dar buclucas. La inceput ai tendinta sa-l supraestimezi crezand ca viata pe care ai primit-o este vesnica. Apoi, dimpotriva, il subestimezi, gasind ca-i o porcarie, scurta de nu-ntelegi nimic din ea si pe care uneori ti-ar veni s-o arunci de sa nu se vada. Abia catre sfarsit pricepi ca nu-i vorba de niciun dar, ci de un simplu imprumut. Pe care trebuie sa incerci sa-l meriti.

With little going for me other than unstoppable eagerness, a sense of total commitment, and a stubborn refusal to give up on what felt like a divinely ordained scheme, I cast myself upon the waters of the world’s oceans.

I wish that, at the end of life, when things were truly "done," there was something to look forward to. Something more pleasure-oriented. Perhaps opium, or heroin. So you become addicted. So what? All-you-can-eat ice cream parlors for the extremely aged. Big art pictures books and music. EXTREME palliative care, for when you've had it with everything else: the x-rays, the MRIs, the boring food, and the pills that don't do anything at all. Would that be so bad?

Zenia has stolen something from him, the one thing he always kept safe before, from all women, even from Roz. Call it his soul. She slipped it out of his breast pocket when he wasn’t looking, easy as rolling a drunk, and looked at it, and bit it to see if it was genuine, and sneered at it for being so small after all, and then tossed it away, because she’s the kind of woman who wants what she doesn’t have and gets what she wants and then despises what she gets. What

Un labirint cu bolti inalte, ca niste tunele la suprafata, imbracat in trandafiri agatatori, acoperea zona dinspre rasarit a gradinii. Din loc in loc erau intercalate mici gherete imbracate in flori ce ieseau in afara, cu o banca din lemn avand spatarul inalt. Ina nu rezistase ispitei trandafirilor. Le invatase soiurile de la Leopold: trandafirii albi „Lace Cascade” revarsati in flori marunte; „Singing in the Rain” cu petale infoliate, de culoarea caiselor, stropiti de diamantele din roua; trandafirii Thea ale caror cupe seducatoare, catifelate, imprastie parfumuri sofisticate; trandafirii japonezi amplu desfacuti in petale mari, rasfrante; trandafirii Damask invaluiti subtil in petale diafane de forma aripilor de fluturi... Ce sa aleaga mai intai? Din aceasta conjuratie picturala, trecand de la nuantele patinate de roz, galben, crem pana la rosu carmin, nu avea decat sa culeaga un buchet multicolor, prea mic pentru a cuprinde nestematele unei gradini intregi.

Brightbill had been Roz's son from the moment she picked up his egg. She had saved him from certain death, and then he had saved her. He was the reason Roz had lived so well for so long. And if she wanted to continue living, if she wanted to be wild again, she needed to be with her family and her friends on her island. So, as Roz raced through the sky, she began computing a plan. She would get the repairs she needed. She would escape from her new life. She would find her way back home.

Compared with the awesome might and eternal power of the ocean, no human being can fail to be reminded of their own insignificance.

Four AM last call proved to me that the late-night hours had a mystical, ethereal quality ripe with dangerous possibilities.

Manhattan is a narrow island surrounded by various miscellaneous items.

Roz had heard about white boys and their need to always have a gun handy,

In those moments, in the space between frantic heartbeats, Roz was no longer just his earth. She was his universe, his sun, the atmosphere from which he drew breath.

उसे मेरे खो जाने का डर था. इस इतनी बड़ी दुनिया में, जहाँ मेरे होने का कोई सबूत नहीं, उसे मेरे खो जाने का डर था. सिर्फ उसके डर से ऐसा लगा जैसे मेरा अचानक से कोई वजूद हो गया हो. मुकम्मल.

It's really easy to be patient and sympathetic with someone when it's theoretical, or only for a little while. It's a lot harder to deal with someone's craziness when it's constant. . . .

– Întrebările cele mai interesante rămân şi vor rămâne întrebări. Ele întreţin misterul. Fiece răspuns trebuie precedat de „poate că“. Doar întrebările neinteresante pot căpăta un răspuns definitiv. – Vrei să spui că la „Viaţă“ nu există soluţie? – Vreau să spun că la „Viaţă“ există mai multe soluţii, prin urmare ea n-are soluţie. – După mine, Tanti Roz, singura soluţie la viaţă este să trăieşti.

The robot's programming stopped her from being violent, but nothing stopped her from being annoying. So Roz plucked pinecones from the nearby branches and lobbed them down at the bears. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Eliot probabil un ignu unul dintre puținii care e nostim când mănâncă (...) Burroughs cel mai pur ignu tunsoarea lui de culoarea smântânii degetul său mic stâng roz retezat din precoce temeiuri de ignu scrieri metafizice scrieri de iubiri psihanalitice biografia sa de narcoman o înfăptuire mai presus de un milion de dolari Céline el însuși un bătrân ignu stăpânind proza l-am văzut în Paris bătrân ramolit gentilom cu conversația poticnită cu truse de artist și trei pulovere călduroase în jurul gâtului mucegai cafeniu sub legendarele-i unghii de-a dreptul genial împărțind morfină întreaga noapte la 1400 de pasageri pe un vas ce se scufundă ,,Fiindcă se emoționaseră cu toții

Przy­pusz­czam, że każ­dy pi­sarz czu­je, iż świat, na który został wy­da­ny, to nic in­ne­go jak spisek zawiązany po to, by utrud­nić mu roz­wi­ja­nie ta­len­tu – i oczy­wi­ście wie­le prze­ma­wia za słusz­no­ścią te­go prze­ko­na­nia.

To live a fulfilling life is an endurance event, and the only way to get to the finish line is to focus on the present, checking from moment to moment that I am still heading in the right direction. The Atlantic taught me that no matter how huge and seemingly impossible the task, anybody can achieve extraordinary things, by simply taking it one stroke at a time.

Aer despartit de aer cu o aripa de roz metal, striga rupt în suier si în vaier de-o potcoavade argint, de cal. Mor pilotii pe chitare înnorate, alungite-n vid cu elicele lovind în corzi barbare dînd cu pumnu-n porti ce se deschid. Între timp trag seara peste mine doborînd în somn helicoptere, vrabii, vulturi, avioane, nori de ploaie, parasute si lichide sabii, ce lovind în coasta mea, se-ndoaie... Între timp trag seara peste mine si despart cu trupul, - ora, ziua, luna si ce-a fost el însusi, totdeauna.

Roz, I need you to do this,’ I said, although I didn’t, in actual fact – that’s just a lazy phrase which helps steer a lost narrative back on course when readers are giving up in droves, and is, ironically, a major sign of bad writing. But I knew Roz would have encountered that a lot in her career as editor of books by authors other than me, and would no doubt have employed it herself to fix failing narratives in desperate situations, and thus I used it here to snap her attention back from her own internal abyss.

Roz stood on the peak and watched the sun sink behind the ocean. She watched shadows slowly spread over the island and up the mountain-side. She watched the stars come out, one by one, until the sky was filled with a million points of light. It was the first night of the robot's life.

I have tried hard to be a good person and to leave the world a better place. To feel that I have in any small way succeeded is to me a prize beyond measure, the most wonderful wealth that I could ask for, a form of prosperity that I would wish for the whole world to experience and enjoy.

I don’t for a moment think I am any braver or better than anybody else. This is how I attempt to explain what gives me the strength to do what I do; when that thunderbolt of an idea first hit me and inspired me to row across oceans, it filled me with a sense of purpose so strong that it overcame my fears. Even when boredom, frustration, fatigue or despair threatened to overwhelm me, it was that powerful sense of purpose that kept me going.

Este trist să vezi când tânărul își pierde cele mai bune speranțe și vise, când din fața lui se risipește vălul roz, prin care obișnuia să privească lucrurile și sentimentele oamenilor, chiar dacă rămîne speranța că va schimba vechile greșeli cu altele noi, la fel de trecătoare și, de aceea, la fel de plăcute...

Weißt du, Schätzchen", sagte Roz. "Es gibt da etwas, was du nie vergessen solltest. Du hast doch von diesen Chemikalien gehört, die Frauen in sich haben, wenn sie an prämenstruellem Syndrom leiden? Also Männer haben genau dieselben Chemikalien in sich, aber die ganze Zeit." Vielleicht stimmt das, denkt Tony. Wo kämen sonst all die Feldwebel her?

Never put bananas in the refrigerator.

The restorative effect of a tasty dinner is quite remarkable. When the going gets tough, the tough get cooking.

Being angry feel so much better than being sad.

Shopping eased the pain. -Hailey, Retail Therapy

Please remember that your difficulties do not define you; they simply strengthen your ability to overcome. —Maya Angelou

If you, too, grew up with anxiety messages, realize that you couldn’t ward them off. Your filters weren’t strong enough yet. But now you can.

I wish you a soul sister who helps you tend your boundaries.

उसके हाथों में वो सिगरेट जितनी खूबसूरत लगती थी, उसके होटों पर उससे कहीं ज्यादा कातिल. उसे सिगरेट पीते हुए देख कर यकीन पक्का हो जाता था कि स्मोकिंग किल्स.

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night- Edgar Allan Poe Sometimes

Sometimes I think that the sky's just a dark blanket, and behind it is totally bright light. Those stars are just little pinprick holes in the cloth, letting us see what's behind.

Honestly I've learned that everything's a competition. And that everyone has an agenda even if they don't admit it.

I felt settled, happy, as if there'd been parts of myself I hadn't known I'd missed until he brought them back for me.

I feel about Manhattan the way I feel about a book, a TV series, a movie, a play, an artist, a song, a food, a whatever that I love. I want to tell you about it so that maybe you will love it, too. I'm not worried about it being 'ruined' by too many people 'discovering' it. Manhattan's been ruined since 1626 , when Peter Minuit bought it from Native Americans for $24.00.

Elegie Doamne, de m-as putea odihni într-un sanatoriu de munte, printre pastile roz si albastre, un sanatoriu cu miros puternic de brad si covoare moi, cu doamne cochete si nevrozate de conflicte placute, mici, conjugale. De-as avea si eu o trauma ca pojarul, o rapaiala de ploaie de vara, o nevroza ca o matase, dupa care esti si mai iubita: o nevroza ca un abur de musetel, dupa care esti si mai buimaca, celesta, dupa care fluxul feminitatii tale asalteaza lumea, o vindeca, îi da frisoanele unei comori numai de ea cunoscute. De m-as putea odihni în oricare scenariu al vietii, în cotloane diverse si simple, cinstite, unde sa nu existe decît un pat în care sa dorm si un lighean în care sa vomit tot ce dîndu-mi ai luat, Doamne, sa tot vomit.

Many terrible things begin with B: blindness, boilers, bats, bridges, and brain tumors. But no one brings any of those to a party to up the fun quotient. When I look at a balloon, all I see is an imminent explosion. Where's the fun in that?

A few days after Camelot, Roz calls me and asks if she might use my ticket for The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Her sister is coming to town, and wouldn’t it be nice for the three of them to go together? I say yes, because who wants to see a musical version of The Mystery of Edwin Drood? Whenever you subscribe to a regional theater season, there’re always a few duds. She says she’ll pay me for the ticket, and I say your money’s no good here, Roz Horowitz. It’s a mitzvah to not have to go to Edwin Drood.

Everything has a purpose." It was Swooper's turn to lecture the lodgers. "The sun is meant to give light. Plants are meant to grow. We owls are meant to hunt." "We mice are meant to hide." "We raccoons are meant to scavenge." "Roz, what are you meant to do?" "I do not believe I have a purpose." "Ha! I respectfully disagree," said Swooper. "Clearly, you are meant to build." "I think Roz is meant to grow gardens." "Roz is definitely meant to care for Brightbill." "Perhaps I am simply meant to help others.

Too often critics have taken as the sole and crucial matter of fantasy the preoccupation of Tolkien, the quest for a remedy to the world's pain that will not destroy innocence with the temptations of power. Impressive and popular as The Lord of the Rings is, it manages its landscapes, vast green-leaved or slag-heaped vistas of pathetic fallacy and implied morality, far better than its people; it leaves the impression that important issues have been turned by sleight of hand and Georgian prettiness into questions of good and bad practice in urban planning and rural conservation. After all, the Grail is only worth seeking if you can believe in a god who put it there to help those who help themselves, in an Avalon to which burned-out heroes can retire with dignity. There is another great Matter for fantasy, one of more obvious resonance for the creative artist - the reconciliation of faerie and humanity; of the passion, power and wit of a world of sensuality, magic, and danger with the requirements of kind and ordinary life.

Sitaaron se aage jahaan aur bhee hain Abhi ishq ke imtihaan aur bhee hain Tahi zindagi se naheen ye fizaaein Yahaan saikadon karwaan aur bhee hain Qanaa’at na kar aalam-e rang-o boo per Chaman aur bhi aashiyaan aur bhee hain Agar kho gaya ik nasheman to gham kyaa Maqaamaat-e aah-o fughaan aur bhee hain Tu shaheen hai parwaaz hai kaam tera Tere saamne aasmaan aur bhee hain Isee roz-o shab mein ulajh kar na rah jaa Ke tere zamaan-o makaan aur bhee hain Gaye din ke tanhaa tha mein anjuman mein Yahaan ab mere raazdaan aur bhee hain

My rabies fear started with "To Kill a Mockingbird", the same way my appendicitis fear started with "Madeline", and my brain tumor fear started with "Death Be Not Proud". On an ideal planet, children's books wouldn't be censored for references to sex, but for illness.

Cea mai minunată femeie din lume este cea care te iubeşte cu adevărat şi pe care-o iubeşti cu adevărat. Nimic altceva nu contează. Odată, pe vremea liceului, umblam pe bulevard cu un prieten, doi puşti zăluzi şi frustraţi care dădeau note «gagicilor» şi vorbeau cu atât mai scabros cu cât erau, de fapt, mai inocenţi erotic. Ce fund are una, ce balcoane are alta... Femeile nu erau nimic altceva pentru noi decât nişte obiecte de lux, ca automobilele lustruite din vitrinele magazinelor «Volvo» sau «Maserati»: nu ne imaginam cu adevărat că vom avea şi noi una vreodată. Prin dreptul cinematografului Patria am zărit o tipă trăznitoare. Am rămas înlemniţi: ce pulpe în ciorapi de plasă neagră, ce fund rotund şi ce mijloc subţire, ce ţoale pe ea, ce plete de sârmă roşie, răsucită în mii de feluri... Ne-am învârtit în jurul ei ca s-o vedem şi din faţă: cum putea avea aşa pereche de ţâţe, aşa de perfecte cum numai în albumele de artă — care pe-atunci ne ţineau loc de Penthouse—mai văzuserăm? Pentru cine era o astfel de fiinţă, cum putea fi o noapte de sex cu ea? Până la urmă ne-am aşezat la coadă la bilete, fără s-o scăpăm din ochi şi fără să-ncetăm comentariile. Când, îl auzim pe unul, un tip destul de jegos care stătea şi el la coadă, mâncând seminţe, înaintea noastră: «E bună paraşuta asta, nu? V-ar place şi vouă, ciutanilor... Da' ascultaţi-mă pe mine, c-am fumat destule ca ea: cât o vedeţi de futeşă, să ştiţi că e pe undeva un bărbat sătul de ea până peste cap! Poa'să fie cea mai mişto din lume, poa'să fie şi Brijibardo, că tot i-e drag vreunuia de ea ca mie de nevastă-mea...» Am fost mult mai şocat de remarcile astea decât mi-aş fi imaginat. Cum să te plictiseşti de frumuseţea însăşi, de neatins şi de neconceput? De cea pentru care ţi-ai da şi pielea de pe tine? Ce ar putea dori un bărbat mai mult decât să-şi poată trece braţul în jurul mijlocului ei, să poată privi minute-n şir în ochii ei, să o întindă încetişor pe pat... Să o scoată din învelişul ei de dantelă mătăsoasă... De-aici încolo imaginaţia mea se bloca, nu-mi puteam închipui cum e să faci dragoste. De câte ori mă gândeam cum ar fi, vedeam doar un ocean roz care se răsuceşte asupra ta şi te sufocă... Am cunoscut apoi femei reale, femei imaginare, femei din vis, femei din cărţi, femei din reclame, femei din filme, femei din videoclipuri. Femei din revistele porno. Fiecare altfel şi fiecare cu altceva de oferit. M-am îndrăgostit de câteva şi de fiecare dată a fost la fel: primul semn că aş putea-o iubi a fost mereu că nu m-am putut gândi, văzând-o, «cât de futeşă e». Chiar dacă era. Bărbaţii au creierul impregnat de hormoni. Nici cel mai distins intelectual nu e altfel, până şi el, la orice vârstă, îşi imaginează cum ar face-o cu fata plictisită, necunoscută, de lângă el. Dar când cunoşti cea mai minunată femeie din lume, care e cea pe care o poţi iubi, semnul este, trebuie să fie, că nici pulpele, nici «balcoanele» nu se mai văd, de parcă hormonii sexului şi-ai agresivităţii s-ar retrage din creierul tău tumefiat şi l-ar lăsa inocent ca un creier de copil şi translucid ca o corniţă de melc. Facem sex cu un creier de bărbat, dar iubim cu unul de copil, încrezător, dependent, dornic de a da şi a primi afecţiune. Femeile minunate din viaţa mea, toate cele pe care le-am iubit cu adevărat şi care-au răspuns cu dragoste dragostei mele, au fost într-un fel necorporale, au fost bucurie pură, nevroză pură, experienţă pură. Senzualitatea, uneori dusă până foarte departe, nu a fost decât un ingredient într-o aventură complexă şi epuizantă a minţii. Pentru mine nu există, deci, «cea mai minunată» în sensul de 90-60-90, nici în cel de blondă, brună sau roşcată, înaltă sau minionă, vânzătoare sau poetă. Cea mai minunată este cea cu care am putut avea un copil virtual numit «cuplul nostru», «dragostea noastră».

Moja pierw­sza za­chę­ta: za­proś pi­sa­nie do swo­je­go życia. Spraw, że bę­dzie ci to­wa­zyszy­ło co­dzien­nie. Jeśli w tym mo­men­cie masz ocho­tę za­opo­nować i krzyk­nąć: „Ależ pa­niu­siu, ja nie mam tyle wol­ne­go czasu!”, mam dla cie­bie dość szo­ku­ją­cą od­po­wiedź: „Znajdziesz”. Serio, nie­któ­re z tych po­my­słów wyma­ga­ją od cie­bie po­świę­ce­nia mi­nu­ty dziennie. Jedna minu­ta z 1440, jakie ma doba, to chyba nie jest aż tak wiel­kie wy­rze­cze­nie, że ze­chcesz teraz z roz­pa­czy po­rzu­cić swój cel, bo zbyt wiele od cie­bie wyma­ga?

Not that this new husband is anything special—his name is Tony and he used to be in the auto glass business in New Jersey. But Roz fixed him up and took him shopping for shirts at Bloomingdale’s, and now they’re taking all these classes at the JCC together—Conversational Spanish and Ballroom Dancing and Massage for Lovers and Creative Soap and Candle Making. I don’t particularly want a husband. They’re a lot of work, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone either, and it would be nice to have someone to go to classes with is what I’m saying.

Roz,” he said, and his thumb brushed her bottom lip. She shivered. “When I was up north and felt I would lose my mind among the dead... When I thought I would be the next to die, and on the worst days, when I hoped I would be... I thought of home. I thought of midnights beside the river, and the way the houses in Ombrazia are so close together, it makes the world feel small. I thought of running through the alleys, of sneaking out to the Mercato, of treading water in the summers. Those memories kept me sane. And you know what?” His eyes were endlessly sad. Dark and infinite. “You were in every single one of them. Everything that reminded me of home—everything that reminded me of happiness—centered around you. Every time I looked up at the moon, I remembered when we were nine and I asked what would happen if it fell from the sky. How you laughed yourself silly at me, and said that although space was infinite, the moon never stopped circling earth. How it couldn’t stop even if it wanted to. And even back then, I knew which one of us was the earth.” [...] “I wanted to be your earth,” Damian said, more softly now. “Just once. Just for a moment.

(...) Am încercat să le explic părinților mei ce-i viața, un cadou foarte tare. La început, supraestimăm cadoul asta: credem c-am primit viață veșnică. De aceea îl subestimăm, ni se pare urât, prea scurt, mai c-am fi gata să-l aruncăm. În sfârșit, ne dăm seama că n-am primit un cadou, ci un împrumut.

Which is why, ultimately, we need to flame the place, Roz. And it's also why we should be eating more meat as a species. Each new vegetarian recipe Mankind allows is a recipe for disaster.' 'That sentence would be brilliantly funny, Nick. If it weren't also terrifyingly true.' 'I know, Roz. If only I could allow myself to appreciate the stark humor of it. Yet the reality is, these vegetarian fast-food outlets are the wild west of the modern convenience snack. And we've only just begun to realize the full implications of messing about with supposedly "healthy" ingredients that Mankind can neither taste nor understand.

Codependence means we are depending on something outside of ourselves to provide our sense of wellbeing and are not being true to ourselves and our own feelings. As long as we keep believing that we can make someone else happy or that someone else has the power to make us happy, we are setting ourselves up for frustration, failure, and possibly victimization.

She could live her life alone if need be, but what did it prove? That she was self-sufficient, independent, strong, and able. She knew those things, had been those things—and would always be those things. And she could be courageous, too. Didn’t it take courage, wasn’t it harder to blend one life with another, to share and to cope, to compromise than to live that life alone? It was work to live with a man, to wake up every day prepared to deal with routine, and to be open to surprises. She’d never shied away from work. Marriage was a different kettle at this stage of life. There would be no babies made between them. But they could share grandchildren one day. They wouldn’t grow up together, but could grow old together. They could be happy.

Era o noapte minunată, cum numai în tinereţe pot fi nopţile, iubite cititorule. Bolta înstelată era atât de luminoasă, încât, privind-o, te întrebai fără să vrei: cum e cu putinţă oare, ca sub firmamentul acesta de vrajă să mai existe şi oameni posomorâţi ori cu toane? E foarte tinerească, desigur, şi această întrebare, iubite cititorule, deie Domnul ca ea să-ţi însenineze cât mai des sufletul! Alunecând însă cu gândul la feluriţi oameni îmbufnaţi şi cu toane, mi-am amintit şi de starea mea sufletească în tot cursul acelei zile. Un sentiment ciudat de înstrăinare puse pe nesimţite stăpânire pe mine, chiar din zori. Încercam senzaţia penibilă a omului însingurat care deodată se simte părăsit şi uitat de toţi. Oricine este în drept, fireşte, să mă întrebe: dar cine erau aceşti „toţi"? de vreme ce, în cei opt ani de când locuiesc aici, la Petersburg, n-am reuşit să leg aproape nici o cunoştinţă. Şi ce rost ar avea, la ce mi-ar folosi de fapt asemenea cunoştinţe, când, fără să fi cunoscut pe cineva direct, am ajuns să cunosc aproape tot Petersburgul! De aceea am şi avut impresia că mă pără¬sesc toţi, când oraşul întreg s-a ridicat deodată cu tot calabalâcul, pornind într-un exod grăbit spre localităţile de vilegiatură din împrejurimile capitalei. Îngrozit la gândul că rămân singur, am hoinărit trei zile la rând pe străzi, pradă unei tristeţi cople¬şitoare şi fără a izbuti să-mi dau seama de ceea ce se petrece cu mine. Fie că mergeam pe Bulevardul Nevski, fie că străbăteam parcul sau rătăceam de-a lungul cheiului — nu mai întâlneam acum nici un chip cunoscut, nici unul din oamenii aceia cu care mă obişnuisem a da ochii în cutare loc, la cutare oră, ani de-a rândul. Ei nu mă cunoscuseră, desigur, dar eu îi cunoşteam... Îi cunoşteam de aproape, căci le studiasem atât de bine chipurile, încât am ajuns să le admir când sunt voioase şi mă simt tare abătut când le văd întunecate. Am ajuns chiar să leg un fel de prietenie cu un bătrânel, pe care, nu e zi de la Dumnezeu, să nu-l întâlnesc, la aceeaşi oră, pe Fontanka. Are o înfăţişare atât de gravă şi e atât de cufundat în gânduri! Tot timpul mormăie ceva pe sub nas, gesticulează cu mâna stângă, iar în dreapta ţine un baston lung, noduros, cu măciulia aurită. Chiar şi el m-a observat şi manifestă faţă de mine o simpatie sinceră. Sunt convins că, dacă s-ar întâmpla să nu fiu la ora obişnuită şi pe locul ştiut de pe Fontanka, l-ar cuprinde ipohondria. Iată de ce câteodată aproape că ne şi salutăm, mai ales când amândoi suntem în bună dispoziţie. Mai deunăzi, după ce nu ne văzusem două zile la rând, întâlnindu-ne a treia zi, printr-o pornire spontană, duserăm involuntar mâinile la pălărie; ne oprirăm totuşi la timp, stăpânindu-ne gestul şi trecurăm cu simpatie unul pe lângă celălalt. La fel de bine îmi sunt cunoscute şi casele. Când trec pe stradă, fiecare parcă m-ar întâmpina cu aerul că vrea să-mi iasă în cale, mă priveşte cu toate ferestrele şi doar că nu-mi spune: „Bună ziua! Cum vă mai simţiţi? Cât despre mine, mulţumesc lui Dumnezeu, sunt bine sănătoasă, iar pe la începutul lunii am să mai capăt un etaj"; sau: „Cum o duceţi cu sănătatea? Eu de mâine intru în reparaţie" (...) Sau, n-am să uit niciodată întâmplarea cu o căsuţă foarte drăguţă, de culoare roz-pal. Era o căsuţă de zid, zveltă şi cochetă, şi mă privea cu atâta prietenie, iar la vecinele ei grosolane şi greoaie se uita atât de semeaţă, încât inima-mi tresaltă de bucurie ori de câte ori mi se întâmpla să trec pe lângă ea. Dar săptămâna trecută, având drum pe acea stradă şi aruncându-mi privirea spre prietena mea, o auzii căinându-se amarnic: „Priveşte, mă vopsesc în galben !" Mizerabilii! Nu-i cruţaseră nici coloanele, nici cornişele. Prietena mea se îngălbenise ca un canar. De supărare, simţii în gură gust de fiere şi nici până acum nu mi-am găsit puteri destule ca să mai dau ochi cu sărmana mea prietenă. (...)Aşadar, cititorule cred că înţelegi cam în cel fel cunosc eu tot oraşul Petersburg. youtubecom/watch?v=Fa5EVxyS7QM&

it must seem impossible that our robot could have changed so much. Maybe the RECOs were right. Maybe Roz really was defective, and some glitch in her programming had caused her to accidentally become a wild robot. Or maybe Roz was designed to think and learn and change; she had simply done those things better than anyone could have imagined. However it happened, Roz felt lucky to have lived such an amazing life. And every moment had been recorded in her computer brain. Even her earliest memories were perfectly clear. She could still see the sun shining through the gash in her crate. She could still hear the waves crashing against the shore. She could still smell the salt water and the pine trees. Would she ever see and hear and smell those things again? Would she ever again climb a mountain, or build a lodge, or play with a goose? Not just a goose. A son. Brightbill had been Roz’s son from the moment she picked up his egg. She had saved him from certain death, and then he had saved her. He was the reason Roz had lived so well