Salisbury Quotes

What are the dead, anyway, but waves and energy? Light shining from a dead star? That, by the way, is a phrase of Julian's. I remember it from a lecture of his on the Iliad, when Patroklos appears to Achilles in a dream. There is a very moving passage where Achilles overjoyed at the sight of the apparition – tries to throw his arms around the ghost of his old friend, and it vanishes. The dead appear to us in dreams, said Julian, because that's the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining at us from a dead star… Which reminds me, by the way, of a dream I had a couple of weeks ago. I found myself in a strange deserted city – an old city, like London – underpopulated by war or disease. It was night; the streets were dark, bombed-out, abandoned. For a long time, I wandered aimlessly – past ruined parks, blasted statuary, vacant lots overgrown with weeds and collapsed apartment houses with rusted girders poking out of their sides like ribs. But here and there, interspersed among the desolate shells of the heavy old public buildings, I began to see new buildings, too, which were connected by futuristic walkways lit from beneath. Long, cool perspectives of modern architecture, rising phosphorescent and eerie from the rubble. I went inside one of these new buildings. It was like a laboratory, maybe, or a museum. My footsteps echoed on the tile floors.There was a cluster of men, all smoking pipes, gathered around an exhibit in a glass case that gleamed in the dim light and lit their faces ghoulishly from below. I drew nearer. In the case was a machine revolving slowly on a turntable, a machine with metal parts that slid in and out and collapsed in upon themselves to form new images. An Inca temple… click click click… the Pyramids… the Parthenon. History passing beneath my very eyes, changing every moment. 'I thought I'd find you here,' said a voice at my elbow. It was Henry. His gaze was steady and impassive in the dim light. Above his ear, beneath the wire stem of his spectacles, I could just make out the powder burn and the dark hole in his right temple. I was glad to see him, though not exactly surprised. 'You know,' I said to him, 'everybody is saying that you're dead.' He stared down at the machine. The Colosseum… click click click… the Pantheon. 'I'm not dead,' he said. 'I'm only having a bit of trouble with my passport.' 'What?' He cleared his throat. 'My movements are restricted,' he said. 'I no longer have the ability to travel as freely as I would like.' Hagia Sophia. St. Mark's, in Venice. 'What is this place?' I asked him. 'That information is classified, I'm afraid.' 1 looked around curiously. It seemed that I was the only visitor. 'Is it open to the public?' I said. 'Not generally, no.' I looked at him. There was so much I wanted to ask him, so much I wanted to say; but somehow I knew there wasn't time and even if there was, that it was all, somehow, beside the point. 'Are you happy here?' I said at last. He considered this for a moment. 'Not particularly,' he said. 'But you're not very happy where you are, either.' St. Basil's, in Moscow. Chartres. Salisbury and Amiens. He glanced at his watch. 'I hope you'll excuse me,' he said, 'but I'm late for an appointment.' He turned from me and walked away. I watched his back receding down the long, gleaming hall.

How could there be different Gods, Lief?" "I don't believe there are any at all," he says quietly. "But I believe there are men and women whose lives are made easier by believing someone is watching over them.

I am the perfect weapon, I can kill with a single touch.

If I come to you, I want it to be because I am choosing you, for no reason other than that. I don't want for to ever doubt it.

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

We are like dwarfs sitting on the shoulders of giants. We see more, and things that are more distant, than they did, not because our sight is superior or because we are taller than they, but because they raise us up, and by their great stature add to ours.

Fortune favors the bold." I smile weakly. "So does death," she counters immediately. "The craven tend to live much longer than the heroic.

A person can say a lot without speaking.

That’s the trouble with knowing things: you can’t un-know them. Once you let yourself look at them, or say them aloud, they become real.

Just as the soul animates the body, so, in a way, meaning breathes life into a word.

IF YOU BELIEVE THE DOCTORS,” Salisbury once remarked, “nothing is wholesome; if you believe the theologians, nothing is innocent; if you believe the soldiers, nothing is safe.

Were you disappointed?” She takes a deep breath, looking down at her hands. “My heart was. My head wasn’t. Most days I’m at war with myself. My head wins, usually. And for that I’m glad.

Perhaps I shall not write my account of the Paleolithic at all, but make a film of it. A silent film at that, in which I shall show you first the great slumbering rocks of the Cambrian period, and move from those to the mountains of Wales, from Ordovician to Devonian, on the lush glowing Cotswolds, on to the white cliffs of Dover... An impressionistic, dreaming film, in which the folded rocks arise and flower and grow and become Salisbury Cathedral and York Minster...

There’s no snobbery like that of the poor toward one another.

... but for now it's too great a pleasure to stay in my own cottage, with my own books, and do exactly what I want to do.

That's the problem with fairy tales, they change with the telling.

I am not cunning...I'm good at seeing around obstacles is all.

I've never seen Salisbury steak on a restaurant menu. It's only in frozen dinners. Is there something we should know about that? What IS Salisbury steak anyway? And where do they hunt or harvest the salisburies?

In the stories of old, a hero is the one who sweeps in with a drawn sword and noble face, to kill the Dragon and free the princess. In the stories of old it never seems to dawn on the princess that she should be careful not to put herself at mercy of those who would do her ill in the first place. I don't live in the stories of old.

I’ve learned that being alone and being lonely are not the same thing. Once I was surrounded by people and lonely for it, but now I’m alone and I’ve never been so content.

Then was the monument called "Stonehenge," which stands, as all men know, upon the plain of Salisbury to this very day.

I can see the things he doesn’t say, because they’re written all over him.

Why do I matter to you?” I say, my voice breaking. “You don’t.” “Then why are you doing this?” “Because I can. Because I slept for five hundred years and now I want some sport.

It's difficult to grieve for an idea.

The apothecary, the monk and the living Goddess went to war. We sound like the start of a joke.

It is not until you draw something, whether it is an object, a building or an activity, that you really begin to understand it.

The only sure road to truth is humility.

Er, Nick can see illusions, so he’ll be going into Salisbury. Who—?”  Now there was a question hanging in the car like very awkward air freshener.

he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Jamie had seen Nick at school, at home, and at the Goblin Market, which meant that Jamie knew him better than anyone but Alan.  It only now occurred to Nick that he was fairly sure Jamie was scared of him, and here they were stranded together in Salisbury.  Well, he was helping to save Jamie’s life. Jamie could learn to cope. 

When will I be sure?” “Sure of what?” “Of me. Of who I am. Of what I’m here for. When will I know?” “Never. You never will. No matter what happens. You will always have those moments of doubt and you will always make mistakes.

The library never closed.

But I want you,” he smiles at me. “Not just to make me a king. I’ve always wanted you. Despite it all, you are still the bride I would choose. I do choose you.

He reached for the sugar pot, measured out three heaped spoonfuls, stirring slowly. He was grateful for this small task, this one thing he could do to take away the bitterness.

One who comprehends truth is wise, one who loves it good, one who orders his life in accordance with it happy.

Seeking is a necessary preliminary to finding, and one who cannot endure the hardship of inquiry cannot expect to harvest the fruit of knowledge.

Mysterious boys are not as enjoyable in reality as they are in stories" -Errin

If I have seen a little further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. - From a letter to Robert Hooke dated February 5th, 1676. The metaphor was first recorded in 1159 by John of Salisbury and attributed to Bernard of Chartres: Dicebat Bernardus Carnotensis nos esse quasi nanos, gigantium humeris insidentes, ut possimus plura eis et remotiora videre, non utique proprii visus acumine, aut eminentia corporis, sed quia in altum subvenimur et extollimur magnitudine gigantea.

But at least when she has the beast in her she can see me. She can hear me. When she’s my mother I’m a ghost to her. Like my father, and my brother, except I’m still alive. I’m still here.

The man-dog contract goes back to before the invention of writing, before the invention of the wheel, even before the invention of agriculture. In that sense, living with dogs may be one of the oldest surviving cultural landmarks of our heritage, a surviving fragment of the Stone Age.

If someone had told me six moons ago, before I watched my life slip through my hands like water, that my mother would be cursed, locked away, and drugged by my own hand, I would have laughed in their face. Then I would have kicked them for the insult and laughed again.

Make the most of every single day, your meter's always running.

In every fairy tale there is a kernel of truth, and that is the truth of this one. For him, I am poison. I am his death. And I will deliver.

And that, my girl, is the secret. Quake all you must on the inside. But on the outside you must be stone. And you never know; with enough practice it might become the truth.

Maybe that's the gift Lucy Salisbury gave herself and her child—not to have to grow up with all this shit.

Burn all the food, and people will starve, weaken, and turn on one another. Destroy the temples and their acolytes, and the people will have nowhere to turn, no sanctuary, no charity. No hope.

I’m a king. My father told me a king can rule through fear, or through love. Fifty years from now, the people will love me. They won’t remember this – and those who do will consider it the necessary dark before the dawn. When they have prosperity, and security, and know their place, they will be content and they will love me for it. But until then, I’ll rule through fear if I have to.

I’ve been waiting for you,” he says in his low, ragged voice. All of him is ragged: his patched cloak; his shabby gloves, the fingertips thin and worn; his scuffed boots. His words always seem to catch on my insides, like a goose grass burr, or a torn fingernail dragged across silk. His voice sticks.

This I feared was beyond the strength of any one man: however the groom was a man - Of Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear The weight of mightiest monarchies; and had a back as spacious as Salisbury plain.

THE WARDEN This is the first novel in Trollope’s popular series known as the Chronicles of Barsetshire. The novel (Trollope’s fourth) was first published in 1855 and was reportedly inspired by a walk around Salisbury cathedral.

You’re here,” he says, and his voice is like sunshine, like honey, it’s warm and rich and moreish. “I’m so very glad.” Where Silas’s voice is spikes and edges, every word a warning, this man’s voice is smooth, velvety and beckoning.

All Summer in a Day” by Ray Bradbury Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo Big Nate series by Lincoln Peirce The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Book Thief  by Markus Zusak Brian’s Hunt by Gary Paulsen Brian’s Winter by Gary Paulsen Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis The Call of the Wild by Jack London The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White The Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis Diary of a Wimpy Kid series by Jeff Kinney Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury The Giver by Lois Lowry Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling Hatchet by Gary Paulsen The High King (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien Holes by Louis Sachar The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins I Am LeBron James by Grace Norwich I Am Stephen Curry by Jon Fishman Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell Johnny Tremain by Esther Hoskins Forbes Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson LeBron’s Dream Team: How Five Friends Made History by LeBron James and Buzz Bissinger The Lightning Thief  (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) by Rick Riordan A Long Walk to Water by Linda Sue Park The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle Number the Stars by Lois Lowry The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton The River by Gary Paulsen The Sailor Dog by Margaret Wise Brown Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor “A Sound of Thunder” by Ray Bradbury Star Wars Expanded Universe novels (written by many authors) Star Wars series (written by many authors) The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann D. Wyss Tales from a Not-So-Graceful Ice Princess (Dork Diaries) by Rachel Renée Russell Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt Under the Blood-Red Sun by Graham Salisbury The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

I dream of the man, but it’s fragmented: he’s there, but he isn’t. He’s always one room away, in a place with more rooms than seems possible. I run down endless halls, longing for and dreading him being around the corner. I hear him call out for me and the skin on the back of my neck tightens and prickles. I don’t know if I’m running to him, or from him.

> *where Anne Boleyn had been executed.* > > …*The stones beneath the altar were prised up. Jane Boleyn and Catherine Howard were buried quickly next to the mouldering remains of Lady Salisbury, Thomas More, Jane’s husband, and another queen of England…. The few attendees walked out of the little church into the courtyard, where the scaffold still stood. The body of Catherine Howard was left to a vast silence. In all probability, she had not yet reached her twenty-first birthday.

A Cathedral Façade at Midnight Along the sculptures of the western wall I watched the moonlight creeping: It moved as if it hardly moved at all Inch by inch thinly peeping Round on the pious figures of freestone, brought And poised there when the Universe was wrought To serve its centre, Earth, in mankind’s thought. The lunar look skimmed scantly toe, breast, arm, Then edged on slowly, slightly, To shoulder, hand, face; till each austere form Was blanched its whole length brightly Of prophet, king, queen, cardinal in state, That dead men’s tools had striven to simulate; And the stiff images stood irradiate. A frail moan from the martyred saints there set Mid others of the erection Against the breeze, seemed sighings of regret At the ancient faith’s rejection Under the sure, unhasting, steady stress Of Reason’s movement, making meaningless.

Yōshoku is the Japanese take on Western foods; much of it was created during the Meiji period (1868-1912), when, after centuries of isolation, Japan began importing goods and ideas from the outside world, including food. Yōshoku dishes such as hambaagu (salisbury steak in brown sauce), curry rice, potato croquettes, and "spaghetti naporitan" are now much-loved comfort food. They're also so unlike the dishes that inspired them that they tend to be really hard for Westerners to appreciate.

TWICE THIS POLICY would bring Britain into war with Germany until, by 1945, Britain was too weak to play the role any longer. She would lose her empire because of what Lord Salisbury had said in 1877 was “the commonest error in politics…sticking to the

Tell me of the flower-touched girl hidden at the ends of the earth; of betrayal and vengeance, of blossoming and blame. Tell me of heartbreak and healing, tell me what it means to forgive, to plant a seed, to watch it grow. Tell me what happens next, Muse. Sing.

The librarians sent books to the hospitals. They answered a thousand questions put to them by the military and civil authorities: How could Leningrad make matches? How could flint and steel lighters be manufactured? What materials were needed for candles? Was there any way of making yeast, edible wood, artificial vitamins? How do you make soap? The librarians found recipes for candles in old works of the eighteenth century.

Scarron is the kind of village people are born in and die in. Rarely does anyone leave. Still more rarely does a new face arrive. So unless the girl is in hiding, like Silas was, I should be able to find her easily; she’d be known as the “new one” for the next fifty years if she stayed here.

I sat across from Riley and Ivan sat next to me. Riley glanced at Ivan, who was vigorously cutting up a Salisbury steak: something Riley would never have eaten. Then Oak, Ezra, and Lucas turned up, managing to seem like at least five people. They kept sitting down and jumping up and going to get things and changing seats.

I’m not free, my lady,” he says slowly. “I can no more wander off and do as I will than you can.You think of having choices like people think of flying. They see a hawk soaring and hovering and they tell themselves how nice it would be to fly. But pigeons can fly, and sparrows too. No one imagines being a sparrow though. No one wants that.

the system glorified by John of Salisbury and John Fortescue, was unjust in a thousand all too obvious ways, but it offered those on the lowest rungs one notable freedom: the freedom not to have to take the achievements of quite so many people in society as reference points—and so find themselves severely wanting in status and importance as a result.

In Georgia to suspect was to believe, and the only hand you could really trust was that of your enemy because you knew it held a dagger.

Scarecrow queen. Nothing but a dupe, alone in a field, hoping to keep the crows at bay.

Detective Sergeant Jonathan Searle, a Cambridge-educated art historian who worked at Special Branch, the muscle behind British intelligence on national security and espionage.

The four cruellest words in the English language are "I told you so.

They are blank, without conscience, without soul. I know all about souls. Before I became Daunen Embodied I was the Sin Eater’s daughter.

Other people come and go, but family is for ever.

Then he dies. He just dies. One moment his eye is bright and focused and the next… I see him die; I see the change. Indefinable, but something in him is gone, something permanent.

Enough. I don’t have time for this; self-pity’s a luxury that I can’t afford. Like bread. Or pride. Enough, Errin. There’s work to do. Get up.

You’re not here for a long time, just a good time and Insiders’ Guides show you how

People don't forget what it is to be loved. No matter how young or old you are, or for how long you had it, you always remember what it is to feel loved.

There are a few lonely places in this world, and the wastes of the great Alaskan Interior are the loneliest of them all.

Mysterious boys are not as enjoyable in reality as they are in stories.

Most people have two faces. If you haven’t learned that by now, there’s no hope for you.

Forgive me again.” He lifts the carafe and refreshes his goblet. “What happened to those two children who laughed at dandelion fuzz?” he says softly. “Are they gone forever, do you think?

Her cheeks began to burn. Again. Was this going to be her permanent state? Blushing every time Mr. Salisbury did or said anything, or anyone (such as her grandmother) did or said anything around him? Was she to be in a constant state of acute Salisburyness? The sooner she learned how to do what needed to be done, the better. She did not want to Salisbury her way through life.

The latter part of our Journey from the entrance of Wiltshire into Salisbury was very rough and abounded with Jolts, the Holes we were obliged to go through being very many and some of them Deep; and so it was with much Relief that we left the Coach at Salisbury and hired two Horses for the road across the Avon to the Plain and Stone-henge. When we came to the edge of this sacred Place, we tethered our Horses to the Posts provided and then, with the Sunne direct above us, walked over the short grass which (continually cropt by the flocks of Sheep) seemed to spring us forward to the great Stones. I stood back a little as Sir Chris. walked on, and I considered the Edifice with steadinesse: there was nothing here to break the Angles of Sight and as I gaz'd I opened my Mouth to cry out but my Cry was silent; I was struck by an exstatic Reverie in which all the surface of this Place seemed to me Stone, and the Sky itself Stone, and I became Stone as I joined the Earth which flew on like a Stone through the Firmament. And thus I stood until the Kaw of a Crow rous'd me: and yet even the call of the black Bird was an Occasion for Terrour, since it was not of this Time. I know not how long a Period I had traversed in my Mind, but Sir Chris. was still within my Sight when my Eyes were cleard of Mist. He was walking steadily towards the massie Structure and I rushed violently to catch him, for I greatly wished to enter the Circle before him. I stopped him with a Cry and then ran on: when Crows kaw more than ordinary, said I when I came up to him all out of Breath, we may expect Rain. Pish, he replied. He stopped to tye his Shooe, so then I flew ahead of him and first reached the Circle which was the Place of Sacrifice. And I bowed down.

I’m tired of taking people’s sins on myself. I’m tired of running away from everything. I want to be like Errin. Like Nia. Like Sister Hope. I want to be the girl who fought a golem, the girl who slammed her hands on a table and told a room full of powerful women that I was going to fight, and to hell with them. I survived the court of Lormere. I survived the journey to Scarron. I survived the Sleeping Prince’s raid on the Conclave. I am a survivor.

Harrison Salisbury When Amor Towles was ten years old, he threw a bottle containing a short note he had written into the Atlantic Ocean. A few weeks later he received a letter from the man who found it: Harrison Salisbury, the managing editor of The New York Times. From this childhood incident, a correspondence developed between Salisbury and Towles and they eventually met. In his earlier career, Harrison Salisbury was the real-life chief correspondent for The New York Times in Moscow. The author of an important history of the Russian Revolution, Black Nights, White Snow, his memoirs were the source of some of the detail Towles uses in A Gentleman in Moscow. Salisbury’s cameo appearance in the novel, along with the mention of his fedora and trench coat (stolen by the Count as a disguise) pay tribute to Salisbury’s literary legacy on early twentieth century Russia as well as the author’s serendipitous connection with him.

Once upon a time there was a young apprentice apothecary who lived on a red-brick farm with a golden thatch roof, surrounded by green fields. She had a father who called her a “clever girl” and gave her a herb garden all of her own, and a mother who was whole and kind. She had a brother who knew how to smile and laugh. But then one day her father had an accident and, despite her efforts to save him, he died. And so did all of her hopes and dreams. The farm – the family’s home for generations – was sold. Her mother’s brown hair greyed, her spirit dulled as she drifted towards Almwyk like a wraith, uncomplaining, unfeeling. And her brother, once impulsive and joyful, became cold and hard, his eyes turned east with malice.

I was robbed, Errin.” He strokes my face with his thumb before turning it back to him. “Of my life. Of my inheritance. Snuffed out at barely twenty-two years old. I have spent five hundred years asleep. I woke to nothing. The legacy my family spent generations building is ash, scattered to the wind. I was promised a kingdom,” he snarls. “I was promised the greatest kingdom the world had ever known. And I will have one. If it means cobbling one together from the ruins of Lormere and Tregellan.

I set off again, maintaining for some reason – perhaps because I expected further farm creatures to wander across my path – my slow speed of before. I must say, something about this small encounter had put me in very good spirits; the simple kindness I had been thanked for, and the simple kindness I had been offered in return, caused me somehow to feel exceedingly uplifted about the whole enterprise facing me over these coming days. It was in such a mood, then, that I proceeded here to Salisbury.

I think the worst thing is the way you lose part of yourself.” I roll on to my back and stare up at the dark, speckled roof. “There’s so much that only Lief knew about me. So many memories that we shared – mostly of things we shouldn’t have been doing – but now I’m the last one who remembers them. Times we woke in the night and stole honeycomb from the jars in the kitchen. Times we used to jump into the hay on the farm. No one will ever know me like that again. And what if I forget things? What happens then?

I've read all of the old stories now – "Red Blood and Dirty Gold", "The Winter Witch", "The Scarlet Varulv" – and I want more. Though I want fantasy – made-up, impossible things – I don't want stories that step out of the pages and into the world around me.

With his Policraticus (1159), John of Salisbury had become the most famous Christian writer to compare society to a human body and to use that analogy to justify a system of natural inequality. In Salisbury’s formulation, every element in the state had an anatomical counterpart: the ruler was the head, the parliament was the heart, the court was the sides, officials and judges were the eyes, ears and tongue, the treasury was the belly and intestines, the army was the hands and the peasantry and labouring classes were the feet.

the next day, Salisbury set out his views on Russia in typically robust language. He dismissed the talk of a Russian advance on Kandahar, which, even if it did take place, ‘will only incur a hot version of the retreat from Moscow’. As so often, Salisbury suspected that his man in St Petersburg had gone native, proposing an Anglo-Russian settlement across the board. ‘You can have an entente with a man or government but no one except Canute’s ever tried to have it with a tide‚’ he wrote, arguing that the same military–religious impulses ‘which moved the hosts of Mahomet and those which moved the hosts of Attila’ were now operating on Russia,

No lesson seems to be so deeply inculcated by the experience of life as that you never should trust experts. If you believe the doctors, nothing is wholesome: if you believe the theologians, nothing is innocent: if you believe the soldiers, nothing is safe. They all require to have their strong wine diluted by a very large admixture of insipid common sense.

Lord Salisbury’s basic educational philosophy was that higher authority could, at best, have only a marginal effect; real desire to learn had to come from within. “N. has been very hard put to it for something to do,” he wrote of a son who had been left alone with him for a few days at Hatfield. “Having tried all the weapons in the gun-cupboard in succession—some in the riding room and some, he tells me, in his own room—and having failed to blow his fingers off, he has been driven to reading Sydney Smith’s Essays and studying Hogarth’s pictures.” Lady Salisbury did not share her husband’s detached approach. “He may be able to govern the country,” she said, “but he is quite unfit to be left in charge of his children.

By the end of the twentieth century Interpol was ranking art crime as one of the world’s most profitable criminal activities, second only to drug smuggling and weapons dealing. The three activities were related: Drug pushers were moving stolen and smuggled art down the same pipelines they used for narcotics, and terrorists were using looted antiquities to fund their activities. This latter trend began in 1974, when the IRA stole $32 million worth of paintings by Rubens, Goya, and Vermeer. In 2001, the Taliban looted the Kabul museum and “washed” the stolen works in Switzerland. Stolen art was much more easily transportable than drugs or arms. A customs canine, after all, could hardly be expected to tell the difference between a crap Kandinksy and a credible one.

Only the History of William Marshal described this encounter in close terms, though the broad details of its account were confirmed in other contemporary sources. One thing seems certain. This was to be no fair fight. So intent had Richard been upon hunting down his father, that he had begun his chase wearing only a doublet and light helm. This added speed to his pursuit, but left him dreadfully exposed to attack. Worse still, the Lionheart was armed with only a sword. Marshal, by contrast, had a shield and lance. The biographer described how: [William] spurred straight on to meet the advancing [Duke] Richard. When the [duke] saw him coming he shouted at the top of his voice: ‘God’s legs, Marshal! Don’t kill me. That would be a wicked thing to do, since you find me here completely unarmed.’ In that instant, Marshal could have slain Richard, skewering his body with the same lethal force that dispatched Patrick of Salisbury in 1168. Had there been more than a split second to ponder the choice, William might perhaps have reacted differently. As it was, instinct took over. Marshal simply could not bring himself to kill an un-armoured opponent, let alone the heir-apparent to the Angevin realm, King Henry II’s eldest surviving son. Instead, he was said to have shouted in reply: ‘Indeed I won’t. Let the Devil kill you! I shall not be the one to do it’, and at the last moment, lowering his lance fractionally, he drove it into Richard’s mount. With that ‘the horse died instantly; it never took another step forward’ and, as it fell, the Lionheart was thrown to the ground and his pursuit of the king brought to an end.

When Camilla and her husband joined Prince Charles on a holiday in Turkey shortly before his polo accident, she didn’t complain just as she bore, through gritted teeth, Camilla’s regular invitations to Balmoral and Sandringham. When Charles flew to Italy last year on a sketching holiday, Diana’s friends noted that Camilla was staying at another villa a short drive away. On her return Mrs Parker-Bowles made it quite clear that any suggestion of impropriety was absurd. Her protestations of innocence brought a tight smile from the Princess. That changed to scarcely controlled anger during their summer holiday on board a Greek tycoon’s yacht. She quietly simmered as she heard her husband holding forth to dinner-party guests about the virtues of mistresses. Her mood was scarcely helped when, later that evening, she heard him chatting on the telephone to Camilla. They meet socially on occasion but, there is no love lost between these two women locked into an eternal triangle of rivalry. Diana calls her rival “the rotweiller” while Camilla refers to the Princess as that “ridiculous creature”. At social engagements they are at pains to avoid each other. Diana has developed a technique in public of locating Camilla as quickly as possible and then, depending on her mood, she watches Charles when he looks in her direction or simply evades her gaze. “It is a morbid game,” says a friend. Days before the Salisbury Cathedral spire appeal concert Diana knew that Camilla was going. She vented her frustration in conversations with friends so that on the day of the event the Princess was able to watch the eye contact between her husband and Camilla with quiet amusement. Last December all those years of pent-up emotion came flooding out at a memorial service for Leonora Knatchbull, the six-year-old daughter of Lord and Lady Romsey, who tragically died of cancer. As Diana left the service, held at St James’s Palace, she was photographed in tears. She was weeping in sorrow but also in anger. Diana was upset that Camilla Parker Bowles who had only known the Romseys for a short time was also present at such an intimate family service. It was a point she made vigorously to her husband as they travelled back to Kensington Palace in their chauffeur-driven limousine. When they arrived at Kensington Palace the Princess felt so distressed that she ignored the staff Christmas party, which was then in full swing, and went to her sitting-room to recover her composure. Diplomatically, Peter Westmacott, the Wales’s deputy private secretary, sent her avuncular detective Ken Wharfe to help calm her.

I'm not scared. I'm..." She paused. "I've been locked up in this... this dungeon of a palace my whole life. As of tomorrow, that's all I'll ever have. This palace. This life. At seventeen, that's it. My future decided." "Sorrow, I know-" "No, you don't know." Sorrow threw her arms wide, as though gesturing to all of Rhannon. "I've only ever known Rhannon as it is. This is Rhannon, for me. No one in their right mind would want me in charge of it.

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:40 He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age,44 Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say, ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,49 But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words,52 Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. This story shall the good man teach his son;56 And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;60

By 1925, most Native Alaskans had made their pact with the modern age. They still hunted, fished, and traded on occasion, but their bread and butter was in hauling supplies and carting the U.S. mail along the trails. These were skills handed down to them by their parents and their grandparents. If the serum could rescue Nome from the ravages of an ancient plague, then its safe arrival by dogsled would be a testament to the hard-learned survival skills and spirit of the Athabaskans and Eskimos.

He never comments or judges, instead listening and absorbing and never telling me anything personal in return. But I’ve discovered that you can learn a lot without words. And what I’ve learned is hard won, because – though he’s the closest thing I have to a friend here, and as far as I know, I’m his – I have no idea what he looks like beneath his hood. It sounds impossible. It ought to be; how can you call someone a friend, know them for so long and not know what they look like? Yet I don’t. I don’t know what colour his eyes are, or his hair. I know his mouth, and the point of his chin, and his neat teeth. Once I even saw the end of his nose when he tipped his head back to laugh. But that’s all. From our first meeting, to today, he has always, always been hooded, gloved and cloaked, and he’s never removed them, never even pushed them aside, whether we’re indoors or out. When I asked him why, he told me it was safer like that. For us both. And to not ask again. Mysterious boys are not as enjoyable in reality as they are in stories.

Nature has many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finity,” London wrote in his short story “The White Silence,” but “…The most tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the White Silence. All movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted at the sound of his own voice. Sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is a maggot’s life, nothing more.

I would have sooner believed in fairy tales coming true. Of course, we all believe in fairy tales now. The Scarlet Varulv has slunk out of the pages and lives with me in this cottage. The Sleeping Prince has woken and sacked Lormere, an army of alchemy-made golems behind him as he murders his way across the country. Stories are no longer stories; characters run rampant through the world these days. All I’m waiting for is Mully-No-Hands to knock on the window, begging to come in and warm himself, and my life will be complete. Actually, no, that’s not what I’m waiting for.

Sometimes he has me climb into his lap and sit there while he strokes my hair and tells me about the old days in Tallith. The seven towers of Tallith castle and the walkways between them, his life with his sister and his father. That sometimes he sounds so wistful and lonely that I forget for an instant that he’s a monster, lulled by his soft voice and his hands in my hair. Until he turns my face to his and I see him, and I recall exactly what he is, and the look in my eyes reminds him that he might control my body, but he can’t control my mind. Then he throws me to the ground and leaves me there for hours, unable to move until he wills it.

No record exists of Bear’s fate. He may have survived, but in all likelihood he never ran again—a horrible fate for an animal that lived and breathed solely to run with its pack down a moonlit trail. Some dogs just won’t accept being left out of the team and will howl and moan as the team leaves the yard. Sometimes they will sink into depression and die. Even those who accept their fate to sit by and watch the team leave always keep alive the instinct to one day run again. “If ever their master comes to them with harness in hand,” a modern-day musher wrote, “they will struggle on arthritic legs to ready themselves for the trail. There may be pain in their backs, but there is always hope in their eyes.

John of Salisbury, an Englishman who had studied in numerous places, including Paris, placed logic central to understanding: ‘It was the mind which, by means of the ratio [reason], went beyond the experience of the senses and made it intelligible, then, by means of the intellectus, related things to their divine cause and comprehended the order of creation, and ultimately arrived at true knowledge, sapentia.’15 For us today, logic is an arid, desiccated word and has lost much of its interest.

Baby Harper and I were having dinner together, as we had done every Saturday night for close to a year by then. We went into Shelby and sat in our usual booth at Bridges Barbecue Lodge. We each ordered a pulled pork sandwich, a side of coleslaw, fries with an extra order of barbecue sauce for dipping, peach cobbler (only available on Saturdays), and a bottle of Cheerwine, a cherry-flavored cola, bottled in nearby Salisbury, which my great-uncle said brought out the "fruit" in Bridges's sauce. Bridges Barbecue Lodge had two things going for it, which was more than I could say for the other dining options in town, Pizza Inn, Waffle House, Arby's, Roy Rogers, and Hardee's. In the mid-eighties the greater Boiling Springs-Shelby area attracted only the B-list fast-food chains. Bridges was in a league of its own. The first thing that made Bridges special was that, even by the standards of North Carolina barbecue, Bridges's sauce was extraordinarily vinegary, which meant it was extraordinarily good.

They’ll forgive my doubts because I’m mortal and I must be tested, but they’d never forgive my walking away.

I always thought getting used to something automatically meant you'd accepted it, but that isn't true. Acceptance is a choice; you have to do the work to achieve it and make peace with the outcome, even if - especially if - it's not what you want. But getting used to things doesn't require any work, all you need to do is stop fighting.

my mother would probably buy my sister

Jackson-Salisbury Diagram for Maladjusted and Unhappy Living Lack of adaptation to social environment caused by Lack of harmony within the personality caused by Inappropriate emotions caused by Wrong ideas or ignorance Working backward, the cure naturally would be: Right ideas resulting in Appropriate emotions resulting in Harmony within the personality resulting in Readjustment to the social environment Health and wholeness begin in the head, with healthy ideas, energizing attitudes, a vision of vitality. When perceptions get twisted, one's emotional life also gets twisted, and these discordant emotions cause disharmony in the total personality.

Perhaps that’s what I’ll do with your skull, once all your flesh has finally decayed away. Pearls in your eye sockets. Rubies spilling from your mouth.

The devil wants you focusing on hurts and disappointments so you don’t remember who you are, why you’re here, and what you’re called to do. He’s the king of distractions

Are you just going to let me have everything I ask for?” I say. “Yes.” He nods. “I don’t want to give you even the slightest reason to leave.

I’d thought it would just be a kiss, like a hundred kisses before. I thought I knew what to do, how it would go. I didn’t know anything at all.

The queen lets it be known that anyone who listens to such slander need never come again to court; she tells her friends that no one should even speak to the Earl of Salisbury or to his spiteful son, the Earl of Warwick.

Los perros de raza alemana no entienden por qué la gente los maltrata. En Francia, al agua de Colonia le cambian el nombre y la llaman agua de Provenza. En Estados Unidos, en cuanto entren en guerra, se propondrá que las hamburgers («hamburguesas») se llamen Salisbury steak («filete de Salisbury») para olvidar su origen, la ciudad alemana de Hamburgo.

Key Waste LLC is a locally-owned waste management company based in Salisbury, NC, offering affordable dumpster rentals and professional junk hauling services. With excellent customer service and transparent pricing, we make debris removal easy so you can focus on your project, not the trash.

His mouth was cold, he tasted like ice, or salt, or diamonds—something clear and sharp and glittering, something that would quench or call a thirst, or buy an army, start a war.

I heard someone once say it this way: forgiveness is the decision you make once, forgetting is the decision you make daily.

If the wind blew just a little harder up from the wide slope below me, I would walk up on its wings and leave this incomprehensible bastard of a world behind me.

Jestem pewny, że w Albert Hall, w czasie mowy lorda Salisbury'ego, nie było dziewięcioletniego Adolfa Hitlera. Nie musiał tam być. Wszystko to wiedział. Powietrze, którym on i ludzie żyjący w latach jego dzieciństwa na Zachodzie oddychali, było nasycone przeświadczeniem, że imperializm jest biologicznie koniecznym procesem który zgodnie z prawami natury prowadzi do nieuniknionej zagłady ras niższych. To przekonanie kosztowało miliony istnień ludzkich, zanim Hitler wniósł w ten proces swój bardzo osobisty wkład.

We’re to be married. Does it matter if I permit it?” “To me it does, yes,” says Merek. “And I imagine you, like me, appreciate the illusion of having a choice, even when illusion is all it is.

What are you dreams, Twylla?” “I – I have none. I have all I want.” “I don’t believe that. You must have some dreams – everyone does.” “I want…I want to be happy,” I say, realizing at once that it’s a stupid thing to say. But to my surprise he’s nodding, a smile tugging at his lips. “I want to be happy too.

In its first ten months of operation, the Eighth lost 188 heavy bombers and some 1,900 crewmen; those numbers would skyrocket over the next year and a half. By the end of the conflict, the U.S. air operations in Europe would suffer more fatalities—26,000—than the entire Marine Corps in its protracted bloody campaigns in the Pacific. “To fly in the Eighth Air Force in those days,” recalled Harrison Salisbury, “was to hold a ticket to a funeral. Your own.” The savagery of the air war was not due solely to the ferocity of German defenses. Early in the war, when the Air Force brass in Washington were touting the advantages of high-altitude flying, they failed to realize that the extreme atmospheric conditions experienced by the crews could kill as effectively as a Messerschmitt or Focke-Wulf. “There are apparently little things that one doesn’t think about prior to getting into operations,” commented Dr. Malcolm Grow, the Eighth’s chief medical officer. Little things like oxygen deprivation, which could cause unconsciousness and death in a matter of minutes, or extensive frostbite, caused by several hours of exposure to temperatures of 50 to 60 degrees below zero. Until early 1944, more airmen were hospitalized for frostbite than for combat injuries. As

plain

Does it not get any easier?’ Coupland ventured, guessing the answer. ‘During the day I’ll be doing something completely inconsequential and I’ll be reminded of her…only now I find myself forgetting how she looked or how her voice sounded, as though my mind is somehow relegating her to the past before I’m ready…and I feel guilty and frightened that one day I’ll forget her altogether. I mean…I know I should let her go, that she isn’t in this world anymore, but she’s in my world, and that should count for something, right?’ Coupland

Already a connoisseur of boredom, Tony extended his acquaintance with Salisbury's furnished lodgings and the cheap residential hotels of Andover.

In Salisbury's formulation, every element in the state had an anatomical counterpart: the ruler was the head, the parliament was the heart, the court was the sides, officials and judges were the eyes, the army was the hands and the peasantry and labouring classes were the feet.

Paris became the center for twelfth-century philosophy because of the decision to allow any qualified master to set up a school there, on payment of a fee to the cathedral authorities.4 By the 1130s, as John of Salisbury’s account of his education there shows (Metalogicon II.10), the student could choose among a great variety of masters – rather than being constrained to a single one, however illustrious – and the work of each teacher was stimulated by contact and competition with the others. Outstanding thinkers of the 1130s and 40s, such as Peter Abaelard, Alberic of Paris, and Gilbert of Poitiers explicitly or implicitly adapt and criticize the others’ logical and metaphysical ideas.

Less than a day has passed since I stood in this room and vowed to fight the Sleeping Prince. How sure of myself I was then, with Errin and Silas beside me; how righteous my anger was. It seemed so possible then, so simple. Silas would train the alchemists and their kin to fight and we’d all march on Lormere and defeat the Sleeping Prince. I thought we’d be like an avenging army in a story. I imagined people rallying to our cry, and that the fact we were on the side of good would assure our victory. And then Aurek came, with my lover at his side, and proved that I am not only still a coward, but still a naïve, stupid fool too. And I’m supposed to save us from the Sleeping Prince.

I was willing to make us into a proper family; I was willing to put the time into it. I’ve sent your brother to fetch your mother, despite needing him elsewhere, in a bid to make you happy. But I don’t have time to play with you any more. Your friends are not the only ones who understand you’re replaceable. You’re alive only because I permit it, and I am fast running out of patience with you. So tomorrow evening, you will present yourself in the Great Hall an hour after sunset. You will wear something very pretty, and your best smile. And we will dine together, companionably.You will not try to stab me. You will not spit at me, or slap me. You will behave with decorum. In short, sweetling, you will make yourself special to me, or I will remove you from my game board. I need your brother, and I need the philtresmith. But I don’t need you. Bear that in mind.

Death always seemed so easy, I would read stories full of brave warriors and assassins and how they would deliver speedy deaths, and then walk away. They’d go to the taverns and drink with their friends, or go home to their lovers. They never said anything about how they felt afterwards. They took a life, and that was that. So easy. So . . . normal. And yet I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how it felt to kill that man. It’s one thing to cause a death, but another to deliver it. With hardly any pressure, or thought, I managed it. And I felt every inch of the knife sliding into him. I think I always will. They don’t tell you that part.

fibre

they didn’t operate quickly Peritonitis would set in. Coupland attempted to speak to the man’s distraught wife, Melanie, but a brief

England acted to maintain the “Pax Britannica” in British colonies, and global stability in British areas of influence. Under the leadership of Conservative leaders such as Benjamin Disraeli and Lord Salisbury, the British Empire adopted a foreign policy known as the “Splendid Isolation.” This policy sought to maintain the global balance of power while limiting the need for any sort of British intervention in other powers’ internal affairs along with any alliance that would demand a British intervention.

It was August 23. It was Sunday. And so, it was Salisbury Steak Day.

had happened and to assure the man his niece was unhurt. As Salisbury imagined Cromwell’s reaction, he growled softly, shaking his head like a series of twitches, each one a bitter child of the shame spilling through him. He could feel the eyes of his wife and son on his back as he led the battered soldiers

I loathe safe sex. Safe sex is to erotic communion what the Salisbury steak in a restaurant on the New Jersey Turnpike is to food. I do it because it's what there is, but I don't want to think about it any more that I have to.

There was Arctic John, a businessman from Salisbury who doesn’t hold water, Bruce Knott, a social worker from Cumberland who spends his lunch hour picking his bum, and Judith Glycerine, the reformation pig.

Esta idea imperialista partía de una actitud filosófica que propugnaba el destino de las naciones más poderosas a regir todos aquellos territorios cuyas metrópolis hubiesen entrado en decadencia. Se exaltaba la fuerza y la desigualdad entre las naciones. Las ideas apuntadas fueron expresadas en el «Dying nations speech», pronunciado por lord Salisbury en 1898. Esa supuesta superioridad se concebía en manos de las naciones anglosajonas y en detrimento de las naciones latinas, aquellas naciones que no vivieron con plenitud la Reforma en el siglo XVI, el racionalismo en el XVII, el empirismo en el XVIII y la revolución industrial en el XIX22.

Esta idea imperialista partía de una actitud filosófica que propugnaba el destino de las naciones más poderosas a regir todos aquellos territorios cuyas metrópolis hubiesen entrado en decadencia. Se exaltaba la fuerza y la desigualdad entre las naciones. Las ideas apuntadas fueron expresadas en el «Dying nations speech», pronunciado por lord Salisbury en 1898. Esa supuesta superioridad se concebía en manos de las naciones anglosajonas y en detrimento de las naciones latinas, aquellas naciones que no vivieron con plenitud la Reforma en el siglo XVI, el racionalismo en el XVII, el empirismo en el XVIII y la revolución industrial en el XIX22. Salisbury afirmaba: «Las naciones vivas se irán apropiando gradualmente de los territorios de las moribundas, y surgirán rápidamente las semillas y las causas de conflicto entre las naciones civilizadas...»

Anxious to defend his adopted city—especially his side of town, the less fashionable west end—Eli considered giving Veronica a condensed lecture on the history of Asheville, North Carolina. 1880: the Western North Carolina Railroad completed a line from Salisbury to Asheville, which later enabled George Washington Vanderbilt to construct the Biltmore Estate, the largest private residence in America. Over time, that 179,000 square foot house transitioned into a multi- million dollar company. Which lured in tourists. Who created thousands of jobs. Which caused the sprawl flashing by Eli’s window at fifty-five miles per hour. But Eli refrained from being the Local Know-It-All, remembering all the times he’d traveled to new cities and some cabbie wanted to play docent, wanted to tell him about the real Cleveland or the hidden Miami. Instead, he let the air conditioner chase away the remnants of his jet lag and thought about Almario “Go Go” Gato. He waited for Veronica to say something about the Blue Ridge Mountains, which stood alongside the highway, hovering over the valley below like stoic parents waiting for their kids to clean up their messy bedrooms. Eli gave her points for her silence. And for ditching the phone, even if she kept glancing anxiously toward the glove compartment every time it buzzed. The car rode smooth, hardly a bump. For a resident of Los Angeles, she drove cautiously, obeying all traffic laws. Eli had a perfect driving record. Well, almost perfect. There was that time he drove the Durham Bulls’ chartered Greyhound into the right field fence during the seventh inning stretch. But that was history. Almost ancient.

computer). This is where they polish their final images,

The other big kicker is that Disneyland tickets are usually cheaper than Disney World tickets, so if a guest doesn’t realize that one ticket can’t be used interchangeably at both parks, OF COURSE they’ll buy the cheaper one. I’d buy the cheaper one, too, if I thought it could work in both Orlando and Anaheim.

As Christopher explained it to us one day, “You can put ‘According to Disney legend in front of anything, and the guest can’t argue with you about that! Because who’s to say you’re wrong, when you’re describing something according to legend?

And for a while, the Disney Reservation Center sat up there, so when you used to call the 407-WDW number, you were actually talking to someone sitting inside Cinderella Castle.

The Utilidor is not technically underground. It was built first, and then the dirt from the Seven Seas Lagoon was brought in to fill around its walls, so I can clearly see why many assume that it’s underground when you look at construction pictures of the Magic Kingdom. But it’s not, and I can’t stress that enough. The Utilidor is the first floor of Magic Kingdom, and everything else was built on top of it.

If you haven’t picked up on this yet, Disney loves training. Disney will sometimes find any excuse to train a bunch of cast members, whether they’ve been on the payroll for years or have just been hired.

World societies are defining uncontrollable physical actions as deviant behavior, and obstructing, imprisoning, or confining to mental hospitals those who cannot suppress these actions.

Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism, it is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out. -Vaclar Havel, Disturbing the Peace.

Every party cries out for Liberty & toleration till they get to be uppermost, and then will allow none.

Columbus on his fourth and last voyage, in 1502, left the Southern coast of Cuba, and sailing in a South-westerly direction reached Guanaja, an island now called Bonacca, one of a group thirty miles distant from Honduras, and the shores of the western continent. From this island he sailed southward as far as Panama, and thence returned to Cuba on his way to Spain, after passing six months on the Northern coasts of Panama. In 1506 two of Columbus’ companions, De Solis and Pinzon, were again in the Gulf of Honduras, and examined the coast westward as far as the Gulf of Dulce, still looking for a passage to the Indian Ocean. Hence they sailed northward, and discovered a great part of Yucatan, though that country was not then explored, nor was any landing made. The first actual exploration was made by Francisco Hernandez de Cordova in 1517, who landed on the Island Las Mugeres. Here he found stone towers, and chapels thatched with straw, in which were arranged in order several idols resembling women—whence the name which the Island received. The Spaniards were astonished to see, for the first time in the new world, stone edifices of architectural beauty, and also to perceive the dress of the natives, who wore shirts and cloaks of white and colored cotton, with head-dresses of

Tex Rickard started his career staging boxing matches for Nome’s miners, then moved on to New York and built Madison Square Garden, becoming one

An attorney named Albert Fink, who years later would defend Al Capone, would tip his hat whenever he passed a husky he particularly respected, and

Silas’s mother walks to us, standing by her son. “We haven’t been formally introduced,” she says, looking down at Dimia and me. “I am Sister Hope, of the Sisters of Næht. We’re joined tonight by Sister Wisdom, Sister Peace, Sister Honour and Sister Courage.” Each ones nods in turn, though there’s nothing in their manner that would be recognized as friendly. Sister Peace even goes so far as curling her lip at us.

We’re not Lormerians, with their temples and their living goddesses, and their creepy royal family. We’re people of science, and reason.

What now?” he asks the rat catcher’s daughter.“What is your command?” She frowns, then takes the writing stick and paper from him. She writes quickly, and then thrusts the paper towards him. Kiss me, it says. He pulls her into his arms and thinks, Finally. He does not need any further commands from her.

High in the Tower of Love, the last remaining tower of Tallith, he rests on a bier, not living, not dead. He doesn’t age, or change, needs no sustenance. He sleeps. He waits

My mother is a fat woman, made large from gobbling the sins of the dead, the meal prepared and served to her as if she were a queen for the day. For an Eating the mourners cover the surface of the coffin with breads and meats and ale and more, each morsel representing a sin known, or suspected, to have been committed by the deceased. She Eats it all; she has to – it’s the only way to cleanse the soul so it can ascend to the Eternal Kingdom. To not finish the meal is to condemn the soul to walk the world for ever. We’ve all heard the tales of the wraiths that haunt the West Woods because people less dedicated than my mother could not finish the Eating.

No Gods in Tregellan. No Gods in Tallith. Doesn’t that tell you anything? It’s about power and control, to keep you all in line. People like the queen tell us if we don’t do as the Gods want – as she wants – then our souls are damned. Think of the amount of murder she’s committed and tell me whose soul is more likely to be damned, hers or yours?

Nor was this the last time the two riders were seen. Travelers on the road between Salisbury and Charlotte often saw the riders. Sometimes they were traveling away from their destination. One stagecoach driver said he had “given them directions so many times that he was beginning to resent the delays every time he met them.” Particularly wherever the road forked, the forms of the two couriers were often seen huddled together looking at their map to decide which fork to take. And anyone who chanced by was always hailed and asked the way to Charlottesburg. “We must be there by morning,” one of the men would invariably say. Drivers of the stagecoaches found that their horses became fidgety and nervous when approaching the riders, as if they sensed the two shadowy figures no longer belonged to the natural world. —The King’s Messengers

So, as time went on and the war was finally won and the last British soldiers departed for their homeland, the king’s messengers became couriers without an army. On rainy nights the eerie pair still roamed, galloping along forever with a message never to be delivered, the writer of the message long since dead and buried in the red earth of King’s Mountain. Settlements grew into towns, then cities, and the two riders became wary of the main roads, taking to the country lanes in their endless search for the way to Charlottesburg. Some say you can still see them. A cold, rainy night in early October is the best time to look for the King’s Messengers. For then they were most apt to suddenly appear galloping over the hill on some lonely dirt road between King’s Mountain and Salisbury, two specters hurtling through the night on their phantom steeds, pausing sporadically to inquire the way to Charlottesburg. And, if by chance they should ask you, it doesn’t really matter in which direction you point for even with the best of directions an invisible power thwarts and diverts the restless apparitions at every turn. —The King’s Messengers

Europe is the land of great cathedrals. Chartres and Notre Dame in France are world-class by any conceivable measure. Salisbury Cathedral in England is in a class by itself, despite its remote location. St. Peters in Rome is a mecca, and to a lesser extent Rheims in Germany. My amateur eye would unhesitatingly add to that hallowed list, Burgos Cathedral here in northern Spain. It is widely considered one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in Europe. Inspired by the French cathedralism of the Middle Ages, it doesn’t look Spanish in the least.

Ihr stellt Euch ein Leben, in dem man seine eigenen Entscheidungen treffen kann, vor, wie sich andere vorstellen, fliegen zu können. Sie sehen, wie ein Falke über ihnen kreist, und dann sagen sie zu sich selbst, wie schön es wäre, auch so fliegen zu können. Aber Tauben fliegen auch und Spatzen ebenfalls. Niemand wünscht sich je ein Spatz zu sein.

Ray Honeyford was an upright, conscientious teacher, who believed it to be his duty to prepare children for responsible life in society, and who was confronted with the question of how to do this, when the children are the offspring of Muslim peasants from Pakistan, and the society is that of England. Honeyford’s article honestly conveyed the problem, together with his proposed solution, which was to integrate the children into the surrounding secular culture, while protecting them from the punishments administered in their pre-school classes in the local madrasah, meanwhile opposing their parents’ plans to take them away whenever it suited them to Pakistan. He saw no sense in the doctrine of multiculturalism, and believed that the future of our country depends upon our ability to integrate its recently arrived minorities, through a shared curriculum in the schools and a secular rule of law that could protect women and girls from the kind of abuse to which he was a distressed witness. Everything Ray Honeyford said is now the official doctrine of our major political parties: too late, of course, to achieve the results that he hoped for, but nevertheless not too late to point out that those who persecuted him and who surrounded his school with their inane chants of ‘Ray-cist’ have never suffered, as he suffered, for their part in the conflict. Notwithstanding his frequently exasperated tone, Ray Honeyford was a profoundly gentle man, who was prepared to pay the price of truthfulness at a time of lies. But he was sacked from his job, and the teaching profession lost one of its most humane and public-spirited representatives. This was one example of a prolonged Stalinist purge by the educational establishment, designed to remove all signs of patriotism from our schools and to erase the memory of England from the cultural record. Henceforth the Salisbury Review was branded as a ‘racist’ publication, and my own academic career thrown into doubt.

Scoffs a man with the Queen of Faerie at his book and a magician close enough to spit in his eye?

See to your Romish conspirators. You may find them more challenging to catch than anticipated.” “And your royal selves?” She smiled, sunlight through the first pale leaves of spring. “We shall see to Richard Baines.

His two short steps framed him before the fire, and he lifted his head and crossed his arms once more, keeping a disinterested glare fixed on Salisbury.

The spire of Salisbury Cathedral. It is above twenty miles from here. I would not have believed it.

Charlie obviously liked her jewellery; both wrists displayed a collection of silver bangles that jingled as she walked, making her sound like a human wind chime.

Dr. Armstrong was driving his Morris across Salisbury Plain. He was very tired … Success had its penalties.

Dogsledding had evolved in the Arctic over thousands of years as an integral part of an aboriginal culture well suited to the harshest climate and living conditions on earth. Isolated and unknown to the rest of the world, both the Athasbaskan Indians of the Interior and the Eskimos along the coast learned to survive by utilizing all of the limited resources at their disposal. The land, sea, and ice provided their food, clothing, tools, and shelter. Making much out of virtually nothing, their remarkable innovations in this most unforgiving environment rank as one of the high water marks of human achievement and ingenuity.

I am proud of my racing trophies,” Seppala once said, “but I would trade them all for the satisfaction of knowing that my dogs and I tried honestly to give our very best in humanitarian service to our fellowman, regardless of race, creed, color, in Alaska’s pioneer days. Often the going was rough—sometimes my courage was greater than my team’s—several times I was ready to quit but was ashamed because of the great fighting heart of the Siberian Husky.

A man is only as good as his dogs when he is on the trails of Alaska…and a dog is only as good as his feet,” a well-traveled dog driver once said.

SHANNON TRIED to rest in Tolovana, but he had the fate of Cub, Jack, Jet, and now Bear on his mind. In a few days, he would return to Nenana with all four dogs in his sled. Cub, Jack, and Jet would die not long after his return. Shannon’s own frostbite had been so severe that it would be weeks before he would once again be able to touch his own face with a razor and shave. Even then, it was a painful experience. He told a reporter that he had done nothing out of the ordinary, that his animals deserved all the praise.

steak.

THERE WERE few worse places on earth to build a town, but Nome had gone up almost overnight after two Swedes and a Norwegian found a nugget the size of a small rock in a creek near the beach.

This is my father’s story. I am writing it to find him. But to get to where you’re going you have to first go backwards. That’s directions in Ireland, it’s also T. S. Eliot. My father was named Virgil by his father who was named Abraham by his father who once upon a time was the Reverend Absalom Swain in Salisbury, Wiltshire. Who the Reverend’s father was I have no clue, but sometimes when I’m on the blue tablets I take off into a game of extreme Who Do You Think You Are? and go Swain-centuries deep. I follow the trail in reverse, Reverends and Bishops, past the pulpit-thumpers, the bible-wavers, the sideburn and eyebrow-growers. I keep going, pass long-ago knights, crusaders and other assorted do-lallies, eventually going as far back as The Flood. Then in the final segment, ad-breaks over and voiceover dropped to a whisper, I trace all the way back to God Himself and say Who Do You Think You Are?

The first rule of survival was to hang on to the team, because without the dogs you were dead.

After

When the second stage of Stonehenge was built on Salisbury Plain c. 2700 BC, it could not have been called Stonehenge, which is an English name. The English had not yet arrived. The English language had not been invented. The Plain would have been there; but it could not have been named after Salisbury, since Salisbury itself had not been founded. One may deduce that a year equivalent to 2700 BC once existed; but no such date could have been conceived before the birth of Christ or the concept of a Common Era. There was no country called 'France', and nothing equivalent to it; there was no 'England', and there was no 'Britain', and no 'Brittany'. As yet, there were no Ancient Gauls, no Ancient Britons, and no Ancient Bretons. This holds good even if each of those later communities would owe much to the gene pool of their unidentifiable predecessors.

¿Te parece que estoy bien? Me he roto el metatarso. —Te compraré uno nuevo cuando vuelva a Salisbury

With a strong spine and a gentle heart, I rise.

THE LONDON “SEASON” OF THE YEAR 1886, UPON ITS surface, was much as other and similar seasons had been before it. No blare of sudden trumpets marked its advent. Victoria was still placidly upon her throne; Lord Salisbury—for the second time—had ousted Gladstone from the premier’s chair; Ireland was seething with outrage and sedition; and Beecham’s Pills were “universally admitted to be a marvellous antidote for nervous disorders.

Salisbury pushed the heavy door a little more open and came forward, the sleeves of his black robe rippling in the cold breeze from the window.

Will pitched his voice low, a servant’s deference, and hoped Salisbury’s expansive mode continued, although he dreaded to learn the source of it.

You will be quite safe, Master Shakespeare. My lord Salisbury would never permit you to come to harm; you are one of England’s treasures in your very own person. But simply too much trouble to be left lying until things are more certain.

Something filled the Earl’s eyes-not fury, precisely, or desperation, but whatever it was the player’s part of Will’s mind saw it and recognized it as motivation. And saw in that silence the thing Salisbury wouldn’t say. James is a terrible king.

Regrettable,” Salisbury said. “Truly regrettable. But I need them more than I need Marlowe, Master Shakespeare, for the next month or so. Conspiracies are useful-a force that may be directed to profitable service, like a waterfall through a millwheel, but I learned well from my father that they must not be plucked before they are ripe. I mean to use these conspiracies as he would, to secure the future of the realm.

The results were so clear that one would expect the British Navy to adopt citrus juice for scurvy prevention on all its ships. But it was not until 1747, about 150 years later, that James Lind, a British Navy physician who knew of Lancaster’s results, carried out another experiment on the HMS Salisbury.

He felt a jolt of terror charge through his body as he imagined the boy’s feeling of betrayal when he realised what his mother was doing, still not believing it even as she did it. Loving her anyway.

Salisbury poisoning and current cabinet and PM (“…..regard him as a cross between a fame show host and a cartoon yeti

Everybody wondered why they took the bluestones a hundred and sixty miles from South Wales to Salisbury Plain where Stonehenge stands, and now we think there’s a sonic connection.

I’m a fool,” Will said suddenly, dropping his left hand from his earlobe. He looked up at Tom, who leaned in silent contemplation against the casement, frosting cool glass with his breath. “A fool and twice a fool.” Ben closed Kit’s Greek bible carefully over the ribbon and set it aside. “How a fool, Will?” “Because here we sit, invoking our brains on how to save Kit and thwart Salisbury, the Catholics, and the Prometheans, and the answer is in our very hands.

Two can play at Salisbury’s game.

Count your blessings, not your problems, right?

A second-class passenger named Ruth M. Wordsworth, of Salisbury, England, sought to address the disparity between how things actually unfolded on the ship and the nightmarish scenes conjured in the minds of next of kin. “I know you must be tempted to have most terrible imaginings; may I tell you that although it was very awful, it was not so ghastly as you are sure to imagine it. When the thing really comes, God gives to each the help he needs to live or to die.

Planted firmly across the path of change, operating warily, shrewdly yet with passionate conviction in defence of the existing order, was a peer who was Chancellor of Oxford University for life, had twice held the India Office, twice the Foreign Office and was now Prime Minister for the third time. He was Robert Arthur Talbot Gascoyne-Cecil, Lord Salisbury, ninth Earl and third Marquess of his line.

confusing,

Benny toured with her for two years, traveling through Illinois and Wisconsin under the billing “Salisbury and Kubelsky: From Grand Opera to Ragtime.” When Salisbury retired, Benny continued the act with pianist Lyman Woods. For six years he played his violin and never spoke or told a joke. He enlisted in the Navy for the First World War and found himself in a maritime revue at the Great Lakes Naval Station. Here he told his first jokes, and by the end of the war he had begun to think of himself as a monologuist.

People don't forget what it is to be loved. No matter how young or old you are, or for how long you had it, you always remember what it is to feel loved" -Lief

Dickens’s American Notes was regarded as an insult by most Americans in part because he chose to examine and criticize at length slavery, the prison system, and even an asylum for the mentally ill, which he, not always a reliable reporter, identified as being “on Long Island, or Rhode Island: I forget which.” He said that American men spit and that they pirated books, both of which were true. He thought the press was abominable and the prairie not as good as Salisbury Plain and also lacking a Stonehenge. But the ill-feelings of Americans may also in part stem from what the Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville, in probably the best of the nineteenth-century European books on America, Democracy in America, identified as an American trait: an unyielding resentment of any criticism from abroad. American Notes, in fact, has many favorable things to say about New York. For that matter Fanny Trollope loved New York, was one of the first to declare it the leading American city, and found it pleasantly different from the rest of America: New York, indeed, appeared to us, even when we saw it by a soberer light, a lovely and a noble city. To us who had been so long traveling through half-cleared forests, and sojourning among an “I’m-as-good-as-you” population, it seemed, perhaps, more beautiful, more splendid, and more refined than it might have done, had we arrived there directly from London; but making every allowance for this, I must still declare that I think New York one of the finest cities I ever saw, and as much superior to every other in the Union, (Philadelphia not excepted,) as London to Liverpool, or Paris to Rouen.

Salisbury