Santo Quotes

No one is ever quite ready; everyone is always caught off guard. Parenthood chooses you. And you open your eyes, look at what you've got, say "Oh, my gosh," and recognize that of all the balls there ever were, this is the one you should not drop. It's not a question of choice.

Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.

It's a well-known fact. All women are clinically insane, but especially ballet dancers. Psycho. extremely psycho. Trust me.

Walkout kapag alam mong sinasaktan ka na at wala nang patutunguhan ang relasyon niyo. Walkout kapag ikaw na lang ang laban ng laban. Walkout kapag mukha ka nang tanga.

There's a kind of holiness to love, requited or not, and those people who don't receive it with gratitude are arrogant beyond saving.

I spoke, I listened, and my heart broke, which is to say that it didn't break at all but became suddenly aware of its own wholeness in such a way it hurt like hell.

Even if someone wasn't perfect or even especially good, you couldn't dismiss the love they felt. Love was always love; it had a rightness all its own, even if the person feeling the love was full of wrongness.

Jimmy Stewart is always and indisputably the best man in the world, unless Cary Grant should happen to show up.

Bakit kaya ganun? Liligawan nila tayo. Papakitaan ng magandang ugali. Yung gagawin pa tayong prinsesa ng buhay nila. Yung ipaparamdam nila sa atin na hindi nila kayang mabuhay kung wala tayo. Tapos kapag na-fall na tayo at handa na natin silang mahalin, bigla na lang mababago ang lahat. We're not princesses anymore.

You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her letters. You drive her to work. You quote Neruda. You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias. You block their e-mails. You change your phone number. You stop drinking. You stop smoking. You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings. You blame your father. You blame your mother. You blame the patriarchy. You blame Santo Domingo. You find a therapist. You cancel your Facebook. You give her the passwords to all your e-mail accounts. You start taking salsa classes like you always swore you would so that the two of you could dance together. You claim that you were sick, you claim that you were weak—It was the book! It was the pressure!—and every hour like clockwork you say that you’re so so sorry. You try it all, but one day she will simply sit up in bed and say, No more, and, Ya, and you will have to move from the Harlem apartment that you two have shared. You consider not going. You consider a squat protest. In fact, you say won’t go. But in the end you do.

I can't stand lies. Probably no one can. Probably everyone is, to varying degrees, allergic to them, both spiritually and physically. Lies make me feel low and ignoble, and also itchy, like there's sand under my skin. The only thing that feels worse than hearing a lie is telling one.

Happiness isn't what happens when you whistle along, pretending bad things don't exist. . . Happiness is earned, like everything else. It's achieved.

People in love feel that way all the time, like they don't know what they've done to deserve each other.

But some things, no matter how unlikely, are just supposed to happen. You know what I mean. Some things just smack of the future and feel part of an overarching rightness.

Necesitaba un cómplice, y eso es lo que eres tú. Un aliado en mi vida. Me salvaste, me protegiste, me ayudaste, me liberaste cuando menos sabía de qué santo colgarme.

There are people whose deaths make you ache with sadness. And then there are people whose deaths prevent the sun from rising, deaths that turn the walls black in every room you walk through, deaths that send storm clouds and a wail swirling through your head so that you can't hear music and you can't recognize your furniture or your own face in the mirror.

I don’t think love is blind, true love is probably the most clear-eyed state of being there is.’ ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe with true love, you see and you love anyway…

When in doubt, walkout!

Pienso que sólo debemos leer libros de los que muerden y pinchan. Si el libro que estamos leyendo no nos obliga a despertarnos como un puñetazo en la cara, ¿para qué molestarnos en leerlo? ¿Para que nos haga felices, como dice tu carta? Cielo santo, ¡seríamos igualmente felices si no tuviéramos ningún libro! Los libros que nos hagan felices podríamos escribirlos nosotros mismos, si no nos quedara otro remedio. Lo que necesitamos son libros que nos golpeen como una desgracia dolorosa, como la muerte de alguien a quien queríamos más que a nosotros mismos, libros que nos hagan sentirnos desterrados a los bosques más remotos, lejos de toda presencia humana, algo semejante al suicidio. Un libro debe ser el hacha que rompa el mar helado dentro de nosotros. Eso es lo que creo”.

Everything turned on the word "we", a synonym for love, the thing that saves us all.

Yes, it’s true, what I said earlier: A real life doesn’t mean geting what you want; the achievement, the privilege, too, is knowing what you love.But getting what you love? Having what you love love you back? Oh, my friend, it’s miracle: your one tiny life’s head-on collision with divinity.

I don't think love is blind, but wanting to be in love, that's probably blind.

But sometimes, a boat needs to rock; a boat needs to head straight for the heart of a storm and come out on the other side, weather beaten but with flags flying.

We talked and talked and talked. Maybe love comes in at the eyes, but not nearly as much as it comes in at the ears, at least in my experience. As we talked, lights flicked on inside my head; by the end of the night I was a planterium.

We're in the real world na hindi uso ang forever at lahat may expiration date..

After graduation, due to special circumstances and perhaps also to my character, I began to travel throughout America, and I became acquainted with all of it. Except for Haiti and Santo Domingo, I have visited, to some extent, all the other Latin American countries. Because of the circumstances in which I traveled, first as a student and later as a doctor, I came into close contact with poverty, hunger and disease; with the inability to treat a child because of lack of money; with the stupefaction provoked by the continual hunger and punishment, to the point that a father can accept the loss of a son as an unimportant accident, as occurs often in the downtrodden classes of our American homeland. And I began to realize at that time that there were things that were almost as important to me as becoming famous for making a significant contribution to medical science: I wanted to help those people.

Happiness, when it comes, is stronger than all the jerk girls in Santo Domingo combined.

Sometimes, happiness feels so fragile…So what do we do about it?...Live. Forget that it’s fragile. Live like it isn’t

What do you do when you're in love with the last man in the world you can have? You plan a life, a real life, without him.

It might interest you that just as the U.S. was ramping up its involvement in Vietnam, LBJ launched an illegal invasion of the Dominican Republic (April 28, 1965). (Santo Domingo was Iraq before Iraq was Iraq.)

Los buenos recuerdos que una persona deja en la vida de otra son el mejor regalo que pueden hacernos.

Don't ask for the moon -- we have the stars!" Pardon my saying so, but fuck the fucking stars!

Lo que escribo no es para ti, ni para mí, ni para los iniciados. Es para la niña que nadie saca a bailar, es para los hermanos que afrontan la borrachera y a quienes desdeñan los que se creen santos, profetas o poderosos".

In certain situations, you can't worry about how people will react. You just have to be as honest as you can and let what happens afterward happen.

Merda! Her lace panties had snagged on his ring, the signet ring he'd inherited from his father, Giacomo Casanova. His father had seduced hundred of women without any problems whatsoever, and he was having trouble with just one. This was the real reason he never used the Casanova name. He could never live up to his father's reputation. The old man was probably laughing in his grave. Nine circles of hell," Jack muttered. Hell?" Lara asked. "I thought I was the Holy Land." You're paradise. Unfortunately, I am stuck there." Her eyes widened. "Stuck?" Normally, I would love being stuck to your lovely bum, but it would look odd if we go sightseeing with my hand under your skirt. Especially in the basilica." She glanced down. "How can you be stuck?" My ring. It's caught in the lace. See?" He moved his hand down her hip, dragging her undies down a few inches. Okay, stop." She bit her lip, frowning, then suddenly giggled. "I can't believe this has happened." I assure you, as much as I had hoped to get your clothes off, this was not part of my original plan." She snorted. "No problem. Just rip yourself loose." Are you sure?" It will destroy you undies." She narrowed her eyes with a seductuve look. "Rip it." Very well." He jerked his hand away, but the panties came with him. He yanked his hand back and forth, but the lacy, latex material simply stretched with him. "Santo cielo, they are indestructible." Lara laughed. He continued to wage battle, but to no avail. "They could use this material to build spaceships.

¿Son conscientes las piezas del ajedrez de que todas sus acciones, todos sus triunfos y sus derrotas, nunca les han pertenecido?

Aquello era un verdadero milagro: Dios había sacado del infierno a un adorador del diablo y había hecho que se bautizara en el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Realmente era un milagro. Sólo Dios podía hacer algo así.

Ama-me como se me perdesses amanhã

Not every story has a happy ending, but that doesn't mean it's not worth telling.

El amor es, en muchas cosas, como la música: llega allí donde las palabras sobran

You know what I mean. That moment in a relationship in which, at the same time you discover you've been floating in air for 5 and 1/2 weeks you also discover that your feet have dropped a little closer to earth.

Santo Rita Meata Mater Ringo Jonah Tito Marlin Jack Latoya Janet Michael Dumbledora the Explorer! Santo Rita Meata Mater Ringo Jonah Tito Marlin Jack Latoya Janet Michael Dumbledora the Explorer! I've summoned you from the depths of Hell. Show yourself!" (Britain) "You kolled?" (Russia) "I wasn't calling you!" (Britain) -Britain and Russia

If you're going to rip someone off, it might as well be Audrey Hepburn.

I stand here on this spring day in the center of my life. Chaos, din, and beauty. For a moment, I am still.

Lo contrario del amor no es el odio, sino la indiferencia

A vida foge-nos, escapasse-nos como água entre os dedos. Morremos a cada respiração, a cada palavra, a cada olhar, momento a momento encurta-se a distância que nos separa do nosso fim, nascemos e já estamos condenados à morte. A vida é breve, não passa de um instante fugaz de um brilho efémero nas trevas da eternidade

Judgment…is one of the ego’s tools to foster separation through comparison.

Since you left there's been a you-shaped space beside me, all the time. It never goes away.

Julian had a voice meant for casting spells. But tonight he'd have broken them instead. He sounded like salt without the sea. Rough, alone, and lost.

Me gustaría que pensaras en algo: Si hoy fuera tu último día en la tierra, ¿dónde pasarías la eternidad? No hay manera de escapar del tribunal del cielo. Si rechazas al Santo, quien derramó Su sangre al morir en la cruz y sobre el cual Dios derramó Su ira contra todo pecado, tendrás que rendir cuentas en el juicio final.

I am who I am, I don't follow my friends. I am who I am, I don't follow the trends. I am who I am, I don't try to pretend. I am who I am, til the very end.

To understand that you have blown it, that you can never fix it is one of the worst feelings ever.

A real life doesn't mean getting what you want; the achievement, the privilege, too is knowing what you love.

You know what he said? He said that being away from me is less like being away from a person than being away from other people is. I don't know anyone else who would say something like that. And he was right. When we were apart, I missed him all the time, but he didn't feel faraway. He felt closer than the kids at school."... Certain people are like that, I guess. They're together no matter where they are. They just belong to each other.

Age is a number to keep track of how many years you've been on the planet, not a tool to judge people by.

Foi a morte que me ensinou. O tempo de sonhar é em cima da terra.

When he looked up, he said, "Clare told me about Christmas." And I swear the boy's face began to shine. I recognized what I saw there: that a person's name could be infinitely precious, that just saying it could make you feel singled out for glory.

Experience builds knowledge, not age.

Felices los que eligen, los que aceptan ser elegidos, los hermosos héroes, los hermosos santos, los escapistas perfectos.

Minsan para sumaya ka, kailangang tanggapin mo ang mga bagay na wala na.

Temos formado conformistas incompetentes e precisamos de rebeldes competentes

She is sixteen and her skin is the darkness before the black, the plum of the day’s light, her breasts like sunsets trapped beneath her skin, but for all her youth and beauty she has a sour distrusting expression that only dissolves under the weight of immense pleasure. Her dreams are spare, lack the propulsion of a mission, her ambition is without traction. Her fiercest hope? That she will find a man. What she doesn’t yet know: the cold, the backbreaking drudgery of the factorias, the loneliness of Diaspora, that she will never again live in Santo Domingo, her own heart. What else she doesn’t know: that the man next to her would end up being her husband and the father of her two children, that after two years together he would leave her, her third and final heartbreak, and she would never love again.

I lean forward and pinch his nostrils closed again, press my lips to his, and blow in more air. I think about all those times he stole my breath away. Why doesn't he use it now?

But every time, what brought me to my senses was my conviction that before a person dropped a new life into this world, she should probably get a real one herself.

All those films in which the woman doesn't get her man, those films of yearning unsatisfied, hearts unappeased. You like them; I've liked them too. But I'll tell you what: try belonging body and soul to a man who will never belong to you; see how well you like those films then. "Don't ask for the moon-we have the stars!" ... "Pardon me saying so, but fuck the fucking stars!

Clare wasn't worried anymore about their being mean to each other. She imagined that someday she'd be part of a friendship in which she and the friend thought so highly of each other and were so sure of this that they could say anything.

— ¡Cielo Santo, eres un hombre-lobo! ¡Un pequeño hombre-lobo! —sé que dije. -- Johanna Miller

- Sabe o que acostumamos dicir en Galicia? - O quê? - Que un galego é un português que se rendeu. - Ah sim? E um português, o que é? - É un galego que non se rende.

Nice clean cut," Santos said, and Louise almost said thank you but managed to stop herself.

La bondad desgasta mucho, te lo he advertido. Los malos se divierten más y llegan a viejos en mejores condiciones que los santos como tú.

Amei aquela criatura. Amei aquela criatura com Amor, com todos os Amores que estão no Amor, o Amor Divino, o Amor Humano, o Amor Bestial, como Santo Antonino amava a Virgem, como Romeu amava Julieta, como um bode ama uma cabra.

Magic can happen in a car, a warm, intimate magic born of being in an enclosed, particular place and, simultaneously, being nowhere, passing throu. No one leaves her troubles behind, not really, but you can believe you have. You can believe you're in an inbetween space where trouble can't find you. . . .

On December 7, 2059, Emilio Sandoz was released from the isolation ward of Salvator Mundi Hospital in the middle of the night and transported in a bread van to the Jesuit residence at Number 5 Borgo Santo Spirito, a few minutes' walk across St. Peter's Square from the Vatican.

(...) pensou na impermanência da vida, na transitoriedade das coisas, na efemeridade do ser; diante dele, a existência fluía como um sopro, sempre em mutação, tudo muda a todo o instante e nada jamais volta a ser o mesmo. Não há finais felizes, reflectiu de si para si. Todos temos um sétimo selo para quebrar, um destino à nossa espera, um apocalipse no fim da linha. Por mais êxitos que somemos, por mais triunfos que alcancemos, por mais conquistas que façamos, para a última estação está-nos sempre reservada uma derrota. Se tivermos sorte e nos esforçarmos por isso, a vida até pode correr bem e ser uma incrível sucessão de momentos felizes, mas no fim, faça-se o que se fizer, tente-se o que se tentar, diga-se o que se disser, aguarda-nos sempre uma derrota, a mais final e absoluta de todas....

Instead, she sat there, smiling that small, small inscrutable smile, like Mona Lisa herself, although I must say that until that moment, I'd never found Mona Lisa's smile particularly interesting or even particularly a smile. Looking at Lake, I understood what probably everyone else already knows about the woman in that painting: we are drawn to her not because of what the smile gives us but because it gives us nothing. We are waiting to get past the smile. We are waiting--we've spent centuries waiting--for the woman to speak.

Na vida, concluiria um dia, todos têm direito a um grande amor. Uns achá-lo-iam num cruzamento perdido e com ele seguiriam até ao fim do caminho, teimosos e abnegados, até que a morte desfizesse o que a vida fizera. Outros estavam destinados a desconhecê-lo, a procurarem sem o descobrirem, a cruzarem-se numa esquina sem jamais se olharem, a ignorarem a sua perda até desaparecerem na neblina que pairava sobre o soliário trilho para onde a vida os conduzira. E havia aqueles fadados para a tragédia, os amores que se encontravam e cedo percebiam que o encontro era afinal efémero, furtivo, um mero sopro na corrente do tempo, um cruel interlúdio antes da dolorosa separação, um beijo de despedida no caminho da solidão, a alma abalada pela sombria angústia de saberem que havia um outro percurso, uma outra existência, uma passagem alternativa que lhes fora para sempre vedada. Esses eram os infelizes, os dilacerados pela revolta até serem abatidos pela resignação, os que percorrem a estrada da vida vergados pela saudade do que podia ter sido, do futuro que não existiu, do trilho que nunca percorreriam a dois. Eram esses os que estavam indelevelmente marcados pela amarga e profunda nostalgia de um amor por viver.

I think there are certain people who change the way time moves.

My life - my real life - started when a man walked into it, a handsome stranger in a perfectly cut suit, and, yes I know how that sounds.

But you're wrong. Happiness is EARNED, like everything else. It's achieved.

Whatever word you use to describe diving into the deepest part of a human. Take your pick; they're all woefully inadequate, but they're also all we have.

Writing can be a splendid headache. Fun when words spill forth like a raging river and a catastrophic, hair-pulling experience when they won't.

Era tudo tão lindo que nem coube nos seus pequenos sonhos. Ela precisou aprender a sonhar mais.

Por el amor de Dios, la virgen y todos los santos habidos y por haber

If certain females could hold on to a man the same way they hold on to grudges. They'd never be single!

Please. Put the gun down and we'll talk. A beautiful woman holding a small cannon plays hell with my concentration. Christovao (Chris) Santos, Sanctuary

Por el amor de Dios, de la virgen, de las estrellas y de todos los santos mundiales

A veces, las víctimas de una larga enfermedad se convierten en seres ariscos y tiránicos. La imagen del enfermo sufrido y santo es falsa.

Soldiers in the heat of battle; death-row prisoners; explorers stranded in deserts, jungles, on mountaintops; anyone sick or lost or just tired and bewildered: we all wanted our mothers.

-[...]-Geralt -dijo Stregobor-, cuando escuchábamos a Eltibaldo muchos de nosotros teníamos dudas. Pero decidimos escoger el mal menor. Ahora soy yo el que te pide una elección similar. -El mal es el mal, Stregobor- afirmó serio el brujo mientras se levantaba-. Menor, mayor, mediano, es igual, las proporciones son convenidas y las fronteras son borrosas. No soy un santo ermitaño, no siempre he obrado bien. Pero si tengo que elegir entre un mal y otro, prefiero no elegir en absoluto.[...]

It's ok to feel happy, right? She hoped he'd know what she meant.

Before you can write a single sentence, you must first create an entire world to support it.

I've always found allegories kind of comforting. When you encounter people named Liar and Abstinence, you might not be crazy about them, but you know exactly what you're getting into.

The spiritual freedom we seek cannot be found by grasping at, retreating to, or protecting our perceived safe spaces. Our freedom lies in remaining open continuously, not only to Life's changes but also to the Divine Light within us and others.

Have you met Diana?” Theo said. “Diana, this is my father, Michael Santos. The savior of Keralis Labs. He’s quite the strategist, but not what I would call a lot of fun.” Michael ignored him and offered Diana his hand. “A pleasure. Are you one of Alia’s friends from Bennett? She’s usually with that pudgy little Indian girl.” “I’m not sure who you mean,” said Diana, feeling her anger prickle. “I’ve only met her friend Nim, the brilliant designer.

When the guy turned around, Amy began stuttering. Silently. It was a feat only Amy could manage, and only Dan could notice. And it only happened in front of boys who looked like this one. He had brown hair and caramel-colored eyes, like Dan's friend Nick Santos, who made all the sixth-grade girls turn into blithering idiots when he looked their way--in fact, would even say Watch, lean make them turn into blithering idiots, and then he'd do it. Only older. "He. Is. Hot," Nellie said under her breath. "You too?" Dan hissed.

I think love is an imperative. It obligates you.

tratava-se de uma daquelas mulheres que não despertam uma imediata e animalesca volúpia sexual, mas uma terna e incurável paixão platónica.

A Beleza é a cor de que se pinta a Verdade

I know how syrupy this sounds, how dull, provincial, and possibly whitewashed, but what can I do? Happy childhoods happen

The examples seemed to fall into two categories: girls who used sweetness and girls who used pluck.

In my experience, people love what they love. They just do.

Speechless and very nearly panting, she fell back against the wall with a thump, knowing that if she lived to be ninety, she would still carry the searing mark of that kiss on her soul. "At last," he murmured. "A way to shut you up." Christovao Santos (Chris), Sanctuary

Um herói é como o santo. Ninguém lhe ama de verdade. Se lembram dele em urgências pessoais e aflições nacionais.

Santissima Annunziata in the north, Santo Spirito in the south, Santa Maria Novella over in the west, and Santa Croce in the east.

It was the first time! Just because there weren’t fireworks the first time doesn’t mean there will never be fireworks. We’re human; we’re adults; we teach each other; we communicate; fireworks don’t just go off, wham-bang; fireworks evolve!’ Awestruck by the utter, asinine nonsense of this metaphor, everyone is still. Into the stillness, the ample woman drops the word ‘Wrong.’ Then she says it again. ‘Wrong…I’m talking about science…Pheromones.’ The woman turns to Cornelia. ‘The chemicals in his body call out. The chemicals in your body answer. It either happens or it doesn’t.’ On top of being dumb, Cornelia is dumbfounded.

De todas formas lo peor no era lo que decían las mujeres, sino lo que hablaban los hombres. Eso no me lo contaba la Carmen porque esas cosas solo las dicen entre ellos. Eso me lo contaban los santos. Me decían que hablaban de lo que le harían, algunos con deseo y otros con eso que tienen muchos hombres por las mujeres, que piensan que es deseo pero que solo es odio.

I was there to get a Ph.D. in English literature. That's not true. I was there to read a lot of books and to discuss them with bright, insightful, book-loving people, an expectation that I pretty quickly learned was about as silly as it could be. Certainly there were other people who loved books, I'm sure there were, but whoever had notified them ahead of time that loving books was not the point, was, in fact, a hopelessly counterproductive and naive approach to the study of literature, neglected to notify me. It turned out that the point was to dissect a book like a fetal pig in biology class or to break its back with a single sentence or to bust it open like a milkweek pod and say, "See? All along it was only fluff," and then scatter it into oblivion with one tiny breath.

And yet every so often, the heart of America, shuddering with indignation, sends a nervous spasm through the gentle back of the Andes, and tumultuous shock waves assault the surface of the land. Three times the cuppola of proud Santo Domingo has collapsed from on high to the rhythm of broken bones and its worn walls have opened and fallen too. But the foundations they rest on are unmoved, the great blocks of the Temple of the Sun exhibit their gray stone indifferently; however colossal the disaster befalling its oppressor, not one of its huge rocks shifts from its place.

In her mind the U.S. was nothing more and nothing less than a país overrun by gangsters, putas, and no-accounts. Its cities swarmed with machines and industry, as thick with sinvergüencería as Santo Domingo was with heat, a cuco shod in iron, exhaling fumes, with the glittering promise of coin deep in the cold lightless shaft of its eyes.

Acho que o Santo Graal é um sonho que os homens têm, um sonho de que é possível tornar o mundo perfeito. Se ele existisse, todos nós teríamos sabido que o sonho não pode se transformar em realidade.

Kenya is indeed a blessed country. It was where the remains of the first man were discovered and now it had given birth to the global leader of all badmen/women: Badman Killa. His name is DON SANTO.

The duality of positive and negative becomes subsumed in Oneness. There are no opposites in the totality and absolute perfection of the Oneness that we know as Divine.

There are no coincidences and no mistakes. Every role has a purpose and every path has merit. Everything we do and experience is for learning to remember our connection with God.

I'm not going to end up in some heap of crushed dreams.

Anybody that's capable of love can't be all bad.

There are no such things as book hoarders, only aspiring librarians

I like honesty more than my ego does.

...if you stay in it for any length of time, like anyplace else, a cafe becomes a world.

He smiled the kind of smile that is the reason for wars and poetry.

We are living in interesting times where truths and propaganda are all mixed up and all you have to do is push a Hashtag and sell 'your truth.

His worst nightmare had become real; life was no more than a fragile breath, a fleeting instant od light in the eternal darkness of time

Perhaps they should have cut her hair that day. If Valentina had picked up the razor, or Hualit the shears, if Luzia had bent her head to their ministrations, maybe more than one of them would have returned to the shabby house on Calle de Dos Santos and lived to tell this story.

Whatever is happening in SA is a lot of bullshit. You cannot have a problem with every colour; white, green, black, yellow and still not be the problem. It's time a leader emerged and taught folks something on prioritization.

Maaring Bartolo ang apelyido ko o Cruz o Santos-- pero apelyido 'yon na minana ko lang sa tatay ko, at minana ng tatay ko sa tatay niya. Oo nga pala,bakit puro sa tatay nagmamana ng apelyido? Bakit kahit minsan, hindi sa nanay?

Esa grave enfermedad que se llama "amor" dura tres meses, aseguran los científicos. También dicen que se va sin dejar rastro. Yo no estoy de acuerdo. Cuando un huracán de fuerza cinco pasa por tu vida, no deja nada donde estaba.

If I were to ever have a full-fledged vocation, as opposed to a half-assed avocation, I needed to love it and, in my experience, it isn't always easy to figure out what you love.

I have always been passionate about travelling. Credits to the books for they were invented. If not, I might not be able to reach my dream.

Linney moves in the world with such firm, certain steps, being with her can make you forget your own confusion, at least for a little while.

Clare concentrated on the words trying hard to press them into her memory and wishing they were solid objects that she could keep and carry around with her.

When it comes to Clare, sometimes, the past isn't past. The past can get as present as any present ever was, so near that I feel its breath.

There are those who believe that showing off is the coolest thing on earth and the rest of us who live a life of sharing is caring.

Haters hold onto the lies they tell themselves just to feel good. But you keep shining because that's what you're good at and it is that matters.

You cannot criticise a man who is doing something while sitting down.

the wilderness should be preserved for political reasons. We may need it someday not only as a refuge from excessive industrialism but also as a refuge from authoritarian government, from political oppression. Grand Canyon, Big Bend, Yellowstone, and the High Sierras may be required to function as bases for guerrilla warfare against tyranny...The value of wilderness, on the other hand, as a base for resistance to centralized domination is demonstrated by recent history. In Budapest and Santo Domingo, for example, popular revolts were easily and quickly crushed because an urbanized environment gives the advantage to the power with technological equipment. But in Cuba, Algeria, and Vietnam the revolutionaries, operating in mountain, desert, and jungle hinterlands with the active or tacit support of a thinly dispersed population, have been able to overcome or at least fight to a draw official establishment forces equipped with all of the terrible weapons of twentieth century militarism.

I was looking at Latin America and who was the richest guy in Venezuela? A brewer (the Mendoza family that owns Polar). The richest guy in Colombia? A brewer (the Santo Domingo group, the owner of Bavaria). The richest in Argentina? A brewer (the Bembergs, owners of Quilmes). These guys can’t all be geniuses...It’s the business that must be good.

The sight made her ache. How can I not touch you? she thought hopelessly, and then she was doing it, her fingers on his wrist. He didn't jump or even look at her, just stopped writing. Neither one of them moved, nothing moved, and the whole thing lasted three or four seconds at most, but when Pen took her hand away and started to breathe again, her chest hurt, as though she had been holding her breath for a very long time.

Honestly, William, time?' his mother had snapped. 'Distance? Those things have nothing whatsoever to do with love. Who knows that better than you?

I am one of those people who believes that at least half of love is simply paying attention.

She's the main character in her story, just like I'm the main character in mine.

That no matter what happens, loving someone to the best of your ability is the right thing to do. It's the only thing to do.

...I walked up the stairs to my apartment, carrying the moment carefully as though it were a glass globe full of butterflies. 

Wait, I’ve got a billion years because the Klassik is GOAT. [In the song ' Who is the Badman Killa?']

To my mother, good men are like ghosts: everyone swears they’re out there, but nobody can substantiate having encountered one.

You mustn't let men drive you to mangling the English language, no matter how sweet they are.

Soon, the two of them would leave this spot. . . walk into the house and into a whole changed world. . .

Maybe she would remember who he was, and maybe she would come back.

I should have used my pain better. You and your mother deserved that.

My view on marketing is, it is the art of is identifying a market and choosing what to do with it.

It is a shame that those we elected to represent us are now turning to us with questions rather than solutions. If we can do it ourselves, why do we need them?

They can talk, they can spit, they can bitch, they can trip, they can shit on themselves, for all I care! I don't have a problem.

Demons never die quietly, and a week ago the storm was a proper demon, sweeping through the Caribbean after her long ocean crossing from Africa, a category five when she finally came ashore at San Juan before moving on to Santo Domingo and then Cuba and Florida. But now she's grown very old, as her kind measures age, and these are her death throes. So she holds tightly to this night, hanging on with the desperate fury of any dying thing, any dying thing that might once have thought itself invincible.

Every time we mention Gender Equality, merit is usually thrown out of the window. Your ability to deliver is not determined by what is in between the legs but by what is in between your ears.

Embora não nos apercebamos disso, a Terra é um ser vivo constituído por biliões de seres vivos, as células, a Terra é um ser vivo constituído por biliões de seres vivos, a fauna e a flora. Por exemplo, se a temperatura mudar muito na Lua ou em Vénus, isso é indiferente para esses planetas, uma vez que estão ambos mortos, não passam de pedra e poeira. Tanto lhes faz que faça muito frio como muito calor, os planetas mortos são como esculturas de mármore. Mas as alterações térmicas não são indiferentes para a Terra, que se encontra viva e que, por isso, está constantemente a regular a sua temperatura e composição

The spiritual freedom we seek cannot be found by grasping at, retreating to, or protecting our perceived safe spaces. Our freedom lies in remaining open continuously, not only to Life’s changes but also to the Divine Light within us and others. This is our choice. Although often perceived as a weakness, being open and surrendering to the experience of the present moment is our greatest strength. By authentically living Life in the Now, we submit to Divine guidance where we find the freedom to see everything equally and sacred in Truth.

Its hard to say what was happening inside her head. Her brain doesn't function quite like most people's to begin with and maybe, under a lot of stress, she just lost the ability to hope. Dev pondered this, hope as an ability. I guess that's what's so hard for me to get to, the no hope. To think that, of all the potential scenarios out there, there's not a single good one? It just seems like we- as human beings- know so much, but its nothing compared to what we don't know. The universe surprises us, right? That's just what it does. So how could she be so one hundred percent positive that nothing good would happen?

¡Aparta, piedra fingida! Suelta, suéltame esa mano, que aún queda el último grano en el reloj de mi vida. Suéltala, que si es verdad que un punto de contrición da a un alma la salvación de toda una eternidad, yo, santo Dios, creo en ti; si es mi maldad inaudita, tu piedad es infinita… ¡Señor, ten piedad de mí!

En su cerrada mollera no entraban ni podían entrar otras luces sobre el santo ejercicio de la caridad; no comprendía que una palabra cariñosa, un halago, un trato delicado y amante que hicieran olvidar al pequeño su pequeñez, al miserable su miseria, son heroísmos de más precio que el bodrio sobrante de una mala comida.

I begged time to slow so I could live in this moment a little longer. Gather all of this up and press these moments between pages like flowers. Tonight was a homecoming alive with music, life, and joy.

The only way we can truly liberate ourselves as a nation, is by maintaining the pressure against corrupt regimes, demanding accountability, restitution, retribution & of-course being smarter than them. -

But I've always been a sucker for externals alone: the shape, the shine, what the surface suggests to my palm. So mechanically disinclined it's verging on criminal, I never understood the beauty of an object's workings until Linny sat my reluctant self down one day and showed me her camera. Within fifteen minutes, I had fallen hard for the whole gadgety, eyelike nature of the thing: a tiny piece of glass slowing, bending, organizing light - light - into your grandmother, the Grand Canyon, the begonia on the windowsill, the film keeping the image like a secret. Grandmother, canyon, begonia tucked neatly into the sleek black box, like bugs in a jar. My mind boggled.

La puta, la gran puta, la grandísima puta, la santurrona, la simoníaca, la inquisidora, la falsificadora, la asesina, la fea, la loca, la mala; la del Santo Oficio y el Índice de Libros Prohibidos; la de las Cruzadas y la noche de San Bartolomé; la que saqueó Constantinopla y bañó de sangre Jerusalén; la que exterminó a albigenses y a los veinte mil habitantes de Beziers; la que arrasó con las culturas indígenas de América; la que quemó a Segarelli en Parma, a Juan Hus en Constanza y a Giordano Bruno en Roma; la detractora de la ciencia, la enemiga de la verdad, la adulteradora de la Historia; la perseguidora de judíos, la encendedora de hogueras, la quemadora de herejes y brujas...

Today's generation is more informed. So think through before you lie to them.

Why drink and drive when you can smoke and fly?

One thing about children is that you can choose to make or break them. I choose to allow them to be the very best versions of themselves.

What hurts could most likely be the truth.

A consciência da solidão doía mais que qualquer outra dor.

I have lost things I will never stop missing.

His lips graze my ear and it's like fireflies are buzzing around my heart.

Esperar. Otra vez. ¿Os habéis parado a contar cuánto tiempo perdemos en nuestra vida solo esperando algo?

When you allocate yourself time, it is always easier to manage.

nos explican que el corazón es el órgano más importante del cuerpo, pero no nos enseñan a cuidarlo.

Being a bestseller doesnt mean they wrote a great book. Just means they knew a lot of people who would buy it.

Inside plum trees stood in a row, flowers lifted their pale throats to the moon and stars, a magnolia held its tight-closed buds like white candles in its green hands.

Tener secretos. Otra forma de crecer.

This music; It’s loving me without condition. This Kalpop music; It’s loving me without a million so believe and try, calm down the hear with some Kalpop spell

The musician is perhaps the most modest of animals, but he is also the proudest. It is he who invented the sublime art of bringing life to poetry.

Every smile has a drop of love in it's ingredients.

Success is not for those who love to chase after pleasure.

Restrain from someone because they are a bad influence and not because they are different from you.

I was a collection of hyphens and bilingual words. Always caught in between. Two schools, two languages, two countries. Never quite right or enough for either. My dreams were funded by a loan made long before me, and I paid it back with in guilt and success. I paid it back by tending a garden whose roots I could not reach

Saw you with my brother." His gaze moves over me. "Guess that explains your attraction to me-he looks just like me." His cocky grin fading when I roll my eyes in reponse. "Well,you sure spend a lot of time thinking about me-searching for me-don't you,Santos?" he says,determined to make me admit the ridiculous. "Don't flatter yourself,Coyote. It's an occupational hazard.Purely job related.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” ― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

aujourd’hui. Nous, les scientifiques, nous sommes très concentrés sur l’étude de l’encre et du papier dont est fait l’univers. Mais cette étude nous révèle-t-elle vraiment ce qu’est l’univers ? Ne nous faudrait-il pas l’étudier aussi sur un plan sémantique ? Ne devrions nous pas écouter sa musique et saisir sa poésie ? Dans l’observation de l’univers, ne sommes-nous pas focalisés sur le hardware, ignorant une dimension aussi importante que celle du software ?

mistaken. The Columbian Exchange had such far-reaching effects that some biologists now say that Colón’s voyages marked the beginning of a new biological era: the Homogenocene. The term refers to homogenizing: mixing unlike substances to create a uniform blend. With the Columbian Exchange, places that were once ecologically distinct have become more alike. In this sense the world has become one, exactly as the old admiral hoped. The lighthouse in Santo Domingo should be regarded less as a celebration of the man who began it than a recognition of the world he almost accidentally created, the world of the Homogenocene we live in today.

A arte não é uma coisa que exista naturalmente no mundo, trata-se antes de uma criação humana. A arte é o produto da acção do homem quando ele tenta transcender a sua condição animal e passar de criatura a criador. A arte surge quando alguém transforma um acto animal num objecto cultural que se pode tornar sublime. Ao pintar uma cena na floresta, o homem torna- se Deus porque cria numa tela a natureza, ao contar uma história num romance o homem torna- se Deus porque cria no papel a vida de pessoas, mesmo que imaginárias.

You told her I was gay." "Yes, but see--" "And she BELIEVED you!" he asked with horror. "Yes, of course. Why would she think I'd lie about something like that?" she asked with exasperation. "Julius," Marguerite chastised gently when his father muffled a guffaw. "Sorry, darling, but he gave me such grief over wooing you that I can't help but think this is funny," Julius said, slipping his arm around Marguerite. "It isn't funny," Christian growled. "She told my lifemate I'm gay." Zanipolo gave a bark of laughter. "And she BELIEVED it." Christian scowled at the man, considering violence until Gia said, "Actually, at first I just said my cugino was gay and didn't tell her which one. She thought it must be you before I said it was Christian.." "What?" Zanipolo cried. "Why would she think that? Do I look gay?" Christian growled impatiently, and turned on Gia. "I don't see how her thinking I am gay is supposed to help." "Is it my hair that made her pick me for the gay one, do you think?" Zanipolo asked suddenly. "Maybe I should cut it." "It could be," Santo said, eyeing him consideringly. "Nah. Christian has long hair too," Raffeale pointed out.

Tribe, Race is just but a distraction. Success is the best revenge. In spite of the obstacles we face, we can't change the perception others have of us. All we can do is choose to live life and make the most of the one life we have. The moment you stop putting yourself in a box is the moment you actually become yourself.

What’s killing him is the idea that I will die unhappy, in a miserable marriage. He hates that my life isn’t ending on a good note… So I told him that he’s a good man and was the love of my life, both of which are true. I tried to tell him all the things I hadn’t told him before… Mostly, I wanted him to understand the real reason I’d thought our marriage was over. It was over because we forgot to stay in love. Both of us.

He wasn’t looking at her, was at such an oblique angle to her that his face was little more than a sliver, but she knew him at once. “It was like reading,” she would try to explain later, and she wasn’t talking about phonics. She didn’t break him into syllables—shoulders, hair, shirt collar, hand, nose, cheekbone—and put him back together again; she didn’t sound him out. He was a language she knew, and it was whole-word recognition: Will.

Will non infrange i giuramenti e neppure la Legge. – Guardò intensamente l’amico, che fece un lieve sorriso e guardò fuori dal finestrino. – Santo cielo! – esclamò Tessa. – Tutto ciò è molto toccante, ma non vedo esattamente che vantaggi possano venirne. – Non tutti hanno un Parabatai – disse Jem. – Pochissimi di noi, in effetti, ne trovano uno nel tempo loro assegnato. Ma quelli che ci riescono possono fare ricorso alla forza del loro parabatai in combattimento. Una runa che ti viene tracciata dal tuo parabatai è sempre più potente di quella tracciata da te stesso o da un altro cacciatore. E poi ci sono rune utilizzabili dai parabatai ma non da altri cacciatori, perché attingono alla loro duplice forza.

Me gustaría volar en una escoba y danzar con otras brujas paganas en el bosque a la luz de la luna, invocando las fuerzas de la tierra y ahuyentando demonios, quiero convertirme en una vieja sabia, aprender antiguos encantamientos y secretos de curandero. No es poco lo que pretendo. Las hechiceras, como los santos, son estrellas solitarias que brillan con luz propia, no dependen de nada ni de nadie, por eso carecen de miedo y pueden lanzarse ciegas al abismo con la certeza de que en vez de estrellarse saldrán volando. Pueden convertirse en pájaros para ver el mundo desde arriba o en gusanos para verlo por dentro, pueden habitar otras dimensiones y viajar a otras galaxias, son navegantes en un océano infinito de conciencia y conocimiento.

Io mi diverto ad avere trent’anni, io me li bevo come un liquore i trent’anni: non li appassisco in una precoce vecchiaia ciclostilata su carta carbone. Ascoltami, Cernam, White, Bean, Armstrong, Gordon, Chaffee: sono stupendi i trent’anni, ed anche i trentuno, i trentadue, i trentatré, i trentaquattro, i trentacinque! Sono stupendi perché sono liberi, ribelli, fuorilegge, perchè è finita l’angoscia dell’attesa, non è incominciata la malinconia del declino, perché siamo lucidi, finalmente, a trent’anni! Se siamo religiosi, siamo religiosi convinti. Se siamo atei, siamo atei convinti. Se siamo dubbiosi, siamo dubbiosi senza vergogna. E non temiamo le beffe dei ragazzi perché anche noi siamo giovani, non temiamo i rimproveri degli adulti perchè anche noi siamo adulti. Non temiamo il peccato perché abbiamo capito che il peccato è un punto di vista, non temiamo la disubbidienza perché abbiamo scoperto che la disubbidienza è nobile. Non temiamo la punizione perché abbiamo concluso che non c’è nulla di male ad amarci se ci incontriamo, ad abbandonarci se ci perdiamo: i conti non dobbiamo più farli con la maestra di scuola e non dobbiamo ancora farli col prete dell’olio santo. Li facciamo con noi stessi e basta, col nostro dolore da grandi. Siamo un campo di grano maturo, a trent’anni, non più acerbi e non ancora secchi: la linfa scorre in noi con la pressione giusta, gonfia di vita. È viva ogni nostra gioia, è viva ogni nostra pena, si ride e si piange come non ci riuscirà mai più, si pensa e si capisce come non ci riuscirà mai più. Abbiamo raggiunto la cima della montagna e tutto è chiaro là in cima: la strada per cui siamo saliti, la strada per cui scenderemo. Un po’ ansimanti e tuttavia freschi, non succederà più di sederci nel mezzo a guardare indietro e in avanti, a meditare sulla nostra fortuna: e allora com’è che in voi non è così? Com’è che sembrate i miei padri schiacciati di paure, di tedio, di calvizie? Ma cosa v’hanno fatto, cosa vi siete fatti? A quale prezzo pagate la Luna? La Luna costa cara, lo so. Costa cara a ciascuno di noi: ma nessun prezzo vale quel campo di grano, nessun prezzo vale quella cima di monte. Se lo valesse, sarebbe inutile andar sulla Luna: tanto varrebbe restarcene qui. Svegliatevi dunque, smettetela d’essere così razionali, ubbidienti, rugosi! Smettetela di perder capelli, di intristire nella vostra uguaglianza! Stracciatela la carta carbone. Ridete, piangete, sbagliate. Prendetelo a pugni quel Burocrate che guarda il cronometro. Ve lo dico con umilità, con affetto, perché vi stimo, perché vi vedo migliori di me e vorrei che foste molto migliori di me. Molto: non così poco. O è ormai troppo tardi? O il Sistema vi ha già piegato, inghiottito? Sì, dev’esser così.

If heaven existed, it surely had to be against his lips, in his kisses and his arms around me. His kisses were tender, sweet, breathtaking, and too good to be true! Time ceased to exist. Gravity was a vague idea in my mind. I couldn’t let him go. I wanted more and more. I wanted his tongue and my tongue playing together, discovering and making me feel alive and happy. I wanted our lips sealed together, his arms around me, pulling me tight against his solid warm body. I wanted to melt and merge with him. They weren’t normal kisses; they were mind-blowing experiences!

Solo aquí, qué bien, me parece que estoy encima de todo. No me puede pasar nada. Yo soy el que paso. Vivo. Vivo. Fuera de tantas preocupaciones, fuera del dinero que tenía que ganar, fuera de la mujer con la que me tenía que casar, fuera de la clientela que tenía que conquistar, fuera de los amigos que me tenían que estimar, fuera del placer que tenía que perseguir, fuera del alcohol que tenía que beber. Si estuvieras así. Manténte ahí. Ahí tienes que estar. Tengo que estar aquí, en esta altura, viendo cómo estoy solo, pero así, en lo alto, mejor que antes, más tranquilo, mucho más tranquilo. No caigas. No tengo que caer. Estoy así bien, tranquilo, no me puede pasar nada, porque lo más que me puede para es seguir así, estando donde quiero estar, tranquilo, viendo todo, tranquilo, estoy bien, estoy bien, estoy muy bien así, no tengo nada que desear. Tú no la mataste. Estaba muerta. Yo la maté. ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué? Tú no la mataste. Estaba muerta. Yo no la maté. Ya estaba muerta. Yo no la maté. Ya estaba muerta. Yo no fui. No pensar. No pensar. No pienses. No pienses en nada. Tranquilo, estoy tranquilo. No me pasa nada. Estoy tranquilo así. Me quedo así quieto. Estoy esperando. No tengo que pensar. No me pasa nada. Estoy tranquilo, el tiempo pasa y yo estoy tranquilo porque no pienso en nada. Es cuestión de aprender a no pensar en nada, de fijar la mirada en la pared, de hacer que tú quieras hacer porque tu libertad sigue existiendo también ahora. Eres un ser libre para dibujar cualquier dibujo o bien para hacer una raya cada día que vaya pasando como han hecho otros, y cada siete días una raya más larga, porque eres libre de hacer las rayas todo lo largas que quieras y nadie te lo puede impedir.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can't even remember who he is. 'Where am I?' he asks, desperate, and then, 'Who am I? Who am I?' And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem's whispered incantation. 'You're Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You're the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You're the friend of Malcolm Irvine, Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You're a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You're a swimmer. You're a baker. You're a cook. You're a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You're an excellent pianist. You're an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I'm away. You're patient. You're generous. You're the best listener I know. You're the smartest person I know, in every way. You're the bravest person I know, in every way. You're a lawyer. You're the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job, you work hard at it. You're a mathematician. You're a logician. You've tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you. On and on Willem talks, chanting him back to himself, and in the daytime - sometimes days later - he remembers pieces of what Willem has said and holds them close to him, as much as for what he said as for what he didn't, for how he hadn't defined him. But in the nighttime he is too terrified, he is too lost to recognize this. His panic is too real, too consuming. 'And who are you?' he asks, looking at the man who is holding him, who is describing someone he doesn't recognize, someone who seems to have so much, someone who seems like such an enviable, beloved person. 'Who are you?' The man has an answer to this question as well. 'I'm Willem Ragnarsson,' he says. 'And I will never let you go.

I am a man and what I have to recapture is the whole past of the world, I am not responsible only for the slavery involved in Santo Domingo, every time man has contributed to the victory of the dignity of the spirit, every time a man has said no to an attempt to subjugate his fellows, I have felt solidarity with his act. In no way does my basic vocation have to be drawn from the past of peoples of color. In no way do I have to dedicate myself to reviving some black civilization unjustly ignored. I will not make myself the man of any past. My black skin is not a repository for specific values. Haven’t I got better things to do on this earth than avenge the blacks of the 17th century? I as a man of color do not have the right to hope that in the white man there will be a crystallization of guilt towards the past of my race. I as a man of color do not have the right of stamping down the pride of my former master. I have neither the right nor the duty to demand reparations for my subjugated ancestors. There is no black mission. There is no white burden. I do not want to be victim to the rules of a black world. Am I going to ask this white man to answer for the slave traders of the 17th century? Am I going to try by every means available to cause guilt to burgeon in their souls? I am not a slave to slavery that dehumanized my ancestors. It would be of enormous interest to discover a black literature or architecture from the 3rd century B.C, we would be overjoyed to learn of the existence of a correspondence between some black philosopher and Plato, but we can absolutely not see how this fact would change the lives of 8 year old kids working the cane fields of Martinique or Guadeloupe. I find myself in the world and I recognize I have one right alone: of demanding human behavior from the other.

Annabel,” I whispered in her ear, making sure not to touch her. Her heartbeat accelerated, her skin got the chills, and her pupils dilated, not to mention how delicious she smelled and how the excitement only increased the scent. My own body got tense and aroused. “Let your guard down and trust me. Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen. I’m not trying to get you drunk or trick you. I just want to get to know you better.” “Shane,” she replied with her sexy, hot, and alluring voice that sent spirals of lust down my spine. “I have nothing against sleeping with you. I’m fully dressed for that.

Aware she’d likely never tasted such a thing before, she took a cautious sip. Nothing came up. “The straw’s defective.” Dev shot her a quick grin. It altered his face, turning him strikingly beautiful. But that wasn’t the odd part. The odd part was that seeing him smile made her heart change its rhythm. She lifted her hand a fraction, compelled to trace the curve of his lips, the crease in his cheek. Would he let her, she thought, this man who moved with the liquid grace of a soldier . . . or a beast of prey? “Did I say milk shake?” he said, withheld laughter in his voice. “I meant ice cream smoothie—with enough fresh fruit blended into it to turn it solid.” Glancing at her when she didn’t move, he raised an eyebrow. She felt a wave of heat across her face, and the sensation was so strange, it broke through her fascination. Looking down, she took off the lid after removing the straw and stared at the swirls of pink and white that dominated the delicious-smelling concoction. Intrigued, she poked at it with the tip of her straw. “I can see pieces of strawberry, and what’s that?” She looked more closely at the pink-coated black seeds. “Passion fruit?” “Try it and see.” Handing her his water bottle, he started the car and got them on their way. “How would I know?” She put his water in the holder next to the unopened bottle. “And I need a spoon for this.” Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a plastic-wrapped piece of cutlery. “Here.” “You did that on purpose,” she accused. “Did you want to see how hard I’d try to suck the mixture up?” Another smile, this one a bare shadow. “Would I do that?” It startled her to realize he was teasing her. Devraj Santos, she thought, wasn’t supposed to have a sense of humor. That was something she just knew. And, it was wrong. That meant the shadow-man didn’t know everything, that he wasn’t omnipotent. A cascade of bubbles sparkled through her veins, bright and effervescent. “I think you’re capable of almost anything.” Dipping in the spoon, she brought the decadent mixture to her lips. Oh! The crisp sting of ice, the cream rich and sweet, the fruit a tart burst of sensation. It was impossible not to take a second bite. And a third.

- Sim, é talvez tudo uma ilusão... E a Cidade a maior ilusão! Tão facilmente vitorioso redobrei de facúndia. Certamente, meu Príncipe, uma ilusão! E a mais amarga, porque o Homem pensa ter na Cidade a base de toda a sua grandeza e só nela tem a fonte de toda a sua miséria. (...) Na Cidade perdeu ele a força e beleza harmoniosa do corpo, e se tornou esse ser ressequido e escanifrado ou obeso e afogado em unto, de ossos moles como trapos, de nervos trémulos como arames, com cangalhas, com chinós, com dentaduras de chumbo, sem sangue, sem febra, sem viço, torto, corcunda - esse ser em que Deus, espantado, mal pode reconhecer o seu esbelto e rijo e nobre Adão! Na Cidade findou a sua liberdade moral: cada manhã ela lhe impõe uma necessidade, e cada necessidade o arremessa para uma dependência: pobre e subalterno, a sua vida é um constante solicitar, adular, vergar, rastejar, aturar; e rico e superior como um Jacinto, a Sociedade logo o enreda em tradições, preceitos, etiquetas, cerimónias, praxes, ritos, serviços mais disciplinares que os de um cárcere ou de um quartel... A sua tranquilidade (bem tão alto que Deus com ela recompensa os santos ) onde está, meu Jacinto? Sumida para sempre, nessa batalha desesperada pelo pão, ou pela fama, ou pelo poder, ou pelo gozo, ou pela fugidia rodela de ouro! Alegria como a haverá na Cidade para esses milhões de seres que tumultuam na arquejante ocupação de desejar - e que, nunca fartando o desejo, incessantemente padecem de desilusão, desesperança ou derrota? Os sentimentos mais genuinamente humanos logo na Cidade se desumanizam! Vê, meu Jacinto! São como luzes que o áspero vento do viver social não deixa arder com serenidade e limpidez; e aqui abala e faz tremer; e além brutamente apaga; e adiante obriga a flamejar com desnaturada violência. As amizades nunca passam de alianças que o interesse, na hora inquieta da defesa ou na hora sôfrega do assalto, ata apressadamente com um cordel apressado, e que estalam ao menor embate da rivalidade ou do orgulho. E o Amor, na Cidade, meu gentil Jacinto? Considera esses vastos armazéns com espelhos, onde a nobre carne de Eva se vende, tarifada ao arratel, como a de vaca! Contempla esse velho Deus do Himeneu, que circula trazendo em vez do ondeante facho da Paixão a apertada carteira do Dote! Espreita essa turba que foge dos largos caminhos assoalhados em que os Faunos amam as Ninfas na boa lei natural, e busca tristemente os recantos lôbregos de Sodoma ou de Lesbos!... Mas o que a cidade mais deteriora no homem é a Inteligência, porque ou lha arregimenta dentro da banalidade ou lha empurra para a extravagância. Nesta densa e pairante camada de Idéias e Fórmulas que constitui a atmosfera mental das Cidades, o homem que a respira, nela envolto, só pensa todos os pensamentos já pensados, só exprime todas as expressões já exprimidas: - ou então, para se destacar na pardacenta e chata rotina e trepar ao frágil andaime da gloríola, inventa num gemente esforço, inchando o crânio, uma novidade disforme que espante e que detenha a multidão como um monstrengo numa feira. Todos, intelectualmente, são carneiros, trilhando o mesmo trilho, balando o mesmo balido, com o focinho pendido para a poeira onde pisam, em fila, as pegadas pisadas; - e alguns são macacos, saltando no topo de mastros vistosos, com esgares e cabriolas. Assim, meu Jacinto, na Cidade, nesta criação tão antinatural onde o solo é de pau e feltro e alcatrão, e o carvão tapa o céu, e a gente vive acamada nos prédios como o paninho nas lojas, e a claridade vem pelos canos, e as mentiras se murmuram através de arames - o homem aparece como uma criatura anti-humana, sem beleza, sem força, sem liberdade, sem riso, sem sentimento, e trazendo em si um espírito que é passivo como um escravo ou impudente como um Histrião... E aqui tem o belo Jacinto o que é a bela Cidade! (...) -Sim, com efeito, a Cidade... É talvez uma ilusão perversa!