Sedan Quotes

Cinta bukan melemahkan hati, bukan membawa putus asa, bukan menimbulkan tangis sedu sedan. Tetapi cinta menghidupkan pengharapan, menguatkan hati dalam perjuangan menempuh onak dan duri penghidupan.

It's a McLaren SLR 722 Roadster." "How big is it?" "It's a convertible." "Will a tiger fit?" "No. It seats only two, but the boys are man half the day now." "Is it more than $30,000?" He squirmed and hedged, "Yes, but-" "How much more?" "Much more." "How much more?" "About $400,000 more." My mouth dropped open. "Mr. Kadam!" "Miss Kelsey, I know it's extravagant, but when you drive it, you will see it's worth every cent." I folded my hands across my chest. "I won't drive it." He looked offended. "That car was meant to be driven." "Then you drive it. I'll drive the Jeep." He looked tempted. "If it will appease you, perhaps we can share it." Kishan clapped his hands. "I can't wait." Mr. Kadam wagged a finger at him. "Oh, no! Not you. We'll get you a nice sedan. Used.

Most killers have pretty average lifestyles. Steady jobs too. Sometimes they're even living the family life-white picket fence and a four-door sedan. That's what makes them so scary. They act human and they slot into society and since a young age they've known how to hide the crazy; they put it up on a shelf and only bring it out on special occasions.

as if the cops expected the big gray sedan to start up by itself, like that old Plymouth in the horror movie,

What can I say?" He motions to the distressed sedan. "I drive this piece of shit to compensate for my huge dick.

She is a mortal danger without meaning to be one; she's exquisite without giving ita thought; shes a trap set by nature, a rose in which love lies in ambush! Anyone who has seen her smile has known perfection. She creates grace without movement and makes all divinity fit into her slightest gesture. And neither Venus in her shell, nor Diana striding in the great, blossoming forest, can compare to her when she goes through the streets of paris in her sedan chair.

The new car’s a lot prettier than Lucy, my Sweet Caroline—she’s a newer sedan, and, if I’m being perfectly honest, is actually a little bit of a risk. She’s flashier than what I’d usually pick. I just couldn’t resist her gorgeous shade of ruby red.

Yearning is a red-haired girl sitting on the hood of her silver sedan, reading about Marilyn Monroe. A cherry orchard at night, houselights in the distance. It's the painstaking neatness of a paint-by-number sunset, a yellowed letter held between graceful fingers, a cautious step into the sun-filled lobby of a famous hotel. It's the way I feel every time I think about Ava.

Yearning is a red-haired girl sitting on the hood of her silver sedan, reading about Marilyn Monroe.

How come people don't do things like that nowadays? You grope around in the back of a sedan in high school and you think you're in love. Nobody gets swept off their feet anymore.

At intersections and crowded areas between sedans and trucks the gutter reflected the bitter pastels of metropolitan neon, rainbows hacked down to earth and dirt.

Det är underligt hur livet fungerar: man vill ha något och man väntar och väntar och det känns som en evighet. Sedan händer det och allt är över och det enda man vill är att krypa tillbaka in i den där stunden innan allt förändrades.

THERE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN ITINERANTS, drifters, hobos, restless souls. But now, in the second millennium, a new kind of wandering tribe is emerging. People who never imagined being nomads are hitting the road. They’re giving up traditional houses and apartments to live in what some call “wheel estate”—vans, secondhand RVs, school buses, pickup campers, travel trailers, and plain old sedans. They are driving away from the impossible choices that face what used to be the middle class. Decisions like: Would you rather have food or dental work? Pay your mortgage or your electric bill? Make a car payment or buy medicine? Cover rent or student loans? Purchase warm clothes or gas for your commute? For many the answer seemed radical at first. You can’t give yourself a raise, but what about cutting your biggest expense? Trading a stick-and-brick domicile for life on wheels?

And here's a story you can hardly believe, but it's true, and it's funny and it's beautiful. There was a family of twelve and they were forced off the land. They had no car. They built a trailer out of junk and loaded it with their possessions. They pulled it to the side of 66 and waited. And pretty soon a sedan picked them up. Five of them rode in the sedan and seven on the trailer, and a dog on the trailer. They got to California in two jumps. The man who pulled them fed them. And that's true. But how can such courage be, and such faith in their own species? Very few things would teach such faith. The people in flight from the terror behind - strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever.

Mercedes sedans appeal to the kind of people who believe AOL is the best way to access the Internet.  They’re boring.  They’re old.  They’re not funny.

What are you looking for?” he asked. A car alarm was going off in the distance, and he cringed as if the sound were deafening. “A ride,” she answered. Some of the cars were too new, others too old. She finally stopped in front of a black sedan, nice enough, but not one of the models with fancy security and keyless entry. “Break that for me,” she said, nodding at the driver’s side door. “The window?” asked August, and she gave him a look that said yes, obviously the window, and he gave her a look that said I don’t commit petty crimes very often before he slammed his elbow into the glass to shatter it.

Första gången jag såg dig, vid Guvernören, hade jag inte varit och sett på fåglarna vid gränsen på många år. Men det var dem du påminde mig om. Du hoppade upp och du skrek något, och ditt hår höll på att lossna ur hästsvansen, och du var så snabb..." Han skakar på huvudet. "Som en blixt, och sedan var du borta. Precis som en fågel.

I väntrummet sitter Britt-Marie kvar. Ensam. Inte ens kakaduan är kvar. Om Britt-Marie hade rest sig och gått så hade nog ingen kommit ihåg att hon varit där. Hon ser ut att tänka på det ett ögonblick. Sedan borstar hon något osynligt från kanten av bordet och rättar till ett veck i sin kjol, och sedan reser hon sig och går.

You also have to work with the love you are given, with all of the complications clanging behind it like tin cans tied to a bridal sedan.

MONOPOLY. Tesla started with a tiny submarket that it could dominate: the market for high-end electric sports cars. Since the first Roadster rolled off the production line in 2008, Tesla’s sold only about 3,000 of them, but at $109,000 apiece that’s not trivial. Starting small allowed Tesla to undertake the necessary R&D to build the slightly less expensive Model S, and now Tesla owns the luxury electric sedan market, too. They sold more than 20,000 sedans in 2013 and now Tesla is in prime position to expand to broader markets in the future.

I was playing a new part in a new play: the messed-up adult child coming home in a truly pitiful state in the back of her parents’ luxury sedan. It was a glorious suburban homecoming.

Cixi was not at the coronation. The majestic main part of the Forbidden City was out of bounds to her – because she was a woman. She still could not set foot in it, even though she was now the de facto ruler. In fact, when her sedan-chair went within sight of it, she had to close the curtain and show humility by not looking at it. Virtually all decrees were issued in the name of her son, as Cixi had no mandate to rule. It was with this crippling handicap that she proceeded to change China.” Excerpt From: Chang, Jung. “Empress Dowager Cixi.” Random House, 2013-09-25T18:30:00+00:00. iBooks. This material may be protected by copyright.

När jag ska avbilda något kastar jag först bara en snabb blick, hör jag mamma säga. Sedan låter jag mina händer ta fram bilden jag fick. Det min hjärna tyckte var viktigt nog att memorera.

The media reports from the day described the car as the love child of an Aston Martin and a Maserati. In reality, the sedan barely held together. It still had the base structure of a Mercedes CLS, although no one in the press knew that, and some of the body panels and the hood were stuck to the frame with magnets. “They could just slide the hood right off,” said Bruce Leak, a Tesla owner invited to attend the event. “It wasn’t really attached.

She turned off all the lights in the duplex and peered out the windows, moving from one room to the next to see if she could catch sight of the a black sedan. Security lights and streetlights in her complex cast a strange orange glow on the misty snow. It looked like the perfect night for a murder.

Just as the sun disappeared behind a large gray cloud, a white sedan crept slowly along the long twisted road. A wall of trees on either side of the road gave the appearance that the only way out was to forge ahead. The black pavement weaved, rounding bends, up and down small rolling hills. If someone were to look at the scene from above, it would appear similar to a white rat running through a large maze, no doubt on its way to find the cheese.

There was a black sedan with tinted windows at the end of the lot--the windows cracked down enough for her to see two sunglassed agents of a vague yet menacing government agency watching her intently. One of them had a camera that kept going off, but the agent didn't seem to know how to deactivate the flash. The light against the tinted windows made the shots worthless, and the agent cursed and tried again and it flashed again. Jackie waved good night to them, as she always did.

Russel /.../ antar att planeten har blivit skapad för några minuter sedan, >utrustad< med en mänsklighet som >minns< ett illusoriskt förflutet.

You also have to work with the love you are given, with all of the complications clanging behind it like tin cans to a bridal sedan.

Så här uttryckte Publius Terentius Afer det för mer än tvåtusen år sedan: Jag är människa: inget mänskligt är mig främmande. Och det är en identitet som bör kunna förena oss alla.

Good news arrives with TV cameras and big, brightly painted vans. Bad news arrives quietly, in dark sedans with black windows.

He sat in his wife's Lexus sedan, parked on Burgundy across from the Hotel St. Pierre. He dared not bring his FBI-issue Ford four-door. A third-grader could spot it as a Fedmobile.

The next morning Sadie helps me into her cream-colored Packard sedan

Everyone I know has a fine big sedan," Mrs. Levy said as she got into the little car. "Not you. No. You have to own a kid's car that costs more than a Cadillac and blows my hair all around.

She stuck to side streets, riding slowly, with care. The trip took a little under an hour, and Diane was feeling a pulsing pain in her calf by the time sh pulled up to the front of the pawnshop. There was a black sedan with tinted windows at the end of the lot--the windows cracked down enough for her to see two sunglassed agents of a vague yet menacing government agency. One of them raised her camera and tried to take a photo of Diane, but the camera flashed, only reflecting the car window back at the lens. The agent swore. Diane waved a cursory hello at them and walked into the store.

When she tried to put the nozzle back onto the pump, it kept falling off because her hands were shaking. She didn't feel anything at all, but she couldn't get her hands to stop shaking. By the time she looked up, Troy was already gone. He had gotten into his car (white sedan, broken taillight) and pulled away without looking at her once. She forced herself to stand very still and breathe slowly until her hands stopped shaking. Once they were steady, she put the nozzle back onto the pump, deliberately opened her car door, and drove away at a reasonable speed. The entire time she felt fine.

Vad som är lagom och normalt ska man hålla för sig själv, inte pådyvla andra. Nej fy fan, var snäll mot dina medmänniskor och tänk på naturen, sedan kan du göra vad du vill. Tycker jag. (ch.28, p.160)

There are men who carefully manoeuvre a large limousine out of the garage at eight o'clock every morning. Others leave an hour earlier, traveling in a middle-class sedan. Still others leave when it is not yet light, wearing overalls and carrying lunch boxes, to catch buses, subways, or trains to factories or building sites. By a trick of fate, it is always the latter, the poorest, who are exploited by the least attractive women. For, unlike women (who have an eye for money), men notice only woman's external appearance. Therefore, the more desirable women in their own class are always being snatched away from under their noses by men who happen to earn more. No matter what a particular man does or how he spends his day, he has one thing in common with all other men - he spends it in a degrading manner. And he himself does not gain by it. It is not his own livelihood that matters: he would have to struggle far less for that, since luxuries do not mean anything to him anyway it is the fact that he does it for others that makes him so tremendously proud. He will undoubtedly have a photograph of his wife and children on his desk, and will miss no opportunity to hand it around. No matter what a man's job may be - bookkeeper, doctor, bus driver, or managing director - every moment of his life will be spent as a cog in a huge and pitiless system - a system designed to exploit him to the utmost, to his dying day. (...) We have long ceased to play the games of childhood. As children, we became bored quickly and changed from one game to another. A man is like a child who is condemned to play the same game for the rest of his life.

Jag är inte fullkomlig. Jag tycker bättre om snö och is än om kärleken. Jag har lättare för att intressera mig för matematiken än för att tycka om mina medmänniskor. Men jag har en förankring till något i tillvaron som står fast. Sedan kan man kalla det vad man vill. Jag står på ett fundament, och längre ner än dit kan jag inte falla. Det är mycket möjligt att jag inte har lyckats ordna mitt eget liv alltför smart. Men jag har alltid – med minst ett finger åt gången – tag i Det absoluta rummet. Därför finns det en gräs för hur långt världen kan vrida sig ur led, hur mycket som kan hinna gå snett innan jag upptäcker det. Jag vet nu, utan skuggan av tvivel, att något är sjukt.

five police cars were parked in the yard, two drawn up nose-to-nose behind the car’s back bumper, as if the cops expected the big gray sedan to start up by itself, like that old Plymouth in the horror movie, and make a run for it.

Här är verkligen vackert,” suckade Liv. ”Inte lika vackert som du,” svarade Mark och tittade in i hennes ögon så intensivt att en primitiv instinkt skrek: Fly! Innan hon hann göra detta kom hans änglaansikte närmare och sedan trycktes deras läppar mot varandra. Liv slöt sina ögon och såg fyrverkerier bakom ögonlocken. Det var inte alls som när Lasse hade kysst henne. Det var bättre och intensivare. Alldeles för tidigt lämnade hans läppar hennes och alla möjliga sorters känslor snurrade runt i huvudet. ”Jag kunde inte låta bli,” mumlade Mark med mörk sammetsröst och vilade huvudet mot hennes axel. Med en tafatt rörelse smekte Liv hans vackra vita hår som var som det mjukaste silke. Ordlöst tröstade de varandra utan att vara medvetna om det.

Språk är som vallmoblommor. Allt som krävs är något som rör om i jorden och när något väl gör det, upp kommer orden, klarröda, friska, fladdrande i vinden. Sedan frökapslar som rasslar, ut faller frön. Så finns det ännu mer språk som bara väntar på att gro.

We are racing down Main Street. Arthur is right on the tail of a blck sedan with tinted windows that won't pull over. He slams the horn. "Arthur," I say. The car doesn't yield. "Arthur," I say. He hits the horn again, still close on the car's bummper. "Arthur, our turn was back there.

Och att de sedan, efter allt världen hade lärt dem, inte kände igen bojorna när de fästes vid deras händer och fötter. South Carolinas bojor var av ett nytt slag – nycklarna och tillhållarna präglades av lokala syften – men fungerade ändå som bojor. De hade inta alls kommit särskilt långt.

Sleet was falling through a motionless blanket of smog. It was early morning. I was riding in the Lincoln sedan of Dr. Asa Breed. I was vaguely ill, still a little drunk from the night before. Dr. Breed was driving. Tracks of a long-abandoned trolley system kept catching the wheels of his car.

Darn! what a beautiful night! Heading towards Pandara Road-Gulati Restaurant, with open windows of my baby sedan and this broad chest guy with big brown eyes. He hums the oldies well and his Issey Miyake is making me lose the grip over my senses. One more thing is distracting me, he ain't wearing anything inside but a transparent white, V necked, cotton short Kurta. I can see the hair winking out and his collar bones!! Not only men get excited by transparent dresses but women as well. His broad shoulders and chest is my weakness and he knows it. This man is not doing good to me! It's a crime to seduce in this way, when you are not touched, when you are distracted by the aroma of his skin, when you know, he is well aware of the intentions.. when you can't do anything except getting seduced by the corner stretching smile of a man with animal instinct.. I certainly am missing myself to be tied up to the bedpost,choked and groaning his name!

Ah, God, what an ugly city Ilium is! 'Ah, God,' says Bokonon, 'what an ugly city every city is!' Sleet was falling through a motionless blanket of smog. It was early morning. I was riding in the Lincoln sedan of Dr. Asa Breed. I was vaguely ill, still a little drunk from the night before. Dr. Breed was driving. Tracks of a long-abandoned trolley system kept catching the wheels of his car. Breed was a pink old man, very prosperous, beautifully dressed. His manner was civilized, optimistic, capable. I, by contrast, felt bristly, diseased, cynical. I had spent the night with Sandra. My soul seemed as foul as smoke from burning cat fur.

Deimos och Fobos var där och den omättligt rasande Eris, hon som är syster och vän till mannadråparen Ares. Liten verkar hon först, men reser sig sedan tills hjässan stöter mot himlens valv, och likväl går hon på marken. Mitt bland dem sådde hon hat och fördelade tvedräkten lika där hon i vimlet skred fram för att öka krigarnas jämmer.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, ignoring the bite of the frosty air on my bare skin. I launched myself in the direction of the door, fumbling around until I found it. I tried shaking the handle, jiggling it, still thinking, hoping, praying that this was some big birthday surprise, and that by the time I got back inside, there would be a plate of pancakes at the table and Dad would bring in the presents, and we could—we could—we could pretend like the night before had never happened, even with the evidence in the next room over. The door was locked. “I’m sorry!” I was screaming. Pounding my fists against it. “Mommy, I’m sorry! Please!” Dad appeared a moment later, his stocky shape outlined by the light from inside of the house. I saw Mom’s bright-red face over his shoulder; he turned to wave her off and then reached over to flip on the overhead lights. “Dad!” I said, throwing my arms around his waist. He let me keep them there, but all I got in return was a light pat on the back. “You’re safe,” he told me, in his usual soft, rumbling voice. “Dad—there’s something wrong with her,” I was babbling. The tears were burning my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to be bad! You have to fix her, okay? She’s…she’s…” “I know, I believe you.” At that, he carefully peeled my arms off his uniform and guided me down, so we were sitting on the step, facing Mom’s maroon sedan. He was fumbling in his pockets for something, listening to me as I told him everything that had happened since I walked into the kitchen. He pulled out a small pad of paper from his pocket. “Daddy,” I tried again, but he cut me off, putting down an arm between us. I understood—no touching. I had seen him do something like this before, on Take Your Child to Work Day at the station. The way he spoke, the way he wouldn’t let me touch him—I had watched him treat another kid this way, only that one had a black eye and a broken nose. That kid had been a stranger. Any hope I had felt bubbling up inside me burst into a thousand tiny pieces. “Did your parents tell you that you’d been bad?” he asked when he could get a word in. “Did you leave your house because you were afraid they would hurt you?” I pushed myself up off the ground. This is my house! I wanted to scream. You are my parents! My throat felt like it had closed up on itself. “You can talk to me,” he said, very gently. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I just need your name, and then we can go down to the station and make some calls—” I don’t know what part of what he was saying finally broke me, but before I could stop myself I had launched my fists against him, hitting him over and over, like that would drive some sense back into him. “I am your kid!” I screamed. “I’m Ruby!” “You’ve got to calm down, Ruby,” he told me, catching my wrists. “It’ll be okay. I’ll call ahead to the station, and then we’ll go.” “No!” I shrieked. “No!” He pulled me off him again and stood, making his way to the door. My nails caught the back of his hand, and I heard him grunt in pain. He didn’t turn back around as he shut the door. I stood alone in the garage, less than ten feet away from my blue bike. From the tent that we had used to camp in dozens of times, from the sled I’d almost broken my arm on. All around the garage and house were pieces of me, but Mom and Dad—they couldn’t put them together. They didn’t see the completed puzzle standing in front of them. But eventually they must have seen the pictures of me in the living room, or gone up to my mess of the room. “—that’s not my child!” I could hear my mom yelling through the walls. She was talking to Grams, she had to be. Grams would set her straight. “I have no child! She’s not mine—I already called them, don’t—stop it! I’m not crazy!

Ungdomar. Ni är medvetna om hur ni påverkar era barn. Jag hörde en barnläkare på tv som sa att för en generation sedan kom föräldrarna till honom och sa 'vårt barn kissar i sängen, vad är det för fel på honom?'. Nu, en generation senare, kommer föräldrarna till läkaren och säger 'vårt barn kissar i sängen, vad är det för fel på oss?'. Ni tar på er skulden för allt.

Just before graduating from college, my girlfriend and I were on our way to pick up some groceries in her ancient blue sedan when she asked me what my biggest fear was. "Abandonment," I said. I was worried the end of college would spell the end of our relationship, and I wanted her to reassure me, to tell me that I need not fear being alone, because she would always be there, and etc. But she wasn't the sort of person to make false promises, and most promises featuring the word "always" are unkeepable. Everything ends, or at least everything humans have thus far observed ends. Anyway, after I said abandonment, she just nodded, and then I filled the awkward silence by asking her what her biggest fear was. "Geese," she answered

California, Reacher thought. There was a sedan at the curb. It had been waiting there for them. A big car, black, expensive. The driver was leaning across and behind the front passenger seat. He was stretching over to pop the rear door. The guy opposite Reacher motioned with his gun again. Reacher didn’t move. He glanced left and right. He figured he had about another second and a half to make some kind

In the meantime, none of the folks who had come from Sedan with Monique and Jacqueline had departed. Nor had the Halévy family from Brussels. Homeless and shell-shocked, none of them seemed to know where else to go or what else to do. The Europe they had all known, the Europe they had all grown up in and loved, was gone, in the hands of a madman who was now attempting to conquer Britain and North Africa as well.

executive and nonexecutive, every day. Yet few people are even aware of it. When asked whether making decisions would deplete their willpower and make them vulnerable to temptation, most people say no. They don’t realize that decision fatigue helps explain why ordinarily sensible people get angry at their colleagues and families, splurge on clothes, buy junk food at the supermarket, and can’t resist the car dealer’s offer to rustproof their new sedan.

And there were likely people who thought one could not interpret men's feelings by the cars they drove. But when they moved onto the street, Ove drove a Saab 96 and Rune a Volvo 244. After the accident Ove bought a Saab 95 so he'd have space for Sonja's wheelchair. That same year Rune bought a Volvo 245 to have space for a stroller. Three years later Sonja got a more modern wheelchair and Ove bought a hatchback, a Saab 900. Rune bought a Volvo 265 because Anita had started talking about another child. Then Ove bought two more Saab 900s and after that his Saab 9000. Rune bought a Volvo 265 and eventually a Volvo 745 station wagon. But no more children came. One evening Sonja came home and told Ove that Anita had been to the doctor. And a week later a Volvo 740 stood parked in Rune's garage. The sedan model. Ove saw it when he washed his Saab. In the evening Rune found a half bottle of whiskey outside his door. They never spoke about it.

Sverige har inte haft krig på egen mark sedan sextonhundratalet och hur ofta tänkte jag inte den tanken att någon borde invadera Sverige, bomba husen, plundra hela landet, skjuta männen, våldta kvinnorna, och sedan låta något avlägset land, som Chile eller Bolivia, välkomna flyktingarna därifrån med sin stora gästfrihet och säga till dem att de älskar allt skandinaviskt och sedan fösa ihop dem i ett getto utanför någon storstad där. Bara för att få höra vad de skulle säga.

With him were Marshal Patrice MacMahon, a hero of the Crimean War, and 100,000 troops.* MacMahon was promptly wounded in the leg by Prussian gunfire. He turned over his command to Général Ducrot, who, realizing that the hills surrounding Sedan would make excellent emplacements for the deadly Prussian cannons, uttered the memorable words: "We're in a chamberpot and about to be shat upon."29 It was a statement displaying a foresight thitherto alien to the French military command.

There was once a stone cutter who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life. One day he passed a wealthy merchant's house. Through the open gateway, he saw many fine possessions and important visitors. "How powerful that merchant must be!" thought the stone cutter. He became very envious and wished that he could be like the merchant. To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever imagined, but envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. Soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. "How powerful that official is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a high official!" Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around. It was a hot summer day, so the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. "How powerful the sun is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the sun!" Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. "How powerful that storm cloud is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a cloud!" Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. "How powerful it is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the wind!" Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, feared and hated by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it - a huge, towering rock. "How powerful that rock is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a rock!" Then he became the rock, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the hard surface, and felt himself being changed. "What could be more powerful than I, the rock?" he thought. He looked down and saw far below him the figure of a stone cutter.

Han säger: "Låt mig få visa dig." Och sedan kysser vi varandra. Eller jag tror åtminstone att vi kysser varandra - jag har bara sett det göras ett par gånger, snabba pickanden med stängda munnar, på bröllop eller vid högtidliga tilldragelser. Men det här liknar ingenting jag någonsin har sett eller föreställt mig eller ens drömt. Det här är som musik eller dans, fast bättre än båda. Hans mun är aningen öppen så jag öppnar min också. Hans läppar är mjuka, samma mjuka tryck som den tyst envisa rösten i mitt huvud som upprepar ordet ja. Värmen bara växer inom mig, vågor av ljus välver sig och bryts och får mig att känna mig som om jag sväver. Han trär fingrarna genom mitt hår, kupar handen om nacke och bakhuvud, rör den fjäderlätt över axlarna, och utan att tänka eller vilja det hittar mina händer till hans bröst, rör sig över hudens hetta, skulderbladens ben som liknar vingspetsar, käkens krökning, nätt och jämnt täckt av skäggstubb - allt så underligt och obekant, och överdådigt ljuvligt nytt. Mitt hjärta trummar så hårt att det värker i bröstet, men det är den goda sortens smärta, som känslan man får den första riktiga höstdagen när luften är frisk och klar och löven krullar sig i kanterna och vinden doftar svagt av rök - som slutet och början av något på en och samma gång. Jag kan svära på att jag känner hans hjärta dunka ett svar under min hand, ett omedelbart eko av mitt eget hjärta, som om våra kroppar talade med varandra.

It was now clear that the little town of Sedan—with a population of less than eighteen thousand people—was one of the Germans’ first targets. How long would it take them to overrun and consume the town? How long would it be until everyone was dead or a prisoner of war? Once the Nazis controlled the bridges across the Meuse River, they could pour their forces into France, annihilate her armies, and march on Paris. How long would it take them to occupy and enslave the entire country?

Imagine teaching a fifteen-year-old how to drive a car with manual transmission. First, you have to press down the clutch. Then you have to whisper a secret into one of the cup holders. In Diane’s case, this was easy, as she was not a very social or public person, and most any mundane thing in her life could be a secret. In Josh’s case this was hard, because for teenagers most every mundane thing in their lives is a secret that they do not like sharing in front of their parents. Then, after the clutch and the secret, the driver has to grab the stick shift, which is a splintered wood stake wedged into the dashboard, and shake it until something happens—anything really—and then simultaneously type a series of code numbers into a keyboard on the steering wheel. All this while sunglasses-wearing agents from a vague yet menacing government agency sit in a heavily tinted black sedan across the street taking pictures (and occasionally waving). This is a lot of pressure on a first-time driver.

Are you hurt? Don’t lie to me, Rose. If you hurt yourself when you jumped from the sedan, you need to admit it, not be ashamed. It was a dumb plan, but we got away.” She gritted her teeth, breathing through her mouth. When she could speak, she made a strangling sound deep in her throat. “I’m not hurt.” He glared down at her with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Nothing is wrong with me. This is called having contractions, you big oaf,” Rose snapped back, her glare maybe outdoing his by a shade.

Siddhartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people, to enjoy himself with a woman, he had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice and on a chess-board, to watch dancing girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan-chair, to sleep on a soft bed. But still he had felt different from and superior to the others;

Colonel Klaus Von Strassen stepped out of the command car. Under the cover of darkness and flanked by German soldiers bearing submachine guns at the ready, the Nazi officer slipped through the back door of a schoolhouse on the eastern edge of Sedan to see the nearly three dozen prisoners—men, women, and children—sitting in orderly rows on the floor. They had been forced to strip down to their underwear. Their feet and hands were bound tightly with ropes and chains. They were blindfolded and gagged. They sat shivering in the cool night air, thick with the smell of gunpowder and burning human flesh.

Mannen såg lugnt på honom, nästan medlidande, och svarade: "Vet du vad det värsta med att vara förälder är? Att man alltid blir bedömd för sina sämsta ögonblick. Man kan göra en miljon saker rätt men en enda sak fel och sedan är man för alltid den där föräldern som kollade i mobilen medan barnet fick en gunga i huvudet i parken. Vi tar inte ögonen ifrån dem på flera dygn i taget men så läser vi ett sms och då är alla våra bästa stunder värdelösa. Ingen människa går till psykologen för att prata om alla gånger de inte fick en gunga i huvudet som barn. Föräldrar definieras av sina misslyckanden." (ss. 29-30)

It isn't just the idea of a woman in a truck. At this point, they're everywhere. The statisticians tell us today's woman is as likely to buy a truck as a minivan. One cheers the suffrage, but the effect is dilutive. My head doesn't snap around the way it used to. Ignoring for the moment that my head (or the gray hairs upon it) may be the problem, I think it's not about women in trucks, it's about certain women in certain trucks. Not so long ago I was fueling my lame tan sedan at the Gas-N-Go when a woman roared across the lot in a dusty pickup and pulled up to park by the yellow cage in which they lock up the LP bottles. She dismounted wearing scuffed boots and dirty jeans and a T-shirt that was overwashed and faded, and at the very sight of her I made an involuntary noise that went, approximately, ohf...! I suppose ohf...! reflects as poorly on my character as wolf whistle, but I swear it escaped without premeditation. Strictly a spinal reflex. [...] The woman plucking her eyebrows in the vanity mirror of her waxed F-150 Lariat does not elicit the reflex. Even less so if her payload includes soccer gear or nothing at all. That woman at the Gas-N-Go? I checked the back of her truck. Hay bales and a coon dog crate. Ohf...!

Och när man sedan håller på att köpa tärnad cantaloupemelon på Sjunde Avenyn råkar man få syn på Nick Dunne, och pang, där är någon som känner en, någon som känner igen en. Och det gäller er båda två. Ni tycker båda att precis samma saker är värda att minnas. (Fast bara en oliv.) Ni har samma rytm. Klick. Ni känner helt enkelt varandra. Och plötsligt ser du hur ni läser i sängen och våfflor på söndagar och hur ni skrattar åt ingenting och hans mun mot din. Och det är så bortom okej att man förstår att man aldrig mer kan nöja sig med det som bara är okej. Så fort gick det. Man tänker: Jaha, här är resten av mitt liv. Äntligen är det här.

The ambulance arrived when the police cars did. They were accompanied by a man in a black suit who had the look of a federal agent. It didn’t surprise Cecily that he went right up to Tate and drew him to one side. While Cecily was being checked over by a paramedic, Gabrini, who’d already been loaded onto a gurney, was being watched by two police officers. Tate came back to Cecily while the federal agent paused by the police officers. “You can take him to the hospital to have his ribs strapped,” the man told the ambulance attendant. “But we’ll have transport for him to New Jersey with two federal marshals.” “Marshals!” Gabrini exclaimed, holding his side, because the outburst had hurt. “Marshals,” the federal agent replied. There was something menacing about the smile that accompanied the words. “It seems that you’re wanted in Jersey for much more serious crimes than breaking an entering and assault with a deadly weapon, Mr. Gabrini.” “Not in Jersey,” Gabrini began. “No, those other charges, they’re in D.C.” “You’ll get to D.C. eventually,” the federal agent murmured, then the dark man smiled. And Gabrini knew at once that he wasn’t connected in any way at all to the government. Gabrini was suddenly yelling his head off, begging for federal protection, but nobody paid him much attention. He was carried off in the ambulance with the sedan following close behind.

Emily My sneakers hit the pavement and my heart slams like the truck door behind me. "Watch it!" My cousin and best friend Erick hops out of the drivers' side, reprimanding me at the same time. Sensitive about his truck. "Sorry," I mutter. The dim, enclosed parking garage puts me on edge. It's a perfect place for vampires. But it's early afternoon, not their prime hunting time. The upscale Austin, Texas, mall parking lot is packed with sedans and trucks. I sling a motorcycle helmet into the bed of the truck, where it joins the massive four-wheeler we just spent an exhilarating morning breaking in. A gift for his eighteenth birthday a couple of months ago. For my eighteenth, I'm getting a night

Do not suppose, for example, that if you are an employee of the American Embassy by the name of Alexander Dolgun you cannot be arrested in broad daylight on Gorky Street, right by the Central Telegraph Office. Your unfamiliar friend dashes through the press of the crowd, and opens his plundering arms to embrace you: “Saaasha!” He simply shouts at you, with no effort to be inconspicuous. “Hey, pal! Long time no see! Come on over, let’s get out of the way.” At that moment a Pobeda sedan draws up to the curb.… And several days later TASS will issue an angry statement to all the papers alleging that informed circles of the Soviet government have no information on the disappearance of Alexander Dolgun.

Nancy drove to River Heights and dropped George and Bess at their homes. In a few minutes she reached her own brick colonial house, which set back from the street and was reached by a curving driveway. Mr. Drew’s sporty sedan rolled in right behind her. “Hello, Nancy,” the lawyer greeted his daughter fondly. “I came home early today—had a rather hard session in court.” Nancy and her father strolled through the garden. “Dad, let’s sit down here,” she suggested after a few moments, indicating a stone bench. “I have something to show you.” “A letter from Ned Nickerson?” he teased. “Or is it from a new admirer?” Nancy laughed. “Neither. It’s something I copied today from part of a map of a treasure island!

So he gunned the engine and turned the wheel hard to the left. He hopped a curb and accelerated. He began driving over people’s lawns, through their backyards, across their fields. No one was around to stop him. Everyone on this side of Sedan had already evacuated. After a few minutes, he came to the end of a cornfield and found the main road heading south. At first he was glad to reconnect with a real road, but he found it just as clogged as all the roads behind him. He didn’t think twice. He veered into the lane of oncoming traffic and gunned the engine again. In any other circumstance, it would have seemed like an act of lunacy. But in this case there was no oncoming traffic. The lane was empty. Not a soul was heading north toward Sedan and the Belgian border.

collapsed into bed just after four o’clock in the morning. He knew he would have to be up soon. As soon as the sun peeked its head above the wooded hills behind their home, he and Claire would need to care for their own children as well as make breakfast for all their guests. There was so much to do, so much to decide. How long would everyone stay? They certainly couldn’t go back to Sedan, but could they really stay here? Monique and Jacqueline could, of course. But how could they house and feed and care for the others? Hopefully most of them had relatives in safer parts of France and could go there. That might take some time to sort out, but at least it would be a start. But for right now, it was too late. Both Luc and Claire were physically and emotionally spent, and they needed a little shut-eye.

a good story, I’ll give you that. So, how many times have you done this sort of thing?  Send the inbred trash out ahead on the road to spook up unsuspecting travelers and you all hang back, jerking each other off, waiting to ambush anyone that makes it past them?” The wounded man looked away, ignoring Shane’s comments. “Don’t worry kid, I won’t kill ya today. But if I catch you in a lie, or if I find more of your inbred cousins at this camp, I will make the last moments of your life very painful,” Shane said in a calm voice. “Why are you doing this?” Shane feigned laughter and ignored the question. “What’s your name kid?” “Kyle,” he answered. “Kyle, everything I do, I do for her.” “You kill for her?” “No, I protect her and I destroy anything that tries to harm her—” “It’s right up here, follow the white fence,” Kyle interrupted using his neck to point out a quickly approaching high fence skinned in white sheet metal. The fence was tall and set back off the road. Mounds of stacked cars and other junk could be seen piled high at points. Shane slowed the car and carefully eased over to the shoulder of the road. He put the car in park and killed the engine. Shane sat silently for a minute, hushing Kyle when he tried to speak. He opened the door and slowly walked to the front of the car while listening for sounds. He climbed onto the hood and moved to the roof of the sedan. He could just barely see inside the compound. As it appeared from the outside, it was definitely a scrap yard. Piles of sorted metal were scattered around a central building while rows of smashed and stacked cars made up the far sides of the lot. From

Jaxson, I’m fine really, and I won’t be home alone. God is living with me now… remember?” Day tried to reason with his stubborn big brother. Jaxson maneuvered the small sedan into Day’s driveway and Day’s heart rate picked up at the sight of God’s truck already there. “Oh and when did Cashel get a medical degree?” Jaxson huffed. “You may require medical attention in the middle of the night, and I won’t be there.” Day smirked. “The only attention I’ll require in the middle of the night won’t require you being there to give it to me.” Day winked. “The right man for the job will be there.” “You’re a perv.” Jaxson laughed. “Okay, okay. Just take it easy for the next few days and call me tomorrow.” “All right.” Day leaned over and gave Jaxson a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek until the man was pushing at him to get away. Day

There was once a stonecutter, who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life. One day, he passed a wealthy merchant's house, and through the open gateway, saw many fine possessions and important visitors. "How powerful that merchant must be!" thought the stonecutter. He became very envious, and wished that he could be like the merchant. Then he would no longer have to live the life of a mere stonecutter. To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever dreamed of, envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. But soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants, and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. "How powerful that official is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a high official!" Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around, who had to bow down before him as he passed. It was a hot summer day, and the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. "How powerful the sun is!" he thought "I wish that I could be the sun!" Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. "How powerful that storm cloud is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a cloud!" Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. "How powerful it is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the wind!" Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, hated and feared by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it--a huge, towering stone "How powerful that stone is”" he thought. I wish that I could be a stone!" Then he became the stone, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the solid rock, and felt himself being changed. "What could be more powerful than I, the stone?" he thought. He looked down and saw far below him the fixture of a stonecutter.

Beyond her declaration of love she could not see. But as she rehearsed the intensity of her passion she thought that he must, when the time came, respond. The desire to, at the right time, tell him became, as the years moved forward toward that time, increasingly painful, like a poisoned wound that must heal itself by breaking open. She now thought in anguish of the times, the recent times, when she could have told him, and had been afraid to, and had clumsily withdrawn, when she could have attracted him and drawn his attention to her. When she had watched over him when he was sleeping in the sedan-chair and could have wakened him with a kiss. If only she had let him know, then she could more easily have borne his not preferring her. He was ready to fall in love — and if he had known — he must have loved her — if he had known how much she loved him. The pain of this loss burnt her in every waking moment, that awful 'if only'. She had lost him, and lost him through her own fault. There were no more pleasures now in life.

fron wikipedia: http://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azita_Gh... Azita Ghahreman föddes i Iran. Efter att ha utbildat sig till lärare studerade hon språk, litteratur och mytologi. Hon har haft uppdrag i FN och arbetat för organisationen ”läkare utan gränser”.Sedan 2006 bor hon i Malmö. Hon är medlem i Författarcentrum syd. Författarskap [redigera] Azita Ghahreman debuterade som poet 1990. Hennes första bok Avazhaaye havva (Evas sånger) blev mycket uppmärksammad i iranska media. Tandishaaye paeezi (höstens skulpturer) kom ut 1996. Den tredje diktsamlingen Faramooshi aine sadei daarad (glömskan har en enkel ceremoni) 2002 blev nominerad till årets bästa diktsamling och fick bra kritik i iransk press. Hennes dikter är översatta till franska, holländska, engelska, tyska, arabiska, makedonska, kinesiska,albanska, danska och svenska. Förutom i Iran har hon haft föredrag och poesiuppläsningar i Sverige, Holland, Tyskland, Makedonien, Albanien, England och Frankrike. Analys av författarskapet [redigera] Dikterna handlar om människans möte med det ofrånkomliga och det som uppstår i varje kontakt med tingen och skeenden runtomkring oss. I hennes tidigare dikter finns spår av sorg över en förlorad barndom i ett religiöst land, som sätter många förbud. I senare dikter ser man en mognare hållning till världen och språket. Här upptäcker poeten människans begränsningar och försöker komma underfund med ångestens drivande kraft. Genom skapandet försöker hon göra sig fri från förutbestämda, förutfattade meningar om rätt och fel. I de dikter som har skrivits efter 2000 märks en lekfull poet som behärskar orden, språket och historien. Filosofiska och mytologiska studier gör sig påminda som en sorts nyupptäckt av språket och ett nytt sätt att se på världen. Poeten möter en bitter verklighet med en känsla av ironi och filosofisk beundran över stora och små händelser. Det vore fel att betrakta Ghahreman som en politisk poet. Hennes dikter kan betecknas som universella, samtidigt som de karakteriserar en iransk kvinnas liv och öde. I de senare dikterna finns dikter av erotisk karaktär. Det är få iranska kvinnor som har vågat skriva erotiska dikter så öppet och starkt. Hennes dikter ingår i en tusenårig tradition av persisk litteratur. Bibliografi

The dumpkeeper had spawned nine daughters and named them out of an old medical dictionary gleaned from the rubbish he picked. These gangling progeny with black hair hanging from their armpits now sat idle and wide-eyed day after day in chairs and crates about the little yard cleared out of the tips while their harried dam called them one by one to help with chores and one by one they shrugged or blinked their sluggard lids. Uretha, Cerebella, Hernia Sue. They moved like cats and like cats in heat attracted surrounding swains to their midden until the old man used to go out at night and fire a shotgun at random just to clear the air. He couldn't tell which was the oldest or what age and he didn’t know whether they should go out with boys or not. Like cats they sensed his lack of resolution. They were coming and going all hours in all manner of degenerate cars, a dissolute carousel of rotting sedans and niggerized convertibles with bluedot taillamps and chrome horns and foxtails and giant dice or dashboard demons of spurious fur. All patched up out of parts and lowslung and bumping over the ruts. Filled with old lanky country boys with long cocks and big feet.

Lucid Motors was started under the name Atieva (which stood for “advanced technologies in electric vehicle applications” and was pronounced “ah-tee-va”) in Mountain View in 2008 (or December 31, 2007, to be precise) by Bernard Tse, who was a vice president at Tesla before it launched the Roadster. Hong Kong–born Tse had studied engineering at the University of Illinois, where he met his wife, Grace. In the early 1980s, the couple had started a computer manufacturing company called Wyse, which at its peak in the early 1990s registered sales of more than $480 million a year. Tse joined Tesla’s board of directors in 2003 at the request of his close friend Martin Eberhard, the company’s original CEO, who sought Tse’s expertise in engineering, manufacturing, and supply chain. Tse would eventually step off the board to lead a division called the Tesla Energy Group. The group planned to make electric power trains for other manufacturers, who needed them for their electric car programs. Tse, who didn’t respond to my requests to be interviewed, left Tesla around the time of Eberhard’s departure and decided to start Atieva, his own electric car company. Atieva’s plan was to start by focusing on the power train, with the aim of eventually producing a car. The company pitched itself to investors as a power train supplier and won deals to power some city buses in China, through which it could further develop and improve its technology. Within a few years, the company had raised about $40 million, much of it from the Silicon Valley–based venture capital firm Venrock, and employed thirty people, mostly power train engineers, in the United States, as well as the same number of factory workers in Asia. By 2014, it was ready to start work on a sedan, which it planned to sell in the United States and China. That year, it raised about $200 million from Chinese investors, according to sources close to the company.

Last night the sound of the front door closing upon breathless chuckles and secretive panting, then the voice of Paddy Leigh Fermor: “Any old clothes?” in Greek. Appeared with his arm round the shoulders of Michaelis who had shown him the way up the rocky path in darkness. “Joan is winded, holed below the Plimsoll line. I’ve left her resting halfway up. Send out a seneschal with a taper, or a sedan if you have one.” It is as joyous a reunion as ever we had in Rhodes. After a splendid dinner by the fire he starts singing, songs of Crete, Athens, Macedonia. When I go out to refill the ouzo bottle at the little tavern across the way I find the street completely filled with people listening in utter silence and darkness. Everyone seems struck dumb. “What is it?” I say, catching sight of Frangos. “Never have I heard of Englishmen singing Greek songs like this!” Their reverent amazement is touching; it is as if they want to embrace Paddy wherever he goes.

Hon säger ingenting på en stund. Sedan: "Älskling, du kommer själv att upptäcka det en dag, men vi är som mest felbara när vi försöker uppfostra våra barn

Cars like the Honda Accord and Ford Focus were relatively popular among both the fixed and fluid. But there were more differences than similarities. Among the fixed, domestic cars outnumbered foreign cars by 64 percent to 36 percent. In contrast, 60 percent of the fluid drove foreign cars, compared with 40 percent who drove American cars. Also consistent with the YourMechanic study, the fluid were more likely to drive a small sedan (in car-rental terms, an economy, compact, or mini) than the fixed, while the fixed were more likely to drive an SUV.

Uncle Zhang, think back to what things were like one hundred twenty years ago. It was still the Qing Dynasty! It took over a month to go from Hangzhou to Beijing, and the emperor had to spend days cooped up in a sedan chair to get to his summer retreat.

Men sedan man har upplevat och förstått mycket, att då ännu hålla fast, att icke dö utan känna, icke avvika utan hålla stånd, det är något.

Cardell wakes up in a cold sweat. The straw from the mattress is poking into his back and his body is itching from lice. On the other side of the wooden planks of the wall, a child is screaming and soon it is joined by a companion of the same age further down in the labyrinth of rooms. The alcohol from last night is still in his blood, when he celebrated his deductions regarding Stubby’s sedan chair.

was a somewhat overweight accountant who lived in a tiny bungalow, drove a beige sedan, and contributed regularly to her retirement account.

Entreprise en 1935 au moment où la CORF, qui aurait pu constituer un témoin gênant, disparaît à point nommé, cette fortification continue à bon marché va engloutir pendant près de cinq ans et de manière décousue des ressources matérielles et humaines considérables. Mais, ce qui est plus grave, l'ensemble de l'opinion publique, non avertie, s'installe dans le sentiment d'une sécurité trompeuse : pourquoi faire d'autres efforts ? A la mobilisation, l'armée s'installe derrière la "ligne Maginot" comme sur une ligne de Blocus qui asphyxiera l'Allemagne, pendant qu'avec le temps, l'économie et nos Alliés nous assureront la suprématie. Mais l'ennemi ne s'y trompe pas, et c'est au point le plus faible de cette "ligne Maginot prolongée" qu'il frappe. Et, lorsqu'un pan entier de ce décor de théâtre s'effondre, à Sedan et à Monthermé, le 13 mai 1940, une immense déception étreint le pays, et ramène le balancier de notre pensée militaire à un sentiment de rejet de la fortification, aussi excessif que l'adulation qu'on lui portait en 1934.

At General Smith’s directions, Chet presently eased the car off the highway and onto a rutted trail overgrown with weeds. There was no sign of the black sedan or any evidence that a car had recently entered the lane. “This was a fine place once,” the general said. “Those boxwoods over there are all that’s left of a wonderful garden which stretched from the road to the mansion. My father had pictures of the old place.” At the general’s suggestion, Chet stopped the car alongside a low, crumbling wall. “Look over there,” the man continued, extending his arm in a gesture toward a cluster of large oak trees which seemed to form a military phalanx. “That’s where the big white house stood.” The ruins of the old mansion were scarcely visible through the tall grass and brush, which acted as the scar tissue of time to cover the wounds left by the war. The four got out of the car and pushed through the weeds toward the area. The officer stopped and held his two hands parallel in front of him. “The steps to the front portico were right here. They led into the beautiful center hall of one of the most picturesque homes in the whole South. “And look what’s left now—nothing,” General Smith remarked sadly. “Nothing but ghostly memories.

The Hardys started down the street. They had gone only three blocks when their chubby friend Chet Morton jumped out of a yellow sedan which stopped briefly and then went on. He was munching an apple. “Hi, fellows,” he greeted them. “I was on my way to your house. Phil gave me a ride. Going anywhere special?” “Well, sort of,” Joe replied. “Why?” “Put it off,” Chet insisted importantly. “I’ve got something to show you.

In the words of the day, it was: ‘a seat of infamy where strumpets and scolds, with bared feet and head, are condemned to abide the jibes of those who pass by’. The chucking stool itself was no more than a wooden arm-chair mounted on two poles, much like an open sedan chair of the eighteenth century. A hole was cut in the bottom of the chair and the victim’s skirts were hoisted up, leaving her exposed rump visible for all to see while she was paraded through the streets of town.

Around the time that he canned Mike Offit, Mitchell organized a corporate getaway for hundreds of employees. The retreat was in a luxury resort overlooking Lake Maggiore, in the foothills of the Italian Alps. The bankers flew into Milan, and a fleet of Mercedes sedans chauffeured them into the mountains.

En kategori unga, som blivit alltmer uppmärksammade och omtalade under senare tid, utgörs av dem som kallas ensamkommande flyktingbarn. (...) En dominerande föreställning om hur "ensamkommande" kommer till Sverige eller andra länder är att deras föräldrar formulerar en plan för att sedan, med hjälp av flyktingsmugglare, "skicka" dem till andra länder. De antas, enligt den mytiska föreställningen, skicka sina barn för att sedan själva kunna komma till Sverige genom så kallad återförening. ... Denna myt används av högerpopulistiska grupper, men har även använts i dokument av Migrationsverket, för att misstänkliggöra och diskreditera de "ensamkommande", deras föräldrar och flyktingar i allmänhet genom att utmåla dem som ekonomiska profitörer när de egentligen flyr från krig, terror och utsatthet för att skapa en framtid i Sverige.

My fears ran deep as though I were in a terrifying nightmare. I thought we’d left all the danger behind us in Urumqi, but was Gobi still at risk? If someone was making a play to claim Gobi on the Internet, wouldn’t it make sense for them to try and get Gobi in the flesh? If they had the dog, they could control the story. Was that why I was being followed by the men in suits and the gray sedan? I’d always thought they were from the government, but was it possible that they were actually reporting to someone else entirely? These thoughts stayed with me like a mosquito bite. I couldn’t stop returning to them long after my call with Jay ended. The more attention I paid them, the more inflamed and painful these dark fears became. I spent the entire flight home going over the same thoughts. Images of Gobi getting stolen from Kiki’s kennels flashed through my mind. Conspiracy theories about what might happen cast deep shadows over me. And a desperate desire to make sure that Gobi was okay left me feeling hollow inside. Added to that, I was thinking about work. I had been away from my job for almost two weeks, and I worried that I was pushing the limits of the company’s generosity. Everyone had been supportive throughout, and there was never any pressure to return from Urumqi, but I knew my colleagues were working extra hard to cover my workload in my absence. I didn’t want to abuse their kindness or take advantage of it. But I knew that, yet again, I had a choice to make. I could stick with the plan and leave Gobi in Kiki’s care for the next twenty-nine days while we waited for the all-clear on her

At the age of twenty-one, as a second lieutenant just out of St. Cyr, Gallieni had fought at Sedan and been held prisoner for some time in Germany, where he learned the language. He chose to make his further military career in the colonies where France was "growing soldiers." Although the Staff College clique professed to regard colonial service as "le tourisme," Gallieni's fame as the conqueror of Madagascar brought him, like Lyautey of Morocco, to the top rank of the French Army. He kept a notebook in German, English, and Italian called Erinnerungen of my life di ragazzo, and never ceased studying, whether it was Russian or the development of heavy artillery or the comparative administrations of the colonial powers. He wore a pince-nez and a heavy gray mustache that was rather at odds with his elegant, autocratic figure. He carried himself like an officer on parade. Tall and spare, with a distant, untouchable, faintly stern air, he resembled no other French officer of his time. Poincare described the impression he made: "straight, slender and upright with head erect and piercing eyes behind his glasses, he appeared to us as an imposing example of powerful humanity.

Mat är även en länk till tidigare generationer. Byggnader vittrar sönder och fotografier bleknar, men smak och doft förblir något som vi kan föra vidare genom århundraden. Det är en fascinerande gåva att kunna sitta vid ett matbord och ta del av maträtter som i stort sett är likadana som det människor åt på samma plats för hundratals år sedan.

Seven of them. An old, open-top Jeep with most of its paint missing. A Chrysler 300 sedan in black with chrome wheels and heavy tints on the windows. A Porsche 911, dark blue and gleaming in the afternoon sun. A 1980s Cadillac, originally burgundy, now chalky and dull. A mustard-colored Volvo station wagon. A tiny, sky blue FIAT. And a white Hyundai SUV.

För att förebygga mässlingepidemier beräknas att man normalt behöver vaccinera över 90 procent av befolkningen. Men det finns ett billigare, ganska kreativt alternativ. Det man kan göra är att i stället be ett slumpmässigt urval av människor nämna en vän - och sedan vaccinera dessa vänner. Människor med många vänner tenderar nämligen att bli namngivna på det här sättet oftare än andra människor (jo, dina vänner har fler vänner än du). Om man vaccinerar dessa namngivna vänner tills 30 procent av populationen har blivit vaccinerad, så visar beräkningar att man uppnår samma skydd mot mässling som om man slumpmässigt valt ut 99 procent av populationen.

Sådana som jag undkommer inte. Jag tror man sover en stund, sedan stiger man ner i nästa livs terror

Field Notes on Loving a Girl in Secret" There’s a danger in comparing her to things. Her prayer, a stall of horses. Her anger, the beak of a bird. Her sleep, a sun-bleached fence. Her sadness, a yard pile of firewood. A patch of pines is all I remember of a field. Quiet, she says. Her stick-shift sedan, her trouble with mathematics, her car radio turned up all the way. I write her questions on a sheet of paper so no one can hear. Late at night in my blue car, we drive back roads, the only place we speak openly. The field’s full enough tonight, I think, to break into a thousand wings. Julia Koets (Source: versedaily.org)

Natt och dag är vapendragare, härskare, och står inte i strid med varandra. Om vi betraktar skapelsen kan vi se att gott ovh ont överallt lever sida vid sida. Låt oss ta exemplet med en man som planerar ett mord. Om vi sedan ponerar att detta onda anslag aldrig genomförs eftersom andra nedriga handlingar upptar hans tid, måste vi erkänna att dessa andra ogärningar, hur föraktliga de än må vara, ändå har sina förtjänster. Ondska och godhet är bara två sidor av samma mynt och därför är det omöjligt att skilja de åt.

Det måste vara konstigt att ha bott ihop så länge, så tätt inpå en annan, dag efter dag, natt efter natt, år efter år, sedan dör den ena och blir jord

Sedan du sålunda fått ditt erkännande av utlänningen, så har du fått ditt namn här hemma naturligtvis och jag slipper gå längre och skämmas för dig.

since I had Stump in the car and didn’t have anything to add to what was by now general knowledge — a white four-door sedan with four people

Om man vill bygga stater av nationer så räcker det inte att samla ihop ett existerande folk och skriva en författning. Man måste först skapa en nation, genom att välja ett folk som till största delen av någon anledning vill leva under en gemensam regering, och sedan, efter att ha befriat dem från de stater där de nu bor, måste de vilja anamma ett gemensamt tänkande som gör det möjligt för dem att leva tillsammans på ett produktivt sätt.

Jag undrade om det var så här gamla förälskelser dog. Att luften gick ur dem och sedan ... bara borta.

Hey, hey! Is this my big-shot grandson who got to visit the White House today?” The voice was definitely Cyrus Hale’s—although the tone caught me by surprise. He sounded like an actual doting grandfather, rather than his usual cranky self. I assumed he was acting for the benefit of anyone who might overhear the call—or be eavesdropping on it. “Hi, Grandpa!” I said cheerfully, doing a bit of acting myself. “Are you close?” “Approaching the building right now.” “Okay. I’m coming out.” I hung up and informed Kimmy, “My grandfather’s here.” “Great!” she said, then thought to add, “In the interest of national security, I hope I can trust you to not share certain stories about what transpired here today?” “You don’t have to worry about me,” I assured her. Kimmy heaved a sigh of relief, then ushered me out the door. Cyrus was pulling up in front of the building in a well-worn sedan that looked exactly like the sort of car a normal grandfather would drive. The Secret Service agents were going on alert when Kimmy yelled to them, “He’s okay! He’s just picking up a friend of Jason’s!” Cyrus rolled down the window and shouted, “Hey there, champ! Did you have fun?” “Sure did, Gramps!” I replied, then slid into the passenger seat. Kimmy waved good-bye enthusiastically. “So long, Ben! Hope to see you again soon!” Cyrus rolled up the window, drove away, and immediately dropped the kindly old grandfather act. “You didn’t waste any time screwing up this mission, did you?

Major General Charles Summerall, spotted a gateway to glory. Rather than merely “assisting,” he would take advantage of the flexibility Pershing’s order provided and violate a commandment of battlefield tactics. He intended to send elements of his 1st Division, under the equally fiery Brigadier General Frank Parker, through ground currently held by the 42nd and 77th Divisions in order to beat these rivals to Sedan. The chaos that ensued was illustrated when General MacArthur was temporarily arrested by men of Parker’s division as a suspected German spy.

In the days after Sedan, Prussian envoys met with the French and demanded a large cash indemnity as well as the cession of Alsace and Lorraine.

While the opportunity to improve yourself and your situation is a great thing, our striving to build perfect lives seems to have morphed into perfectionism so focused on itself that we forget about others in the world. We work so hard to build the ultimate luxury sedan, to embody society's standard of beauty, and to achieve historical scientific breakthroughs that we conveniently forget our family members in other parts of the world who must walk miles each day in their only set of clothing for the opportunity to go to school.

sobered, nodded awkwardly, and acted like he wanted to speak, but didn’t. He turned to a laptop, gave it a command. The screens on the wall displayed what looked at first glance like a collage of images. At center was a photograph Acadia had recently taken of Alex Cross’s house from across Fifth Street. Dotted lines traveled from various windows in the house out to pictures of Dr. Alex, his wife, his grandmother, his daughter, and his younger son. Set off to one side was a framed picture of Damon, Alex Cross’s older son, seventeen and a student at a prep school in western Massachusetts. Digital lines went out from each portrait, linked to images of schools, police stations, churches, grocery stores, and various friends. There were also lines connecting each member of Cross’s family to calendar and clock icons. “He uses mind-mapping software and an Xbox 360 with Kinect to make it work,” Acadia explained. “It’s interactive, Marcus. Just stand in front of the camera and point to what you want.” Intrigued now, Sunday stepped in front of the screens and the Kinect camera. He pointed at the photograph of Cross. The screen instantly jumped to a virtual diary of the detective’s recent life, everything from photographs of Bree Stone, to his kids, to his white Chevy sedan and his best friend, John Sampson, and Sampson’s wife, Billie. Sunday pointed at the calendar, and the screens showed a chronological account of everything he had seen Cross do in the prior month.

Praxis ser ut såhär: Man argumenterar emot i sakligt tonläge tills man blir trängd. Då släpper man helt sonika ämnet, smiter därifrån och låtsas som om man inte alls har fått slut på argument utan istället ställt sig över dem. Sedan håller man upp som en stor gåta detta att ens övertygelse är så oförenlig med argumenten, och antyder att den ödmjuka beredvilligheten att leva med detta mysterium höjer en över de futtigare själarna och deras gottköpssanningar.

flavourings, and many other assorted pollutants. I got a plain house blend, black, no sugar, in the middle-sized go-cup, not the enormous grande bucket some folks like, and a slab of lemon pound cake to go with it, and I sat alone on a hard wooden chair at a table for two. The cake lasted five minutes and the coffee another five, and eighteen minutes after that Shoemaker’s guy showed up. Which made him navy, because twenty-eight minutes was pretty fast, and the navy is right there in Seattle. And his car was dark blue. It was a low-spec domestic sedan, not very desirable, but polished to a high shine. The guy himself was nearer forty

The Headquarters of the CPP, Jerusalem   The dark sedan pulled into the basement parking area and parked near the elevator. The driver got out and came around to the right side rear passenger door. He and the man who had been holding the gun on Ellie pulled her from the car. The two of them carried her to the elevator, one holding her feet, the other her shoulders. One punched the elevator button and the car arrived quickly. Once inside, the button for the basement was pushed, and because his fingerprint was on file, the car began to descend. The quick ride to the basement ended and the door opened.

in her four-year-old sedan. “Something’s wrong. You can’t ignore it when something sounds off in

Standing there small among the boxes of Kandy Kakes that rose like brownish cartoon cliffs around him, he resembled the videos I'd seen of sea lions floating angelically among the kelp, black bodies filmed from below, their shapes cut out in bright sunlight, bodies mistakable for those of a human being. I felt the memory of a shadowy arm around me, a watcher again, sitting there on the couch with my boyfriend, watching the animals become prey. Somewhere there were giant whales feeding on creatures too small to see, pressing them against fronds of baleen with a tongue the size of a sedan. There were polar bears killing seals, tearing ovoid chunks from out of their smooth, round bellies. In the surrounding vastness of the warehouse, I heard something scratching against the concrete floor and knew there were rats here, scraping a thin film of nutrient from the dry packaged matter that surrounded them. Life was everywhere, inescapable, imperative.

Nicole, I’m in some serious shit,” he continued, speeding up again as his pupils adjusted to the black night around him. Behind him, the oncoming headlights had slowed down. With any luck, they had lost sight of O’Connor’s sedan. “I need help. In my office, there’s a—Christ!” O’Connor jerked

February 2013 My Email to Andy (Part One)   My chance encounter with Max was both a blessing and an affliction. After I’d checked into the majestic lady, The Oriental, hunger hit my rumbling stomach. I needed to savour some authentic Thai food. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped out of the hotel’s door, I was confronted by the harsh reality of Bangkok’s civic life. As at Don Mueang International Airport, rows of local taxi drivers lined the hotel’s periphery, ready to debauch the first customer that ventured out without soliciting The Oriental’s private limo service.                Again, I found myself surrounded by a barrage of locals offering me the best bargain on transportation to my destination. Who should come to my rescue but the same driver that had deposited Max and me? In the foulest Thai vernacular he could master, he repulsed those who challenged him. The vultures scattered, allowing me to embark in his not-so-new sedan. ”Where you want go sir?” he asked. ”Take me to an excellent place for local food,” I replied. ”I take you to good place, sir,” he responded and sped off into the dark. The question of whether I wanted a sexy girl to accompany me during my Bangkok stay arose again. I refused his offer with politeness. The man rephrased his query: “You want boy? I take you to good boy-bar.” I shook my head, yet he continued to pester me for an answer. We bantered back and forth, I not revealing my sexual preference while he used every contrivance to solicit an answer. Instead of delivering me to the city’s hub, he headed in the opposite direction towards a suburb that had almost no street lights. Worrisome thoughts of robbery and murder had begun to plague me when the vehicle finally came to a halt at a two-storied house in the middle of nowhere.

Den historia jag nu ska försöka berätta utspelar sig i Stockholmsförorten Tyresö sommaren 2011. Det var en sällsamt varm och solig sommar, blåbären hade redan mognat i skogen när det varslades död. Först om det fruktansvärda i Norge, alla unga liv som släcktes, vettlöst. Sedan från huset i Camden Town, en kropp så liten och späd att den knappt gick att urskilja under det vita lakanet på båren. Mina tårar torkade inte av sig själva. Och så ... det andra. Medan blåbären fortfarande var sura kart i skogarna som omgav våra hem, med bläcket i studentmössorna färskt – alla dem vi ägnat tre, sex, nio, tolv år åt att gömma oss för som nu skrev BFF och Vi ses snart igen i våra mössor, var det champagnen som talade? – inträffade ett par försvinnanden. Det började med chihuahuan Honey som försvann från Farmarstigen under våren och resulterade i en outsinlig ström av lappar och, så småningom, en artikel i lokaltidningen. För varje vecka som gick skruvades tonläget i lapparna upp. Man hade en uppdatering, Honey hade tidigare samma vecka setts i närområdet. Honey levde! Till sist var Zeb och jag övertygade om att alltsammans var en konstinstallation av något slag, för lapparna bara fortsatte och fortsatte, ett alldeles eget narrativ växte fram i de kopierade lapparna med pixliga foton på en liten förskrämd hund. Fanns hon ens? Jag började skriva på en novell som aldrig blev klar om en ensam kvinna och hennes försvunna hund, som eventuellt aldrig funnits utanför kvinnans fantasi. Sedan hittade jag Elsie Johanssons roman Kvinnan som mötte en hund i mammas bokhylla och lät alltsammans bero. Alla berättelser jag försökt skriva, som fallit i glömska när jag hittat existerande verk som lyckats förmedla det jag ville skriva om med en lyskraft som jag saknat. Saknar. Skuggbiblioteken, var det trots allt där jag hörde hemma? Vem är jag att göra anspråk på den här historien? Ett par veckor efter sista Honeylappen hände något som fick alla att sluta tänka på den försvunna hunden. Lina försvann, och med henne något som aldrig skulle komma tillbaka." (Ur Orkidépojken, släpps i augusti 2017)

As I reached Charing Cross I heard a gruff shout of ‘By Your Leave, sir!’ and footsteps pounding hard behind me. I jumped aside, narrowly avoiding collision with a sedan chair jolting fast along the pavement, the man inside gripping the window edges hard to stop himself being flung about. The second chairman tipped his chin in thanks as he passed, but his passenger leaned out and glared back at me in outrage. He was an older man in his fifties with a red, sweating face. ‘Damn fool!’ he cried, spittle spraying from his lips. I halted in surprise at his rudeness, searching for a suitable reply. A waterman turning for home watched the chair bobbing its way down the Mall. ‘Twat,’ he observed, cheerfully. That would do. I touched my hat in appreciation and pressed on. On

I make sure she gets to the front of the dormitory building before kicking the bike back into gear. I take off, head full, and I swear to god that same black sedan drives on by.

We are used to danger," the faceless voice assured her. "It comes with our job. Every day we are expected to carry untamed pastries and savage cheeses, advance down corridors to see whether assassins have left traps, cover for the mistakes of our betters, and risk our lives for members of the Court. We look out for our own because nobody else will. Do you know how many courtiers have been willing to risk their lives for one of us?" "No. How many?" "One," came the answer. "Precisely one in five hundred years." The sedan door opened. Pulling off her goggles, Neverfell stepped out into the low-ceilinged alcove just off the silent thoroughfare, the walls etched with the whorls and rib frills of fossilized sea things. She turned toward the man who had been speaking with her, the owner of the soft-as-fur voice, and found herself looking into the face of the manservant she had saved at the first banquet. "Good luck," he said, and with that he and his fellow servant lifted the sedan and trotted away, their feet making less sound than the stray drips falling from the ceiling to the sodden dust.

Think of it like a fast-food franchise, the informant said, like a pizza delivery service. Each heroin cell or franchise has an owner in Xalisco, Nayarit, who supplies the cell with heroin. The owner doesn’t often come to the United States. He communicates only with the cell manager, who lives in Denver and runs the business for him. Beneath the cell manager is a telephone operator, the informant said. The operator stays in an apartment all day and takes calls. The calls come from addicts, ordering their dope. Under the operator are several drivers, paid a weekly wage and given housing and food. Their job is to drive the city with their mouths full of little uninflated balloons of black tar heroin, twenty-five or thirty at a time in one mouth. They look like chipmunks. They have a bottle of water at the ready so if police pull them over, they swig the water and swallow the balloons. The balloons remain intact in the body and are eliminated in the driver’s waste. Apart from the balloons in their mouths, drivers keep another hundred hidden somewhere in the car. The operator’s phone number is circulated among heroin addicts, who call with their orders. The operator’s job, the informant said, is to tell them where to meet the driver: some suburban shopping center parking lot—a McDonald’s, a Wendy’s, a CVS pharmacy. The operators relay the message to the driver, the informant said. The driver swings by the parking lot and the addict pulls out to follow him, usually down side streets. Then the driver stops. The addict jumps into the driver’s car. There, in broken English and broken Spanish, a cross-cultural heroin deal is accomplished, with the driver spitting out the balloons the addict needs and taking his cash. Drivers do this all day, the guy said. Business hours—eight A.M. to eight P.M. usually. A cell of drivers at first can quickly gross five thousand dollars a day; within a year, that cell can be clearing fifteen thousand dollars daily. The system operates on certain principles, the informant said, and the Nayarit traffickers don’t violate them. The cells compete with each other, but competing drivers know each other from back home, so they’re never violent. They never carry guns. They work hard at blending in. They don’t party where they live. They drive sedans that are several years old. None of the workers use the drug. Drivers spend a few months in a city and then the bosses send them home or to a cell in another town. The cells switch cars about as often as they switch drivers. New drivers are coming up all the time, usually farm boys from Xalisco County. The cell owners like young drivers because they’re less likely to steal from them; the more experienced a driver becomes, the more likely he knows how to steal from the boss. The informant assumed there were thousands of these kids back in Nayarit aching to come north and drive some U.S. city with their mouths packed with heroin balloons.

slipped on the front walk and felt my heart kick me in the chest in a sensation of gut-punching fear. My hand caught me and I bounced back to my feet. So that’s ice? I thought. Until now I had only seen it on TV and in the freezer. There was a black sedan in the driveway that looked like something I’d seen on a Buick commercial. My

Stephanie was still holding his hand, and Scott was wondering what she meant by it when an enormous Bentley sedan appeared at the end of the street, as out of place in this neighborhood as a flying carpet, windows up, smoked glass, not a speck of dust on its gleaming skin. Stephanie

A beaten-up old sedan was parked in the drive just a few feet from the door, and the screaming woman was leaning into the vehicle’s back seat through the open rear door. When she heard the dispensary door unlatch and open, she jerked her head toward me and cried, “My daughter has been shot in the head—please save her!” The woman stepped aside and I leaned into the back seat." (Page 255)

Sedan kom arvpratets dagar. För all del, de höllo sämjan god, men arven lukta själv av misstron. Fnurra och låghet får man alltid räkna på där Pengar eller Kärlek stryka fram. Det luktar lite vargpäls om människolivet. Därför behöver det ofta vädras.

The sedan went too and I stood alone in the woods and watched my ear burn.

chest in a sensation of gut-punching fear. My hand caught me and I bounced back to my feet. So that’s ice? I thought. Until now I had only seen it on TV and in the freezer. There was a black sedan in the driveway that looked like something I’d seen on a Buick commercial. My hand brushed against it as I ran down the driveway and stopped at the end. I heard the

Was it even a Cutlass? He could tell trucks from cars and sedans from compacts, but beyond that he was guessing.

A MIRACLE, is it not, that two people, unrelated, can meet and mean so much to each other? Yet coupledom is taken for granted. The whole world organises itself around the fact that people manage to get their awkward bodies in position to FUCK, an achievement honoured by toasters, tandems and tax cuts. How nice, how CONVENIENT heterosexuality is. You may not even have met the guy yet but already useful items are being made for you: a two-door sedan or an electric underblanket with two sets of controls. Complete STRANGERS know that you’ll want to share meals, beds, homes, even a burial plot, that you will long for each other’s touch and seek to exclude others. The intimacy and anarchy of it all!

Echoing Nöin’s words, he wrote: ‘The spring mist filled the sky and, in spite of myself, the gods filled my heart with a yearning to cross the Shirakawa barrier.’ There were no surly border guards and no crowds of travellers when I finally reached the barrier — no merchants in sedan chairs, no daimyo on horseback with retinues of foot soldiers and servants and porters; no pilgrims, no priests; no ladies in palanquins or travellers in capes and straw hats, like the colourful figures in Hokusai’s woodblock prints. In fact, I nearly walked straight past it along the rough country road.

The TransMilenio is not carbon neutral. To keep costs down, its caterpillar buses run on diesel rather than on cleaner fuels that are more expensive and less suited to the high altitude of Bogotá, which sits 8,500 feet above sea level. Nevertheless, a TransMilenio engine is so efficient that it emits less than half the pollution of an old-fashioned minibus. By embracing BRT, Bogotá has taken more than 9,000 small private buses off the roads, slashing the overall consumption of bus fuel since the first line opened in 2001. Some private cars vanished too. Last year Ortega sold his Audi sedan and now travels around Bogotá either by TransMilenio or taxi—a big step in a society where having your own wheels is the ultimate status symbol. “I just don’t feel like I need a car anymore,” he says. “You can live differently in this city now.

black SUV barreling at them doing about fifty. The guy closest to me leapt sideways as I slammed into the back of the sedan they’d been meeting around. I didn’t hit the other two guys directly, but I whipsawed the sedan sideways as I T-boned it, and it smashed flush into the car next to it, leaving no room for space between them. Take

My car is right over here,” Kraunauer said, steering me toward a modest-looking gray sedan with a stylized letter “B” on each hubcap. And in spite of that, it wasn’t until I opened the door and saw the walnut-lined instrument panel and soft glove-leather seats that I realized the “B” stood for “Bentley.” I slid onto the sweet-smelling seat and tried not to soil it by sweating or thinking impure thoughts.

För länge sedan trodde jag att vår familj var välsignad med ett särskilt ljus, jag tänkte att ingenting ont skulle hända oss. Jim hade ett sätt att berätta om världen som fick mig att känna att vi var upphöjda och utvalda och när jag lyssnade på hans historier om vårt liv blev världen som förgylld omkring oss.

Raymond. Suitings for the complete man’. The campaign from Nexus Equity, an agency founded by Rajiv Agarwal, Arun Kale, M Raghunath and Rajan Nair, became a defining moment in Indian advertising. It broke away from the cliché-ridden suitings advertising of smart young men with women draped over their arms, mansions, luxury sedans, horses and more. One

The first Yakuza sedan screeched to a halt mere inches from its bumper. The driver of the Mercedes honked his horn and wound down his window, yelling angrily. The police car gave an almost apologetic wail of its siren and backed out of the entrance, leaving a gap. “Pretty bloody clear who’s running the show,” murmured Bishop. “I’m not sure this was a good idea,” responded Saneh. “This was your idea.

miles per hour, eighty-five, and still the sedan stayed behind

Carrara car mart offers popular and established brands among cars like Volkswagen, Ford, Hyundai, Holden, Toyota, Nissan, Mistubishi, Mazda, Isuza and Honda. Buyers can also opt for Family Sedan or Wagon, 7 and 8 seaters, 4WD’s, people movers, sports utility vehicles, hatchbacks, convertibles or coupe’s.

It didn’t last long. Not many good things in a foster kid’s life last long. One day, Maura was gone. Her few things were packed in paper bags and a tearful Miss Louisa carried her out to Miss Hanrahan’s black state-owned Ford sedan with the state emblem on the door, and she was gone. The state had found a foster home that would take a little girl but couldn’t take the rest of us. There were no long goodbyes. She was just gone. I remember having an enormous sense of helplessness when they took her. Maura didn’t know where she were going or long she would be there. She was just gone

Curious trash men pulled their handcarts aside and doffed their caps as the royal sedan chair passed them. "Hey there, mate," Melba said, giving a mock salute to a trash man who executed a parody of a courtly bow.

Archaeologists who have explored the catacombs have found a common inscription scattered throughout them. The inscription was the Greek word ichthus, which was used as an acrostic for “Jesus Christ, God’s Son, the Savior.” You might recognize this sign because now these fish symbols are scattered across the backs of cars belonging to Christians. How far we have come when we paste this symbol identified with martyred brothers and sisters in the first century onto the backs of our SUVs and luxury sedans in the twenty-first century.

Ja, jag har fått horn. Än sedan? Det ser du väl.' 'Du har … fått horn.' 'Men. Ja!' Jag försöker att dra mig undan. 'Sluta tafsa! Alla vill ta på dem, jag förstår inte varför.

The vodka isn't laced with arsenic," said Lyla. "He's simply picturing life in a far-off galaxy, where a group of eight-armed cephalopods have gathered around a supper table to share in their last meal before riding off into the sunset. But, of course, they'll need at least two sedans for all those tentacles.

mileage of each oil change, going back for years, to an age before it was socially acceptable to wear a beard like an unkempt bird’s nest. Number two: eventually, I posted news of my purchase on the 500E forums, which primarily consist of about nineteen guys who sit around and discuss how their car values are going up. Almost immediately, someone came on and replied that I was a thief: he had made a deal with the Fiat dealer earlier that afternoon over the phone for just eighty five hundred bucks, and he planned to come collect the car a few days later. And I swooped in and GRABBED IT! Quickly, the 500E forum turned on me in the way that only a forum full of sixty-five-year-old men can: with rampant misuse of the “QUOTE” function. I stopped posting almost immediately. In the end, I decided to flip the car—and I sold it within a couple months to a guy in Ohio for $16,000, or about six grand more than I had paid. It was a sad event, and I was disappointed to see the super sedan go—but as it was getting loaded on to the trailer for its trip north, one nagging thought kept me from getting depressed. At least I wasn’t

I allt detta väljande. Livet är inte något man vill eller väljer. Så ser lagen om människovaron ut. I livet blir man inslungad. Och exakt så långt som tiden sedan räcker, ska man vidare. Ingenting annat. Livet ska gå på bara och fortsätta till dess det tar slut. Det ska genomlevas minut för minut och tugga för tugga, över stock och sten och genom eld och vatten ska det ta oss, i ljus eller mörker, rätt ner i dödsskuggans dal och ut på de saligas ängder. Ostoppbart ska det fortgå, i galopp eller raglande, krypande på alla fyra eller i krumsprång spelar ingen roll, linkande, dansande eller i förtvivlans flykt. Livet sker med oss utan att fråga.

You look nice,” Xavier says to me in the back of the luxury sedan which takes us to our next ‘event.’ Nice is not what his hooded eyes say as they skim over the tiny material of my red cocktail dress. My wardrobe usually consists of dresses that rest a little bit above the knee, and this dress hits mid thigh, right where Xavier’s eyes rest. “I like you in red. Makes your hair look more wild.” His voice is low and husky, and I give a little tug at the bodice which barely contains my breasts before they jump into his sexy mouth.

The episode felt like a dramatic scene out of a spy movie, complete with me hopping out of my black sedan, 9mm pistol tucked in my waistband.

started to follow. But then I froze. A block away, the door of a black sedan opened. A man with gray hair and a military buzz cut got out. He was wearing dark shades and a black overcoat. Now, maybe in Washington, you’d expected guys like that to be everywhere. But it dawned on me that I’d seen this same car a couple of times on the highway, going south. It had been following the van. The guy took out his mobile phone and said something into it. Then he looked around, like he was making sure the coast was clear, and started walking down the Mall in the direction of my friends. The worst of it was: when he turned toward me, I recognized his face. It was Dr. Thorn, the manticore from Westover Hall. Invisibility cap on, I followed Thorn from a distance. My heart was pounding. If he had survived that fall from the cliff, then Annabeth must have too. My dreams had been right. She was alive and being held prisoner.

SA Wrecker is the best Cash for Car company based in Adelaide, South Australia that has many years of experience in providing quality of various services that include Free Trucks, Cars and Utes Removal, top cash offer for unwanted, damaged, smashed, or salvaged sedans, SUVs, vans, light trucks, jeeps, and other vehicles.There are numerous reasons that make us the best. We offer cash for all cars, vans, trucks without considering vehicle specifications like make, model, and age.

Computer vision systems can already predict voting trends from Google Street View, using truck-to-sedan ratio as a political proxy;

A midlevel Party apparatchik, no vices beyond the usual, on paper a typical example of the species. His official photo showed a bloated face with a bully’s straight gaze and the resentful pout of a much-commanded man. Like most officials of his level, Belov’s rise had been punctuated by a flurry of official complaints from colleagues and citizens, swirling in his wake like candy wrappers in the backwash of a Party sedan. Complaints, the tiny revenge of the powerless. Everyone wrote them.

Det största överraskningen när man läser det man själv skrivit för länge sedan är just hur mycket man alldeles har glömt, såväl händelser som stämningar. Att pinsamheter är inpräntade för evigt är ju en allmän erfarenhet, men i övrigt tycks minnet fungera efter outgrundliga principer.

Evolutionspsykologen Steven Pinker menar att människan ungefär samtidigt, kanske för ett par hundra tusen år sedan, på allvar började utveckla de tre egenskaperna som bidrog till denna kognitiva nisch: intelligens, samarbete och språk. Det var dessa tre egenskaper som förstärkte och ökade värdet av varandra, och skapade den moderna människan och det moderna samhället.

Bara för att man har förlorat någon betyder det inte att den personen är död, sa han och sedan pratade vi inte mer. Det fanns ingenting att säga.

They had arrived two days ago, flying into Norfolk, Virginia, then driving the rest of the way in a rented sedan, through towns with names like Kill Devil Hills and Nags Head.

It had been a low-speed collision, Darryl turning in front of the Durango with what he thought was plenty of room, the woman hitting the brakes in time to slow down before smashing into the back wheel of Ray’s sedan. Darryl had told her he’d left his license at home, and the lady wasn’t buying his bald-faced bullshit—said she didn’t raise three boys to get lied to by some other mother’s son.

Livet en långsam strypning till döds. Ibland släpper det taget, örfilar en, så att man kan dra efter andan, och sedan fortsätter strypningen.

[I] vilket fall som helst sa han plötsligt: 'The past forms the future, without regard to life.' Meningen dröjde kvar i huvudet, hon fortsatte fundera på den en stund efter att telefonsamtalet hade tagit slut, översatte den till sitt modersmål och konstaterade att det inte bara var vid internationella avtal och lagar som en översättning kom an på små detaljer i varje enskilt ord, utan även vid en sådan i högsta grad personlig – ja, vad? Mening. Helt enkelt mening. Om livet. Hennes liv. En mening om livet som var lika tydlig som en juridisk paragraf men som, vilket hon förundrat konstaterade, på grekiska krävde tolkningar som komplicerade den fruktansvärt … Med vilket begrepp skulle man översätta the past? Det förflutna, parelthón, och historien, istória, är inte lika täckande som the past, som ju på något vis också inbegriper history. Allt som hänt? Hänt vem? Individuell historia? Alltså det upplevda, biografi? Eller allmänt, så att säga världshistoria? På engelska lämnas allt öppet, ändå får man en känsla av högsta precision. När man översätter meningen till grekiska måste man reda ut de frågorna – och allt blir därigenom mindre tydligt och på något sätt mer begränsat, en tolkningsfråga. Har det förflutna en definierad början och ett definierat slut eller är det obestämt, när det började och om det slutade? Upprepar det sig eller var det – är det – en engångsföreteelse? Det påverkar sedan konstruktionen av det grekiska verbet, på engelska stod det i presens men i översättningen borde man kanske välja aorist eller imperfekt eller perfekt, beroende på hur man definierade vad det förflutna gjorde eller hade gjort. Och det piggade upp henne att den engelska meningen alltså uttryckte just detta: att hennes härkomst stod i strid med hennes liv – kanske var redan den insikten en översättning eller åtminstone en giltig tolkning av 'The past forms the future, without regard to life'.

Like a speeding bullet, the dark sedan hidden by the night's darkness, seemed to come out of no where

For the first few weeks in Santa Fe, Oppenheimer and his key staff worked out of the office at 109 East Palace Avenue in the early mornings and made daily trips up to Los Alamos to inspect the progress of the construction. "The laboratories at the site were in a sketchy state, but that did not deter the workers," Dorothy wrote of those hectic early days. "In the morning buses, consisting of station wagons, sedans, or trucks, would leave 109 and pick up the men at the ranches and take them up the Hill. Occasionally, a driver would forget to stop at one or another of the ranches and the stranded and frustrated scientists would call in a white heat.

Hannah tells me that you helped protect her from the Hispanics during the riot.” “The Hispanics? Oh, the protest, right.” “Call it what you like, son. This place was crawling with spics, and I am grateful that you took care of my only child.” “Well,” I shrugged. “I guess that’s what boyfriends do.” Spics?? “Only good boyfriends,” Hannah said, still tightly holding my left hand. I could never predict when she’d pour on the affection and when she’d act distant. Were all girlfriends this complicated? “I helped pass that law, you understand,” Mr. Walker said. “I’m an advisor to the senator, and it’s about time someone notable, someone of prestige, took a stand on the influx of hispanics into our once great city. The Hispanics were rioting because of that law, because they’re afraid of justice.” “Oh yeah?” I said. I knew nothing about politics or laws. But I had a feeling I disagreed with him. “But I’ll discontinue this tangent before I begin to preach,” he smiled. “Hannah is giving me the warning look.” “Thank you, Daddy,” Hannah said. “The spics destroyed your car,” he said. “Hannah informed me, and then I read the report in the newspaper.” “That was a good car,” I nodded. “I will miss it.” “Well, let me see what I can do to help,” he said. “I’m a financial consultant to many of our nation’s finest automobile manufacturers, including Mission Motorcycles. You have heard of them?” “I don’t know much about any cars. Or motorcycles,” I admitted. “Well, it just so happens, they owed me a favor and agreed to give me a short-term loan on one of their new electric bikes,” he said. And it was then that I realized we were standing beside a gleaming black, silver, and orange motorcycle. I hadn’t noticed before because our school parking lot always looks like a luxury car showcase, and I’d grown numb to the opulence. A sleek black helmet hung from each handle. Mr. Walker placed his palm on the seat and said, “This bike is yours. Until you get a new car.” “Wow,” I breathed. A motorcycle!! “Isn’t it sexy?” Hannah smiled. “It looks like it’s from the future.” “It does,” I agreed. “I’m almost afraid to touch it, like it’ll fly off. But sir, there’s no way…” “Please don’t be so ungrateful as to refuse, son. That’s low class, and that’s not the Walkers. You are in elite company. Dating my daughter has advantages, as I’m sure she’s told you. You just keep performing on the football field.” “Oh…right,” I said. “I’m gratified I can help,” Mr. Walker said and shook my hand again. “I’m expecting big things from you. Don’t let me down. It’s electric, so you’ll need to charge it at night. Fill out the paperwork in the storage compartment and return them signed to Hannah tomorrow. If you wreck it, I’ll have you drowned off Long Beach. I wish I could stay, but I’m late for a meeting with the Board of Supervisors. Hannah, tell your mother I’ll be out late,” he said and got into the back seat of a black sedan that whisked him away.

A visiting Israeli prime minister, requiring maximum security, merits the third-largest motorcade in America. If the president’s is the longest, whose then is number two? I later posed this trivia question to several people who gave varying answers—the vice president, Chinese leaders, even rock stars—but never the right one. The pope. The morning of May 18, though, my only question was the one I put to myself. Was I really speeding through stoplights with sirens wailing in the elongated cavalcade of sedans conveying Netanyahu to his first visit to Obama’s White House?

De båda männen tittade på varandra något ögonblick. Så nickade Sonjas pappa. Och Ove nickade kort tillbaka. Och sedan reste de sig så sakligt och beslutsam som två män kanske skulle göra om de precis enats om att gå ut och ta livet av en tredje.

Send him away again.” “It’s not that simple. You’re actually lucky he didn’t take you to his jail.” “His jail?” Donovan was smiling and enjoying his narrative. “Oh yes. About five years ago, Romey’s brother found a late-model sedan with Ohio tags parked behind a barn on their family’s farm. He looked around, heard a noise, and found this guy from Ohio locked in a horse stall. It turns out Romey had fixed up the stall with chicken wire and barbed wire, and the poor guy had been there for three days.

A woman wearing saggy old workout clothes that she never worked out in, that had somehow become her pajamas and the clothes she went to the grocery store in and the clothes she wore around the house all day, with her dirty hair pulled back in a ponytail and who looked like she’d just been run over by a sedan.

Och när du står inför ett vägskäl i livet och inte vet vilken väg du ska välja, låt inte slumpen avgöra. Sätt dig ner och vänta. Andas lika lugnt och förtröstansfullt som du gjorde den dag du kom till världen. Låt ingenting störa dig. Vänta och vänta igen. Stanna upp i tystnad och lyssna till ditt hjärta. När det sedan talar till dig, red dig och gå dit det leder dig.

A sedan slowed as it passed, the occupants staring out the window. Gansey was not an unpleasant-looking boy and the Camaro was not too hard on the eyes, either, but this attention had less to do with comeliness and more to do with the novelty of an Aglionby boy broken down by the side of the road in an impudently orange car.

her purse. Evan Nussbaum, Det. 114th Precinct, City of New York. It would be one quick phone call, one quick urgently whispered sentence—the truck driver and Desirio are sitting together in a diner—as if each of them carries an electric charge and their union produces instant ignition, and Nussbaum would be here immediately. But she has stolen 1.3 million dollars. Not spent a dime of it, no, but moved it, transferred it, and therefore stolen it . . . and therefore can hardly risk more contact with a detective of the New York Police Department. A moment later, the big truck driver and Desirio are up out of the booth and heading toward the door. And at the same time, clearly choreographed—obviously summoned by cell phone—a big silver sedan pulls up to the door of the diner and Desirio and the truck driver look both ways before ducking purposefully, wordlessly, into the back of it. Shit. As the sedan pulls away and stops in a moment at a red light, Elaine steps out of the shadows, raises her hand high above her head, waves it around irrationally, frantically. As if to halt the silver sedan purely on the strength of her authority, through the power of her righteousness, for the obviousness of the vehicle’s illicitness. But the frantically waving hand is, in fact, searching for a telltale flank

A sleek blue sports sedan with tinted windows appeared, moving too fast toward the park. I stepped out of the shadows and motioned to Allie, who started running toward me. “Get in the truck and stay there,” I said quietly. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She hesitated for a moment before opening the passenger door. Her look asked for an explanation. “We have visitors,” I said. “Barr,

virtually invisible as he sat and stared at the front entrance to the chapel. Slumped low behind the wheel, the windows fogging around him, there was no way anybody could have seen him. If not for the occasional burst of the wipers, there would be no indication at all that someone was inside, his car just another anonymous sedan

I watched the mirror for black sedans as we pulled away, and checked every side street as we drove to the freeway. I looked for their big black beast as we climbed the ramp, and kept looking, even after the freeway swallowed us, a buffalo joining a herd, one hiding among the many, and finally safe.

sedan,

Odmalička ji vedli k dodržování pravidel, k víře, že řádný chod světa závisí na její poslušnosti, a ona je tedy dodržovala – a věřila. Od dívčích let měla svůj plán a také se ho svědomitě držela: střední škola, vysoká škola, vážná známost, sňatek, zaměstnání, hypotéka, děti. Sedan s airbagy a automatickými bezpečnostními pásy. Sekačka na trávu a fukar na sníh. Pračka a sušička ve stejném designu. Udělala zkrátka všechno správně a vybudovala si dobrý život, takový, jaký chtěla, jaký chce každý. A náhle tu byla tahle Mia, dočista jiný typ ženy s dočista jiným životem, která jako by si tvořila vlastní pravidla a nehodlala se za to omlouvat. Stejně jako ta fotografie pavoučí tanečnice to paní Richardsonové připadalo znepokojivé, ale podivně přitažlivé. Zčásti toužila Miu zkoumat jako antropoložka, pochopit, proč – a jak – dělá to, co dělá. Jiná její část – ačkoli v tom okamžiku si to uvědomovala teprve mlhavě – pociťovala tíseň, chtěla si Miu pohlídat, jako si hlídáte nebezpečné zvíře.

Carlyle went around to the back of the vehicle and opened the door. He held out his hand, and the woman took it and stepped up and away from the sedan, as though she were some debutante exiting her limo at her coming-out party. Pretentious bitch. “Damn it,” I cursed. “She’s on the far side of the car with her back to me, and she’s wearing a long, black cloak. Who the fuck wears a cloak? This isn’t Dungeons & Dragons.

He hadn’t noticed the traffic when he’d left the counter, but by now the streets clearly had a clog. The roads became more flooded as he approached 144th. His block looked positively underwater. Three police cruisers—Ford Model T Tudor Sedans—were parked midway down the block, a much bigger Police Emergency Services Truck behind them.

Psykologiskt sett måste Bibelns Gud bestämmas som en roll, vilken en människa genom identifikation med någon mänsklig gestalt i den bibliska traditionen anteciperance upptar. Framtida händelser kan sedan bekräfta den frommes antecipationer och så att säga fylla ut rollen.

When I reached the sidewalk a tall, muscular black guy appeared beside my car. As he reached the car a heavy white guy in his early fifties climbed out of a blue sedan parked across the street and started toward me. The black guy was in impeccably pressed designer jeans and a tight knit shirt that showed his muscles, and the white guy was in a rumpled light gray winter-weight suit. A million degrees, and he’s wearing winter weight. Cops. A woman’s voice said, “Excuse me, sir. May I have a word with you?” Polite, and kind of cheery.

Behind the parking lot was a larger, two-story corrugated-steel building. The front building blocked most of what lay behind it from view, but Pike could see that the grounds were crowded with stacked auto chassis, rusting pipes, and other types of scrap metal. Two new sedans were parked out front on the street, and two more sedans and a large truck were in the parking lot, but the gravel drive was chained off, and a sign in the front office window read CLOSED. As Pike watched, a man in a blue shirt came out of the front office building, and crunched across the parking lot to the corrugated building. As he reached the door, he spoke to someone Pike didn’t see, and then that man stepped out from behind the parked truck. He was a big man with a big gut, and thick legs to carry it. The two men laughed about something, then the man in the blue shirt went into the building. The big man studied the passing traffic, then slowly returned to his place behind the truck. Everything

The headlights swung around and caught Z rolling on the snow-covered asphalt in a ball. Split second later he sprang to his feet and hauled ass, gunning for the steaming, crumpled sedan that now had a pine tree for a hood ornament.

The air in the black sedan was cold and stale, and annoyingly, the driver had engaged the child safety locks so I couldn't roll down the window.

Människor har alltför många svagheter som hänger med sedan stenåldern.

plain blue sedan drove by. Did an unmarked car mean things were better or worse? The regular cop car parked out front had left about an hour ago. Guess we’ve been demoted from stakeout to drive-by surveillance. Rubbing his eyes, he climbed into bed. Hands folded under his head, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. How had he ended up in the middle of this mess? Easy answer. To spare his grandparents. From the other room, he heard the rustling of sheets, a faint whimper.

his peers have expressed considerably more skepticism. “There is nothing Tesla [can] do that we cannot also do,” Fiat Chrysler CEO Sergio Marchionne said in June 2016. Two years earlier, he had asked customers not to buy the Fiat 500e electric car, because the company lost $14,000 on the sale of each one. Fiat would sell the minimum number of electric cars needed to meet government mandates and “not one more,” he said. In April 2016, Marchionne continued that theme in an interview on the sidelines of his company’s annual meeting, this time responding to the price of the Model 3. If Musk could show him that the car would be profitable at the $35,000 price tag, Marchionne said, “I will copy the formula, add the Italian design flair, and get it to the market within twelve months.” The German automakers have been even more dismissive. In November 2015, Edzard Reuter, the former CEO of Daimler, called Tesla a “joke” and Musk a “pretender,” suggesting in an interview with a German newspaper that Tesla didn’t stand up to serious comparison with “the great car companies of Germany.” Daimler, BMW, and Volkswagen were slow to accept that Tesla could one day challenge their market dominance. “German carmakers have been in denial that electric vehicles can create an emotional appeal to customers,” Arndt Ellinghorst, an automotive analyst at Evercore ISI, told the Los Angeles Times in April 2016. “Many still believe that Tesla is a sideshow catering to a niche product to some tree-hugging Californians and eccentric US hedge fund managers.” GM wasn’t quite so blasé. In 2013, then CEO Dan Akerson established a team within the company to study Tesla, based on the belief that it could be a big disrupter. GM’s Chevrolet Volt, a hybrid sedan that could drive about forty miles in full electric mode, had won Motor Trend’s 2011 Car of the Year, but GM was looking further into the future. At the 2015 Detroit auto show, it unveiled a concept of the Chevy Bolt, a two-hundred-mile electric car that would retail for $30,000 (after a $7,500 rebate from the US government). It was seen as a direct response to Tesla and new CEO Mary Barra’s biggest risk since she took over in 2014. Wired magazine celebrated the Bolt’s impending arrival with a February 2016 cover story about how GM had beaten Tesla “in the race to build a true electric car for the masses

brown Nissan sedan and we head west, toward the middle of the Yucatán Peninsula. After a few hours, we reach a stand selling pink plastic flamingos, about a dozen of them. I recognize them,

After the two women left, Donna Prassede had Don Ferrante write a draft. Since he was an educated man (as I will describe in more detail), she used him as her secretary for important occasions. This being just such an occasion, Don Ferrante invested it with all of his learning and, as he handed his spouse the draft for her to copy, he emphasized the orthography, one of the many subjects he had studied, and one of the few over which he held the upper hand in that house. Donna Prassede copied it diligently, and had the letter forwarded to the tailor. This all occurred two or three days before the Cardinal sent the sedan chair to bring the women back to their home village.

- Får jag påminna dig om att du inte ens kände honom för några dagar sedan? - Det är mitt blod som rinner i hans ådror, så om jag säger att han är genom hederlig ber jag dig att inte tvivla på det

I like to explain stability using an analogy from my favorite sport, auto racing. A few years ago I drove to a racetrack in Southern California to spend a couple of days training with my coach. To warm up, I took a few “sedan laps” in my street car at the time, a modified BMW M3 coupe with a powerful 460+ HP engine. After months of creeping along on clogged Southern California freeways, it was hugely fun to dive into the corners and fly down the straightaways. Then I switched to the track car we had rented, basically a stripped-down, race-worthy version of the popular BMW 325i. Although this vehicle’s engine produced only about one-third as much power (165 HP) as my street car, my lap times in it were several seconds faster, which is an eternity in auto racing. What made the difference? The track car’s 20 percent lighter weight played a part, but far more important were its tighter chassis and its stickier, race-grade tires. Together, these transmitted more of the engine’s force to the road, allowing this car to go much faster through the corners. Though my street car was quicker in the long straights, it was much slower overall because it could not corner as efficiently. The track car was faster because it had better stability. Without stability, my street car’s more powerful engine was not much use. If I attempted to drive it through the curves as fast as I drove the track car, I’d end up spinning into the dirt. In the context of the gym, my street car is the guy with huge muscles who loads the bar with plates but who always seems to be getting injured (and can’t do much else besides lift weights in the gym). The track car is the unassuming-looking dude who can deadlift twice his body weight, hit a fast serve in tennis, and then go run up a mountain the next day. He doesn’t necessarily look strong. But because he has trained for stability as well as strength, his muscles can transmit much more force across his entire body, from his shoulders to his feet, while protecting his vulnerable back and knee joints. He is like a track-ready race car: strong, fast, stable—and healthy, because his superior stability allows him to do all these things while rarely, if ever, getting injured.

One moment there, another gone. Her face in the glass. Disappearing in the light of oncoming headlights, reappearing in the dark of outside. Gone again. The window kept her face for its own. Good, it could keep it. Back, the window didn't want it either. Red's reflection stared through her, but the glass and the darkness didn't get her quite right, blurring the details. She used to hear, more than she cared to. Now she didn't care to hear it at all, even think it. So, she looked away from her face, their face, ignoring them both. But it was harder to ignore something when you're trying. Red shifted her gaze, looking instead at the cars in the lane beside and below. Something wasn't right; the cars seemed too small from up here at her window, but Red didn't feel any bigger. She watched a blue sedan edging forward to pass, and she helped it along with her eyes, pushing them ahead. There you go, bud.

The passion of these newly rich Americans for industrial merger yielded to an even more insistent passion for a merger of their newly acquired domains with more ancient ones; they wanted to veneer their arrivisme with the traditional. It would be gratifying to feel, as you drove up to your porte-cochère in Pittsburgh, that you were one with the jaded Renaissance Venetian who had just returned from a sitting for Titian; to feel, as you walked by the ranks of gleaming and authentic suits of armour in your mansion on Long Island – and passed the time of day with your private armourer – that it was only an accident of chronology that had put you in a counting house when you might have been jousting with other kings in the Tournament of Love; to push aside the heavy damask tablecloth on a magnificent Louis XIV dining-room table, making room for a green-shaded office lamp, beneath which you scanned the report of last month’s profit from the Saginaw branch, and then, looking up, catch a glimpse of Mrs Richard Brinsley Sheridan and flick the fantasy that presently you would be ordering your sedan chair, because the loveliest girl in London was expecting

From a sedan windscreen, a wide-angle view of a street. The scene is slipping into a strange perspective, as if she were seeing it all, herself included, from a disembodied eye as urgent and unsteady as a surveillant camera on a mission.

Charlie. He must have called Ariel by mistake. Satisfied that she had everything that was vital, and informing Bruno that she would be sending a moving company for her furniture and other items, Ariel exited the building with as much grace as she could, having to walk out to her car accompanied by the tank-like security guard. At least Bruno had offered to carry her cardboard box. Unexpectedly, once they reached her sedan and Bruno had loaded her belongings into the trunk, he gave her a tight bear hug and said, “Sorry, Ms. H. This ain’t right.” Then he turned and strode away quickly—but not before she saw the misty shine in his eyes. “Thank you, Bruno!” she called after him, and he waved a meaty hand in the air but kept walking. In her car alone, Ariel felt her own eyes finally fill too. She cried all the way home, so upset that she barely noticed the traffic that would normally be the source of her evening stress. When she pulled into the driveway of her sprawling Mediterranean Revival, she made sure to tidy her makeup so that it wasn’t so apparent that she had been crying. She would be strong so that, when she broke the news to Katie, her daughter wouldn’t feel like everything was out of control.

The sweatshops, the rubbish dumps, the waste waters, the exhausted commuters — all these are to be lamented, but the real targets of puzzlement and rage lie elsewhere: in the fractious atmosphere inside luxury sedans, in the heartbreaks inside gated compounds, in the dissatisfactions of the family of the coal-mining tycoon, in the sicknesses of the soul at the fun palace.

Lisa figures it’s several hours before the sedan eventually pulls off the highway onto a dirt road somewhere in the far north of Okinawa.

Detta är en berättelse om några människor, som från sina hem i Ljuder i Småland utvandrade till Nordamerika. De var de första som utflyttade från sin ort. De kom från de små stugornas och de stora barnkullarnas land. De var jordens folk och de kom från en släkt, som sedan årtusenden hade brukat jorden de lämnade. Släktleden hade bytt av varandra: sonen trädde till efter fadern vid harv och årder, och dottern tog moderns plats vid spinnrock och vävstol. genom alla skiften förblev gården släktens hem och givaren av livets uppehälle.

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the meeting riding in a limo and left driving a Volga sedan. Later in the evening, Khrushchev told Mikoyan, “Could anyone have dreamed of telling Stalin that he didn’t suit us anymore and suggesting that he retire? Not even a wet spot would have remained where he had been standing. Now everything’s different…‌That’s my contribution.”303

sedan

along with a Sentra whose trunk is being held closed by a length of frayed clothesline. A light-blue Volvo sedan