Seville Quotes

Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.

This ain't Halloween." he said. "What's that mean?" "Means I ain't sharin' my candy.

Saw you out there in the garden. Looked so damn...fine," he said, quietly. "Was like I hadta have ya, right then. Bubbled up like...I dunno, puke or somethin'." Jack chuckled. "You sure have a way with words, D.

And how do you really feel? Like I'll never recover. Like I'll never draw another breath without half of it being a wish for him.

Feelings come in packs, D. Let one loose and they all want to run together.

You got a better word for a guy who's swept my chimney five times in one night?" -Dr. Jack Francisco

D, I have known a lot of men in my time, queer and straight, and I think I can state with some confidence that you are as gay as a spring parade." ~ Jack

Real fuckin' close. Too fuckin' close. Ta think I almos' put a bullet between them eyes, and took that life that now I'd die ta save, and I never woulda known what he was in the world, and who he was or could be, and I woulda never even known what I was missin', nor known how right it could feel just ta lay my fingers alongside his.

If a man wants to be always in God’s company, he must pray regularly and read spiritual books regularly. When we pray, we talk to God; when we read, God talks to us.

D snorted. “Gotta be prepared.” He looked up at Jack’s face, frowning. “What?” Jack shrugged. “It’s just….” He sighed. “I’m starting to see words like ‘accessory’ and ‘accomplice’ floating around my head.” D barely reacted. “How about ‘dead on arrival’? Ya like that better?” Jack nodded, pressing his lips together. “Get more ammo. Ammo is good.

Jack felt arousal spiking through him, clouding his mind with the wanting, wanting this man, all of him, black and tarry, rotted with disuse, glorious and fractured and spilling out of the cracks.

Stud,” D repeated, growly and low. Jack snorted. “You got a better word for a guy who’s swept my chimney five times in one night?

Swept yer chimney!” D howled. “Aw shit, that is fuckin’ rich!

No, Jack, we cain’t sneak by. These aren’t movie bad guys who don’t got no peripheral vision and we can just slip past while they’re lookin’ the other way. You want yer life, you gotta fuckin’ take it.

Maybe I could be a ninja assassin too, Jack thought.

Watching him from a distance for ten years doesn’t make you an expert, you know!” “Sleeping with him for two months doesn’t make you one, either,” she said, cool as a cucumber. Churchill recoiled with a wide-eyed “oh no she DIDN’T” expression that might have been funny under different circumstances.

D stared out the window, shoving down the feeling that it might be real nice to sit here and tell Jack Francisco everything about himself, confess things he'd never told nobody, just to feel like somebody cared, and to keep those big blue eyes fixed on him for as long as he could.

Kissing Jack wasn't what he'd expected. Not letting himself do it for this long now seemed kind of stupid ... or a lot stupid. What had he been afraid of? Too intimate, too romantic, too ... just too. Sex was okay, even sucking dick was okay. That was to get off. Kissing, though ... that you did only because you had something to say that words didn't quite do it for. That meant feelings and messiness.

Yeah, it’s just that… well, most of the time in names, D is followed by some more letters. Like –onald, or –avid.

I do not either want to, and them candies make me think a my grandmother, so it's real fuckin' weird that you turned 'em inta some kinda sex fantasy, okay? 'Cause then I get all mixed up in my head where I'm in my grandma's livin' room makin' Play-Doh french fries while you suck my dick and that's just ten kinds a wrong. Even I ain't that fucked up.

I love you. You don't have to say it back. You already said it, in so many words. But I want you to know, I want to say it, I want you to hear it and believe it.

Get over here. We're having intimate bed conversation and I won't do it with a foot of mattress between us.

He paused at the bedroom door, shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked right out like it was any other morning, and he and Jack would be having breakfast as if they hadn't had sex the night before. "Morning," he said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. "Mmm," D grunted. "You done in the bathroom?" D blinked. No, I jus' took a little breather in the middle a my mornin' beauty ritual ta come out here 'n' chat with ya. A course I'm done.

Jack laughed, a quick, surprised chuckle. “God, all I wanted these past months was the chance for you to get on my nerves.

Okay." He let his eyes close and it was a relief; not just of relief of minutes, but of years.

Jack is somewhere in this city, right now. The thought was like passing by a house where someone was grilling in the back yard. You could smell it, but it wasn't yours, and you couldn't just barge into their home and demand a burger, no matter how your mouth watered.

It was possible that this was just the latest assault in the ongoing campaign being waged by various nurses and fellow doctors to seduce him via baked goods.

On his first voyage, Columbus kidnapped some ten to twenty-five American Indians and took them back with him to Spain.55 Only seven or eight arrived alive, but along with the parrots, gold trinkets, and other exotica, they caused quite a stir in Seville.

Shush. I don’t care if you’re damaged, or if you’re not strong inside. Guess what? Nobody is. Whatever you have left is enough.

But surely, Philip Philipovich, everybody says that 30-degree vodka is quite good enough.’ ‘Vodka should be at least 40 degrees, not 30 – that’s firstly,’ Philip Philipovich interrupted him didactically, ‘and secondly – God knows what muck they make into vodka nowadays. What do you think they use?’ ‘Anything they like,’ said the other doctor firmly. ‘I quite agree,’ said Philip Philipovich and hurled the contents of his glass down his throat in one gulp. ‘Ah . . . m’m . . . Doctor Bormenthal – please drink that at once and if you ask me what it is, I’m your enemy for life. “From Granada to Seville . . .” Chapter 3

If it were up to him, he'd keep Jack locked in a cage forever, where no one could get to him and he'd always be safe. But much as he might want to, much as he'd sleep better knowing that Jack was safe, he couldn't do that. "Safe" could quickly come to mean "trapped". And trapped things tended to want to escape.

Jus hold me a little longer, Jack. Tell me again that ya wanna be with me, fer real, cross yer heart 'n' let me know you ain't foolin', cause I dunno how or when it happen but somehow I come ta need ya like air, like blood. Touch me again like ya do with them gentle hands make me feel like somethin' precious. Say it again that ya love me, cause hearin' that was like openin' up some big bottomless well that ran dry years back and it cain't never be full enough now, I cain't never hear it enough, but once more, one more time and maybe I'll believe it a little more, and then a little more the next time, till someday I believe it fer true enough ta be able to say it back ta you like y'oughta hear it said cause God knows I love you more'n my own life, more'n anythin' in this world, but it cain't get outta me yet cause I still ain't the man I need ta be, the man who's gonna stand before you and declare.

As inexplicable as the accidents that set it off, our imagination is a crucial privilege. I've tried my whole life simply to accept the images that present themselves to me without trying to analyze them. I remember when we were shooting That Obscure Object of Desire in Seville and I suddenly found myself telling Fernando Rey, at the end of a scene, to pick up a big sack filled with tools lying on a bench, sling it over his shoulder, and walk away. The action was completely irrational, yet it seemed absolutely right to me. Still, I was worried about it, so I shot two versions of the scene: one with the sack, one without. But during the rushes the following day, the whole crew agreed that the scene was much better with the sack. Why? I can't explain it, and I don't enjoy rummaging around in the cliches of psychoanalysis.

O God, great and wonderful, who has created the heavens, dwelling in the light and beauty of it; who has made the earth ... let not my eyes be blind to You, neither my heart be dead, but teach me to praise You...

D drew back and took Jack’s face in his hands. “I’ll find you. You hear me?” Jack nodded, a lump rising in his throat. “I’ll find you.

Le sensazioni vanno in blocco, D. Ne lasci libera una e vogliono tornare tutte insieme.

found out that his life didn’t have to follow the rules, and they both found out that love is a pain in the ass.

Close enough to fuck was close enough to shank him with a dagger hidden in the crease of some chick's jean shorts.

He stood before the door, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. Hi. Uh... how are ya? No, no. Hello, Jack. I'm back. Shit, that fuckin' rhymes. Sounds like fuckin' Sesame Street. Hi there. Off with yer clothes. Nothin' like gettin' right ta the point, huh?

On his first voyage, Columbus kidnapped some ten to twenty-five American Indians and took them back with him to Spain.55 Only seven or eight arrived alive, but along with the parrots, gold trinkets, and other exotica, they caused quite a stir in Seville. Ferdinand and Isabella provided Columbus with seventeen ships, twelve hundred to fifteen hundred men, cannons, crossbows, guns, cavalry, and attack dogs for a second voyage.

X? Seriously? What, do you meet them in darkened parking garages? Do you have a Bat-Signal or something?

Check if anyone’s following us,” HAL said from the backseat. “How do I know that?” “Uh… look in the rearview mirror.

He's freaked out. The bullets and the near-assassination and the fiery gas stations were okay, but the hand-holding freaked him out.

FIGARO. I’d say that the nonsense that finds its way into print only matters to the people who would like to ban it; that without the freedom to criticize, praise is meaningless

«Sarò nel programma di protezione testimoni,» disse Jack. «Avrò un nome diverso, non so dove vivrò…» D arretrò e gli prese il volto tra le mani. «Ti troverò. Mi hai sentito?» Jack annuì, un groppo gli risaliva la gola. «Ti troverò.» «Fra… fra quanto?» «Non lo so. Potrebbero volerci anni.» Jack incontrò i suoi occhi. «Aspetterò.»

Neither of us is gonna be able to walk tomorrow." "Who needs ta walk? Dunno 'bout you but I ain't plannin' ta leave this bed." "What, we just lie here naked all weekend?" "Somethin' wrong with that?" "Might scandalize the marshals when they bring in my food." "Aw, who the fuck cares." Jack arched one eyebrow at him. "Who are you, and what have you done with D?

I said, I ain't buyin' no chocolate covered cherries." "Oh, come on. You know you want to." D shook his head like Jack was just too much to be believed. "I do not either want to, and them candies makes me think of my grandmother, so it's real fuckin' weird that you turned 'em inta some kinda sex fantasy, okay? 'Cause then I get all mixed up in my head where I'm in my grandma's livin' room makin' Play-Doh french fries while you suck my dick and that's just ten kinds of wrong. Even I ain't that fucked up." Jack laughed. "Not yet you aren't." He looked at D's face, smiling with him.

«Non ero nessuno prima di conoscere te, e dopo che te ne sarai andato sarò di nuovo nessuno.» Jack chiuse la bocca, ammutolito da quella inattesa confessione. Non riusciva a pensare cosa dire, quindi non disse nulla, allungò solo un braccio e lo strinse a sé, e le braccia di D ricambiarono all’ istante. Premette il volto contro il collo di D. «Non sei mai stato nessuno,» mormorò. «Non per me, D.»

Ya smell like sun," he murmured. D's voice was raw, like a man under hypnosis. "Ya know that smell? That toasty-skin smell, like ya get after goin' ta the beach?" He nodded a little. "I love that smell." He straightened, eyes lowered to the ground. "Reminds me a workin' on the ranch, when I was a kid. Ridin' with my brother, up in the hills, sun beatin' down turnin' our necks brown, our hands." Jack didn't dare speak, or breathe, or make the tiniest move to disturb the so-rare Reverie. This glimpse into D's secret mind was like having a skittish deer approach him on a wooded trail; one false move and it would dart away into the brush, leaving him with only a flash of white tail before vanishing.

ROSINE. What gives you the right? BARTHOLO. The oldest right in the world: the right of the strong.

In November 2009 archivist Rima Jaen at the Goncalves archives in Seville, Spain, comes across Diana's journal in a forgotten box in the archive attics.

It may take a lifetime for an individual to live, but it takes just under four seconds for the occupants of the Seville to live a collective life.

for already holds the confines Of both the hemispheres, and under Seville Touches the ocean-wave, Cain and the thorns

Perché non me l’ha detto? Ma Jack sapeva perché. Quel ragazzo era morto, a giudizio di D. Lo aveva ucciso quando aveva imbracciato un’arma a sangue freddo contro un altro essere umano. Quel nome non gli apparteneva più, e non pensava più di avere il diritto di rivendicare le cose che aveva quel ragazzo: una famiglia, un’identità, un posto nel mondo dove era compreso e ben accetto.

Against a heart inflamed with love, burning with unquenchable fire, a ruthless tyrant, cruelly armed, wages war, but all in vain. From every attack a victor, Love will always triumph. - Rosina

Voleva dire a D che lo amava, che non aveva mai amato nessun altro, che sarebbe morto per lui o avrebbe ucciso per lui o qualsiasi altra cosa la gente diceva prima di avere riflettuto, che non gli importava di cosa gli sarebbe successo o del processo o della sua vita fin quando potevano stare insieme

I had myself been to Seville when I was twenty-three and I, too, had liked it. I liked its white, tortuous streets, its cathedral, and the wide-spreading plain of the Guadalquivir; but I liked also those Andalusian girls with their grace and their gaiety, with their dark shining eyes, the carnations in their hair stressing its blackness and by the contrast itself more vivid; I liked the rich color of their skins and the inviting sensuality of their lips.

A breeze, vanilla-scented, nutmeg milk, dark roast of cocoa beans over a slow fire. It isn't magic. Really it isn't. It's just a trick, a game I play. There's no such thing as real magic- and yet it works. Sometimes, it works. Can you hear me? I said. Not in my voice, but a shadow-voice, very light, like dappled leaves. She felt it then. I know she did. Turning, she stiffened; I made the door shine a little, ever so slightly, the color of the sky. Played with it, pretty, like a mirror in the sun, shining it on and off her face. Scent of woodsmoke in a cup; a dash of cream, sprinkle of sugar. Bitter orange, your favorite, 70 percent darkest chocolate over thick-cut oranges from Seville. Try me. Taste me. Test me.

Hey, what's that thing where you hold the gun sideways?" he said, grinning. D snorted. "That's called being a punk-ass punk," he said. "Might look good in rap videos. You see anybody holdin' a gun like that ya know they're cake, 'cause they're more interested in what the gun looks like in their hand than what it can do, and they're probly dumber'n a fuckin' bag a hammers too.

As Cortés turned to descend the steps of the high temple, a view of the great city spread out before him. He described it in a letter to his king: “This great city is built on a salt lake, and from the mainland to the city is a distance of two leagues from any side from which you enter. It has four approaches by means of artificial causeways, two cavalry lances in width. The city is as large as Seville or Córdoba. The principal streets are very broad and well-constructed. Over them ten horsemen can ride abreast. . . .

Mohammed ignored the abuse. What did Ahmed know? It had been years since anyone had studied music in Paris or Seville on a scholarship paid for by the country's oil profits. The only knowledge people mastered these days was how to steal copper wire and load a gun. Mohammed felt like a relic from a lost civilization, buried in the muck of the Tigris. Sassanid, Seleucid, Sumerian. Achaemenid, Assyrian, Akkadian. He sometimes thought he was the only one who remembered. For what it was worth, he could sing the ancient songs of the pearl divers.

Quando erano uniti in quel modo avrebbe voluto essere di nuovo Anson, tornare indietro e fare tutto da capo, in modo diverso, e incontrare Jack presentandosi nei panni di un uomo differente, un uomo integro, che fosse in grado di dirgli che lo amava fin nel profondo della sua anima marcia

Always that damned discipline that you wear like chain mail ... You would have got on well with Bernard de Clairvaux and his gang of Knights Templar. If you'd been captured by Saladin, I'm sure you'd rather have had your throat cut than renounce your faith. But not from devotion, from pride.

Jews know hard days like the rest of us. Yes, Jews suffered — it’s part of being human... Jews did not suffer more than any other comparable group of people. Jews as a rule belonged to the exploiting classes; that is why the Jewish Quarter is located next to the Royal palaces in Seville and Paris.

Io lo amo" disse Jack guardando fuori, verso la baia immersa nel buio. Era la prima volta che lo diceva ad alta voce. Non ne aveva avuto l’intenzione. Era come se le parole gli fossero apparse spontaneamente sulle labbra e fossero sfuggite senza neanche il bisogno di una spinta. Doveva dirlo a qualcuno.

The critique of the domesticated Jesus has a long pedigree, perhaps the most notable being Dostoyevsky’s chilling account of Jesus having the audacity to show up and disturb the machinations of the crusades in Seville (which, in fact, Jesus doesn’t disturb at all precisely because his nonviolence can be so easily silenced).

He arranged a marriage for Doña Marina to Juan Jaramillo, one of his captains, and then returned for what he thought would be a brief visit to Spain. But when his visit was completed in 1547 and he was on his way to embark for Mexico at the Spanish port of Seville, his great strength began to fail. Within a few days, he died

«È tutto vero? Noi… possiamo…» Si fermò e ricominciò da capo. «Staremo davvero insieme adesso?» D sorrise. «Be’, per ora pare di sì. Almeno finché non ci diamo sui nervi.» Jack fece una risatina sorpresa. «Dio, in questi ultimi mesi non ho desiderato altro che tu mi dessi sui nervi.» «Allora direi che è il tuo giorno fortunato.»

Conosco il tuo nome, D. Non devo aspettare fino a quando deciderai di dirmelo. Posso dirtelo proprio adesso e osservare il tuo volto mentre comprendi che possiedo qualcosa di te che tu non mi hai lasciato vedere. Quindi magari potrei smettere di aspettarti. Magari se ti chiamassi per nome saresti mio, così come certamente io sono tuo

My grandma always had chocolate-covered cherries," D said, his tone curled at the edges, like he'd surprised himself with the memory. Jack slid up a little so he could watch D's face. "Usedta love them things. The way they'd kinda burst open when ya bit 'em, and that syrupy stuff inside, then the cherry. I'd bite off one side a the shell real careful-like, so none a the syrup spilled, then suck all the gooey out, then fish out the cherry with my tongue, then I'd just have the chocolate shell left and I'd nibble on it 'til it was gone. She'd only let me have one or two so I hadta make 'em last." He glanced at Jack, who was just staring at him, his mouth open. "What?" "That is the sexiest thing I've ever heard." D flushed and fidgeted. "Aw, hell." "Seriously. Ask me how much I want to go get some chocolate-covered cherries right now just so I can watch you eat them.

Estoy convencida de que cada edificio, cada cuadro, cada libro antiguo que se destruye o se pierde, nos hace un poco más huérfanos. Nos empobrece.

Después de todo, qué sería de nosotros sin nosotros mismos, pensaba. La vida es un naufragio, y cada uno echa a nadar como puede.

The world's full of people trying to atone for the things they regret.

FIGARO. The guiltiest have the hardest hearts. ’Twas ever thus.

SUZZANE. If our play of the Follies of a Day, Has something serious to say, It is that folly must have its season To give a human face to reason.

FIGARO. Defending the public good and promoting personal happiness—seems to me, that as schemes go this one, your Lordship, morally speaking, is masterly.

COUNT. Best grin and bear it. What can't be cured must be endured.

FIGARO [quickly]. That’s not being virtuous, I call that being feeble. [...] I won’t take my words back. [To the COUNT] How do you reward loyalty, if that’s how you treat disloyalty?

«Hai rischiato la vita per me mezza dozzina di volte, D. Immagino che ora sia il mio turno.» «Non è compito tuo.» «Col cavolo.» Jack gli afferrò la mano, il fuoco nello sguardo. «Sei il mio uomo, no?» «Lo sono?» chiese D, scrutando i suoi occhi. Il tono sembrava quello di un bambino, persino alle sue stesse orecchie. «Sì, lo sei. Qualsiasi cosa accada, fino alla fine dei miei giorni.»

But her relationship with food was all about being Carmen of Seville. It was her truth, her statement to the world. And she didn't care if she had to use her beauty queen smarts to get people too take a bite- because once they had a taste of her flavors, of the garlic and olive oil and pinches of smoked paprika, pimentón,they would know. Carmen Vega wasn't just another pretty face. She was an artist.

«Andiamo,» disse, dirigendosi alla macchina e mettendo la valigetta nel bagagliaio. Jack si alzò guardandosi intorno. Tutto qua? Semplicemente “Andiamo?” Non un commento sul lasciare la nostra casa, nessuno sguardo indietro, nulla? D lo guardò da dove era rimasto, in piedi, vicino al lato del guidatore. «Chiudi tu?» Immagino che sia tutto. Jack accostò la porta e poi controllò che fosse chiusa a chiave

Call me D." "D?" "You asked my name, I told ya." "Yeah, it's just that... well, most of the time in names, D is followed by some more letters. Like -onald, or -avid." D stared at him for a few seconds, then seemed to relax. "D's good enough.

Jack rolled onto his stomach and clutched a pillow over his head. Sure, no problem. Testify against some drug lords. All in a day's work. Get a new name and get yourself relocated thousands of miles away. No sweat. Assassins coming after you? Check. Conscience-ridden hit men spiriting you away? Check. Hiding out in a remote cabin? Oh, got that one covered. Develop unseemly crush on ruthless hired killer? Jack sighed. I am one incurable illness away from a Lifetime Movie of the Week.

I have considered the impudent accusations of Mr Dawkins with exasperation at his lack of serious scholarship. He has apparently not read the detailed discourses of Count Roderigo of Seville on the exquisite and exotic leathers of the Emperor's boots, nor does he give a moment's consideration to Bellini's masterwork, On the Luminescence of the Emperor's Feathered Hat. We have entire schools dedicated to writing learned treatises on the beauty of the Emperor's raiment, and every major newspaper runs a section dedicated to imperial fashion ... Dawkins arrogantly ignores all these deep philosophical ponderings to crudely accuse the Emperor of nudity ... Until Dawkins has trained in the shops of Paris and Milan, until he has learned to tell the difference between a ruffled flounce and a puffy pantaloon, we should all pretend he has not spoken out against the Emperor's taste. His training in biology may give him the ability to recognize dangling genitalia when he sees it, but it has not taught him the proper appreciation of Imaginary Fabrics.

FIGARO. What he says isn’t always the same as what he means. Watch out for words that slip out when he’s talking, those tiny gestures, the way he moves: it’s the key to a man’s character. There’s something wicked afoot. It’s obvious he believes nothing can stop him, because to me he seems… craftier, wilier, more smug—in fact he’s like these imbeciles here in France who start cheering before the battle’s been won! You must try and be as devious as he is: butter him up, tell him what he’d like to hear, and whatever he wants, don’t say no.

Whoever believes in the myth of ‘peaceful coexistence that marked the relationships between the conquered and the conquerors’ should reread the stories of the burned convents and monasteries, of the profaned churches, of the raped nuns, of the Christian or Jewish women abducted to be locked away in their harems. He should ponder on the crucifixions of Cordoba, the hangings of Granada, the beheadings of Toledo and Barcelona, of Seville and Zamora. (The beheadings of Seville, ordered by Mutamid: the king who used those severed heads, heads of Jews and Christians, to adorn his palace). Invoking the name of Jesus meant instant execution. Crucifixion, of course, or decapitation or hanging or impalement. Ringing a bell, the same. Wearing green, the colour of Islam, also. And when a Muslim passed by, every Jew and Christian was obliged to step aside. To bow. And mind to the Jew or the Christian who dared react to the insults of a Muslim. As for the much-flaunted detail that the infidel-dogs were not obliged to convert to Islam, not even encouraged to do so, do you know why they were not? Because those who converted to Islam did not pay taxes. Those who refused, on the contrary, did.

FIGARO. Of course. Ever since people started noticing that in time yesterday’s inanity turns into today’s wisdom, and that little old lies, planted haphazardly, grow into vast and mighty truths, there have been countless varieties! Truths you know but cannot reveal, for not every truth is suitable for telling. Truths you repeat but don’t believe, for not every truth is worth believing.

There had been three priests, proponents of so-called liberation theology. They had opposed the reactionary tide from Rome. And in all three cases the IEA had done the dirty work for Iwaszkiewicz and his Congregation. Corona, Ortega, and Souza were prominent progressive priests working in marginal dioceses, poor districts of Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paolo. They believed in saving man here on earth, not waiting for the Kingdom of Heaven.

He turned the Corner onto Third Street and went up the block to Cup O'Joe. "Hey, Jack," said Marc, the barista, as he approached the Counter. "Latte?" "Mmm... nah. Gimme a large Mocha with a shot of hazelnut, skim, no Whip." "Okay." He rung up the sale. "By yourself tonight?" "My better half is home asleep. Just got back from a two-week trip." "Well, tell him I've got some 'regular goddamn coffee' here with his Name on it," Marc said, winking.

He came softly, unobserved, and yet, strange to say, every one recognized Him. That might be one of the best passages in the poem. I mean, why they recognized Him. The people are irresistibly drawn to Him, they surround Him, they flock about Him, follow Him. He moves silently in their midst with a gentle smile of infinite compassion. The sun of love burns in His heart, light and power shine from His eyes, and their radiance, shed on the people, stirs their hearts with responsive love. He holds out His hands to them, blesses them, and a healing virtue comes from contact with Him, even with His garments. An old man in the crowd, blind from childhood, cries out, ‘O Lord, heal me and I shall see Thee!’ and, as it were, scales fall from his eyes and the blind man sees Him. The crowd weeps and kisses the earth under His feet. Children throw flowers before Him, sing, and cry hosannah. ‘It is He—it is He!’ all repeat. ‘It must be He, it can be no one but Him!’ He stops at the steps of the Seville cathedral at the moment when the weeping mourners are bringing in a little open white coffin. In it lies a child of seven, the only daughter of a prominent citizen. The dead child lies hidden in flowers. ‘He will raise your child,’ the crowd shouts to the weeping mother. The priest, coming to meet the coffin, looks perplexed, and frowns, but the mother of the dead child throws herself at His feet with a wail. ‘If it is Thou, raise my child!’ she cries, holding out her hands to Him. The procession halts, the coffin is laid on the steps at His feet. He looks with compassion, and His lips once more softly pronounce, ‘Maiden, arise!’ and the maiden arises. The little girl sits up in the coffin and looks round, smiling with wide-open wondering eyes, holding a bunch of white roses they had put in her hand.

is a city of delightful ease, of freedom and sunshine, of torrid heat. There it does not matter what you do, nor when, nor how you do it. There is none to hinder you, none to watch. Each takes his ease, and is content that his neighbour should do the like. Doubtless people are lazy in Seville, but good heavens! why should one be so terribly strenuous? Go into the Plaza Nueva, and you will see it filled with men of all ages, of all classes, 'taking the sun'; they promenade slowly, untroubled by any mental activity, or sit on benches between the palm-trees, smoking cigarettes; perhaps the more energetic read the bull-fighting news in the paper. They are not ambitious, and they do not greatly care to make their fortunes; so long as they have enough to eat and drink--food is very cheap--and cigarettes to smoke, they are quite happy. The Corporation provides seats, and the sun shines down for nothing--so let them sit in it and warm themselves. I daresay it is as good a way of getting through life as most others.

FIGARO. Such a fantastic chain of events! How did it all happen to me? Why those things and not others? Who pointed them in my direction? Having no choice but to travel a road I was not aware I was following, and which I will get off without wanting to, I have strewn it with as many flowers as my good humour has permitted. But when I say my good humour, how can I know if it is any more mine than all the other bits of me, nor what this ‘me’ is that I keep trying to understand: first, an unformed bundle of indefinable parts, then a puny, weak-brained runt, a dainty frisking animal, a young man with a taste for pleasure and appetites to match, turning his hand to all trades to survive—sometimes master, sometimes servant as chance dictated, ambitious from pride, hard-working from necessity, but always happy to be idle! An orator when it was safe to speak out, a poet in my leisure hours, a musician as the situation required, in love in crazy fits and bursts. I’ve seen it all, done it all, had it all. Then the bubble burst and I was too disillusioned… Disillusioned!

On Rossini's 'The Barber of Seville' - "Much has been written about the fiasco of the opera's first night on 20 February 1816, most of it true: the mockery of Rossini's Spanish-style hazel jacket, the rowdy animosity of the Paisiello lobby, the jeering and the catcalls, as one mishap succeeded another. Basilio sang his 'Calumny' aria with a bloodied nose after tripping over a trap door; then during the act 1 finale, a cat wandered onstage, declined to leave, and was forcibly flung into the wings. According to the Rosina, Gertrude Righetti Giorgi, Rossini left the theatre 'as though he had been an indifferent onlooker'... The second performance was a triumph, though Rossini was not there to witness it. He spent the evening pacing his room, imagining the opera's progress scene by scene. He retired early, only to be roused by a glow of torches and uproar in the street. Fearing that a mob was about to set fire to the building, he took refuge in a stable block. Garcia tried to summon him to acknowledge the adulation. 'F***' their bravos!' was Rossini's blunt rejoinder. 'I'm not coming out'.

BAZILE. Slander, peculiar? You don’t know what the word means if you can dismiss it so easily! I have seen the most decent, honest men brought virtually to their knees by it. Believe me, there’s no downright lie, no tissue of horrors, no tittle-tattle so absurd that you can’t get the crass, nosy population of any city to swallow if you set about it the right way, and here in Seville we have experts! It starts as a faint whisper, skimming the ground like a swallow before the storm, pianissimo. It whirrs and scatters, and as it spreads it shoots out poisoned barbs. A mouth catches one and, piano, piano, hooks it deftly into a convenient ear. The damage is done. It breeds, creeps, multiplies and, rinforzando, it hops like some fiend from mouth to mouth. Then suddenly, don’t ask me how, you see Slander rear up, hissing, bulging, swelling as you watch. It takes flight, spreads its wings, swoops, swirls, enfolds, claws, seizes, erupts, and explodes and turns, God only knows how, into a general clamour, a public crescendo, a universal chorus of hate and condemnation. Is there a man alive who can survive it?

That same day we drove to Seville to celebrate. I asked someone for the name of the smartest hotel in Seville. Alfonso XIII, came the reply. It is where the King of Spain always stays. We found the hotel and wandered in. It was amazing. Shara was a little embarrassed as I was dressed in shorts and an old holey jersey, but I sought out a friendly-looking receptionist and told her our story. “Could you help us out? I have hardly any money.” She looked us up and down, paused--then smiled. “Just don’t tell my manager,” she whispered. So we stayed in a $1,000-a-night room for $100 and celebrated--like the King of Spain. The next morning we went on a hunt for a ring. I asked the concierge in my best university Spanish where I would find a good (aka well-priced) jeweler. He looked a little surprised. I tried speaking slower. Eventually I realized that I had actually been asking him where I might find a good mustache shop. I apologized that my Spanish was a little rusty. Shara rolled her eyes again, smiling. When we eventually found a small local jeweler, I had to do some nifty subcounter mathematics, swiftly converting Spanish pesetas into British pounds, to work out whether or not I could afford each ring Shara tried on. We eventually settled on one that was simple, beautiful--and affordable. Just. Love doesn’t require expensive jewelry. And Shara has always been able to make the simple look exquisite. Luckily.

all that was unusual, deformed, and monstrous, by the pictures that represented the hideousness of man or that reminded you of his mortality. He summoned before Margaret the whole array of Ribera’s ghoulish dwarfs, with their cunning smile, the insane light of their eyes, and their malice: he dwelt with a horrible fascination upon their malformations, the humped backs, the club feet, the hydrocephalic heads. He described the picture by Valdes Leal, in a certain place at Seville, which represents a priest at the altar; and the altar is sumptuous with gilt and florid carving. He wears a magnificent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he wears them as though their weight was more than he could bear; and in the meagre trembling hands, and in the white, ashen face, in the dark hollowness of the eyes, there is a bodily corruption that is terrifying. He seems to hold together with difficulty the bonds of the flesh, but with no eager yearning of the soul to burst its prison, only with despair; it is as if the Lord Almighty had forsaken him and the high heavens were empty of their solace. All the beauty of life appears forgotten, and there is nothing in the world but decay. A ghastly putrefaction has attacked already the living man; the worms of the grave, the piteous horror of mortality, and the darkness before him offer naught but fear. Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark night of the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of life whereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart.

Lionel Messi (32), who plays for FC Barcelona in the Spanish football league, has recorded his 50th hat-trick. The team also won. Messi made his first hat-trick as a left-handed striker in the 25th round of the away game against Spain in the 2018-2019 Primera División at the Ramon Sánchez Pisjuan Stadium in Seville, Spain. Messi's 50th hat-trick. He wrote 44 hits in Barcelona and 6 hits in Argentina. The start of the game was not good. In the 22nd minute Messi's passing mistake led to a counterattack in Seville. He scored a goal for Navas and Barcelona were 0-1. Four minutes later Messi scored a fantastic goal. On the left side, Ivan Rakitić's cross came up with a direct volley shooting. It was stuck in the left corner of the goal correctly. In the second half of the second half of the match, he managed to take a right-footed shot from the front of Arc Circle, Goalkeeper Thomas Bachlick reached out his hand but he was blind. 텔레【KC98K】카톡【ACD5】라인【SPR331】 ♥100%정품보장 ♥총알배송 ♥투명한 가격 ♥편한 상담 ♥끝내주는 서비스 ♥고객님 정보 보호 ♥깔끔한 거래 ◀경영항목▶ 수면제,여성-최음제,,여성흥분제,남성발기부전치유제,비아그라,시알리스,88정,드래곤,99정,바오메이,정력제,남성성기확대제,카마-그라젤,비닉스,센돔,꽃물,남성-조-루제,네노마정 등많은제품 판매중입니다 센돔 판매,센돔 구입방법,센돔 구매방법,센돔 효과,센돔 처방,센돔 파는곳,센돔 지속시간,센돔 구입,센돔 구매,센돔 복용법 In the 39th minute of the second half, Carlos Alenya's shot was deflected and deflected, and Messi broke into the box with a penalty box. Messi helped Luis Suárez score just before the end of the game and made four goals on the day. The team had a pleasant 4-2 victory and solidified the league with 57 points (17 wins, 6 draws, 2 losses). Madrid, who have been at the top of the table for the last time.

BÉGEARSS [very conceited]. My dear, there’s nothing to it. To start with, there are just two things that make the world go round: morality and politics. Morality, a very footling thing, means being fair and honest. It is, so they say, the basis of a number of rather boring virtues.[...] Politics is the art of making things happen, of leading people and events by the nose: it’s child’s play. Its purpose is self-interest, its method intrigue. Always economical with the truth, it has boundless, dazzling possibilities which stand like a beacon and draw you on. As deep as Etna, it smoulders and rumbles for a long time before finally erupting into the light of day. By then nothing can stop it. It calls for superior talents and is threatened by only one thing: honest principles. [He laughs] That’s the key to all the deals that are ever made!

Turning and climbing, the double helix evolved to an operation which had always existed as a possibility for mankind, the eating of light. The appetite for light was ancient. Light had been eaten metaphorically in ritual transubstantiations. Poets had declared that to be is to be a variable of light, that this peach, and even this persimmon, is light. But the peach which mediated between light and the appetite for light interfered with the taste of light, and obscured the appetite it aroused. The appetite for actual light was at first appeased by symbols. But the simple instruction, promulgated during the Primordification, to taste the source of the food in the food, led to the ability to eat light. Out of the attempt to taste sources came the ability to detect unpleasant chemicals. These had to be omitted. Eaters learned to taste the animal in the meat, and the animal's food and drink, and to taste the waters and sugars in the melon. The discriminations grew finer - children learned to eat the qualities of the pear as they ate its flesh, and to taste its slow ripening in autumn sunlight. In the ripeness of the orange they recapitulated the history of the orange. Two results occurred. First, the children were quick to surpass the adults, and with their unspoiled tastes, and their desire for light, they learned the flavor of the soil in which the blueberry grew, and the salty sweetness of the plankton in the sea trout, but they also became attentive to the taste of sunlight. Soon there were attempts to keep fruit of certain vintages: the pears of a superbly comfortable autumn in Anjou, or the oranges of Seville from a year so seasonless that their modulations of bouquet were unsurpassed for decades. Fruit was eaten as a retrospective of light. Second, children of each new generation grew more clearly, until children were shaped as correctly as crystals. The laws governing the operations of growth shone through their perfect exemplification. Life became intellectually transparent. ("Desire")

COUNT. What’s to stop you taking her with you to London? FIGARO. A man who was married and had to be away so much? I’d never hear the end of it. COUNT. But with your qualities and brains you could climb the ladder and end up with an important government post one of these days. FIGARO. Brains? Climb the ladder? Your Lordship must think I’m stupid. Second-rate and grovelling, that’s the thing to be, and then the world’s your oyster. COUNT. All you’d have to do is take a few lessons in politics from me. FIGARO. I know what politics is. COUNT. Like you know the key to the English language? FIGARO. Not that it’s anything to boast about. It means pretending you don’t know what you do know and knowing what you don’t, listening to what you don’t understand and not hearing what you do, and especially, claiming you can do more than you have the ability to deliver. More often that not, it means making a great secret of the fact that there are no secrets; locking yourself in your inner sanctum where you sharpen pens and give the impression of being profound and wise, whereas you are, as they say, hollow and shallow; playing a role well or badly; sending spies everywhere and rewarding the traitors; tampering with seals, intercepting letters, and trying to dignify your sordid means by stressing your glorious ends. That’s all there is to politics, and you can have me shot if it’s not. COUNT. But what you’ve defined is intrigue. FIGARO. Call it politics, intrigue, whatever you want. But since to me the two things are as alike as peas in a pod, I say good luck to whoever has anything to do with either. ‘Truly, I love my sweetheart more’, as old King Henry’s song goes.